Stolen Crown
Page 8
At last they arrived at the fourth wall, the one encircling the Kingsgrounds. When they came to the portal through, the portcullis was down although the massive iron gates themselves were laid back against the great wall. And as the captain approached with his escort, gears rattled and ground and the barway was raised.
They came within the sector where sat the castle, the land consisting of broad gentle slopes terminated by craggy drops stepping down the tor sides until they fetched up against the massive encircling rampart they had just passed under. On these Kingsgrounds there were many groves, and pines growing in the crags, and several lone giants standing in the meadows, many trees bereft in winter dress. There, too, were several buildings, and the Draega could smell nearby stables. The citadel itself loomed starkly ahead, a stronghold of crenellated granite battlements towering starkly round blocky tall towers.
At the fore, the darker Silver Wolf turned to the larger companion at his side, and they seemed to confer, and all the ’Wolves broke away from Captain Ewan and headed toward one of the lone giant oaks . . . all but the dark Draega, that is, and he loped ahead and into the now open passageway leading through the final wall, that of the fortress-castle itself.
Captain Ewan rode through and into the forecourt to discover Dalavar waiting for him, but of the dark Silver Wolf, there was no sign.
• • •
AGAIN, DALAVAR CAME INTO the council chamber at Captain Ewan’s side, but this time he was truly there. And after Ewan gave his complete report, Cavin said, “Well done, Captain, and though you thought you had failed in your mission, clearly you did not.”
“I lost too many good men,” said Ewan.
“Yet you brought back a Mage,” said Cavin.
“Hear, hear,” called out several councilmen, and others added, “Indeed, well done.”
Mayor Hein had resumed his seat, having regained what little composure he possessed, though he still seemed to be on the edge of bolting. And, without looking at Dalavar, Hein said, “But, Lord Cavin, can he do that which we ask?”
Lord Raden slammed a fist to the table and, invoking the name of a dead Dragon, bellowed, “Sleeth’s teeth, Hein, would he be here if not?”
Hein blenched and dark-haired Aarnson suppressed a laugh, even as Cavin said, “My Lord Dalavar, we seek a rightful heir to the High King’s throne, someone to displace the usurper who now foully occupies that seat.”
Dalavar nodded and said, “I know.”
Mustering what little courage he had, Hein again turned to Cavin. “But is this—this Wolfmage even a Seer? I’ve heard strange things of him.”
With his grey eyes turning flinty hard, Dalavar whispered, “Doubt me not, Mayor Hein, for I am the child of Seylyn.” And though he had spoken in but a murmur, Dalavar’s voice seemed to fill the chamber with angry thunder, as if somehow a raging stroke of lightning had hammered down among all there.
Councilmen flinched and Hein gasped, his eyes wide in fear, for there were old wives’ tales of a mad Seeress by that name who had lived among Elvenkind.
Hein would have fled, but all the strength in his legs had given out, and instead he sat paralyzed and mute.
Dalavar then turned to Lord Cavin and the others and smiled and gently said, “I will seek what you ask for.”
Tension fell away, and men sighed in relief, and Lord Raden gruffly said, “Bully.”
• • •
SERGEANT DEYER AND CORPORAL Lann stood guard outside the great doors of the feast hall, the ensconced lantern light behind them casting long shadows before them.
“Who?” asked Lann.
“They call him the Wolfmage,” replied Deyer.
“Those big brutes out on the grounds are his?”
“They say he calls them his companions.”
“And the Council opened the long-shut hall just so as he could go inside?”
Deyer nodded. “Someone said that he needed to be where King Valen spent time.”
“What for?”
Deyer shrugged. “Who knows the ways of Mages? Not me, and that’s for certain.”
“Well, he took in one of the King’s diadems. D’you suppose he’s in there sitting on the throne, crowned?”
Deyer turned up his hands.
• • •
INSIDE THE GREAT CHAMBER, Dalavar sat on the floor beside the throne. Rather than a crown, he held a narrow golden circlet in his lap, plain but for the incised griffin at the brow. There was no light in the hall, but the Wolfmage didn’t need illumination to see the length of the room. Many tables and benches sat along the floor, and standards of nations limply hung from staffs jutting out from the walls: Rian, Wellen, Jord, and others, each and every realm under the High King’s rule.
But Dalavar wasn’t looking at the many flags, or at the banquet tables, or the columns and alcoves along the sides, or anything whatsoever in the chamber. Instead his eyes were closed, and he gripped the circlet and muttered an arcane word and his mind flew unto Pellar, unto Caer Pendwyr, unto the day of Valen’s death.
He watched a lad come running bearing a bundle, and he saw what it contained.
But Dalavar slipped his mind back to where the lad had come from, and there he discovered catacombs. Down in the spire. Where two men replaced a sarcophagus lid and resealed the join with strips of lead.
Dalavar noted the name and dates carved into the lid, and he smiled, for they were ancient.
He followed the twisting stairwell down and down, until he came to a sealed door. But such was no impediment unto him, and he passed through and out upon the waters of the Avagon Sea.
Silverleaf! And a Human woman. Two children: toddlers. How clever, my friend.
Back along the corridors of time he flew, to earlier moments, where he verified the identity of one of the children: Reyer.
Then he sped forward, across the sea, following Silverleaf’s journey; but when he came to Kell: Blocked. Protected. And by the touch it seems to be that of Driu. Well and good.
Yet in that same moment Dalavar detected another’s touch, a malignant touch, and though no conjoining Sorcerer was there to aid Dalavar to blend his strength with that of Driu’s, still he threw all his power into thwarting that of the malevolent being.
13
Necromancer
All things leave faint but lasting impressions upon the aethyr, and gaining access to these glimmers can lead toward good or ill. Among those of Magekind who touch upon those nebulous imprints are Seers and Mystics and Necromancers. The Seers generally use rune stones or cards or basins or some such a talisman as a focus to aid them to marshal this tenuous fifth element to perceive past events, or to peer into the uncertain future, or to discover the whereabouts of someone or something. Mystics, however, generally access these dim etchings through trances or dreams or other consciousness-altering means to sharpen their aim. Necromancers, though, use the dead to manipulate the aethyr to whatever ends they desire. And though it is believed by common folk and royals alike that Necromancers speak with the souls of the departed, most of Magekind conjecture that necromancy simply taps into the impressions left in the eternal flux. But Necromancers themselves are certain that they are speaking with the dead, and therefore they use corpses and bones and skulls and other grisly remains as a focus for their spells. Yet dealing with the dead often leads practitioners deeper and deeper into a shadow world, and for some it draws them well beyond the light and into dreadful darkness, a place where awful ambitions lead to appalling acts of murder and mutilation and torture. These monstrous deeds are usually carried out in secret.
Away from discovery.
Away from civilization.
In laboratories arcane.
In places of unspeakable horror . . .
. . . And in one of those hideous sanctums . . .
• • •
AMID A STENCH OF blood and
feces, of bile and urine, and of rotting corpses, Nunde, his naked body covered with dark and arcane runes, with a rough stone knife ripped open the gut of the shrieking Drik upon the table before him. The screaming changed to a gurgle and dwindled to silence as the Drik thrashed about in its death throes, which swiftly became a feeble twitching, and then naught. All about the stone chamber, wall-shackled Drik and Ghok moaned in fear, for if Nunde did not gain whatever he sought from that victim, then one or more of them would be next. Ignoring their whimpering cries, Nunde shoved his black-nailed hands deeply into the abdominal cavity of the corpse and lifted the steaming intestines free and slithered them into a waiting vat; he would later slice the bowels open their entire length and examine them for signs and omens. But now, his dark eyes glittered in fervid anticipation of the pleasure to come—horribly profane in its manner of acquisition—and he trembled in eagerness, for he would flay the corpse and gain moments of ecstasy as he slowly sliced and peeled skin away from gristle and muscle and bone. He turned to the table littered with his terrible tools—knives, augers, screw-driven clamps, fire irons, rasps, pliers, meat hammers, saws, picks, and other such—all instruments of torture and slaughter and dismemberment. And amid the cloying miasma of death, he selected his keenest flaying knife from among the hideous assortment.
But even as he first set blade to flesh, the massive door directly across the room flew open.
“My master, my master—”
Infuriated at being interrupted, Nunde looked up from the disemboweled Drik to see Radok, glowing with glee, rush into the nekroseum.
But then Radok glanced at his unclothed master and his gaze shifted to the nearby dark cloak hanging from a peg. He began to stutter and back out from the chamber. “O-oh, M-Master, I did not mean to intrude upon y-your, your . . .”
Struggling for control, Nunde carefully set his flaying knife aside. “But you did mean to intrude, Radok. And now that you have, I would hear what is so important to come bursting in without my leave.”
Peering at the floor at his own feet, Radok said, “The remains of deposed King Valen have arrived—skull and bones, nearly complete, but for the wear and weather.”
Nunde took a deep, shuddering breath. This was even better.
Still . . .
Nunde’s gaze strayed to the corpse on the table, and he took up his flaying knife and said, “Leave me, Radok. I will be with you anon.”
• • •
A FEW TATTERED RAGS YET clung to Valen’s remains, the bones picked nearly clean by gorcrows and beetles and blowfly larvae and other such feeders upon the dead, though here and there desiccated shreds of flesh still loosely clove. Wind and rain and the weather, along with the sun, had washed and scoured and bleached. With its jaw gaping wide as if in japery, the skull along with two vertebrae from the spine was separate from the rest of the frame. Most of the smaller bones were missing from the feet and hands, but in the main the remnants would serve Nunde well. It would have been somewhat better were the head yet attached and were there more flesh upon the bones, yet, in all, these would be but minor impediments.
“Master, can we, will we—”
Nunde glanced up at the tall, thin, bald apprentice. “Yes, Radok, we can and will.”
“And my role, Master . . . ?”
“Command more Chun—Drik and Ghok, but not Oghi—to the chamber. I will need much
“But as to the casting itself, Master . . .”
“You will witness all, and later, after I have recovered, you will perform the ritual yourself, while I provide the fruits of unendurable distress and unbearable pain and”—Nunde took a shuddering breath—“and brutish death.” He paused to regain his composure and then added, “Perhaps we can glean even more from Valen to sow great dissention among those who opposed us in the war.”
• • •
“ANOTHER,” commanded Nunde, and Radok jerked one of the white-hot irons from the glowing brazier and jammed the fiery instrument into the flesh of a Drik. Meat sizzled, and the goblinlike being shrieked in anguish, and burning stench rose to join that of previous victims. Other shackled Drik and their larger Ghok kindred moaned in dread at the sight. And at the height of the tortured being’s intolerable agony, Radok savagely hacked open the Drik’s throat, and Nunde sucked up the magnified
Filled with ripped-away energy, Nunde turned toward the table holding the skeletal remains.
Nunde’s brow was dark with concentration. “Ákouse mé!” he hissed, commanding the dead one to listen.
Clenching his long grasping fingers into clawed fists, Nunde imperiously demanded, “Peísou moî!” compelling the dead one to obey.
Sweat beaded on Nunde’s forehead as he called out, “Idoû toîs ophthalmoîs toîs toû nekroû!” commanding the dead one to see what the dead can see—visions beyond time and space.
At a small gesture from his master, Radok stepped to the next shackled Chun and again applied a white-hot iron to the being’s flesh and then slew the Drik, and channeled the heightened energy to Nunde.
Power flowed through Nunde’s being, and perspiration runneled down his face, and he spoke the next decree, coercing the dead one to utter naught but truth.
Salt stung his eyes, yet Nunde did not wipe it away for to do so would loosen his control; instead, he chanted an unyielding demand for obedience.
Now Nunde gestured for Radok to feed him more
Renewed with power, still Nunde’s body was slick with effort. Yet, with trembling hands, Nunde mandated, “Eipè moî hó horáei!” compelling the dead one to reveal what it sees or is asked.
Now Nunde’s entire being shook, for such arcane workings called for energy beyond that which most could give, yet fed once again by Radok’s doings, Nunde chanted, “Aná kaí’ lékse!” demanding the corpse to rise and speak.
Sweat pouring down, muscles knotted, dark eyes bulging, jaws clenched, mind shrieking for relief, Nunde spoke the final command, “Egó gár ho Núndos dè kèleuo sé!” invoking the name of Nunde commanding the dead one.
As of a legion of voices in distant agony, the chamber filled with unnumbered whispering groans, the corpse stirring. Shackled Drik and Ghok quailed in fear. Momentarily, even Radok seemed to cower. Nunde, his ebon eyes burning with a ghastly light, called out, “Aná kaí lékse; egó gár ho Núndos dè kèleuo sé!”
One skeletal hand—missing two fingers—clutched a side of the table, and slowly, agonizingly, the other partial hand reached for the far edge. Dry bones cracked. Again there came the massed groans of a multitude, and haltingly, falteringly, the frame hauled itself upward, rib bones falling away in the effort. At last it levered itself to a sitting position, and slowly, vertebrae snapping, it turned what remained of its neck, as if it yet had a head mounted atop, as if it would stare at the one who summoned. Beside it, on the table, rested the skull, and Radok swiftly altered its position so that its empty eye sockets gazed upward at Nunde. And through the gaping jaw, and speaking as one voice, a hideous choir of whispers filled the chamber.
The remaining trapped Chun whimpered at the empty sound, and even though shackled they looked about as if for a place to flee. And the voices spoke in a language the Drik and Ghok did not comprehend, yet it was naught but Pellarian, the common tongue of Mithgar.
“Why . . . why . . . summoned me . . . summoned me . . . summoned me . . . summoned me . . . summoned . . . ?” echoed the ghastly chorus of mutterers, whispers hissing, different voices fading in and out, stronger weaker, rising falling, murmurs on top of murmurs, all asking . . . asking . . . asking. . . .
Nunde answered, threat in his voice, “Seek not to evade me, dead one. Instead, answer me this! What is the most
important thing would you not have your enemies discover?”
Still the empty eye pits stared at Nunde, but his own ebon-eyed gaze did not waver. At last, mid the creaking and cracking of bone, and the thin sound of dry ligaments tearing, the skeletal remains turned its neck as if seeking to look at Caer Pendwyr. Radok quickly followed suit by repositioning the skull. A myriad whispering voices hissed answers, simultaneous agonizing echoes murmuring, rustling, mumbling, as if numberless mutterers crowded forward, all speaking, each striving to be heard, murmurers fading in and out, many voices talking at the same time through the same mouth, each whisperer describing a different event, a confusion of sissing babble.
. . . flay . . . Black Fortress . . . catacomb . . . burn . . . three . . . pierce . . . Queen Ammor . . . my father . . . orb . . .
Nunde carefully paid heed, and he heard several dominant whispers seeking voice over all, yet his mentor, Modru, had told him long past, “It is written that one should trust little the word of a dead soul, for unto the dead time has no meaning. They see the past and the present and the future all at once, all the same. Unless the Psukhómantis—the Necromancer—has the will and energy and endurance, the power to give focus, then the voices of the dead bring words of little use to the summoner, for they may bear a message meant for another entirely. You must listen carefully to find the truespeaker for you. If you can single out that voice, then words of value may come. There is this, however, some spirits seek to keep their secrets or to mislead, and for these you must concentrate, dominate, else what you learn will lead to disaster.”
And so Nunde listened warily, trying to choose from among the countless agonized whispers, trying to pick out the voice of slain High King Valen who would answer his questions among the mutterings filling the chamber, among the murmurings, sissings, hissings.
And within the whispering babble, there seemed one reticent voice, as if someone was trying to withhold. And this uncommunicative voice was not easily distinguished from the multitude. Yet it seemed to belong to these remains.