by Rob Bayliss
Braebec withdrew his hand with a start. He had heard such a thing before, in the dark. It had almost broken him. It had broken his brother.
“My Lord? Is anything amiss?” Breld had paused, looking back at the inquisitor in concern. The shadows seemed to draw in on them.
“It is nothing, Captain,” Braebec replied, quickly hiding his fear behind a mask of confidence. “Please lead on.”
After what seemed an age, they reached the top of the tower. Braebec felt the climb in his legs and the moistness on his forehead. He felt for Breld and the trooper, wearing heavy steel helms, breast and backplates as they puffed and sweated, keeping a constant pace up the stairs.
They were on a small landing. Behind them the dark steps spiralled down like the gaping throat of a fabled serpent of the Great Western Ocean. Ahead was a wooden door with a simple latch. Dim sunlight escaped the cell from under the door. Braebec’s hand reached to the door. Breld stepped forward before the door was opened.
“Will you be long? We will need to get back on duty, my Lord,” the captain said earnestly, trying with all his will to hide his fear behind his iron discipline. “There are candles and flint inside. We will need to take the lantern to descend.” Behind the captain, the trooper shook. The water in the pitcher could be heard sloshing about.
Braebec recognised the look in the captain’s eye. “Of course Captain, thank you for your help. I will be some time, I fear. I will see you on my departure. Set the pitcher down there Trooper; thank you,” he said, pointing to the trooper’s feet.
On hearing this, the trooper set the pitcher down and quickly followed the captain as he led the way back down the stairs into the darkness.
Braebec waited until the light of the lantern and the tramp of boots on worn stairs receded into the dark silence. Soon he was left alone in the gloom, with the draught whistling under the door and the wind howling around the cell outside.
There was certainly something deeply unpleasant about this tower; no wonder the captain and the trooper had wished to be somewhere else. Holwyn had died horribly in this cell by unknown causes; it was time to see what this room revealed. The inquisitor set down his bags and satchels on the floor of the landing. If there were a dark presence in the cell, he would require both hands to weave a counter spell. The inquisitor closed his eyes, breathed deeply and cleared his mind.
Without hesitation Braebec grabbed the latch and hauled the door open. He opened his eyes. Inside it was dim; rays of light shot through gaps in shutters, spotlighting dust and particles that hung in the air. The wind could be heard rattling the shutters and the eaves above. Braebec strode into the room, past the desk heaving with manuscripts and books and began systematically throwing open the shutters. Only when all the shutters were open did he turn to inspect the room and its contents closely.
The white flagstone floor was stained dark red around the table. It was plain to see that the same stain, which was that of blood, had ingrained the wood of the desk itself. Holwyn’s end had been a bloody one then, mused Braebec. It looked like he had bled whilst being sat at the table. Braebec sat down where the alchemist had perished, his fingertips on the table. He closed his eyes trying to pick up on any residual aura from Holwyn’s demise, but there was nothing tangible that could be read. Strange, he thought; there should be something, a sense of loss, sadness or fear. Whatever slithered in the shadows of the tower had no power in this cell. Instead there was a blank page, dazzlingly white and clean. There was something he could not get past. It would appear that the bush priest had been thorough in his exorcism. The inquisitor opened his eyes again, taking in all the surroundings, imagining the place in the dark of night with spluttering candles on the desk. Holwyn sat where he was now. What had he been doing? Braebec closed his eyes again and breathed in and out with a measured rhythm.
Once more, there it was, the blank page, as if the memories imprinted in this room had been bleached and cauterised. But the white shimmered slightly; for an instant he saw a rainbow of rays as the white light broke into its consistent colours, then it was white again.
Braebec opened his eyes in frustration. He had briefly peered around the door to Broud’s mind and seen a similar rainbow but the dominar had slammed the access to his inner thoughts shut. He looked at the scrolls and pamphlets strewn around on the desk. There were alchemist texts on black powder, codices on magnifying lenses, the stars and their different constellations. But underneath he saw a large, thick, leather-bound tome. On its corner were tiny splashes of blood. He reached over and pulled it towards him from under the papers. There were more splashes of blood on the ancient leather cover. Braebec smiled in recognition. It was The Northern Wars; the full account of the invasion of the Summerlands over two hundred years ago. It had been compiled by a team of biographers and historians taken on campaign by General Borenz Serent, the victor of the Tusk. This should be at the seminary library. It briefly touched on previous failed attempts at conquest and then went into intricate detail of Serent’s wars of conquest, listing the strengths and weaknesses of the enemy, and the peoples and favoured weapons of the north. It was meant to be a propaganda tool for the conquering hero Serent in his rise to power on his return to the Senate, but he died of marsh fever before he boarded his vessel for home. The chief compiler of The Northern Wars had been an alchemist scribe of the seminary, thus the huge tome had come into the seminary library’s possession.
The volume bulged with other papers. Braebec carefully opened the book to where they were secreted. The bookmarked pages of the book dealt with the Flint folk, whilst the other parchments were scribbled notes of eyewitness accounts. Hidden amongst them were ancient vellum parchments, beautifully illustrated and coloured. A picture caught Braebec’s eye. It showed a half-naked, primitive-looking figure holding a crystal aloft, from which beams of rainbow light emanated. The fabled Sun Shards of old, the crystals of power used by the Flint folk in days long gone.
Braebec sighed. He felt a headache developing. He had found the manuscripts belonging to the seminary to return to the Keeper of Keys and Books, but the reason for Holwyn’s demise eluded him. He stood and retrieved the pitcher of water from outside on the landing. Returning to the cell he searched for and found a goblet; rinsing it out he poured out some water. He took a swig and sat back down. He leafed through the loose files. One was heavily soiled with old blood. It must have been laid out before Holwyn on the desk when he died. He scanned the text. It was in the Taleeli tongue, but was nonsense. The words were meaningless, just sounds really… and yet there were repetitions and patterns to the gibberish.
Braebec blinked. Maybe he was tired and should study this later with more wakeful eyes? He rubbed his head; his headache had not eased yet. He took a deep swig of the water, spilling a drop that fell onto the manuscript. Cursing his clumsiness, he used his sleeve to dab away at the spillage, removing some of the dried-on blood in the process. It was then that he saw it, notes along the margins of the manuscript written by Holwyn himself. He dipped the end of his sleeve in the cup and gently worked along the edge, revealing the last writings of the dead alchemist.
The notes dealt with pitch, rhythm, metre and delivery. Braebec’s eyes widened; this was a spell of possession in the speech of the Flint folk, a spell to command a Sun Shard. Holwyn had gained a Sun Shard and had been attempting to bend it to his will! What had happened to it? It was not here now.
The inquisitor reached down to his satchel and placed it on the table. He blinked again as his head began to throb with pain. This cell was oppressive. Just collect the manuscripts and leave, he told himself. Braebec gathered the manuscripts together. He reached to the far end of the book to pull it towards him when he recoiled in pain, snatching his left hand away. He examined his middle finger. There was a clean vertical cut in the fingertip, which was starting to well with blood. He put it in his mouth while he searched his bag for some cloth to stem the flow. Finding some, he wrapped it around the finger and held it tightly to st
aunch the wound. Reaching into a pocket in his clothes he found a pair of magnifying glasses set in brass. Opening them up, he held them over the bridge of his nose and examined the desk beyond The Northern Wars.
His eyes found a tiny slither of quartz embedded in the wood. He turned and scanned the alchemist’s tools, which were laid out on a small sideboard set up against the wall. Amid the spatulas and scalpels he found a pair of tweezers. He returned to the desk and carefully worked the tiny piece of milky quartz free of the wood. The tiny crystal had sharp edges as if it had splintered from a larger piece. He walked with it towards the window and held it up to the light, peering at it through the magnifying spectacles. Deep inside was a tiny flaw. A thread of deepest black.
As he squinted at it his head throbbed in pain, causing him to gasp. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling slowly. He looked at the tiny opaque crystal again; there was the dark thread within it. Had it moved? On the edge of his hearing could he hear a screeching?
He sat back down at the desk, setting the tweezers and tiny shard of crystal on one of the manuscripts. He found a lantern and deftly lit it with the skill that all fire priests had. Intrigued, he removed the cloth from his finger and squeezed the tip to encourage a drop of blood to the surface. Carefully picking up the quartz he let the crystal touch the drop of blood and examined the crystal behind the magnifying glasses. The crystal drank the blood, sucking it up through tiny fissures and causing the quartz to turn a rosy pink. His head throbbed and the screeching, scratching sound grew louder. It was like the scuttle of crawling insects, like tiny claws scratching carapaces, crawling within his skull. He blinked and concentrated on the dark thread: it twisted and squirmed and grew. It was black, utterly devoid of light. He peered closer. The darkness yawned in his eyes. He heard his brother screaming in his memory, his mind breaking.
He snatched his hand away from the crystal, dropping the glasses on the table. On the desk, he could see that the crystal was entirely black now, seeking shadows to grow into. His head throbbed anew, the insane screeching palpable. He lifted the lantern.
“Avert: Sondari eripenum!” he commanded, smashing the crystal to powder with the lantern’s heavy brass base.
The screeching ceased and the ache in his head eased instantly. He leaned back in the chair and contemplated what had just happened. It had been a shard of the crystal, the Shard that Holwyn had been investigating. It had been cursed; no wonder Holwyn had been killed: the power had been fearsomely strong in that tiny slither.
Braebec shuddered, thinking what could have been; had it not been so cursed, the power that Holwyn could have wielded in the service of Sligo! The Northern Holdings would have been Taleeli no longer. But that left other questions. Apart from that remaining slither, this cell had been exorcised by Kaziviere’s bush priest. Whoever he was he had done a very good job. He would very much want to talk to whoever it was, this one with the ability to resist and subdue such a strong curse. He would ask Broud when he could meet and question this ‘half-breed scout’.
He would come back and perform a fire rite of exorcism later with Tavili, but for now he needed fresh air. A walk to the Windsprite would do him good and clear his mind for it. He gathered up the stolen books and manuscripts and loaded them in his satchel. Ensuring he had all his belongings, he took the lantern and began the long dark descent of the Dread Tower steps.
Chapter 18
As he took her hand he instantly felt the filaments worming their way painfully into his flesh. His instinct was to pull away, but if he did, he knew that Karla would be lost forever. Gritting his teeth, he retained his grasp of her hand. He saw his companions looking on in shock, screaming at him to release her. huscarls stood around, some collapsed and weeping on seeing the fate of the Khan’s beautiful daughter. He caught Bronic’s eyes and held them, willing him to understand. Protect us, he urged, as he lost his ability to speak, his tongue swollen and numb. Bronic nodded in understanding, grasped his bardiche and put himself between Tuan and the huscarls, lest they attempt to eradicate the plague amongst them. Seeing this, Klesh and Tamzine drew their weapons as well, standing side by side with the giant Turanesci mute.
Satisfied, Tuan turned to look at Karla, her sweet features warped and changed as the fungus altered her flesh. He looked at his arm as the filaments and tendrils spread upward. He felt his heart begin to race, felt the blood pumping through his arteries and veins, felt every breath drawn in and drawn out. His body shook as he felt a surge of power coursing through him. He should release her, but it was already too late, he knew. A panic was taking hold. He was hurtling down a mountainside with no ability to stop his fall. He looked around wildly.
His pupils dilated as his senses threatened to overwhelm him. The faces that surrounded him seemed to melt like wax. The grey light broke into prisms of colours on the periphery of his sight, leaving intricate echoes of visions that lingered in his eyes, spiralling into infinity. The buildings around him grew in intricacy, becoming ornate and complex. Each wooden beam was a tree with a thousand limbs, twigs snaking from them in beautiful chaos. The chain mail armour of the huscarls shimmered, each ring sparkling in minute detail. Every curly strand of Tamzine’s hair shone clear and vivid in colours uncountable.
The shouts of those around became bestial grunts as words and language lost its meaning. It became strangely unnatural, a clumsy and artificial form of communication. Around his ears sounds rushed, like waves on a hissing shingle beach. He could hear the drip of water a great distance away in the mountains, could hear the worms as they crawled through the soil. He felt the weight of every droplet of water that clung to his skin from the mist. Each droplet was a tiny self-contained universe at a level beyond the sharpest of eyes. His mind began to open, first as a crack that pulsed and throbbed, then rapidly expanding and widening, as a kaleidoscope of colours rushed to consume him. He placed his left hand over the Sun Shard, hidden under his tunic as he forgot himself. He was adrift amidst unknown and uncharted stars. All was one. Who was he? It did not matter, all was one, linked by root, soil and water. All was one. He gradually disappeared under the tendrils and filaments that grew and twisted.
“My daughter!” The words echoed around the castle ward as the Khan rushed over, crying out in anguish.
Huscarls bowed their heads as the Khan and Castellan Bryzal hurried up to the gates. Behind them some of the Khan’s hearth troop followed. They were hot and sweating profusely, having running up the stairs in full armour so soon after their long march from Keanasa.
Thegn Govchen swallowed hard. He knew what had to be done, as did the castellan. The attacks by the plague in the autumn had been a cruel teacher.
“”M … my Lord Khan, what should we do? We cannot leave … these here to infect us all.”
“How did this happen?” the Khan demanded, not taking his eyes from his mould-covered daughter. Already her shape was changing, as her shapely form became a memory. The plague had now spread all over Tuan’s body, consuming him as well. It was becoming increasingly unclear where Karla stopped and Tuan started.
Thegn Govchen replied, his voice wavering, “We were saving a messenger from Lord Kreshen’s column, Lord Khan. Your daughter took command of the men fending It off. The horse, it was infected and attacked her.” The thegn pointed to the butchered remains of the plague-ridden horse behind the grim-looking huscarls, before looking back at Karla and Tuan. “That fool there, he took her hand. Now he is also lost to us.”
Klesh stormed forward, his boar spear in his hands. “Lord Khan, remember your chambers in Keanasa. Have faith in Tuan; have faith in the Star Tooth.”
The Flint Father looked back at Tuan, willing him to stir from his torpor. Yet no magic crackled the air, no sweet lights shone to give hope to his soul.
Instead, all they saw was the plague. It spread over him before their very eyes. It grew with a wet sucking sound as it slithered and slimed, consuming the Gewichas. There was a faraway look in Tuan’s eyes. He saw n
othing of those around him.
The thegn looked desperately at the Khan and the castellan. “My lords, we must be quick, before the plague is strong again. This is no longer your daughter. We must destroy it, now!”
The castellan looked shocked, unsure whether to issue the order. He looked to the Khan, who was wordless, staring at what once was his daughter. “My Lord, Thegn Govchen is correct,” he stuttered, “once infected, there is no cure. You saw how quickly it consumed the young Gewichas. We must put the Khanate above all other considerations.”
“Lord Khan!” a voice croaked. “Your son, Lord Khan!”
It was the rider. He was in terrible pain, his leg broken in many places from the fall from his stricken steed. He tried to crawl towards his Khan, but screamed again with the agonising effort of it.
The Khan rushed towards the messenger, his face ashen. “My son? What of my son? Speak, or darkness take you!”
“We were beset, Lord, and surrounded in the passes. He sent me to tell you,” the messenger gasped, fighting the urge to vomit. “The last thing I saw was the plague overwhelming their shield wall as I galloped away. He bid me to give you this, so you would know.” The messenger held out a ring in a trembling hand.
The Garrison troops gasped; some called out in grief. Their prince was lost. Many had fought side by side with him in defence of the Khan’s stair.
The Khan stepped forward as if in a trance, taking the jewel from the messenger. The Aethling ring. His own father had passed it to him, as his father had before, as it had ever been throughout the long history of his house. Kreshen would not have given it to this man, unless all there was no hope of escape … his children were lost; his line had ended.
He swore, screamed and wailed, tearing the ornaments from his beard, his face streaked with tears. He fell on his knees and pounded the earth with his fists. Unable to speak, he raised his eyes, pointing at Tuan and Karla. He nodded.