The Black Mausoleum mof-4

by Stephen Deas

  She must have fallen asleep too, despite herself. When she opened her eyes again, the light outside had changed. Beside her, Siff was snoring. He was still cold but at least he wasn’t shivering. The only other sound was the roar of water. She had no idea where the Adamantine Man might be now. Asleep, if he had any sense.

  She got up. Squeezing around the edge of the waterfall without being swept away turned out to be easier than it looked, once she brushed the tresses of trailing grass and vine away. Halfway up the side of the cave mouth was an old path, not much more than a worn-down ledge, but it kept her away from the water and took her out onto a steep hillside, craggy rocks poking out from a cover of long spiky grass. Some of the rocks had been columns once, pieces of an ancient building that must have fallen centuries ago. She frowned at that. The history she’d learned in the Palace of Alchemy didn’t allow for such things. There were places like the Pinnacles and Outwatch and Hejel’s Bridge and the other remnants from when the Silver Kings had walked the realms as one. And then after that there was nothing, nothing that wasn’t burned until the last half-god returned to tame the monsters and the blood-mages murdered him for his troubles.

  She hurried past, watching the skies. Maybe it wasn’t as old as it looked. She had more to worry about now. Coming outside was stupid but it seemed like for ever since she’d seen the sun.

  A stone tripped her. She stumbled and almost fell into a patch of fireweed. After she picked herself up, she stooped to pick it, careful to touch only the stalks and not the leaves. Fireweed, water and a drop of her own blood. A potion that would help Siff to stay warm.

  ‘It’s safe,’ said a voice above her, not more than ten feet away. She started, slipped and nearly fell off the path and tumbled down the hillside. The Adamantine Man was sitting on a rock almost close enough to touch her and she hadn’t even known he was there. A moment of panic staggered her — she hadn’t felt him through the blood-bond either — but when she looked for it, he was still there, still at the end of her reach. She hadn’t been paying attention, that was all.

  His hand snaked down, an offer to pull her up the last few feet of the crags. Then it withdrew. He gave a wry smile. ‘Can’t touch, eh?’

  She skirted around him and made her own way up. Her eyes flicked to the sky.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about them. They’ve got something to keep them busy.’ He pointed. ‘Look. Look carefully.’

  She followed the line of his finger. There were dragons — just specks in the distance in the sky, but what else could they be? They were a mile away, maybe two, circling where Farakkan should have been. There might have been as many as twenty of them. Certainly there were more than a dozen.

  She frowned. Dragons circling. She’d never seen them do that before, not unless they had a rider.

  On the flood plains of the Fury beneath the dragons sat a castle where no castle had ever been built, welded to a vast slab of stone that simply shouldn’t have existed.

  ‘Now there’s a thing,’ said the Adamantine Man. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you what it is.’

  As she watched, the castle moved.

  29

  Blackscar

  Twenty-one days before the Black Mausoleum

  The rage came, unsought but with a purpose to be relished. The dragon burned what little was left to burn, smashed rubble and ruins already ground to dust. It flew in ever wider circles, searching and searching and always knowing it would not find what it was looking for.

  Until, unexpectedly, it did.

  The dragon’s talons hit the earth. The little one was deep under the ground, too deep for claws to dig out, and so the dragon felt at the little one’s thoughts, moving straight and steady. It watched until it saw where the little one would go. It sniffed out the old magics, still lingering under the earth, sorceries of a familiar scent, creations of those who had made the dragons themselves, the silver ones, lost but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

  It took to the skies once more and followed the scent of the old magic. It searched for the place where it ended, the place where the little one must surely emerge. It would wait there, silent and hungry. Yet as it reached the great river and began its hunt, another scent, stronger by far, pulled it away. A heady scent this, powerful and old. Something of the silver ones and something else, even greater. It followed and found a thing it had not seen for almost a hundred lifetimes. A floating city. Half finished, pulled through the sky by a dozen dragons in chains. The sight made it pause. It wondered what this could mean. The makers returned? Joy, then? Or rage at its abandonment, at what its makers had done to the world? Amazement that they were not forever gone? Wonder, more than anything. Wonder at what could bring them back.

  Which made the disappointment all the worse, for as it flew closer, it understood the truth. There were no makers here, no silver ones, no half-gods, only the endless chatter of the little ones, swarming and teeming as they ever did. Little ones with a toy they did not understand.

  It was a dragon. It could have only one retort.

  Fire.

  30

  Skjorl

  Twenty days before the Black Mausoleum

  The alchemist was sleeping as he crept past her in the cave. Snoring. Curled up beside the shivering shit-eater. He crouched beside her, silent as a shadow, just looking. A lot of thoughts came and went. Things he could do and things he couldn’t. Things he wanted. Outside, after he moved on, he laughed at himself. If the alchemist hadn’t made him her slave, what would he do different apart from take her? Nothing. He’d go with her and her shit-eater to the Raksheh just to see, even though he knew it couldn’t possibly be true.

  For a few seconds he wondered what he might do differently if he was the alchemist, but it didn’t take long to reckon the answer to that. Nothing. Nothing at all. He’d have made him into a slave and the shit-eater too. Safest thing. Practical. Didn’t make it any better.

  He’d seen the specks in the sky by then, plenty of them, but it took him a moment longer to see the castle and to realise what it was. To realise that it wasn’t supposed to be there, that the Farakkan flood plains had never had such a fortress. When he saw that it was moving, he forgot about the alchemist. Almost forgot about the dragons. Just sat and gaped.

  The dragons were pulling it. Couldn’t see any chains or ropes, not from such a distance, but he could see the dragons. Could see where they were and the way they flew. Something was burning too. A haze of smoke hung in the air not far from the fortress. The wind brought him the smell of it, slight but unmistakable.

  He’d heard a lot of stories in his time and made up a few too, but this? Yet here it was, right in front of him. A castle. Moving. Dragons pulling it.

  Dragons in ropes and chains. Dragons had claws. Talons. Teeth. Dragons smashed and burned. Dragons didn’t shackle themselves.

  Someone else had done this.

  When the alchemist finally came out, he offered her his hand. She spurned it. Couldn’t say he blamed her, but it made him laugh anyway.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point to asking you what it is?’ he asked, once he’d let her see it all for herself. The expression on her face was all he needed. Just like the tunnels under the Silver City, just like the bronze doors and their statues that came to life, she hadn’t the first idea. He shook his head, wondering to himself. If anyone was supposed to know about this sort of thing, it was alchemists, wasn’t it? And here she was, ignorant as he was and twice as useless.

  ‘Changes things a bit,’ he said softly.

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘I been watching a while. You can see it’s moving? The dragons are pulling it. You ever see a dragon put itself in a harness? Tie a knot? Splice a rope?’

  She shook her head. ‘They can’t. They don’t have the…’ Yes, the truth was dawning on her now.

  ‘So that’s where we’re going.’

  ‘There must be people there!’

  He nodded. ‘Men.’

&nbs
p; ‘And they must have… The dragons aren’t burning them!’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So they’re…’

  ‘Men who can still tame dragons. Yes. So that’s where we’re going, right?’ he said again.

  ‘Yes! Right now!’ She got up as if to make her way back down between the rocks to the cave and the waterfall. He raised a hand to stop her, almost grabbed her arm and then pulled away at the last moment. Must not touch!

  ‘No, alchemist. At night. In the dark.’

  ‘But there aren’t any dragons.’

  He supposed she meant apart from the twenty-odd flying around the floating castle. ‘Might be true now. Might not be when we’re halfway there, crossing the plains with nothing but mud for cover and no potion to hide our thinking. Be dark by the time we got there anyway. Better to wait.’

  She hesitated, then sat down again. ‘What if it’s gone?’

  ‘We follow it. It’s not moving fast. Not moving much at all.’ But it was moving.

  ‘They could take us up the Yamuna. They could take us all the way to the caves!’

  Had to laugh at that. That was alchemists for you. Got something in their heads, took a dragon to knock it out again. Sometimes not even that. ‘Maybe they got other plans.’

  ‘Who can it be? It can’t be Hyrkallan. Could it be Speaker Lystra’s riders? But how did they get this far south? And where did it come from? How did they find it? There’s nothing… unless… There are books… There are lots of books I haven’t read. Secret books, only for alchemists of a higher rank. Maybe Jeiros…’ Her words petered out.

  ‘There were lots of books in Sand,’ muttered Skjorl. ‘Used to be a monastery there. Strange things in some of those. We got stuck down in the caves for weeks there. Dragons all over the place. Burned it to ashes and then smashed it flat. Like everywhere else, I suppose. Then baked everyone in their own cellars. We got there after that, but there were still dragons. Tunnels under the monastery were deep so that’s where we hid. Don’t read words, but there were pictures in some of those books. Strange things. Not like this, but strange. Animals. Not dragons, not snappers, but something in between. Sand lizards with six legs. A thing that looked like a caterpillar the size of a city. Burning rocks falling from the sky. I was in Outwatch too when it fell. Strange place that. Like the Pinnacles, but much… well, not as big. Not finished. Like it had hardly been started.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Bazim Crag,’ said Kataros softly. ‘Up on the moors. It’s the only place.’

  ‘Weren’t any flying castles up on Yinazhin’s Way a few months back. Reckon I would have noticed.’

  ‘No, no. You’re right! The deserts of Sand and Stone. Hejel’s Bridge! There are other things up there, buried in the sand. I know it!’

  ‘Or maybe it’s dead Zafir come back to claim her throne.’

  The alchemist snorted. ‘With her army of vengeful spirits?’

  Skjorl leaned forward. ‘Or maybe the heap of bollocks your shit-eater in there is trying to feed you isn’t such a heap of bollocks after all. Maybe it’s the Silver King.’ He let that hang for a moment, relishing the look on the alchemist’s face and wondering at his own feeling of unease. ‘Or maybe it’s something the dragons found. Maybe they’ve learned to tie knots after all. Maybe they plan to throw it at one of the Pinnacles to knock it down and that’s why they’re dragging it after them.’ He enjoyed the look he got for that too. ‘Thing is, you don’t know. I don’t know. Chances are there are people in there. Chances are they’ll want to know about your shit-eater’s story. Might even want to help. Might give us food and water and shelter. Might might might. Or might not. We’ve got to eat, and so we go, but we still take our caution with us.’

  He sat back, savouring the heat of the sun on his skin, a rare treat. He’d said enough. More than enough. More than an Adamantine Man was supposed to say. It was her wild idea to save the realms, not his.

  After a bit the alchemist went back into the cave. Skjorl watched, half hoping she’d fall and break her neck as she picked her way down between the rocks to the edge of the falls. And half hoping not. When she was gone he stayed where he was. Safe enough, he reckoned. Dragons were dragons. Any of them saw something like this, they’d have eyes for nothing else. Just wouldn’t want to be too close when they came to take a look, that was all.

  The sun set and the alchemist came out again. She had the shit-eater now, leaning against her. Skjorl watched with bored interest. Maybe they’d both go over.

  ‘You could help,’ she snapped at him. He shrugged.

  ‘No. Can’t. Can’t touch.’

  ‘You could throw us a rope.’

  ‘What rope’s that then?’

  She paused for a moment, then went back inside the cave leaving the shit-eater sitting on his own halfway up the the slope. Skjorl thought about rolling rocks down on him. Wouldn’t be touching, after all.

  The alchemist returned with the rope from the raft. All twenty feet of it. Skjorl rolled his eyes. He made his way down to them, picked the shit-eater up and threw him over his shoulder.

  ‘Didn’t say anything about not touching his clothes,’ he said, and laughed at the look on her. Scared as a rabbit. She took a step away and pointed.

  ‘You don’t hurt him! We need him.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t.’ He gave the outsider a little shake, made sure he had a good view of the broken rocks fifty feet below. ‘Long way down, though. Hope I don’t slip.’ But the shit-eater was in a world of his own, too feverish for taunts to be any fun. Skjorl carried him up to the top of the hill and set him down.

  ‘Woof,’ he said, and grinned in the shit-eater’s pasty face.

  31

  Blackscar

  Twenty-one days before the Black Mausoleum

  Little ones, little ones, hordes and hordes of them.

  Blackscar flew in closer, pulling the thoughts out of their minds. They weren’t afraid. Not afraid at all. Where had they come from?

  Dragons answered him. Not the adults who flew in chains, but hatchlings. Young ones still at the start of lives not dulled by alchemists and potions. Dragons who had hatched awake.

  Across the sea, they said. Across the sea and across the worlds.

  Awakened dragons who served willingly.

  As you will too.

  No.

  They are returning, Black Scar of Sorrow Upon the Earth.

  The silver half-gods? No, they meant something else.

  The seals are broken.

  That Which Came Before is bound no more.

  The Black Moon.

  And then the end.

  When Blackscar looked into their minds and saw what had been done to them, it found a new fury, a rage that surpassed any it could remember. Something had touched them and changed them for ever, in this life and all those to come. A piece had been taken out of them. They were no longer whole. They were less than they had once been and they didn’t even know.

  No!

  It dived towards the fortress, towards the nearest of the chained dragons to set it free, but the dragon turned away.

  Join us! it said. Come!

  No!

  Something flashed from the fortress below. A boom like a thunderclap and then a ball of iron the size of a little one’s head whizzed past the dragon’s nose.

  A stink of something in the air.

  Then a scent of magic. A ringing in its head. A tension like a thousand thunderstorms. The sky exploded. Sound and light filled the world.

  Join us!

  Come!

  The dragon screamed. No! It forced its eyes open. It was falling, wings useless behind it, soft earth rushing up towards it. Falling, falling…

  It felt the thoughts of the little ones, the ones who had done this, down in the fortress below. Lightning. They were throwing lightning in the wind.

  It turned its head and opened its mouth. Even the wind could burn.

  The lightning veered away, crackled uselessly around the dragon’s flam
es. The dragon’s wings began to move again. It spread them wide and caught its fall and powered away, shooting like an arrow, faster than the wind could follow, off and gone.

  Others. It would find others.

  Lots of others.

  32

  Skjorl

  Twenty days before the Black Mausoleum

  There were easier ways down from the hills than following the Ghostwater and its haunted valley, but Skjorl didn’t break anything and neither did the alchemist, and after an hour they were down on the plains towards Farakkan. Easy walking except for the mud. No cover, but then there was no one to hide from. The people who lived here were long gone, eaten by dragons or fled. Snappers didn’t come down onto the plains — they’d always known better than to live out in the open. And dragons didn’t fly at night. Usually.

  Even so, he kept them to the lowest ground, took what shelter he could behind the long streaks of broken wood and debris left behind by each annual flood of the Fury. Lines of stunted narrow trees marked what had once been fields, all overgrown now, filled with long grass and fast-growing thorn bushes. He picked his path carefully, watching the moon and the stars, always staying to the shadows where he could. They moved slowly but methodically towards the castle.

  It was the alchemist who found the soldiers. Walked a dozen yards into the dark, took a piss that a deaf man could have heard a mile away and came back with a knife held to her throat and four men behind her. Four that Skjorl could see, at least.

  The man with the knife said something. Skjorl blinked. The words made no sense, but his meaning was clear enough. This was the part where he and the shit-eater were supposed to surrender their swords so that the alchemist didn’t get her pretty throat cut.