The Cold Commands alffh-2

by Richard Morgan

  Well?

  Atalmire, from up in the gallery, flanked by two of his honor guard and that idiot priest. Like most storm-callers, he was impatient at the best of times. She supposed it went with mastery of the Talons of the Sun, the glitter-swift elemental forces you had to command. Bound to make you twitchy, something like that.

  She shook her head.

  Something s not right, she called up to them.

  Well what?

  If I knew that, it wouldn t be a problem. She gave her attention back to the dying boy, smiled absently at him. Stroked his face. There s something blocking the flow of force here. Sacrifice goes unrecognized.

  Atalmire kicked at the gallery rail in frustration. Is this the fucking Ahn Foi backing up on us again?

  That was many thousand years ago, Atalmire. I think it s fair to say they learned their lesson back then. In any case, this is not them, it doesn t taste of them. This is something else.

  Like a whisper in the dusty gloom.

  Her eyes flickered back to the glirsht statues and the space they stood around. She frowned. A small wind had sprung out of nowhere, lifting dust and detritus in a low spiral for a moment, then letting them fall. She stared at the dust, puzzled. It was not her doing, and she didn t think any of the invoked powers were

  Just a moment.

  Atalmire grunted and turned to speak to Menkarak, who was gibbering at him in Tethanne. Risgillen had no idea what they were talking about, and cared less. Bad enough she d had to master the bastardized remnants of the Old Tongue they spoke in the north, she wasn t going to learn this arid pigshit rattle as well. Let Atalmire govern the cat s-paw down here, let Atalmire call down the Talons of the Sun on this sun-seared desert hell, take credit for it and rule what was left if he liked. Her place was in the north, preparing her brother s dream of return.

  She placed one hand in the puddling blood on the altar at the boy s side, kept the other in place on his shivering chest. Felt for the shape of the blockage.

  Haste will not serve here, she called up to Atalmire, breaking up his conversation with the priest. This cousin s blood points away from acting now, and so did the last three. Unless we discover why, we risk destroying everything you ve worked for.

  Atalmire raised a hand to silence Menkarak and leaned down on the gallery rail. If we wait much longer, my lady, we risk the palace coming down on Afa marag, and we will lose our gateway.

  They won t do that until Ringil s three days are up. Risgillen grimaced, reaching again. She could pull no clarity from the mess of resonances the blood offering sent echoing out into the Gray Places. In the last several thousand years of scrying, she could not recall seeing anything like this. And they may not even act then. The Emperor is cautious in his dealings with the Citadel, he has affairs of state to balance.

  Our sources say he is convinced of what the Dragonbane has said.

  Risgillen shook her head in irritation. Our sources say he will not risk all-out war with the Citadel until all other avenues have been explored. That gives us time. At worst, it gives us time to abandon Afa marag, withdraw, and find another location.

  That would be a disastrous setback.

  Oh, don t be so histrionic. Risgillen lowered her head to the boy s chest, listened to the sagging beat of his heart. She frowned again. It may cost us a year or two. Your pet priest up there is not the only pry-point we have. The Citadel is replete with useful idiots like him. But I ll tell you this much for certain, Atalmire you bring the Talons of the Sun through here without the correct opening rituals, you risk the wrath of the Origin. And that may set us back another thousand years or more.

  Some of us would take that risk, Atalmire growled.

  Yes. Her attention jerked back up to the balcony, she stared at the other dwenda with open disdain. And that alone demonstrates how far we have fallen. Now shut up and let me

  Smashed bright, lightning flash glimpse it stormed her behind the eyes a wind howls across the marsh plain, tearing out the roots of the exemplars, tossing them about, closing their sentinel eyes. Something gathers them in

  Something whose form she s touched before.

  She snatched her hand out of the blood, spun about. The small winding dust devil was back, turning in the space between the statues. Rising now, lifting dust and spider corpse husks, holding it all up, knee height, waist height, chest height and

  Atalmire, for all his impatience, was attuned as any Aldrain noble. His eyes snapped to the dust devil, then back to her. He gestured. What the fuck is that supposed to be?

  Something s coming, she whispered.

  The boy thrashed suddenly under her hand. Her hold on him slipped he tried to sit up. Eyes ripped wide with knowledge of what she d done to him. Mouth writhing to form words, a protest, a plea, a curse.

  Something howled. Something roared. Something tore the air apart.

  Something s coming! She yelled it now, into the teeth of the gale pouring out of the rent the tornado had made.

  Get your men down h

  Her voice died.

  At the heart of the rising coil of dust, a black-clad figure. Black Scourge steel in hand.

  No, that s not possible. It screamed in her head. It cannot be. He, the blade, we sank it, he is gone, he is not

  The figure lifted its head. Grinned at her. Raised the sword.

  Risgillen! Your brother calls for you!

  Chill shivered through her. Her own blade was on her back, bound in threads of blue light and her own will. She snatched it free and stormed down the hall toward him. Faintly, she was aware of Atalmire s honor guard leaping down from the gallery, joining her on the temple floor. Only two, but it should be enough. A fierce rage pulsed in her chest, put talons on every finger and drew her fangs down into her swelling mouth.

  If Ringil noticed any of it, he gave her no sign. He came to meet her, grinning, out of the gathered glirsht statues and the storm he d somehow conjured at their center, measured pace and vacant eyes and the empty will to harm.

  She snarled and hurled a melting across the space between them.

  Something she could barely see, something that wrapped around him like a loose gray shawl reached out and slapped the melting away. She was not even sure if he was aware it happened. But she heard the low moaning it made.

  The Cold Commands.

  Her hate stumbled, stubbed senses on what she d just seen. Shocked disbelief dizzied through her. No mortal since Ilwrack could

  She crushed out the tremor. No time for further attempts at sorcery, but Atalmire s men were at her back, armored and grim. And she had her hatred, she hugged it close. Howled out Seethlaw s name, once, for family and for honor.

  Rushed in, swinging the blue-fire arc of her blade.

  Ringil met her in a splintering clash of steel and blue sparks.

  The Ravensfriend turned the dwenda s stroke, sent Risgillen staggering aside. He grunted with the effort it took. Risgillen spun back in, snake-swift, hissing. Kiriath steel blocked her again it felt less like his handiwork than the sword s. Risgillen snarled and fell back. Something tugged his attention around; he swung, met the helmeted dwenda warrior on his flank, and chopped down the attacking blade so it rang off the stone floor. The dwenda, committed, lurched forward and Ringil kicked it savagely in the knee. It tumbled, threw out a guarding arm

  The Ravensfriend glittered down.

  The arm went, like wheat under the scythe, chopped through just behind the wrist. Dwenda blood splattered everywhere, spiced alien reek of it like a spike through the chilly temple air

  No!

  Risgillen, screaming it. Ringil had no time to look at her, combat senses told him the third dwenda was closer, no time to finish the one he d maimed. He whipped about, stumbled unaccountably, put up his blade and met his attacker head-on. Swipe and slam of blades, he got in close, swung a shoulder into his opponent and sent him staggering. Risgillen rushed him from the side, swung low and chopped at his legs. He went a foot into the air above the blade, came
down behind the stroke and sliced at her unprotected back. The Ravensfriend chopped a gash into her shoulder. She shrieked and reeled away, fell over from the shock. He went after her, but the third dwenda leapt in and blocked him, jabbed out and tagged him across the ribs. He stumbled again, leaned back, got the dwenda s blade out of the way.

  The ground was

  The dwenda came in swinging. He met and parried, both blades locked up and straining against each other. Risgillen crawled to her feet, circled round to bracket him. shaking.

  His eyes darted to the support pillars under the gallery. Something gray crawled there, something writhed and lashed and

  He shook off the dwenda, fell back, blocked Risgillen s limping attack from the side. Energy coursed through him, it felt like an eighth of purest krinzanz chewed down, swallowed, residue rubbed into his gums. It numbed him and fired him in equal measure, it came screaming up from inside, this thing he d dredged with him from the fields of the weeping sacrificed out on the cold marsh plain

  I see what the akyia saw, Gil. I see what you could become if you d only let yourself.

  Up on the altar, the boy had gotten himself to a sitting position, held out his blood-slick, slashed-open arms in mute entreaty. He met Ringil s eyes for a split second. Then he collapsed sideways as another tremor shook the building. He rolled off the altar, he fell on his face in the dust.

  Something jagged and black split Ringil s skull apart from within.

  Fuck, them, all.

  He tipped back his head and howled.

  He felt the cold legion sweep up and through him and out it was like sinking at the heart of a roaring maelstrom. He reached out without knowing how, laid hands that were not his own on the temple around him. He cracked stone and mortar apart, splintered and levered, breathed in destruction like the fumes of fine wine. He tore out the pillars from under Atalmire and Menkarak s feet on the gallery, dropped them yelling to the floor below. He catapulted the blood-drenched altar up and back with enough force to shatter it against the rear wall. He tore dressed-stone blocks from the ceiling like a dentist pulling rotten teeth let them fall, shattering, to the temple floor. He

  The third dwenda swung at him again in the chaos.

  He screamed in its face, tore its blade from its hand, hurled the weapon gleaming end over end across the hall. The Ravensfriend came up, leapt in from the side. Ringil hacked through the dwenda s flailing, fending hand as if it were not there, took head from shoulders in a single bellowing stroke. Blood gouted from the severed neck he raised his head in the brief fountain it made, he raised his arms, as the temple tore itself apart around him.

  Blood rained down.

  Blood splattered his face. Blood trickled in the gritted teeth of his grin. He howled at the shattering ceiling, worse than any sound Seethlaw had ever made.

  He lowered his head and looked for Risgillen.

  Found her struggling to stay on her feet, sword held sagging in both hands before her. There was blood on her bone-white Aldrain face, a jagged gash in her brow he didn t remember putting there. Behind her, Atalmire crawled from where he d fallen, dragging a leg snapped the wrong way at the knee. Menkarak lay beyond, half trapped under rubble. Ringil raised the Ravensfriend. He screamed at them, over the sound of cracking, crumbling stone.

  The two dwenda stared at him from where they lay on the floor, like small children facing a drunken father s fury.

  This city, he raged, scarcely aware of what he was saying, is mine. I stand watch here. I am the gate. To take this city you will have to come through me.

  You cannot! Risgillen screamed back at him.

  This is not your right! You have not passed through the Dark Gate!

  Have I not? He tilted his head, felt something in his neck click. He leaned in and looked at her. Saw her shudder away.

  Have I not, Risgillen?

  And suddenly he felt something slip away inside him. Suddenly he was emptied out.

  The hands he had laid on the temple stones loosened their grip, folded away, began to fade. The cold legion collapsed inward again, wrapped around him like an icy wind, high whistling, weeping note of loss, and then even that was gone.

  A single block of masonry dropped out of the ceiling and shattered apart on his left. Stone shards stung his cheek.

  He lowered the Ravensfriend.

  Get out of here, he said tiredly. Go on, fuck off, both of you. Before the whole place comes down.

  Somewhere, masonry groaned and powder spilled down in the gloom. The dwenda gaped at him, unmoving. He felt his temper spark and sputter like a damp taper.

  I said go! No triumph in his tone, only a dead and grinding rage. Go back to the Gray Places and mourn your brother, Risgillen. I won t tell you again. You are not wanted in this world. You are not missed. Spread the fucking word. The next time I see a dwenda, I rip its motherfucking heart out and eat it still beating.

  The echoes of his voice fell away. He walked past the dwenda to where Menkarak lay trapped. Risgillen made no move to stop him. Atalmire looked to be in shock from his shattered leg. The invigilator s eyes widened as he saw Ringil s figure loom over him. He shoved weakly at the block of stone across his chest, coughed up a lot of blood.

  Look at it this way, Ringil told him in Tethanne.

  You re dying anyway. Might as well make yourself useful.

  He hacked off the invigilator s head. It took a couple of strokes; the angle was awkward. When it was done, and the gush of blood spent in the dust, he knelt and gathered up the head by its greasy hair. Slung the Ravensfriend across his shoulder. Turned back to look at the dwenda.

  Need this, he said vaguely, hefting the head by way of farewell.

  He didn t look back again, but he felt their empty black eyes watching him, all the way out of the hall.

  CHAPTER 46

  It took him a while to find his way out. The temple was big and poorly lit, and some of the architecture was confusing, especially the massive chunks of it that had fallen in. He thought, from the quality of the light seeping through holes in the roof, that dawn must not be too far off. But down at floor level, it was still mostly dark. Seeing was work; trying to think was worse. His head was a torn-up mess, a match for the rubble he walked through

  Did I do all this?

  He kept moving dogged instinctive motion and honed years of skirmisher caution, tangled up with flash-lit memories he would mostly rather not look at.

  The temple s structure creaked ominously about him.

  Vague recollection of the story Egar had told him gave things an eerie familiarity, but it provided no useful guidance. He d worked out he must be at Afa marag from the glirsht figures and the gallery in the main altar hall, but he was still slightly shaken when he passed a huge statue holding up the roof, a southern representation of Hoiran with horse tackle slung across one shoulder, and realized it was where the Dragonbane had faced the dwenda before. He stopped and looked up at the looming, bearded face under the ceiling, the raised right arm, now missing its hand. It was not quite the harsh tusked and fanged majesty of Hoiran as the north knew him, but you could see the similarities.

  The shattered fragments of the hand lay not far off. He remembered Egar telling him how it fell and stopped the fight in its tracks. He peered at the masonry and caught the dark gleam of something atop one massive chunk of pointing index finger.

  A Kiriath flare.

  It stood upright, as if just that moment placed there, curved metal casing of the flask picking up the thin light in the place and throwing it back. There was even a leather loop for tying it onto your belt, already attached. If it wasn t the flare he d lost to Risgillen in the Citadel, it was a pretty perfect copy.

  He stared at it for a while, then lifted his eyes to the huge, bearded face looming overhead. A shiver ran through him. He grimaced and set down Menkarak s head for a moment. Swiped up the flare, tied it onto his belt where there had been one before.

  Don t suppose you ve got my dragon knife, too? he as
ked the empty gloom.

  There was no reply.

  He wasn t very sure he wanted one.

  Farther on through the darkened chambers of the temple, he ran into a panicked-looking pair of men-at-arms sharing a single torch. They fetched up short, gaping at him.

  So how do I get out of this place? he asked them.

  Their gazes sidled down to the head he carried in his left hand, now dust-caked around the chopped neck wound and the mouth.

  Don t look at him, Ringil barked.

  Just tell me how the fuck I get out of here.

  But, you, that s Pash The more talkative of the two swallowed, hard. Pointed with the torch he held.

  Back that way. Through the arch and take the staircase on the left, then the corridor with the bas-relief walls. Main atrium, and out. But, there s uh, the Blessed Watch are at the doors.

  I ll talk to them.

  The other man shook his head dazedly. We heard, uh, there was What happened in there?

  Black powers, said Ringil briskly. Demonic forces. The old gods have broken through, and the ceiling s coming down. If I were you, I wouldn t hang around too long.

  But what about the slaves? blurted the man.

  The slaves, yes. He remembered more fragments of the Dragonbane s tale. Cursed under his breath. Well you d better go and let them all out, hadn t you?

  The man who d spoken first wrinkled his nose. Fuck that shit. They re all northerners anyway. Let the fucking roof come down on them for all I care.

  Ringil lifted the Ravensfriend from his shoulder and pointed it at the man. It felt oddly effortless the Ravensfriend was light, but not that light. He emptied his face of all expression, poured the command into his voice.

  You ll both go and let the slaves out of here before you do anything else. Right now. I m going to be standing outside at the front door and if I see either of your faces come through it before those slaves, then you ll be joining my friend Pashla here in a bounty bag. Got it?

  From their faces, he judged that they did.

  He watched them scurry away into the gloom, waited until the glow of the torch disappeared, then pressed onward. The directions they d given him were accurate. He found the main doors cracked open a cautious couple of yards and letting in the dawn. The Blessed Watchmen clustered about the sides, weapons drawn, peering nervously into the gloom. They jumped when he appeared, and there were some halfhearted challenges, but in the end they gave him no more trouble than their colleagues inside. He told them the same story he d told before and advised them to stay clear. They let him through. If any of them recognized Menkarak s face swinging at his knee, none of them wanted to get into it with him.