by Dave Morris
‘My studies warned me to expect this,’ said Icon. ‘Hence I scoured the western lands for this mallet, which is the only means by which we will be able to speak to the ghost of Magus Zyn.’
‘The scroll we found said something about him,’ Altor recalled. ‘And the witch mentioned him too...’
‘He was one of the True Magi,’ said Icon. ‘Much greater wizards than these modern upstarts who now rule Krarth, they were all slain in the eruption that destroyed the city of Spyte. Except for Magus Zyn, who had been so powerful that the other magi bound his spirit here in the Battlepits to prevent him from resurrecting himself.’
‘Why disturb him now, in that case?’ Caelestis challenged him.
‘He understands how to deal with the giant Skrymir. We have to find that out before we can attain victory.’
Neither Caelestis nor Altor had an immediate answer to that. Caelestis was still suspicious, but while he was racking his brains to remember exactly what it was that the witch had told them, Icon had turned once more towards the gong. Before either of them could even think to stop him, he had struck it.
A deep note resonated in the air, building just beyond the range of hearing so that it was like being surrounded by a vast swarm of invisible bees.
They felt a tingling sensation, then watched in fear as incandescent gold sparks sprung from the gong to crawl around them.
There was a sickening jolt. The surroundings swum out of focus, altered, came sharply back into relief. Caelestis, who had experienced a very similar sensation earlier in the day, guessed at once what had happened: ‘A teleportation spell!’
The other two did not need him to tell them. They could see plainly enough from the fact that they were now all standing on the basalt platform with a fifty foot drop to the cavern floor where they had only a split-second before.
Only Icon seemed unamazed. ‘Of course,’ he muttered to himself, ‘it would not be seemly for Zyn to come to us when he could instead bring us to him.’
All three of them turned at once, not because there had been any sound but because they felt the presence of something cold and uncanny. A large jewelled coffin occupied the middle of the platform, and in the phosphorescent gloom they saw an old man rise from it, passing through the closed lid to hover candle pale in the air before them.
Even Icon stood dumbstruck until the ghost spoke, stirring the air with a voice reaching across a gulf of centuries.
‘Magus Zyn I was, in life,’ it said. ‘Mightiest of the True Magi, as has been told, I would have ruled over all, but petty jealousies brought about my downfall. Foolish rivals slew my servant, the giant Skrymir, and though they lacked the power to destroy me utterly, they yet imprisoned me here. Here I have lain for ten centuries. Ten centuries! They have passed like the slow tread of Leviathan, like the measured rumble of the gods as they snore beneath Spyte. Ten centuries to plot and scheme... Now my plans for vengeance reach fruition—with your help.’
Caelestis glanced at Icon, who was nodding to himself thoughtfully. Altor stood with folded arms, glaring grimly at the ghost. ‘Why should we help you?’ he demanded.
‘Behold the landscape of the netherworld.’ The ghost swept its translucent arm to take in the mist-draped volcanic vista below. ‘Cold rock lies heavy as the lid of a tomb; draped over it is a grave-cloth of dank mist. But underneath rage the very fires of the Inferno. So it is with me. I am dead, my mortal shell but ashes, but my spirit burns with the garnered ferocity of a millennial hatred. If you refuse me then it will count for but a flicker in the eternity of my existence, but I shall see to it that your suffering screams endure throughout all time.’
‘Who’s refusing?’ blurted out Caelestis hastily. ‘Sure we’ll help.’
‘It is well,’ replied the ghost with a misty smile. ‘The loyal servants of Zyn shall share in his glory, and you shall be rewarded above all others.’
‘I don’t like this,’ said Altor under his breath. ‘It’s always a bad sign when a wizard starts referring to himself in the third person. Particularly a dead wizard.’
‘I agree,’ whispered Caelestis, ‘but we’ll have to go along with him for the time being, otherwise we’d be stuck up here.’
Icon cast them a hot sidelong glare. ‘How can we serve you, O puissant lord?’ he asked the ghost.
In answer it passed its hands over the jewelled coffin and the lid rose slowly into the air. They looked upon a mouldered skeleton that clutched a lump of fused rock in its broken fingers.
‘My mortal form,’ said the ghost wistfully. ‘So long it has been since I tasted the musky wines of Asmuly or felt a scented breeze from off spring meadows... Take the stone! Take it quickly! I wish to wallow no more in memory of things forever lost to me.’
Icon stepped forward and took the lump of stone from the skeleton’s hands, and the coffin lid slowly closed again.
He held up the stone. ‘It looks like a fossilized heart,’ said Altor.
‘It is the heart of the giant Skrymir,’ explained the ghost. ‘He was destroyed by the True Magi, but he shall be my instrument of vengeance upon their heirs, these mewling modern upstarts who have usurped the ancient grandeur...’
The ghost flickered and seemed to grow larger and more tenebrous for a moment, then settled down to a cold hard radiance. ‘Go towards the atoll. I have no interest in this petty contest; it is of no concern to me whether you take the Emblem of Victory or not. However, on your way to the atoll’s summit you will pass through chambers where the sundered fragments of Skrymir’s body lie—his massive legs, his rib cage, his arms and fleshless skull. Take them with you. At the summit, assemble them and place the heart I have given you in his dusty chest. Then stand you back, for the magic of Zyn shall roar forth from the cosmic interstices once again as it did in times of old. Flesh shall clothe Skrymir’s yellow bones; his heart shall beat and warm blood shall course through his veins; his eyes shall open and behold this travesty of ancient Krarth, and to the upstart magi he shall mete out a most fitting fate.’
‘We get the picture,’ said Altor. ‘How do we get down from here?’
The ghost raised its diaphanous hands. ‘Make ready. My simplest spell will serve to return you...’
A stream of grey-blue light surrounded the three of them. The scene shifted and once more they found themselves on the plain below the floating platform.
Icon turned to resume the journey towards the atoll, but Altor caught his sleeve. ‘Just a moment. You told us we needed Zyn’s advice on how to deal with the giant, but from what he said it sounds like the giant is already dead.’
‘And would have stayed that way if we hadn’t got involved,’ put in Caelestis more vehemently. ‘Now we’re supposed to put him back together! Come clean, Icon—you expected all this, didn’t you?’
Icon looked thoughtful. ‘It was why I came to take part in the contest,’ he said after a moment. ‘Do you think I would have travelled the whole width of the world merely for gold? The magi are untrustworthy employers at best, and I suspect their real purpose in holding the Battlepits contest is simply to relish the violent deaths of the losers. Rather than rely on the meagre gift that Uru chooses to give me for bringing him the Emblem, therefore, I prefer to ally myself with Magus Zyn and take the lavish reward of sorcerous power.’
‘Ally?’ said Caelestis dubiously. ‘He doesn’t regard us so highly. You heard his threats: we serve him or he’ll send us straight to hell.’
‘He’ll value us right enough if we serve him well,’ insisted Icon. ‘In any case, the deed is done. Shall we stand here and bicker, or press on and take whatever rewards await us?’
‘On,’ said Altor, nodding. But he wore a dark frown now. He was beginning to share his friend’s qualms about the mysterious Icon.
They trudged on across the blasted wasteland, the mist falling back in forlorn wisps as they reached the higher ground climbing to the atoll. It rose above them, a brooding monolith of hard black rock. On a ledge high above, they cou
ld just make out the tassels of the Emblem of Victory fluttering in the ghostly breeze that streamed around the summit.
A slope led up into a crevice in the base of the atoll, and passing through this they found a path winding up and around it like a helter-skelter. The way was steep, and none of them complained upon reaching a ledge where they could stop to rest.
Caelestis sat down wearily but Altor remained vigilant. He sensed danger. Looking around, he saw a reddish glimmer appear that lighted the outline of a small cave off the back of the ledge.
Icon had seen it too. Stepping smartly over, he reached into the cave and rolled out what at first looked like a small boulder. It was with a shock that the other two suddenly recognized the shape of a massive skull.
‘It must have belonged to someone more than twenty feet tall!’ gasped Caelestis.
As they stared at the skull in amazement, a groan issued from its jaws. Then it spoke.
Fourteen:
The Magi’s Downfall
They all stood dumbstruck as the skull spoke to them.
‘I was Skrymir the giant,’ it said. ‘Skrymir, who dared to challenge the True Magi. This was in olden times, before the Blasting which put mere apprentices on the ancient thrones. You think these modern lords of Krarth are mighty? The True Magi were wizards indeed! They blew spells that shrivelled my flesh into dust, they turned my heart to stone with their fierce glares, boiled my blood with their rage, cracked these old bones with shouted incantations.’
‘Magus Zyn has sent us to restore you,’ said Icon.
There was a long pause, so long that they began to wonder if they had only imagined the skull spoke, but then the voice boomed out again: ‘Collect my bones together—this skull through which I now speak to you and the other sundered fragments you will find. At the summit join them together. Then I shall rise again and sweep away those capricious prattlers who now style themselves as magi! Give me life, mortals, and your reward will be beyond the dreams of avarice.’
The skull fell silent. After a moment, Caelestis said: ‘Let’s just roll it off the ledge and have done.’
Altor was in agreement, but Icon shook his head. ‘We would never be allowed to leave the Battlepits. Zyn would summon us back with his magic and consign us all to hell. No, my friends, it is too late for second thoughts—we’ve thrown in our lot with Zyn, for good or ill.’
‘If that is so,’ said Altor reluctantly, ‘I think it’s certainly for ill.’
There was nothing more to say. They resumed the climb up the ramp with Icon rolling the huge skull. At the next ledge they found a rib-cage of colossal proportions hanging from a petrified tree. A large padlock attached it to one of the stone branches but at a harsh command from the skull, like the tolling of a great bell, the padlock fell open and Icon took the rib cage down.
At the next ledge was a roughly carved throne to which were shackled the giant’s pelvic bone and skeletal legs. Again the skull spoke and the shackles slithered away, rustling their rusted links on the stone as they retreated into the shadows.
‘Help me,’ said Icon. ‘I can’t carry everything myself.’
Altor shook his head. ‘I want nothing to do with it.’
‘Me neither,’ said Caelestis.
Icon sighed. ‘I can’t blame you for being afraid. You are young, and already you’ve experienced enough since entering the Battlepits to affright the bravest of men. But I urge you to steel yourselves, keep your nerve for just a little longer.’
‘It is not fear that holds us back,’ said Altor angrily, ‘but reasonable doubt that this is the right course of action.’
‘Maybe with a little bit of fear thrown in,’ added Caelestis.
‘How many times must I say this?’ said Icon, his eyes suddenly narrowing as though to hide his innermost thoughts from them. ‘If we fail to do what Magus Zyn requires of us we will rot here forever! We are allies, so I ask again: help me.’
‘I wish you’d consulted with your allies before you struck the gong and got us into this,’ said Altor curtly. Nonetheless, he lifted the massive bone legs across his back.
On the next ledge were skeletal arms affixed to shoulder blades like plates of ivory armour. One fleshless hand still wore a spiked gauntlet of iron. Despite his misgivings, Caelestis picked these up and the three continued up the atoll with their burdens of bone.
The slope levelled out. They had reached the summit at last. Barely a dozen paces away stood the Emblem of Victory, its metallic bosses and rich fabric bathed in the bright glare of a beam of light stretching up to the ceiling of the cave.
Caelestis had thought he would want nothing but to touch the Emblem and be conveyed to the surface, but now that it was within his grasp he paused and, setting down the heavy skeletal arms, turned to look back over the Battlepits. From this vantage point he could see the glimmering fires and phosphor streams, the blanket of mist and the hovering platform where Magus Zyn’s coffin rested, the chasm where the dirge-man flew, a distant speck, and the pylon above the lake of boiling mud with the ruined shrine lost in the gloom beyond.
‘We’ve come so far...’ he said.
Altor rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Didn’t you think we were going to make it?’
Caelestis remembered their conversation while Altor was binding his wounds on the battlements of the pylon. He smiled. ‘Of course. I just didn’t expect it to be so hard.’
‘I was thinking of the others,’ said Altor. ‘Imragarn, those Mercanians, the guys on the crater rim, the rest of them... They gave their lives—for what? The chance of a bag of gold.’
‘They were fools,’ said Icon. ‘Gold is nothing more than prettily coloured dirt. It is power that counts in this world.’
They turned to see him inspecting an iron frame that lay overgrown with brambles and half-hidden in the shadows behind the rock where the Emblem stood. ‘This is the armature into which we must fit the giant’s bones,’ he declared with obvious satisfaction.
‘I think it’s time we abandoned that project,’ said Altor.
Icon looked at him with unconcealed contempt. ‘I can’t believe I have to explain this yet again! If we fail to carry out Magus Zyn’s orders we’ll be punished. On the other hand, if we do as he commanded and rebuild the giant, our reward will be much greater than anything the magi could give us.’
‘He didn’t seem to me to be the sort to keep his promises,’ said Altor, shaking his head.
‘Forget about his threats, anyway,’ said Caelestis. ‘The moment we touch the Emblem of Victory we’ll be transported to safety. If Zyn’s power could reach beyond the Battlepits then he wouldn’t need our help in the first place.’
Icon averted his face, stood sunk in brooding thought for a few seconds, then turned back with a sigh of resignation. ‘No doubt you’re right, my friends. Forgive my obstinacy. Let’s join hands on the Emblem, then, and return to the surface, where we shall feast tonight in the best tavern in Kalugen’s Keep. But first, Altor, I see that you are wounded and, since I still have a little magic left, let me cast a spell of healing so that we may all go to our victory banquet whole and healthy.’
Caelestis was about to cry out a warning but, whether it was needed or not, there was no time. Altor’s hand went to his sword but Icon had already raised his hands and chanted a few words in his native tongue, a grin of feral mirth spreading instantly across his face. Instead of healing, Altor’s wounds burst open under their bandages and he sank to the ground with a gasp of pain. The silver sword clattered on the rock beside him.
Caelestis whipped out his own sword. ‘You surprised me,’ he said.
Icon’s grin turned to a sneer. ‘How disappointing. I thought you, at least, were expecting this betrayal all along.’
‘Oh yes. I just thought it’d be sooner.’ He leapt forward in a long lunge that should have driven his sword-tip through Icon’s heart, but the warlock caught the blade in the folds of his cloak and darted back, pulling his own sword from its scabbard as he
did.
Caelestis glanced quickly at Altor. He could see blood soaking through the makeshift bandages, and although Altor was struggling to regain his feet it was obvious he would be out of the fight for a while yet. He turned back to Icon just in time to parry a slashing attack to the face.
‘I don’t think your colleague will recover in time to save you,’ Icon taunted.
‘Well, I could use the fencing practice anyway,’ replied Caelestis, circling round to try and force Icon to the edge of the summit.
But the warlock had no intention of making it a fair fight. Swiftly drawing a glass phial from his robes, he flung it at Caelestis’ feet. The glass shattered and a violet fluid splashed across the rocks, instantly turning to thick fumes. Caelestis covered his face at once, thinking the fumes to be poisonous, but Icon gave a peal of derisive laughter. ‘I wouldn’t do anything that obvious!’ he jeered.
Caelestis tried another lunge only to find his feet rooted to the spot. He flailed his arms, off balance, and in doing so dropped his sword. Looking down, he saw that his feet were caught fast inside a tangle of violet tendrils that had sprouted out of the bare rock.
Icon stepped forward and kicked Caelestis’s sword out of reach. ‘You did very well,’ he said, ‘but now it’s over. And I have won.’
Altor had crawled over to a boulder and used it to pull himself into a sitting position. The ground around him was covered with blood from his opened wounds. Half-fainting from pain, he glared at Icon and said through gritted teeth: ‘You didn’t do any of this for the Emblem, did you? Or even for anything Zyn’s ghost can offer. It was Skrymir’s skeleton you were after all along.’
Icon nodded. ‘Caelestis was right when he said that Zyn’s power can’t reach beyond the Battlepits. I intend to resurrect the giant and use him to make myself overlord of Krarth. Then I shall plunder the old libraries of the True Magi which their modern heirs have left to grow dusty with neglect. I shall become the mightiest wizard the world has ever known—mightier than Zyn, mightier than any of them.’
