by Ian Irvine
“Where?” said Tali. “Can you tell?”
He stood up, keeping his eyes closed, then linked the fingers of both hands and held his arms out in front of him. He turned slowly, his arms rising and falling.
“There!” said Benn. His clenched hands were pointing down at a steep angle. “Underground.”
Tali traced the direction he was pointing onto her mental map of Garramide. It was a particular skill she had, honed from a lifetime living underground.
“Beneath the stables,” she said.
“He’s moving; he must be following Grandys. Come on, before I lose him.”
Tali wrestled with her conscience. If she took Benn with her and Glynnie found out, as she must, Glynnie would crucify her. Involving Benn in something so dangerous was grossly irresponsible. But then, the survival of Garramide was at stake. If Grandys won, he would put everyone to the sword, including Benn. Tali had to take the risk.
“All right, but you have to do exactly what I say.”
“Yes, Tali.”
“I mean it. No matter what my orders, you have to follow them instantly.”
“Yes, Tali.”
“All right, lead the way. And try not to look conspicuous.”
“What’s that mean?”
“We don’t want anyone to notice what you’re doing.”
Benn headed down the steps. Tali stopped for a few seconds, knowing that she would pay dearly when Glynnie found out. If anything happened to Benn, Glynnie would kill her—and she would deserve it.
At the back of the stables he followed the steps down to a mouldy basement filled with straw and bins of oats. He squeezed between two bins, pulled aside a heap of mouldy straw and exposed a half-rotten door. Tali dragged it open. They went down more steps into a sub-basement granary that had not been used in centuries, judging by the festooned cobwebs and mounds of rat droppings.
At the far end, a rusty wheel opened a creaking hatch. It led into tunnels that were even older and more disused.
“He’s down there,” said Benn, pointing along the dark tunnel to his left.
“How far?” Tali whispered.
“I can’t tell.”
She dared not create light. She took Benn’s hand and they crept along. Shortly she heard someone talking, a wispy old voice that she recognised as Errek’s.
“I forged the circlet when I was at the height of my powers, and I’ve always had a communion with it. I can almost sense it.”
“How can you almost sense something?” Lyf muttered. “Either you can or you can’t.”
“Shows how much you know,” said Errek. “In the wrythen state—at least in mine—you can almost sense something.”
“I wish I could. For a minute there, I thought I heard the call of the master pearl.”
“Hardly surprising, since Tali’s in Garramide.”
“And now I’m sensing the link I made to that errand boy—the maidservant Glynnie’s little brother.”
“I thought you broke it after you’d finished using him?”
“I did.”
“He’s in Garramide too,” said Errek. “Focus on Grandys. What’s he doing?”
“I can’t detect him—only the hateful emanations from Maloch.”
“Where Maloch goes, there goes he. Is the sword still in North Tower?”
“No, it’s moving down! Maloch is moving down.”
“Is Grandys alone?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the lowest basement of North Tower. He’s opening a secret door, I’d say—Maloch just flared bright for a second. Now he’s moving away.”
“Can you track him?”
“I think I can get to him from here.”
The voices faded. Lyf and Errek were moving away.
“This is it,” Tali whispered into Benn’s ear. “It’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done, so keep well behind me. And remember your promise.”
“I remember,” said Benn. His hand was trembling.
Tali gathered her strength. If she was caught or cornered, she had to be ready to use her gift, whatever it cost her.
And if she failed, neither she nor Benn would survive.
CHAPTER 69
The pain in Lyf’s severed shinbones spiked, a pain forever linking him to the enchanted sword that had done the damage. It was only slightly mollified by the perpetual pain Lyf had inflicted on Grandys in the pit in his temple.
“He’s moving!” said Lyf. “It’s on.”
He kept still. He was breathing noisily and his eyes were unfocused.
“Lyf?” said Errek.
Lyf let out his breath, took a couple of steps, then stopped. “I’m afraid of that sword, Errek. Even after two thousand years the pain hasn’t gone away. What kind of a blade can do that?”
“It’s not the blade, it’s the enchantment on it.”
“But who created the enchantment, and to what purpose? Who cast it on the blade?”
“Maloch was the way it is when Axil Grandys stepped ashore from the First Fleet,” said Errek.
“Moley Gryle said it was made in Thanneron for Envoy Urtiga—to protect her and further her quest…”
“From what I know about Urtiga, she was honest, decent and noble.”
“And yet she carried this foul blade.”
“What if it wasn’t foul then?” said Errek.
“I don’t follow you.”
“If Urtiga hadn’t used Maloch to spill blood, the character of the enchantment may still have been plastic—some Thanneronian magery is like that.”
“How do you mean, plastic?”
“Unformed. Only taking shape when the blade was first used.”
“Um?” said Lyf.
“If Grandys was the first person to use Maloch, the character of the enchantment may have been fixed by the way he first used the sword—for some foul purpose, we can be sure.”
“How does this help me?”
“If it’s true, there’ll be a conflict in the blade—between the noble purpose it was created for and the black way it’s always been used. You may be able to use that conflict to undermine Grandys’ faith in it.”
“You grow more like Moley Gryle every day,” sniffed Lyf.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Errek.
Lyf moved on, following Maloch’s trail by the pain it caused him. Reliving the moment when Grandys had hurled him to the floor of his temple that long-ago night and—it was still shocking, still incomprehensible—hacking his feet off with the cursed sword. The world and the future changing in a bloody instant.
His heart was fluttering one minute, thumping painfully the next, but for king-magery he would endure any amount of pain.
“You’re crashing about like a drunken burglar,” said Errek several minutes later. “Calm down or you’ll give yourself away.”
Lyf slipped on his crutches and nearly fell.
“You should take on a less physical form,” said Errek.
Lyf squirmed. “Every minute of the centuries I spent in wry-then form, I ached to have a body again. And never thought I would.”
“Ah, but to hold the circlet in your hand,” said Errek, “you’d endure almost anything.”
“I’m not sure I have the power to go back.”
“Or, perhaps, the courage.”
Errek reached out, touched Lyf on the chin and a little pink flower formed there. Lyf felt a blow to the jaw, an extraordinary contraction, followed by a vanishing. His body crumpled and he barely had the strength to squeeze himself and his crutches into a dark recess before the wrythen separated completely from the man.
“What if Grandys finds my body?” said Lyf the wrythen.
“That would be awkward,” Errek said with a wry laugh.
“Should I cast a concealment on it?”
“Maloch would detect it instantly.”
They followed the trail along dusty tunnels, down a ramp and through a series of conceal
ed doors that had recently been opened, leaving streaks and swirls in the dust. A single set of huge, broad footmarks ran down the centre of the passage. Only one man had come this way in centuries.
“Grandys is alone. Good!”
“He doesn’t want to share his triumph,” said Errek. “And he doesn’t trust the other Heroes.”
“Would you?”
Lyf grunted. “Yulia, perhaps.”
“She may be an unwilling member of the Five, but she’s collaborated in most of the foul things they’ve done. How’s the pain now?”
“If I still had a body, it’d be getting worse.” Lyf floated a few inches into the air. “It’s good to be weightless again.”
Errek grinned. Lyf managed a rueful smile. Something rattled, not far away, and his smile faded.
“What is that sound?” said Errek.
“Maloch, rattling in its scabbard. I think it’s sensed me.”
The two wrythen eased backwards into the wall. Ah, the safety of stone. Grandys could not see Lyf here, or touch him in any way. He extended his spectral eyes, and waited.
Grandys turned the corner, limping badly, and edged forward, Maloch in hand. The blade was surrounded by the faintest blue glow. He swung it from side to side as if searching for something and Lyf, momentarily forgetting that he was a wrythen, tensed.
The glow brightened fractionally. Lyf retreated back into the wall and lost sight of Grandys, though, this close to Maloch, the ache in his phantom shins was a constant throb.
Shortly it died away as Grandys returned the way he had come. The two wrythen went after him, keeping further back. After several minutes, Grandys stopped midway along a solid stone wall.
He stroked the tip of Maloch across the stone, down, up and across, screeching a little on the hard surface, and a door appeared there. Grandys pressed his palms against it, feeling the stone… or working some mechanism inside it. The door quivered but did not open.
What’s the matter? said Lyf, mind to mind.
It’s hard enough to open a door locked for a hundred years, much less two thousand, said Errek. The hinge oil dries up or, thickened with dust, sets hard as stone. Metal corrodes and fails. Everything fails in the end…
So you keep saying, Lyf said acidly. Is this the door to his hoard?
I don’t know.
I think it is. I’m sensing the circlet strongly now. It’s close. Should I show myself?
To what purpose? said Errek.
To rattle him.
If it will help. Not if it’s just for petty revenge.
Surely I’m entitled to a little revenge. Yes, I’m going to do it.
Lyf eased out of the wall fifteen feet behind Grandys, who was performing the same mechanical operation over and over, then heaving. The door did not budge. He cursed.
Maloch gave a tiny rattle. Grandys stilled it with a hand. It rattled again, more loudly, and Lyf saw the thick, boar-like bristles rise on the back of Grandys’ armoured neck. He stopped, head tilted to the left, and slowly turned.
Though Lyf was a bodiless spectre, he felt his heartbeat rise, his confidence falter.
Steady, said Errek. He can’t hurt a wrythen.
Rix hurt me when he carried that sword. And Grandys is its true master. He can do me a lot of damage.
Grandys’ eyes widened as he saw Lyf’s wrythen. He was shocked, and perhaps a little afraid. Lyf allowed himself the pleasure of gloating, just for a second.
“How are your feet, Grandys? Still excruciating?”
“They’re still attached to my legs! Unlike yours!”
“Ah, but I can pass through the wall quicker than you can open that door,” said Lyf.
Grandys sprang ten feet from a standing position, whipping Maloch out. Lyf had been expecting the attack and slid sideways into the wall. He got halfway, but stuck as if he was partly solid. What was the matter? Was he turning back to a man? He panicked as the sword whistled towards him.
Errek caught Lyf’s arm and jerked him inside. The blade screeched across the stone, then the pain in his shins spiked as Grandys ran back to the stone door and furiously tried to open it.
You’re a fool, said Errek.
I know. But it felt so good.
Lyf edged around in the wall, which was solid basalt and difficult even for a wrythen to move through. Or was Grandys’ hoard protected by additional magery? Lyf’s head emerged and he was in a cube-shaped room walled in polished black basalt, twenty feet on a side—he was inside Grandys’ long-lost treasure store.
At last! At last!
A wrythen did not need to breathe, yet in his joy Lyf experienced the symptoms of being unable to draw breath: the constricted wind-pipe, the heaving lungs, the desperate feeling that he was suffocating.
Errek thumped him in the chest. How the hell did king-magery come to select you as king?
Lyf scowled at him, created light and scanned the hoard. The walls were lined with shelves and compartments all the way to the ceiling, and they were stacked with items of fabulous value: crowns and gemstones and bars of precious metal, jewelled cups and enamelled weapons of every description, necklaces, torcs, bracelets and diadems too many to count. But there were also more mundane items, perhaps kept for personal or sentimental reasons—a single child’s glove, a rudely carved bat, a battered brooch in brass and worn enamel, a scratched knife.
None of them were the least bit interesting to him. But it was here somewhere.
“I can sense it,” said Lyf aloud, turning around and around.
“There!” Errek was pointing to a small silvery object at the back of a low shelf, halfway up the far corner.
Lyf could feel his strength growing, and his wrythen form filling out, even before he lifted the circlet from the shelf. And when he touched it, and when he held it in both spectral hands, it was like coming home to Cythe as the newly crowned king.
He wiped phantom tears out of his arid eyes. The circlet was a simple headband made from woven wires of platina. It had been made by Errek himself in the time of his reign, but platina was a very hard metal and it showed no sign of wear.
Lyf tapped it on the wall to shake off the worst of the dust, put it on, and it fitted snugly across his forehead. Power surged in him. Nothing like king-magery, of course, but nonetheless a strength he had not felt since his death. It reminded him of the last time he had worn it—for a healing he’d done the day before the red sails of the First Fleet loomed over the horizon.
A terrible thought struck him. “The circlet is solid metal, Errek. How do I get it out through solid stone?”
“When you wear the circlet, it takes on your form,” said Errek. “When you take it off, it reverts to its own form.”
“How does it do that?” said Lyf.
“I made it that way.”
“Why?”
“I thought it might come in handy,” Errek said airily.
“Why do I keep getting the feeling that you’re not telling me everything you know?”
“Your head isn’t big enough to hold everything I know.”
Crash! Crash! Grandys was attacking the door with Maloch. He had given up trying to release the time-frozen mechanism and was trying to cut his way in.
“Can Maloch’s enchantment cut through three feet of solid basalt?” said Lyf.
“Not easily, nor without great cost in magery and pain. But yes, I think it probably can. Come on.”
“I have to see his face,” said Lyf.
“One day your obsession with vengeance will be your downfall.”
“It’s not that, Errek. At least, not wholly. It’s just that—he’s beaten me far more often than I’ve beaten him… and, now that the victory is mine, I have to see what it does to him. For my own confidence.”
“You froze back there. That’s why you couldn’t get through the wall.”
“All the more reason to do this,” said Lyf.
“All right, but I’ll take the circlet. We haven’t come this far to lose it for some
petty indulgence.”
Lyf handed it to him, reluctantly. Errek slipped it onto his brow and let out a deliberately provocative sigh. He looked ten years younger. Lyf scowled.
Chips and chunks of basalt flew out of the wall as Grandys hacked his way in. The tip of Maloch broke through, glowing a livid, luminous purple. It was withdrawn, and Lyf heard Grandys gasping and grunting, then with a furious thrust he forced it through the stone for three feet. He was holding the sword two-handed, as if unsure of it. He drew back, groaned, thrust again and again, and shoved the rubble out. His head appeared.
Grandys’ eyes were staring and sweat poured off him. Though Lyf had no sense of smell when in the wrythen form, he could taste the acrid stench of Grandys’ fear on the back of his tongue.
Grandys turned and saw Lyf, and Errek behind him, wearing the circlet. A curious expression crossed Grandys’ bloated face, a mixture of rage and terror. Lyf laughed.
“It’s fighting you,” said Lyf. “That’s why you can’t cut through.”
“What are you talking about?” said Grandys.
“There’s a conflict in the blade—between the noble purpose it was created for, and the foul way you’ve always used it. That’s why it’s holding back. It’s saving itself for its true, noble master.”
Grandys hacked and battered his way through the hole, enlarging it so he could force his own way through.
“Enough!” said Errek.
He dragged Lyf backwards into the wall. Grandys burst out, hopped up and down as though his feet were tormenting him, then attacked the wall Lyf had slipped into with unmitigated savagery. But he had spent all Maloch had—or all it was prepared to give him. It clanged off the rock and the sword’s glimmer went out.
“He’s drained its enchantment,” said Errek. “Temporarily at least.”
Grandys cast Maloch to the floor and let out a howl of frustration. Blood began to dribble out through the lace holes of his boots.
“He’s lost,” said Lyf, snatching back the circlet.
“Not yet. He’ll go after Tali,” said Errek, “and the master pearl that can give him victory. And since he knows we can travel up through stone, he won’t waste any time.”
When they checked again, Grandys was gone.
“We can’t leave my empty body lying in that recess,” said Lyf, tapping more dust off the circlet. “A wrythen can’t raise king-magery. Only a real human can do that.”