by Tom Lloyd
‘Larim?’ rasped the dead mage. There was an echo to the voice, as well as the bubbling of air though a ruined windpipe.
‘I’m here,’ was the reply, laced with a vague amusement.
‘I cannot see you.’
‘That’s because your head’s hanging down at the ground.’
‘You wish to gauge my strength? So be it, you are but a child after all.’
There was no emotion in the voice. Styrax couldn’t tell whether the being was angry or amused at the game Larim was playing. Controlling the muscles was difficult for a daemon, and clearly the Chosen of Larat had broken the corpse’s neck to find out how powerful a being they were dealing with.
With jerking movements the dead mage’s head was forced to an upright angle, tongue lolling and eyes dead. ‘You have found Lord Styrax as I asked. Good.’
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ Styrax enquired.
Larim turned to face Styrax. ‘I believe this is your friend, not mine.’
Styrax felt a chill on his skin. Was he being accused of something? Had Larim proof that Styrax had made a pact with a daemon? If so, why confront him here, surrounded by Styrax’s troops?
He looked at the dead mage. ‘Well, corpse, are you a friend of mine?’
‘A friend? No. A loyal subject of course.’
‘Loyal subject?’ Styrax narrowed his eyes, thinking frantically, then cried, ‘Amavoq’s rage; Isherin Purn? I’d assumed you were dead -we’ve heard nothing from you in two years.’
‘I am honoured you remember me.’ The voice lacked any emotion, but Styrax could imagine it now, the mocking, wheedling lilt, Purn’s thin lips over-forming each syllable in almost obscene pedantry. The necromancer was an unpleasant, rat-like figure, alternating wildly between ridiculous scheming and depraved experiments.
‘You did your job well. I expected you to return and claim your reward. Lord Bahl would never have left himself vulnerable without your influence. I had hoped to hear just how you accomplished it.’
‘An artist cannot reveal too many secrets. All I will say is that it required a creative pen as much as spellcasting.’ The corpse paused. ‘I did not return because I have found myself many distractions in this part of the Land. There is so much fun to be had here.’
‘And yet you seek me out?’
‘Ever willing to be of service to my Lord.’
Styrax snorted. ‘When you were in my grip, perhaps. You certainly had enough sense not to challenge me. Now that you are beyond my influence, I’m not so sure.’ He cocked his head towards Larim. ‘What was it Verliq said? “I hold no allegiance but to my art”?’
The white-eye’s lip twitched in irritation. ‘I would not know, my Lord. You have not let us read any of his works.’
Styrax gave him a bright little smile. ‘Ah, no, of course not. A shame, you would find them most instructive. Well, Purn? I know necromancers care little for their rulers, so tell me why you have gone to all this trouble.’
‘I am in Scree. It is a backward little city, typical of the Western states, caught between one powerful neighbour and another and spending all their time looking outwards for the next threat.’
‘So they don’t worry much about people disappearing off the street from time to time. I’m sure it is paradise for you. I do already have agents however; agents who provide better information than that. Either tell me something new, or I will dismiss you in a manner you will find most uncomfortable. My son is injured so I have little time for the babbling of deranged maniacs.’
‘If your son is injured, then you had better be more courteous to the walkers in the dark,’ the corpse retorted, its jaw snapping shut, an indication of Isherin Purn’s anger.
‘Why? What do you know about it?’ Styrax stepped forward and grabbed the corpse by its slack neck. Without any apparent effort he lifted it up with one hand and brought the dead lolling eyes level with his own. ‘Whatever allegiance you profess to hold, never forget my power. There is nowhere you could hide from me. There is no protector you could find to keep you safe if you made yourself my enemy. Now explain what you meant.’
Returning the corpse to the ground, he stepped back and watched it jerk and spasm as Purn fought to regain control over its muscles. That close, Styrax could smell the emptied bowels, adding to the stink of corrupt magic surrounding the cadaver. Purn had grown in power since being allowed to leave Salen’s tutelage at the Hidden Tower and seek out Cordein Malich. Styrax guessed that the necromancer would be unable to repeat this trick with anyone but members of the coterie he had served in, yet even so, it was impressive. And it was an illustrative point of theory -he would have to send someone to read Larim’s notes when he had time to investigate it further.
‘I understand,’ the corpse rasped eventually. ‘I am no threat to your son, but he walks with one foot in the dark.’
‘One foot in the dark? He is not as close to death as that.’
‘Not close to death, but walking in the dark nonetheless. He is open to the creatures of the other place. They can feel the fire raging through him. I do not know the being that fuels his fire, but it is not one that would willingly share its possessions. I do not dare investigate further else I be scorched by its vengeance. ’
‘Kohrad is no toy to be shared,’ Styrax snarled. ‘Nor is he a possession of either God or daemon. If one seeks to claim him, it will have to fight my armies for him.’
‘It already has staked its claim.’
Styrax hesitated. ‘The armour? That is what gives it power over him?’
‘Ah, a suit of armour? If that is true, then you are dealing with an old one, the most ancient and cunning. Filled with malice they are - and hard to trick out of their prize. Take care how you proceed.’
Styrax hesitated. He knew which inhabitant of the dark would want a hold over him: the daemon-prince he had made a bargain with many years ago. It feared his strength and scrabbled for purchase. So be it; he had always known a reckoning had to come one day. Strange that it comes this way though, I wouldn’t have expected a daemon to choose such an oblique path.
‘Was that what you came to tell me? A warning from a loyal servant?’
‘No.’ The corpse gave a wheeze, a dribble of cloying blood emerging from the corner of its mouth. Styrax suspected Purn, back in his festering laboratory in Scree, was laughing at the notion. ‘To tell you there is a new air in Scree. Figures of power walk the streets, unknown songs drift on the air. It is nothing I have ever felt before, but it is more akin to the currents surging through the Dark Place than the politics of a city. Something calls to me in the night, something of incalculable power.’
‘You’re asking for help?’ Styrax’s puzzlement was plain in his voice. He glanced at Larim, but the young white-eye looked just as confused. A necromancer as powerful as Purn was unlikely to ask for assistance, no matter what the task. Sharing, spoils or troubles, was not often part of the mindset.
‘Scree becomes the focus of something quite remarkable, I believe. I do not know what dangers lie here, but they shift and feed off each other. Scree sees the convergence of horrors. I fear this home will soon be no home, not even for a man of culture such as I.’
Styrax knew what Purn meant, but when he glanced at Larim, he didn’t appear to understand; his contact with necromancers during his fifteen-year apprenticeship would have been limited. Necromancers disliked states descending into chaos. There were too many factions involved, too many mobs roaming the streets and disrupting their work. They liked their shadows still and peaceful, rather than flickering in the flames of funeral pyres.
‘You lack the power to compete for whatever it is that calls to you in the night?’
‘If this convergence draws more people to Scree that will certainly be true, but in fact I suspect the artefact would draw me into the games of lords and Gods, and in these troubled times that would not prove healthy. Instead, I offer to help you secure it.’
‘You’re offering
me this artefact? In exchange for what? A manor back home with your pick of the gaols? A guarantee that your activities will be unrestrained?’
‘No. The pickings will be richer this side of the Waste. Every denizen of the dark knows that a storm has scattered the strands of the future far and wide. Fate lies in her chamber and weeps for what she has lost. I do not wish to be absent from such delicious chaos. The freedom you offered me is my price - as well as men to assist me here -but in Thotel, where I am not answerable to anyone but you. That -and one of the Chetse’s Bloodroses for my personal use.’
Styrax frowned. A necromancer offering to hand over something of such power? It hardly seemed creditable, yet Purn knew his lord well enough not to expect some foolish mistake that could put Styrax in danger, or honour an agreement where he’d been lied to. ‘If this artefact is as great as you claim, I agree. I will send you some men to help and they will accompany you back here.’
The corpse shuddered, slumping to its knees before Purn regained his control. ‘I cannot hold this much longer. Who will you send? They must leave word for me at a tavern, the Lost Spur.’
Styrax’s thoughts began to race. Killers would be easy enough to find, but who of his staff could he send to lead them? All those men whose names came readily to his lips were men of importance, and he had few friends he could spare for such a thing. Then one appeared unbidden in his mind. Styrax pictured the terror it would cause even as he spoke, and the picture it made caused him to smile inwardly.
‘Mikiss. A messenger called Koden Mikiss will lead them.’
Not waiting to hear any more, Isherin Purn broke the link and the mage’s corpse collapsed in a heap of stained, stinking robes. Styrax didn’t move for a moment, thinking over this remarkable conversation. Of what importance was Scree? What sort of convergence could be happening there? Then Kohrad’s still form returned to his memory. There were more important things to deal with this night. His skills would be required if they were going to break whatever hold the daemon had over his son. Once that was done, there was revenge to be planned.
‘Major,’ Styrax growled. The tall soldier hurried over, his amber eyes glinting in the firelight. ‘Find our friend the messenger and have him waiting for when I finish with Kohrad. Do you have a few men you can trust for a trip such as this?’
‘If it’s as important as he said,’ the soldier replied with a nod towards the corpse, ‘I’ll go myself, and take the twins with me. Any more than that will make it hard to travel quick and quiet.’
Styrax gave a nod of approval. ‘Good. I don’t want to send an army all the way up there, not yet. Find out what Purn is talking about and if you think it worthwhile, send word with what assistance you’ll need to secure it. Get yourself ready, then bring the messenger to me. But first, find me a horse.’
CHAPTER 10
Mayel pressed his palm flat against the door and stopped. In the gloom of the cellar stairwell, he could just make out the pitted iron ring that opened the door. He held his breath, feeling the insistent thump of his heart pounding as his ears strained to detect any sound from the house above. All was silent, but for a flutter through the house as the blustery wind rattled the shutters. A droning whistle abruptly pierced the quiet, making Mayel’s heart almost leap into his throat.
Then he recognised it, and grinned in relief. ‘Just the wind coming through the keyhole,’ he muttered. ‘Idiot!’ The lock on the kitchen door was old and broken, like everything else in this house, no matter how grand it had once been. Mayel could hardly believe anyone would let such a fine house fall into disrepair like this, letting the damp creep up the walls and seep into the floorboards until they swelled and burst like overripe fruit. The surrounding area might explain a lot for, like the house at its centre, the district was decayed, half-abandoned, home mostly to furtive figures who lingered in dark corners, hiding from the light as much as the rain. The abbot, of course, thought the area ideal. Having escaped the austere bleakness of their island monastery, Abbot Doren had sought out its cosmopolitan equivalent, much to Mayel’s indignation. That the abbot had paid good silver for it only compounded the young man’s irritation.
Mayel had adopted the kitchen as his own and scrubbed it clean. The abbot had the cellar room for his studies, and the rest of the house they had sealed off and left for the rats to enjoy. The abbot worked through the night, talking to himself and clattering around down here as Mayel drifted off to sleep in his makeshift bed. When the old man did sleep it was usually in a chair shaded from the afternoon sun, though his slumber was far from peaceful, his dreams plagued by fell shapes he refused to discuss . . . Mayel could see them haunting his waking hours too.
Abbot Doren was far from young, but Mayel suspected he was not as old as he appeared, despite the tired look in his eyes. Perhaps it was the dreams that aged him, perhaps it was something else. He was a mage, like most high priests, and neither magic nor Vellern were easy masters. The two together would take a lot out of any man.
Flickering light seeped through the cracks, outlining the door. Finally, Mayel turned the iron ring, and waited. Salvation or damnation, he wondered, slowly easing open the door. Wincing slightly at the creak of the hinges, he poked his head around the door and looked into the cellar.
The morning light was streaming down through the two grime-smeared windows facing him. The cellar had been underneath the main entrance to the house, looking up at what was, at one time, a busy street. The tall oak door that had been the grand entrance to the house was now rotten and broken, with black paint peeling from its surface like a leprous skin.
Miraculously, neither of the windows had been broken or stolen -folk avoided the house, though Mayel did not know why. Shandek insisted it wasn’t haunted, and blamed the atmosphere of fear that permeated the district on a rash of recent, unsolved disappearances. Mayel hadn’t been quite convinced by that, but the abandoned house was still imposing, even now, so it wouldn’t be surprising if it had become the focus of suspicion. He had to admit no one was likely to store goods in a place he feared, so it was more likely Shandek had spread the rumours himself.
Mayel took a lamp down off its bracket and, stepping over sacks full of strange plants and pots of dark, glutinous liquids, took it over to the scarred table in the centre of the room. He noted the lamps were burning low. If the abbot returned from his walk early, Mayel could say he was refilling them. Mayel recognised the heavy tomes that he had personally lugged from the monastery amongst the piles of books that covered the table. He picked up one that lay open and scanned the feathery script, hoping for an indication of what the abbot was working on. It was hard to read, and even harder to make sense of. At the bottom of one page was a strange drawing, vague lines swirling about each other, that he struggled to understand. He cocked his head to one side and was frowning at the page when it came into focus: a tall figure with sword drawn, standing over a prone knight. The artist had carefully blacked out the sword’s blade with ink. The caption below said Velere’s Fell. Mayel assumed that the prone figure was Velere, the Elven prince. The archaic text appeared to be describing the feats of an immortal hero called Aracnan, and his particular devotion to his lord, though Mayel couldn’t actually work out who this lord was, as his name was never mentioned. There was something about a battle in a field of wild flowers, and a shifting wall of smoke which had aided Aracnan’s holy quest. That passage was worn dark, smudged by past scholars who had run their fingers along the line as they read, but Mayel could not fathom why it was important. He knew it was not from the library, but from the abbot’s personal collection, and that meant the abbot himself, and maybe past abbots too, had thought that bit important.
‘Don’t mind that now,’ Mayel told himself, ‘you’re just getting distracted. You’re not here to read his books but to find that bloody box.’
The room was in a chaotic state. Mayel hadn’t been allowed down here since he’d dragged in the table for the abbot to work at. He continued his search, finding
another valuable-looking book, bound in tarnished, silvery metal, hidden under the table. It was wrapped in waxed cloth. The cover looked as if had been inscribed by hand, but the words meant nothing to him -even in the monastery he’d not seen this language before . . . he thought it was strange that the title had been written on to such a fine book rather than embossed. He tried to open it, and found to his surprise that the cover was glued shut. There was no locking mechanism to be seen, and even turning the book over he could see nothing that would lock it shut. Mayel ran his finger down the inside edge of the hard leather cover and yelped as something sharp dug into his finger. He dropped the book back onto the table and stuck his finger in his mouth. After a moment he pulled it out again to inspect the cut. Blood still welled from a tiny incision but when he licked it clean again he realised the cut was a strange shape, almost like a tiny formal monogram of two entwined characters, V and V. Mayel, intrigued, compared it to the cover of the book. It had the same device on it, within a wreath of ivy leaves.
‘Well, that’s strange,’ Mayel muttered as he turned the book over to inspect it. Oddly, he could see nothing sharp -but when he gingerly ran a fingernail down the same spot, there was a flash of silver as if from nowhere and the same strange shape was cut into his fingernail.
‘Magic,’ he breathed in wonder. The abbot was a skilled mage, but Mayel had no talent himself. Even holding a book bearing some small enchantment gave him a thrill that took away the sting of his bleeding finger entirely.
A scraping sound from upstairs made Mayel flinch: the kitchen door had been opened. Mayel had jammed a small stone under the door, and it was that scraping that had alerted him. He grabbed the lamp and blew out the flame and as he cast a last glance around the room, he finally spotted the box. It was open, a long red velvet scarf all that remained inside. Clearly the scarf had been protection, but whatever had been inside the lacquered box was gone now.
