by Tom Lloyd
Isak pulled his helm from his head, revealing the blue mask that echoed Nartis’ face. As he did so, he felt the building tension break like a wave on the shore. Relief washed over him, but Isak was careful to bow deeply to the Aspect, ignoring the sharp flare of pain in his shoulder as the arrow-tip twisted in the shallow wound it had made.
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ he said formally. He had no idea if that was the correct way to address a minor God.
The Herald gave no indication of being either angered or flattered. The scarlet-robed figure inclined its own head and turned away. Isak caught a glimpse of an elongated ear on the side of its head before the night air blurred and the Herald seemed to collapse inward on itself, disintegrating into a fluttering mass of black shapes that exploded in all directions and then faded into the night.
‘Lord Isak,’ Vesna hissed, from the open doorway in the nearby tower housing the steps.
Isak blinked at the night, suddenly aware that he was staring into nothingness, exposed in the torchlight. ‘Give me a hand here,’ he said, dropping to one knee and fumbling at Siulents’ hidden clasps. His armour of flowing silver was remarkable to behold, mesmerising opponents and giving him a presence that no mere king could ever attain, but being unable to see joins and clasps until they were open presented problems sometimes.
‘How deep is it? Can we dress it and go on?’ Count Vesna sounded calmer, more assured. The distraction of battle had caused years of instinct to kick in. Isak was glad to hear the change in his voice, even though he was certain his most loyal of allies would never fail him.
‘Sliced the skin, I think, no more. Just help me get this damn shoulder-plate off and the bloody thing out of me - anything more can wait; I’ll not bleed to death from a scratch.’
Vesna did so, experienced hands sliding under the plate and bringing it up off Isak’s shoulder. The white-eye grimaced as the arrow jagged in the wound again, but Siulents had taken most of the force and the barb had hooked just inside the plate. Vesna quickly snapped the shaft and withdrew the crude iron head.
He checked the wound and, some of his old humour back, announced, ‘It’s bleeding happily enough, but you’ll live.’ Once Isak’s armour was restored and the reflective helm was back in place, Vesna pointed towards the doorway. ‘The others are waiting below there. Are you sure you know where we’re going?’
Isak nodded and began walking briskly, calling Eolis to him as he did so. ‘Purn is in there,’ he said, pointing to a circular tower that rose from the end of a large hall on the eastern side of the palace. ‘I can feel the magic.’
‘Can you be sure it’s him? I thought the Circle still had a number of mages left.’
‘It’s him. I can feel powerful wards there, and I think the vampire is the only other person here with the strength for that. He’s not tried to be subtle; they’re a warning as much as anything.’
‘But you can break them?’
‘One way or another,’ Isak said firmly, ‘but it won’t be neat, so let’s get there quickly and quietly. I’m betting every servant left in the palace is holed up in a wine cellar somewhere, drowning their terror, so we move fast and we kill whoever is in our way, understand?’
There was the slightest of pauses from Vesna, and Isak felt the man’s weariness like the glow of a flaring ember before the count agreed.
They walked through darkened corridors with weapons drawn. The palace had the air of the recently abandoned; tasks were left unfinished, storerooms left open. There were no servants anywhere to be seen, no footsteps or voices echoing down the stone passageways, until they reached the inner parts of the palace, where the walls shook off their martial air and the red-painted plaster gave a more elegant look.
The first hall they came to housed a pair of soldiers, and Tiniq and Leshi ghosted forward to kill them both, with nothing more than a cut-off cough of surprise from one. The rangers dragged the bodies out of immediate sight, leaving nothing but a red smear on the flanks of the stag painted on the tiled floor.
Isak looked around to gain his bearings, looking like a hunting dog sniffing the air. ‘He’s that way, still in his tower.’
‘Surely he can sense you?’
Isak shrugged. ‘He probably felt something happen on the walls, but I suspect he feels secure behind those wards. No point looking for a fight. He’ll be wanting to save his strength.’
‘So what do you want us to do?’
‘A diversion of some sort,’ Isak said. ‘Set fire to a flour store or something, I don’t really care what. Just draw whatever guards he might have away so I can get a clear run at him.’
‘You’re going alone?’
‘Not quite,’ replied a deep, booming voice behind them. As one the Farlan turned, ready to attack, faltering when they recognised the two figures standing in the shadows of the corridor.
‘Ehla?’ Isak gasped, ‘Fernal? When—How did you get here?’
‘With rather more subtlety than you,’ the witch of Llehden replied, sounding like an exasperated older sister. At her side, Fernal flexed his massive taloned hands, staring fixedly at the weapons still levelled towards him.
Isak gestured and the blades were put up. Fernal stilled.
‘Calling up an Aspect of Death to help you get over a wall? That smacks of showmanship, if you ask me.’
‘It was hardly intentional,’ Isak said hotly, not in the mood to be chastised by anyone.
‘You can manage something like that by accident?’ She sounded horrified at the suggestion. ‘I don’t know which would be worse; that your actions could have such consequences, or that a man with your power would want to show it off so badly.’
‘My Lord?’ Vesna interrupted uncertainly, shifting his armoured body from one foot to the other. Isak nodded; they were rather too exposed for his liking as well.
‘Go. Lord Fernal, they could use your help.’
The Demi-God shook his mane of midnight-blue hair and gave a soft growl, until Ehla laid a thin hand upon his arm. Vesna hesitated, looking from his lord to the newcomers before realising it would be better for them to leave. He strode away, the others close on his heels.
Ehla spoke a few words of her own language, soft and soothing, and Fernal fired a brief volley of thick sounds back. Their voices were so different Isak couldn’t even tell if they had spoken the same language, but Fernal gave a curt nod and stepped forward to look Isak directly in the eye.
‘We have a form of kinship, you and I,’ Fernal said hesitantly, taking care over the words that fitted uneasily around his thick fleshy tongue and great incisors. The words were clear and easily recognisable, but Isak could see Fernal was determined to get them absolutely correct. He felt a pang of sympathy for the strange beast-man; Fernal must know better than Isak how appearance could be a hindrance to every other aspect of life. The care he took said very obviously I am not the beast I appear, in a way Isak had rarely bothered with. ‘I ask you to keep her safe, as I promised back in Llehden.’
‘I will,’ Isak acknowledged with a respectful nod, ignoring Fernal’s unspoken words of warning. Two large men in a cramped room, he thought, neither of us wanting to jostle the elbow of the other.
Fernal loped off after the soldiers with long strides, his thick mane billowing as he caught them up.
Isak turned back to Ehla and immediately felt uncomfortable as he saw he was being scrutinised. There was something about her poise that set Isak on edge, making him horribly aware of every idle movement and pointless gesture, especially when compared to her disturbingly still presence. She was a handsome woman -he guessed her at close to forty summers -but her aura of utter self-assurance unsettled him. It was a mask even more effective than his own, and it ensured he remained a shade off-balance around her.
‘Well, shall we go, or continue to watch each other like the last couple left at the village dance?’
Isak sighed. ‘For a village crone you sound an awful lot like King Emin,’ he commented sourly, pointing the way.<
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Ehla cocked her head at him. ‘Even isolated as we are, we’re still reminded of the man’s greatness from time to time, so I shall take that as a compliment.’
‘He has his faults,’ Isak said darkly, and walked on ahead, hand on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, Ehla breathed a word he couldn’t recognise, though it sounded like a curse. Perhaps the crone comment had got past the mask after all; he smiled and filed that thought away for later.
After two corridors and another empty hall they found a small storeroom that had obviously not been used recently. It was only six foot square, with a roughly hewn hexagonal pillar rising from near its centre and piercing the ceiling. It looked like an architectural after-thought, but it was perfect for Isak’s needs and he said an awkward prayer in his mind to whichever of the Gods were looking down upon him. They were legendarily fickle creatures, the Gods, and he knew he’d be in greatest need of their help once the deed was done.
They only had to wait five minutes. Whatever Count Vesna had set ablaze, it had gone up like a sacrifice to Tsatach and Isak could smell the bitter scent of smoke faintly even before a unit of soldiers clattered past in the direction of the fire.
‘How did you get into the palace?’ Isak whispered as they waited to see whether any more men were coming from that direction.
‘A witch can always find a way in; few have the strength of mind to deny us.’
‘And in this case?’ he replied testily at her elusive answer.
Ehla shrugged. ‘I knocked on one of the doors. It took them a little by surprise because they hadn’t seen us reach the door, but I persuaded them to let us in and then used a little spell to send them to sleep.’
‘Sleep?’ Isak said in surprise. A vision of Fernal’s great talons and bough-like arms rose in his mind.
‘Certainly. Death should always be a last resort,’ Ehla chided. ‘You would do well to remember that; it might come in useful one of these days.’
Isak suppressed a shiver; her tone had been just a little too prophetic for his liking. He scowled and turned away. ‘Come on, I can’t hear anyone else nearby -unless you’re about to complain about me killing Purn?’
‘Not at all; necromancers harm the balance of the Land, so I have no sympathy for them. Let him explain himself to Lord Death and whatever daemons he’s made his bargains with. The Land will be better without him.’
Isak didn’t reply. That the Chief of the Gods would be pleased had little to do with why he was here. The worm of guilt over Lord Bahl’s death continued to gnaw at him. He’d tried to shake it off - he knew Bahl had been a driven man, not one to pay heed to incoherent dreams -but when you couldn’t persuade yourself, what chance was there? The necromancer Isherin Purn was to blame; that was undeniable, and part of Isak clung to the hope that his own guilt would die with Purn’s.
They left the storeroom and followed the corridor to a long hall, which was lined on both sides with large sculptures on plinths, some taller even than Isak. They represented the Gods in various poses: Death sitting in judgment over some prostrate sinner; Nartis hunting, his spear raised high over a lumbering bear. Between the statues were smaller dioramas -stilt houses on a river bank, salmon leaping over rocks -made of stone, inlaid with ivory, silver and jet.
The witch inspected one and made a face of disgust. ‘They call this art? Dead things cut to resemble the living, while they sit in their lifeless cities.’
At the end of the hall they passed two enormous blood-red pillars, with grand wooden staircases leading off in both directions, curling around to meet up on the next floor. Isak eased his way onto the first of the polished mahogany steps, trying to gauge how much they would creak under his weight. When he was satisfied, he glanced at the witch, but she was already past him and heading to another doorway on the right, through which he could see a spiral staircase.
‘You might want to let me go first,’ Isak said softly.
‘Feeling the hero at last?’
He smiled. ‘No, but for all your tricks, I don’t think you can match a necromancer’s power.’
With his senses, Isak caressed the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass. The ready power within sent a warm glow through his body, prickling on his skin under the armour and running around the shape of the scar Xeliath had burned onto his chest. A different tower, he thought wryly, a different age. Would even my father or Carel back then have recognised me like this?
Ehla’s hand closed around his wrist. ‘Won’t he be expecting that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His wards are obvious to any mage, almost a challenge to a contest of power for anyone such as you. Would it not be safer to be circumspect, in case this is a trap?’
Isak almost laughed. ‘Circumspect? I’m a white-eye who knew nothing about magic a year ago. How in the name of the Dark Place do you expect me to out-think a mage of his experience? If you have any suggestions, please don’t hold back.’
‘I do.’
Isak froze. That wasn’t Ehla’s voice; he realised after a moment that it was Aryn Bwr who spoke. Gone was the usual sour note of regret and loss in the dead Elf’s voice. There was a sudden clarity, and for once Isak was eager to hear what he had to say.
‘The spells are simple and direct,’ Aryn Bwr continued after a pause, as though having taken a moment to study the problem.
‘They are set to detect anyone walking up the staircase; such a thing can be easily circumvented.’
‘How?’ Isak said hesitantly. He looked within himself to check his hold over Aryn Bwr was absolute, but nothing had changed; his captive appeared honestly willing to help. Could the last king have found a way around his bonds? Isak’s mind raced, but he couldn’t think of anything Aryn Bwr could do. His hold was too complete, too fundamental to be subverted.
‘A spell that will turn them in on each other, allow them to negate each other. My tutor called it the grave-robber’s spell. It will take more skill to cast than you have. I will have to do it myself.’
Isak didn’t answer. The witch just stared at him, her expression indecipherable. He assumed Ehla must have heard Aryn Bwr’s words, but she gave no sign of it, nor any further advice. The white-eye checked again his hold over the dead king, mistrust and fear delaying any decision. The spirit sensed his indecision, and the familiar sour taste of contempt appeared at the back of Isak’s throat, but Aryn Bwr said nothing, nor did he retract his offer.
Quickly Isak took the Crystal Skulls from their places and slid them onto the shield he carried, the only part of the armour not forged by Aryn Bwr. ‘Fine, do it.’
Without hesitation the dead king drifted forward through Isak’s consciousness, overlaying and sliding past his mind like a gliding mist. It was done with great care, gently enough that Isak felt only a disconcerted tremble as his hands and lips began to move without his volition. Isak stood still, ready to fight back at the slightest provocation, but the dead Elf was careful not to do anything to antagonise him as he drew a sliver of magic and began to weave it.
The actions were hesitant at first, like a man playing a long neglected instrument, but they grew in confidence as past skills returned. Isak watched in fascination as he felt the syllables of the spell slither over his mind. He couldn’t work out the literal meanings, but he was able to discern the shape of the spell. The scar on his chest glowed hot and sharp, as though the part of Xeliath imprinted into his skin railed against Elven touch, but Isak ignored the pain and continued to watch, drinking it all in.
With increasing assurance, Aryn Bwr drew strands of energy, weaving the words of the spell so they shaped the energy and bent it to the task at hand. It required a deftness of touch and instinct beyond anything Isak had seen before; he recognised a true mastery, beyond anything he’d witnessed before.
As soon as it was completed, Aryn Bwr sent the spell forward into the stones of the walls that lined the tight spiral stair.
Isak felt the words lodge and bite like a crowbar, testing and probing
at the cracks between stones as more power was fed to them. Within moments, the wall began to groan and a shudder ran through the flagstones underfoot. His eyes widened as the foot-thick stones juddered and shook in the surge of magic like sheets of paper hung up in the breeze.
Thin trails of dust fell from between the stones as first one and then another began to twist within the wall. Isak’s gasp of astonishment was drowned out by the grind of others following suit as the walls on each side of the spiral stair suddenly came alive with movement. The great blocks squirmed and fought to escape as Aryn Bwr’s incantation droned on, growing in intensity as the stones shook in rhythm with each syllable, the grating sound getting more insidious—
Until, suddenly, it was finished.
The last word hung tantalisingly in the air as each stone in the stairwell hesitated, teetering on the brink for an instant . . . until a soft, unbidden breath escaped Isak’s pursed lips. He felt it drift forward, but instead of dissipating, it continued on to the stairway and as it reached the stones, it gave one final spasm before spinning neatly around, that movement rippling away to the next and the next, leading away up the staircase. Wherever a spell had been left in wait for anyone ascending, a bright flash of white or green burst from nothing as the magic was torn apart, leaving angry sparks crackling in the air. The sounds continued up the stairs, out of sight, then there was a great yawning of timber, the scrape of dagger-points on stone, one final snap and a flash of light . . .
The echo of the spell raced away behind them to other parts of the palace as a stunned silence fell over Isak and Ehla.
‘Now it is safe for you to walk,’ said the last king in Isak’s head, leaving a sense of satisfaction lingering as he receded unbidden back into the depths of Isak’s soul. The white-eye cast a sideways look at Ehla; her face remained inscrutable and she paid him no attention as she stared ahead.
As though in response to that final crash echoing away, a gust of wind came up from behind him, bringing another taste of smoke on the air. That stirred Isak into action and he replaced the Skulls before advancing to the foot of the spiral staircase.
