by Ian Irvine
‘Hey!’ said Chissmoul. ‘That looks like a small army below us.’
Nish peered over the side and saw a long column of horsemen riding west at a fast pace. ‘Surely that can’t be Vomix’s force already?’
‘It is,’ said Persia stiffly. ‘We passed over the barracks a few minutes ago. They’re heading for the monastery and the rest of the army won’t be far behind.’
He looked back and saw what was, unmistakably, a walled army barracks and parade ground. A considerable army – some thousands of men – was forming into ranks and the leaders were marching out the gates. Vomix was taking no chances.
‘How can he have reacted so quickly?’ Nish said.
He knew how long it took to mobilise an army, for he’d done it many times, and for Vomix to get his cavalry armed and on the road this quickly, surely meant he had been fore-warned. Could there be a spy in their midst – or a traitor? He glanced back at Persia, who was still staring over the side. Nish could not believe it of her, though almost anyone could be bought if the price was high enough – or coerced if they would not betray willingly. But if not her, who?
‘Vomix has had them on full alert for days,’ said M’lainte. ‘This could get a little awkward.’
‘But those riders are ahead of us. They must have known where we were going.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said M’lainte. ‘Once the scriers in the market square told him our direction, Vomix would have plotted it on a map and seen that we were flying directly for the monastery.’
‘How far away is it?’ he said, not at all mollified. Betrayal still seemed the most likely explanation.
‘A few leagues in a direct line.’ M’lainte did not consult her map. ‘Five at most, the way Vomix must go.’
‘Then his cavalry will be there in under three hours.’ It was far too soon. ‘After we reach the monastery, we’ll have less than two hours to subdue a host of furious monks and search the place from top to bottom. It’s not enough time; not nearly. Can you go faster, Chissmoul?’
‘Not without tearing the cabin off.’
Within an hour the air-sled had reached the valley, which proved to be as beautiful as it had been described. The monastery was set on the flat crest of a gentle hill between two small rivers. There were cultivated fields to the left, separated by low hedges, while open pasture lay to the right, streaked with outcroppings of grey rock.
Trees shaded the northern and western sides of the monastery but were not big enough to conceal their approach. There were no walls, ditches, palisades or defensive structures of any kind – it looked undefended and was certainly undefendable.
‘Go up a bit,’ he said to Chissmoul. ‘I need to get a better picture of the place.’
The air-sled lifted, and shortly he was looking down on the monastery as if it were a plan drawing. For the first time Nish understood the perfection and symbolism of its design: a perfect wheel with the temple at its hub, joining sky and earth, sacred and profane, celestial and chthonic.
The monastery is like a sign, or a pointer, he thought in a blinding flash of realisation. It’s got to be. Is it intended as a sign to the being whose chthonic fire was stolen? Is that who the monks really worship – Stilkeen? How could he find out?
‘They’re coming fast,’ called Flangers.
Nish looked back east, and in the distance saw a cloud of dust made by Vomix’s racing cavalry. His stomach spasmed. ‘They’re making incredible time over such rough country.’
‘We haven’t got much more than an hour,’ said Flangers. ‘Not the way they’re riding.’
There was no time to find out about the monks and who they worshipped; all he could do was snatch some white fire in the special container Flydd had left with Persia, and run. But if it was the true fire, and he felt sure now that it must be, what a victory it would be. With it, suddenly anything seemed possible. Nish’s mind was racing as he ran through his strategy.
‘Chissmoul, land next to the temple – we don’t have time to search the other buildings – then go up and hover so the monks can’t attack you, and keep watch for Vomix. Persia and I will go inside, along with four militiamen. Flangers, you’ll seal the entrances to the temple so we can search it without being attacked by the monks. Keep me informed, and call us out if there’s a danger you can’t handle.’
‘Surr!’ said Flangers.
‘Don’t take any risks. We have to get away the moment Vomix’s cavalry comes into view. We’re not here to fight him, and we certainly don’t want to hurt any of the monks.’
‘What if they attack us?’
‘Everyone has staves and cord. Knock the monks down if you must, knock them out if there’s no alternative, and tie them up. Ready?’
‘Yes,’ Flangers said, looking dubious.
‘It might be useful if I came with you,’ said M’lainte.
‘Er,’ said Nish.
He liked M’lainte, and was awed by her utter mastery of the artificer’s trade at which he, despite all that hard work in his youth, had never been more than mediocre. He did not want to offend her, but she was old and slow, and would be a liability if they got into trouble.
‘If chthonic fire is hidden in the temple,’ M’lainte said, ‘I rather think I can find it.’
‘Is that so?’ said Nish. ‘How?’
‘My gift allows me to see beneath the surface of physical things, and I’ve trained it to a high order. I can spot traps, hidden drawers, false walls and most other hiding places merely by looking.’
‘What about objects concealed by the Art?’
‘It depends on which Art has been used to hide them, and how powerful the adept was who used it.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘If the true fire is here, we’ve got to have it. But if I say so, you’ll go at once … won’t you?’ Nish’s cheeks grew hot; he felt like a prentice giving orders to his master.
‘Of course,’ said M’lainte, amused. ‘A force can only have one leader and I would not have it otherwise.’
‘All right, Chissmoul,’ said Nish. ‘Go in fast.’
She zoomed in over the left-hand river and across the fields. Several monks, hoeing weeds, looked up with mouths agape as the baroque craft hummed overhead.
It lifted over the circular roof of the monastery and headed for the temple at the centre, which had been built on exposed grey rock and was surrounded by short green grass. Constructed in a style that had not been used for thousands of years, it was circular, with columns around the circumference, and roofed over by a large stone dome with a broad round vent at the top.
‘That’s the main entrance,’ said Persia, pointing to an opening between the columns.
‘Set down there,’ said Nish.
Chissmoul landed the air-sled on the grass. Nish and Persia leapt off, then Hoshi the apprentice potter, Beyl the short, dark woodsman, his ear-of-corn earring swinging, followed by thin and nervous Allioun, and finally stocky Zana, her dark hair cropped short like a soldier’s, all carrying their staves. They all wore blades but had been cautioned not to use them on the monks. M’lainte began to clamber down and Nish’s heart sank, for she wasn’t as mobile as he had thought.
‘How dare you!’ a heavily-built monk shouted from the veranda of the monastery. His black, spade-shaped beard had a white patch below his lip and it quivered with every furious word. ‘Take your abominable contraption and go, profaners of the Celestial Flame!’
He brandished a staff at them, and other monks appeared behind him, while more were running from the other side of the circle.
Nish cursed. This was going to be even harder than he’d thought. ‘Come on!’ He ran for the temple.
It was cooler under the circular colonnade, beyond which he saw a line of thicker columns – no, they were arranged in a square, and inside that was a triangular array. The only other visible structure was a steep, narrow stone ramp, broken by several landings, that curved around the inside of the dome to the circular vent at the top, where there
was a platform and an altar, presumably for observing the celestial flame, or the heavens, or both.
‘A triangle within a square within a circle,’ puffed M’lainte. ‘The symbol of the celestial realm. And for symmetry, I’d expect to find the symbol reversed inside. I don’t think we’ll find anything out here but we’d better make sure.’
They hastened in between the columns. M’lainte turned right and began a circuit of the temple walls, with Hoshi and Beyl behind them on the left, and Allioun and Zana to the right, like a trailing pair of wings.
At the end of the circuit, M’lainte shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘What about the ramp and altar?’ said Nish.
She looked up. ‘Unlikely. The celestial realm would be linked to the chthonian, so the fire, if it is here, would be kept below us.’
From outside, Nish made out the clash of staff on staff, the outraged bellowing of the monks, and cries of ‘Sacrilege!’ and ‘Blasphemer!’ He put them out of mind. Flangers would deal with them.
Inside the triangular array of columns the floor stepped down in a series of white stone benches like a triangular amphitheatre, and the stone had been polished until it shone. The lowest, central point contained a square hole rather bigger than the width of Nish’s shoulders. He assumed that the flame worshipped by the monks issued up through it, though no flame was visible from here. A spicy smell of incense hung in the air.
‘There’s nowhere else to search,’ said M’lainte, heading for the nearest bench. ‘We’ll have to look down there – oh!’
Three lean and wiry monks in white robes sat on the benches near the bottom, their shaven heads bowed, while another lay prostrate beside the square hole and a fifth, a withered old man, swung a censer back and forth, emitting blue puffs of smoke which formed swirling patterns above the hole.
Nish cursed under his breath; if merely entering this place was sacrilegious, what he was about to do was so much worse. But he had no choice.
‘We have come for the chthonic flame, also called white-ice-fire, stolen by Yalkara from the shapeshifting being, Stilkeen, in ancient times. What do you know about it?’
The withered old monk turned slowly and the censer slipped from his hand, fell to the step and came open, spilling burning incense across the white marble. He looked up, clenching blue-veined fists, and spoke slowly, coldly.
‘This place is forbidden to all but the monks of the Celestial Flame. You have polluted our temple and debauched the sacred ceremony. Now all must be cleansed and purified before we may worship here again. Get out!’
The other monks rose, save for the prostrate one. The old monk nudged him with a gnarled toe. ‘Rise, brother; your penance is wasted and must be begun anew, but first the temple has to be cleansed, and that will take from one full moon to the next.’
The prostrate monk rose, pulling his robes together. He was only a youth, but big and muscular with callused hands. He bowed to the old monk, hands humbly clasped together, then glanced sideways at Nish and his eyes blazed with a terrible fury. He did not look humble now. A violent rage burned in him and he wasn’t going to be easy to deal with.
‘I’m sorry, venerable monk, and brothers,’ said Nish. Though he was not a believer, he did not wish to offend anyone who was. ‘We do not come to harm you, but we must have the chthonic fire.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said the old monk. ‘We worship the celestial flame, and it is blue. There is no white fire here, and never has been.’
Nish cursed inwardly, for he did not think the monk was lying. Could everyone have been so wrong about this place? Were all the resemblances to Mistmurk no more than coincidence? No, he had to be sure.
‘It could be locked away in a small flask or casket. It may have been hidden for thousands of years. Think!’
‘You – are – mad,’ the old monk enunciated clearly. ‘Fire can’t be locked away; it must be fed with fuel and air, or else it goes out.’
‘Chthonic fire is different,’ said Nish desperately. It had to be here, and he had to have it.
‘For three thousand years we have studied the nature of flame. Fire must be fed. There – are – no – exceptions!’ The old monk turned away. ‘Brothers, throw them out.’
Nish glanced at Persia, who gave him a blank look. M’lainte mimed, ‘You have no choice.’
Nish gestured to his militia. ‘Move them out of the way.’
The four advanced, holding out their staves. The old monk gathered up his robes and lurched up the benches, swinging bony fists. The other brothers followed his lead.
Hoshi pushed the old monk aside with his stave but he stumbled and fell, cracking his head on a bench. A thin line of blood ebbed from his forehead and he lay there, dazed.
‘I didn’t want this,’ said Nish quietly.
‘Yet it was inevitable,’ said M’lainte, ‘since we are two opposing forces, neither of which can give in. Time is running out. Let’s get it done.’ She lumbered down the benches.
Nish moved around the other side of the triangle, leaving his troops to deal with the monks. He had no idea what he was looking for; he was just keeping an eye out for anything that did not fit.
At the bottom he peered into the square hole. A slight warmth issued from it, and down an inner, circular shaft he made out a flame flickering some distance below but, as the monk had said, it was blue. Blue! His heart sank. No, he refused to believe it. Chthonic fire was infinitely precious; it would be hidden to elude the most determined searchers.
He felt all the joins in the floor stone and peered down the hole, singeing his eyelashes, but saw no evidence of concealed rooms or lower levels. Persia and M’lainte completed their inspections.
‘Anything?’ Nish said, feeling the prize sliding through his fingers.
Persia shook her head. ‘My meagre Arts tell me nothing.’ She headed up.
‘Mine tell me a lot,’ said M’lainte, ‘but nothing to our advantage. The temple is just what it seems and there’s no white fire here. We were sent on a wild goose chase.’
It had always been a long shot, but Nish had talked himself into believing otherwise. Nonetheless, the disappointment was so crushing that he tasted bile in the back of his throat. ‘Or have we been betrayed to Vomix?’ he muttered.
He would not have thought Persia could have heard him from so far away, but her head shot around and her fists were clenched. ‘How dare you! What are you implying?’
‘Nothing,’ he said hastily, wishing he could have taken the words back. ‘I never said it was Yulla.’ Too late; he’d made it worse by mentioning her name. Far worse.
‘Yulla would never have anything to do with him.’
That’s easy for you to say, he thought.
On the temple floor above, his militia were still struggling with the monks, who were proving difficult to subdue. The big, angry youth was wresting with Hoshi, the two of them swaying backwards and forwards not far from the top bench. Hoshi tried to whack the youth with his staff but was kneed in the groin, then as Nish watched helplessly the staff was wrenched from Hoshi’s grip and slammed into the side of his head. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, unconscious.
‘Blaspheming dog of an infidel,’ the youth cried fervently. ‘How dare you defile our temple?’ Swinging the staff through the air so swiftly that it hummed, he sent it spinning into the backs of Allioun and Zana, knocking them down, then, picking up Hoshi by collar and crutch, with an effort the youth raised him above his head.
‘No!’ cried Nish, running up the benches. ‘Put him –’
With an almighty heave, the youth hurled Hoshi over Nish’s head and down towards the centre of the triangle, where he struck the lowest bench headfirst. His neck bent back, there was an audible snap and he slid off the bench, down through the square hole. Hoshi, Nish’s first friend in Gendrigore, was dead.
The old monk tottered to his feet, blood running down his cheek. ‘Brother,’ he whispered, ‘what have you done?’
The youth stood there, chest heaving and big hands hanging by his side. ‘They defiled the temple, Father.’
‘We could have cleansed it. But now …’ The old monk scrambled down the benches, squinted into the square hole through which Hoshi had fallen, then fell back and let out a cry of anguish. ‘Brother, my brother, this stain can not be erased. The very stones of the temple must now be taken down and replaced – all of them. And you – your time among us has ended – you must go.’
‘Go?’ breathed the youth. ‘But the Celestial Flame is my guiding light. Without it I am homeless, wretched, broken …’
‘As is that man broken, and you slew him in our temple! You cast him down onto the sacred flame. You have extinguished the flame, which has never gone out. Go, my son, and never approach this place again.’
He went to the youth, tore his robes from him and cast them on the floor.
The other monks were staring at the loincloth-clad youth in horror. Allioun rose and heaved Zana up. She was swaying on her feet, moaning, for the spinning staff had struck her hard in the back, near the kidneys.
The youth was making an incoherent grunting sound but his eyes were flaming now, his rage running out of control. He stooped, came up with the staff and swung around, ignoring Beyl, who was struggling with two of the brothers further off. The youth’s gaze fixed on M’lainte and he started down.
He must think she’s the leader, Nish realised. The attack had been a disaster from the start, it was getting worse, and it had all been for nothing. Holding his own staff across his body, two-handed, Nish moved to protect her.
Persia stepped into his path. ‘Leave the youth to me, Nish.’
‘He killed Hoshi,’ said Nish in a low voice and, remembering the fun-loving young man he’d first met on the sea cliffs, a red mist obscured his own vision. First Gi, then Forzel, now Hoshi. Of his four Gendrigorean lieutenants, only Clech survived, but crippled, and Hoshi had to be avenged. ‘I can’t –’
‘Stand aside!’ Her free hand gripped his wrist, crushing it.