I’ll be fine and must ride fast. Goristoum is nearly two weeks away and I must find Shiri alive when I get there. I don’t know what I can do once I arrive but somehow I know I’m not alone. Something I know nothing of is helping me. I saw a vision above the pool of the Wise Ones in the Darkwood many months ago and it showed only me, riding up the road to the palace in Goristoum through deserted streets. I will go alone.”
Eventually all present at the table acquiesced and Arwhon had his way.
With Krissi in the lead and Rancid following behind Duran, Arwhon rode away from Belvedere at first light. Rancid carried valuable grain for horse feed as Arwhon intended to cut across the burnt southeast corner of the Barsoom Plains to gain time. Almost out of sight of Belvedere, he paused and turned in the saddle for what may be his last view of the white walls of a city he had seen for the first time some nine months ago. A long and very busy nine months. The siege tower still stood against the north wall, a desolate skeleton without the swarming soldiers, its timbers already being removed for new buildings and a trail of wagons continued to haul bodies to the site of the mass grave. It would take more than a couple of days to finish that particularly unpleasant job although there were plenty of volunteers for it, swiftly relieving the bodies of anything valuable before heaving them onto the wagons.
Sunlight was still affecting Arwhon’s vision slightly and he experimented as he rode, holding up his hand and concentrating on the streamers of light. They made his hand tingle. He tried to draw them in as he did with Power but with limited success, although he did find he could weave insubstantial fiery nets of the energy between both hands like a string cat’s cradle. Its effective use remained a mystery. What he needed was instruction or explanation of the Ring and its purpose. As far as he could work out, it was only the Dwarves who had any idea what the significance of the Ring was or what it represented. Perhaps one day, after all this was done with and if he survived, he would seek out the Dwarves and ask for their help.
Day after day he rode Duran at a fast clip, the leagues disappearing under the horse’s tireless hooves as they followed Krissi, who always seemed to want to go faster. At first, after crossing the bridge over the Wandering River, Arwhon headed due east, skirting the lower end of Walland’s Rue then turned north east onto the burnt-out plains of Barsoom.
Where possible he camped beside water, feeding the horse and mule a ration of grain each evening and taking care to fill the water skins on Rancid’s back at each watering spot. The horses missed grass to eat as they progressed over the burnt plains, each footfall of their hooves sending a puff of black ash into the air but Arwhon noticed the faint green sheen of regrowth everywhere he looked. Krissi turned from white to grey with the black ash and he could occasionally hear her stomach rumble due to a complete lack of any game. There was no life on the plains whatsoever and it was cold at night now.
The Golden River and the Slow River lay far behind them. Recently they’d crossed the Blood River and continued ever onward, trying to get off the Plains as soon as practicable. The day they left the Snake River behind, still heading north east, was the day they came to greenery. That evening the horses ate grass for the first time in six days, tearing off chunks of the green stuff and chewing quickly before bolting it down. Duran and Rancid were both exceedingly happy at having grass to eat again and Krissi caught herself a small deer under the edge of the trees. Arwhon relied on Krissi or Duran for warning each night, as he was bone tired from the hours spent in the saddle and after roasting a small piece of Krissi’s deer he collapsed onto his sleeping roll, sleeping soundly until the first light of day.
They were now in Debrishar and Arwhon increased his alertness, more on his guard as he rode along, watching for any possible attack. Unbeknown to him was the fact his description had been distributed around the countryside of Debrishar by riders sent out from the Royal Palace in Goristoum, with instructions he was to have passage free from harm or molestation. No point having a baited trap if the prey couldn’t reach it.
Arwhon wore his helm at all times now and looked every inch a warrior mounted on Duran, the large dark-grey Barsoomi stallion. The light reflected off Arwhon’s reddish mail and polished helm and the sword on his back looked businesslike as did the Dagger at his belt. He couldn’t disguise his eyes though and was concerned about being challenged but whenever he saw someone on the road; they veered away before he approached too closely.
Arwhon felt the beginnings of suspicion.
For Sihron’del, the previous ten days had been a trial almost beyond endurance. The Dark Mage was in a league of his own as far as magic went and had incredible power at his disposal, performing his spells without the aid of singing or gestures. He’d obviously studied his craft for a long, long time and cast a spell on Sihron’del which blocked her use of Earthmagic so she was unable to affect anything around her. After having her magic blocked, Sihron’del was stripped of her armour and given a room in the palace, with instructions not to leave it unless summonsed. Shiri rested that first night but during the following day she opened her door and finding no guard, slipped out into the passageway. She only managed to sneak a hundred feet or so before she was discovered.
She was secured to a rack in the dungeons, face down, naked and bound by her wrists, her toes barely touching the stained stone floor, exposing her back to the lash. It was Martine herself who wielded the whip so precisely, splitting Shiri’s flesh with twenty hard strokes. Never in her life had Shiri experienced such pain. Martine was amused.
“When I say not to try and escape, I mean it. You will dine with me tonight.”
The dinner was a further trial. After siege food in Belvedere it was true luxury but Shiri railed at questioning about Arwhon or the Darkwood and evaded answering most. Martine was obviously annoyed.
“You are here at my behest and will do as I command. Apart from your eyes, you are quite beautiful but if you do not answer my questions, I can change that easily.”
A shiver chilled Shiri’s spine. Martine was so matter of fact about cruelty and torture. Shiri could easily understand why the M’Herindar generally shunned Man.
“By harming me, you could bring the wrath of the Darkwood down upon yourself. It would not be pleasant,” she countered.
“Hah! You think the Q’Herindam would allow it? They could use it as a good excuse to rid the land of your kind.”
Sihron’del shivered, she was more than just bait for Arwhon, she was a pawn in a much larger game and had underestimated Martine. However, she was not going to betray her people.
Endless days of torture followed. Often it was inflicted by Martine herself, until the Empress grew bored and gave a professional torturer her instructions. Trials by red-hot needles forced under Shiri’s nails and skin then more flesh rending upon the rack were met by Shiri’s silent resolve to cling to life and her belief Arwhon would come to her rescue. Unable to draw Earthmagic, the days inexorably ground on and Shiri grew weak and faded, knowing not night or day. Martine taunted her and heaped scorn on Shiri’s lost magical abilities.
Shiri lost track of time and lost her finger and toe nails. Then the ends of her fingers, one by one. All she was given to eat was the minimum required to keep her alive. Her mind wandered into a grey place, on the borderlands of death and she hardly noticed when her nipples were cut off. Soon after that, half her nose went as Martine spoiled her beauty. Sihron’del’s mind and body could take no more punishment but still she refused to talk, retreating inside to a quiet place where the pain was but a distant thing. On the day Arwhon finally rode into Goristoum, Martine blinded Shiri with hot needles and she was left, tied to the rack, arms and legs stretched until the joints felt almost dislocated. She could take no more punishment. Centring her thoughts, Shiri dropped her chin on top of the worthless black pebble, still hung around her neck on its leather thong and concentrated on its crystal lattice. She went through the secret exercises learned from the Eldest of the Wise Women. It wasn’t difficu
lt to convince her essence to leave her battered and broken body.
It was a relief.
Arwhon was intensely alert as he rode up the broad highway through the middle of Goristoum. Curious eyes followed his progress but none came to bar his way. Well before he saw the Palace he came upon the stakes, smelling them before he saw them, each bearing a rotted body. As he progressed up the line, he was startled to recognise one of the rotting faces as that of the soldier who had warned him about the garrison, when his little group were coming down out of Tarkent. What was his name? Wilbard, that was it. So this is how an Empress treats her own?
Arwhon rode on up the slight rise, following Krissi as she headed for what was obviously the Royal Palace, directly ahead, a large ornate building with carved stone work and columns supporting the second storey balcony. Fantastical beasts and shapes were carved into the stone, most of them grotesque caricatures of reality.
When Arwhon arrived at the steps to the Palace, there was motion to both sides and crossbowmen poured out of hiding, each pointing a loaded crossbow at him. Clapping came from the balcony above.
“Bravo, bravo. Come to rescue your little M’Herindar she-warrior have you?” Martine stood there, flaunting her voluptuous near-nakedness in a diaphanous robe, a taunting smile on her red lips.
“First you have to come and answer me a few questions. You’ve accomplished something I thought no man could. Beaten me with tactics. We have much to discuss. Come in and take refreshments. Without your horse or your pets please.”
Arwhon sat and considered, it would be better if Duran, Rancid and the gryffon Krissi were out in the open, where they had a chance of escape if necessary. He looked up at Martine and addressed her.
“I will ask them to remain here. Please do not try to move them. I will know if someone tries. It could be fatal for whoever attempts it.”
Martine tossed her head and shrugged as if nothing meant less to her so Arwhon dismounted and as he ascended the steps to the Palace he felt a now familiar pulsation in his brain but without the headache.
An old man in gilt robes waited at the front door of the Palace for him, wringing his hands nervously.
“I’m the Chamberlain, Agmar. Follow me please.”
On the way up the stairs, the Chamberlain leaned close to Arwhon and spoke in a hushed voice.
“Young Sir, she is quite mad. More so since she started loosing parts of her Dominion. I carry out her orders because if I don’t she will kill me. I don’t like what has become of Debrishar and would change it if I could but the Dark Mage controls her. Beware of the Hooded One.”
According to the Ring on Arwhon’s finger, the Chamberlain was speaking the Truth. Interesting.
Empress Martine was sprawled almost indecently on a low divan when Arwhon was shown into her presence. Standing over by the wall, a figure in a hooded robe watched as he entered the room but said nothing, dark eyes following the young man in chainmail. A meal had been set out on a low table and Martine indicated a seat opposite her.
“Relax, eat, drink and tell me how you managed to outwit me.”
Arwhon remained standing.
“Does she live?”
“Your little doxy, yes I believe she does.”
“I wish to see her and make sure she is alive before we talk, otherwise you can kill me now and have done.”
Martine appraised the young man in front of her. There was something about him. His voice. He wasn’t bargaining, he was speaking fact. The lad was quite prepared to die right this minute. How curious.
“You realise she’s a little worse for wear. We tried to persuade her to talk but she refused to give me what I wanted. Foolish girl. You might be able to heal what is left but she won’t be pretty.”
“I don’t care what she looks like, her beauty lies within. Something you could not understand. I’d like to see her now please.”
Mmm. Polite as well. She may be able to work this one around.
“Very well, follow me.”
A hollow voice came from the Dark Mage standing against the wall.
“Empress, I advise against it. This fellow is not all he seems. There is something I cannot make out about him.”
“Don’t worry, you can come with us and keep an eye on him. Let’s go and see the girl.” She laughed as she rose. “Although he may not be happy at what he sees in the dungeons.”
Martine led the way down through the Palace to the dim, dank cellars underneath, where torches hung in sconces on the walls of the passages. Finally, at the end of a long corridor, she threw open the door onto a chamber out of a nightmare. In the flickering light, Arwhon beheld a body stretched on a rack at the far end of the room. Ice ran in his veins and the temperature of the room dropped with it as he forced his emotions down. He crossed the room and saw what remained of Shiri, his one true love, still stretched upon the rack. He checked for a pulse. Nothing. Arwhon turned slowly and gazed evenly at Martine and the Dark Mage.
“She’s dead.”
Arwhon threw caution to the wind and started to draw Power but the Dark Mage was too quick.
“He’s pulling Power. Look out Martine!”
Along with that warning, the Dark Mage hurled a tremendous bolt of energy at Arwhon, aimed at his heart. It hit with enough power to bodily throw Arwhon back against the rack on which Sihron’del was strung but all Arwhon felt, as he found his balance again, was fiery heat, as energy coruscated over his chainmail, centring on his heart. It felt as though his veins were filling with fire. Anger built within him as he quickly drew his sword, its now glowing blade contrasting the dark design etched into it.
The Dark Mage could not understand why his powerful bolt of magic hadn’t immediately killed this Man and threw another one. Arwhon caught it on his sword and the energy travelled as fire down the blade, through the Ring and into Arwhon who felt his temperature rising as his blood pulsed even more strongly through his veins. Again, another bolt from the Dark Mage, who, for the first time in his long life, felt apprehension while facing an opponent. Why wasn’t his magic working on this Man?
Martine cowered back against the wall, hands covering her eyes against the incandescent light of the unbearable energy the young man was calmly sucking out of the air with his sword.
Arwhon’s body was thrumming with it and he felt as if he were liquid fire. The Ring pulsated. He saw the Dark Mage staring at it in fear.
“Where did you get that Ring?” He rasped.
Arwhon faced him calmly.
“Why?”
“It’s a thing of legend. Mehgrin tried to steal it from Durhain but paid the price and it was never heard of again. It’s mine, by right of descent, so hand it over or you will die and I will take it.”
Arwhon stared toward the Dark Mage and saw little fire sprites dancing in the air, pointing tiny lances of fire at the hooded figure. Arwhon understood immediately and gathering the raging flame coursing through his veins, underpinned it with Power as he concentrated on removing the Dark Mage from existence. He pointed his sword at the black cloaked, hooded figure and uttered one word as the Mage, finally realising the Truth, turned and ran toward the door.
“Begone!”
A huge flaring gout of pure red energy spewed from the end of Arwhon’s sword. It scythed, crackling through the air and blew the top half of the Mage’s body to ash instantly, melting a huge hole into the rock of the wall beyond. The bottom half of the Mage’s body wobbled for a moment before toppling over. Arwhon pointed his sword at it too and yet another blast of red fire reduced the jerking legs to feathering ash. Nothing of the Q’Herindam Mage now remained except a fine residue of dust.
Martine cried out.
“The Dark Mage made me torture her. Please don’t hurt me.” I’ll blame the Mage; maybe this man will believe me and take pity. Young fool.
His Ring translated Martine’s spoken words into the Truth.
So, that is how it was.
“Look at me and speak the Truth,” he command
ed.
Martine dropped her hands and held her head up defiantly. Arwhon blinked, looking again, she had aged ten years. Even as he watched, she shrank, aging further. The spell for her continual youth must have been anchored in the Mage in case Martine ever double crossed him. Arwhon looked pityingly at the once beautiful Empress, her Dominion now at an end.
“I’ve heard you are more than a hundred years old. Time seems to be catching up on you quite quickly.”
Martine looked at the back of her hands, veins and tendons standing out of withering flesh and cried out in despair, they were the hands of an old woman. She fled the torture room, screaming all the way down the corridor to the cellar beyond, bound for the stairs.
Arwhon moved beside Shiri and looked at her wounds. It was unthinkable what Man could do to Man. No wonder the M’Herindar kept to the Darkwood. He heard a noise behind a screen over near the wall and cut it to pieces with three sword strokes. A woman cowered there.
“How long has she been dead?” He demanded.
Carlinna, Martine’s personal servant, sobbed out.
“About three hours Master. Please don’t kill me.”
She was telling the Truth.
“Very well, leave immediately.”
The woman rose and walked past him to exit the room but as she came level with his back, a hand holding a wicked-looking stiletto knife thrust for his kidneys. The chainmail would have deflected it but Arwhon was tired of duplicity and his patience had expired. With a quick rotating flick of his sword, he decapitated her. The sword was cleaned and in its sheath before the body hit the ground and he was bent over Shiri. Three hours. What could he do now? Lifting the black pebble, still hanging from the thong around her neck, and placing it between her lips he waited but nothing transpired. No movement, no breathing and no pulse.
Arwhon despaired.
Shiri couldn’t be dead, she just couldn’t. A little flutter at the back of her head made him look. He saw nothing but the leather hair band she always wore. He felt and pulled and there in his hands was a beautiful brooch, worked in the shape of a winged insect, made from silver and turquoise. It fluttered briefly in his hands.
The Fall of Belvedere Page 34