by Ian Irvine
‘We’d better do the same,’ said Flydd. ‘Stilkeen was about to open the void.’
‘I believe this is yours,’ said M’lainte, handing Nish Vivimord’s sabre. ‘I found it when I raised the air-sled.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nish absently, putting it down on the side, for his own sword was much more to his liking.
The craft spun on its axis, hurtled down the broad hall, and outside. The sun had set and the surroundings of the palace were now lit by hundreds of concealed lanterns.
Nish, looking back, saw something hanging from the ceiling of the open ninth level, directly below the spire. He touched M’lainte’s arm.
‘I think that’s Father’s body. We’d better check.’
She curved the craft back towards the highest level, and inside. As they approached, Nish could smell the rotting body and he had to turn away. No matter his father’s crimes, and they were legion, he could not bear to see him like that.
‘Is it definitely Father?’
‘It’s him,’ said Flydd sombrely.
‘And he’s dead?’ said Nish. ‘It’s not some spell or cunning illusion?’
‘No illusion can exist this close to Stilkeen,’ said Malien. ‘The body looks as though it’s been dead for weeks.’
‘The God-Emperor is dead,’ said Flydd, then took a deep breath. ‘Long –’
‘Don’t say it!’ gritted Nish, knowing that Flydd was about to say, Long live the God-Emperor. ‘Don’t you dare put that on me. M’lainte, get out of here.’
Flydd’s mouth snapped closed. M’lainte headed outside, set down and they climbed over the sides of the sky-galleon onto the elevated, four-sided promenade surrounding Morrelune. Between the palace and the range, the endless barrier wall of the void cut through ground and sky, half a league away.
Yggur cleared his throat. ‘Your armies await your command, Nish.’
‘Command?’ said Nish, still thinking about the death of his father. ‘Yes, right.’ He had to focus. Once Stilkeen tore open the void, the attack could come from anywhere – or everywhere.
‘Pull yourself together!’ said Flydd, thumping him hard on the shoulder. ‘This is the moment we’ve been fighting for ever since you escaped from Mazurhize.’
Nish studied the featureless barrier. ‘How can we defend ourselves against what’s up there? Any kind of creature imaginable could come out.’
‘Without the aid of our enemies, we can’t.’
‘Vomix will be a threat as long as he lives,’ said Nish, ‘and Hackel’s army is hungry for loot. They won’t help me.’
‘They will while their own survival is at stake,’ said Flydd, ‘and I’m going to do my best to ensure that any attack falls on them first. Talk to Nosby; he’ll be looking to the son of the God-Emperor for leadership. Tell him that you’re committed to the survival of the empire, and to recovering your father’s body – you can say that much without compromising your precious principles, surely?’
And you never give up, Nish thought irritably. ‘I’ll have to get to Hackel’s mercenaries before Vomix does, or they’ll blame me for what happened inside.’
‘Flydd can take care of that,’ said Yggur. ‘Get moving, Nish. I’ll make a truce with Vomix – for what it’s worth.’ He headed one way, and Flydd the other, then both stopped, staring.
A needle beam of white light went angling up from the top of the palace towards the barrier wall and touched it, hundreds of spans above the plain. Vapour wisped out and the needle of light moved across the barrier, cutting through it in a semicircle, then began to shake and abruptly went out.
‘I don’t like the look of that,’ M’lainte muttered.
Someone handed Nish a fieldglass and he focussed it on the ragged semicircle. Shadows behind the barrier converged on the curved cut and forced it outwards to form a horizontal flap, a platform about twenty spans long and equally wide. A broad path ran up to the opening from the void side, and a gaggle of creatures, some familiar to Nish from the Histories, others bizarre, appeared there, jostling and snapping at each other.
A large crocodilian beast broke free and scuttled across the flap or platform, but plummeted off the edge to the paved plain far below, killing itself instantly.
‘The void doesn’t have gravity as we know it,’ said Ryll, from behind Nish, ‘and it can take a while to get used to. Let’s hope a few more go the same way …’
A host of winged lizards forced their way through, unfurled long wings and glided down to attack Vomix’s army, which was nearest to the opening. A snake with fins wriggled under the platform and disappeared. Other beasts, many and various in shape and size, climbed down, clinging to the Santhenar side of the barrier with claws, hooks or barbs.
The flow through the opening from the void stopped suddenly; creatures small and large darted to left and right. Drums thudded like mallets thumping into wooden blocks. Nish slid the tubes of the fieldscope back and forth, trying to focus on the blurred shapes beyond the opening.
An upright, bear-shaped creature appeared in the opening. It was a span and a half high, as big as a large lyrinx, though its thick, streamlined body had grey skin as smooth as a seal’s. A pair of long teeth protruded from its upper jaw like the tusks of a walrus, only larger. Its body was long, its legs short and, even from this distance, its eyes were bright and intelligent. A bandolier slung from its left shoulder to its right hip had various objects thrust through it, and it carried a trident in its right hand. It pounded its left fist against its belly, making the drumming sound, thumpa-thump-thump, thumpa-thump-thump.
‘What’s that?’ Nish said hollowly.
‘Atatusk,’ said Ryll. ‘I hope it’s the only one.’
Nish had a feeling it wouldn’t be. ‘Are they bad?’ he said, looking up at Ryll. Though he was a small lyrinx, he stood head and chest above Nish.
‘Put it this way,’ said Ryll, bright colours shivering across the armoured skin of his chest; Nish hoped he wasn’t regretting coming to the aid of Santhenar, ‘when we dwelt in the void, atatusk ate us for breakfast.’
The atatusk approached the edge of the platform, drew an object like a bamboo fieldscope from its bandolier and surveyed the scene. While thus occupied, one of the winged lizards tried to creep by, belly to the ground. Without looking, the atatusk backhanded it across the side of the head; it went tumbling down, hit the paving and did not move.
The thumpa-thump-thump grew louder, and the front line of a marching rank of atatusk appeared, six wide. Nish could not see how far back it extended.
The first atatusk put two flat, flipper-like hands around his mouth and said in an enormously amplified, barking voice, ‘I, Lemno Gorgandyre, lay claim to this world for the atatusk nation.’ Over his shoulder, he added, ‘Find the white fire for Stilkeen, then stamp on all those squirming grubs.’
Gorgandyre seemed to be looking directly at Nish now, and a creeping terror washed over him. Once these creatures gained a foothold on Santhenar, it would be impossible to get rid of them.
‘We’ve got to keep them out,’ he said, knowing that he had no way of doing so.
‘Too late,’ said Ryll.
Gorgandyre lifted a coil of rope from his back, snapped the hook on its end over the edge of the platform and threw himself off, sliding down the rope so fast that smoke rose from his grey palms. He reached the plain, spat green gobs into his hands, then grounded the butt of his trident and waited as the rest of his troop followed, thirty in all. Another troop of atatusk appeared at the opening.
‘We’ll never defeat them,’ said Ryll, colours flashing all over his armoured skin. ‘It’s hopeless.’
‘We’ve got thousands of men,’ said Nish. ‘And your five hundred lyrinx.’
‘And the atatusk in the void are numberless. I’ll go back to my own.’ Ryll bounded away.
A messenger came running from the Imperial Guard, carrying signal flags on a pole. ‘General Nosby’s compliments, surr, and he stands ready to follow your orders.’
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br /> ‘Signal him to stand by,’ said Nish as more runners converged on him. Hackel’s officers also offered their support, however Vomix demanded that Nish abandon any claim to the throne and swear allegiance to him.
Nish did not bother to reply, for Gorgandyre’s platoon of atatusk were converging on the seneschal’s forces and he would soon be fighting for his life. As another platoon of atatusk started to slide down, Nish began to formulate a battle plan. Standing on the top steps of the promenade, where he could see most of the nearby plain, he weighed up his troops, taking account of their capabilities and weaknesses, and began to issue orders. The signallers sent them to his detachments and they wheeled to face the enemy.
He checked his sword, then mentally noted where Flydd, Persia and Yggur stood, Tulitine and Malien, Ryll and Liett, and all his other allies. The sky-galleon shot by, Lilis at the javelard, Yulla seated on her catapult, then hurtled off to the attack. Everyone could be accounted for except Maelys. Where was she? She’d been here only a few minutes ago.
Then the fighting swept towards him and there was no time to look for her.
FORTY-THREE
Maelys was pacing along the side steps of the promenade surrounding Morrelune, which were not fire-touched, thankfully, but good, solid stone. Stilkeen had said that the pure fire was not far away, hidden in a corundite vessel, but what was corundite? No one knew, not even Lilis, who was on the deck of the sky-galleon, at the base of the steps.
‘It sounds like a mineral,’ the librarian said. ‘Why don’t you ask Yulla?’
‘Why would she know?’ said Maelys, who knew nothing about Yulla save that she had once been the governor of Crandor.
‘She has the best mineral collection in the world. Yulla?’
‘Corundite is a very hard and heavy mineral,’ said Yulla, who was readying the sky-galleon for take-off, ‘like ruby or sapphire, but it can be any colour.’
‘Thanks,’ Maelys said absently. So she had to find a vessel made from a hard, heavy mineral that could be any colour. It was no help at all.
The sky-galleon lifted and shot away. Maelys had just passed in front of the entrance to the palace when Stilkeen slid down its webs into the audience chamber, gathered spilled chthonic fire from the floor and, shaking with pain, formed it into a tight beam which it directed upwards to cut a semicircle through the void barrier. Its webs slipped, it let out a shriek and the beam cut off; Stilkeen wrapped the fire webs tightly around itself once more and disappeared upwards.
The flap cut into the barrier was forced down to form a horizontal platform, and through the opening Maelys saw a broad path leading into the void, with dozens of strange and savage creatures clustered on it.
She watched in horror as the alien beasts poured forth and came down to the plain. The Histories told many stories about the creatures that inhabited the void, and all were desperate to escape from its unrelenting brutality.
What was she to do? She had no skill at arms and could not fight them; the least of those creatures would kill her in an instant. But there had to be something she could do to help.
If Stilkeen tried again it might make so many openings that the defenders would be overwhelmed, but after the ruthless way it had dispatched Hackel and Zofloc she did not want to go anywhere near it. And yet, while she wore the taphloid it did not appear to see her … and it was crippled by pain, which evened the odds a little.
Dare she try to stop it? Maelys crept back and forth, peering between the columns into the palace. She looked around to ask someone for advice, but the promenade was deserted and suddenly there was fighting all across the plain.
The longer she hesitated, the more people were going to die and the greater the risk that Stilkeen would breach the barrier again. She had to act now. Alone and without a plan of attack, she headed into the fire palace.
Maelys darted from column to column along the hall towards the audience chamber. Her palms were sweating; one minute her heart was racing, the next she could barely feel it beating. If Stilkeen could take on any aspect, it might be hiding there now. And even if the taphloid concealed her from its sight, it might hear or smell her.
The shadow webs still hung at the rear of the audience chamber, though they appeared to be empty. As she crept closer, sand grated underfoot, the sharp sand that had driven Stilkeen away, but where had it gone?
The hair rose on the back of her neck. Someone was watching her, but not with their eyes. Maelys loosened her knife in its sheath, slowly turning around.
‘Who’s there?’ she said hoarsely, trying to control her terror, for the taphloid only hid her from Stilkeen. What if it was Vomix behind her? Her throat went so dry that it was hard to get the words out. ‘W-what do you want?’
‘Help!’ called a deep voice from somewhere below her. A voice she recognised.
It was Klarm and, for as long as she’d known him, he had been her enemy, but if Stilkeen was everyone’s enemy, maybe Klarm was on her side now. ‘Where are you?’
‘Caught in one of the God-Emperor’s stinking traps! Come down the stairs to your left.’
He sounded in great pain, and Maelys did not think it was feigned, so she obeyed. These stairs were also wreathed in the pale fire that burned constantly yet gave off no heat. She could feel its radiance on her face and hands, like firelight, and it tickled where it touched bare skin.
The lower level was a large open space framed by curved arrays of columns much like the rest of Morrelune. She looked right and left. The flames were less visible here and behind them she saw silken tapestries on the walls, a plain but elegant silk carpet on the marble floor, but no Klarm. Was it an ambush? She felt for her knife.
‘Up here,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t laugh.’
The dwarf hung upside down from the ceiling, several spans above her. His left boot had been caught in a wire noose that must have whipped up after he’d stepped in it, and it had drawn so tightly around his ankle that he could not free himself.
Klarm’s lips were drawn back from his teeth and sweat dripped from his brow. His right hand was wrapped in a filthy, frayed bandage, possibly the same one as he’d worn when she’d freed Nish from the air-sled on the Range of Ruin weeks ago.
‘Why would I laugh?’ said Maelys. ‘I take no pleasure from others’ pain.’
Klarm was scratched and bruised, his clothes were torn as if by large claws, and his face was a congested purple. ‘Snared in a trap of my own design,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll never live this down.’ He caught her eye. ‘Will you help me?’
Maelys could not forget that he had once been a devious scrutator. And he had condemned her at the Range of Ruin. ‘You’ve got the tears; free yourself.’
‘I dropped them; besides, this noose is a livewire. Once you’re caught in it, it keeps tightening and there’s no way to stop it, even via mancery – unless the God-Emperor wills it.’
And he’s dead, thought Maelys. Hurrah!
The tears lay on the floor some distance away, while Klarm’s sword and knoblaggie were directly beneath him; they must have fallen from their sheaths when he was jerked upside down. Her heart began to pound. If she could get the tears to Flydd, they might turn the tide of the battle.
She crept across and stood looking down at their roiling quicksilver surfaces, sick with fear. The song of the tears was just the faintest drone, but she had seen what their kiss could do. She reached for the chain, then drew back as Klarm spoke.
‘I wouldn’t,’ he said softly. ‘Few people – indeed, few mancers – can wield the tears, and you certainly are not one of them.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of using them.’
‘Even to pick them up by the chain is taking a mortal risk. If Reaper came at you, how would you protect yourself?’
‘C-came at me?’ She remembered Nish’s agony after he’d touched Reaper, and how terribly it had burned his hand. She knew the scars still troubled him.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Klarm. ‘Reaper hates, Maelys, and Reaper long
s to devour. It’s been shaped that way by its master, and even a mancer of my power must be ever on his guard against it. Are you going to help me, or not?’
She stepped away hastily and studied the livewire, a fine, coppery binding cutting through the boot into his ankle. ‘How am I supposed to get you down? Do you want your knoblaggie?’
‘The livewire can’t be undone, even by mancery,’ he reminded her. ‘Throw me my sword.’
She picked it up, wondering how she was going to toss it that high without hitting him. She hacked a piece from the silk carpet, wrapped it around the blade and gave a small heave to gauge the weight.
‘Careful. It’s fiercely sharp,’ said Klarm.
She wrapped the carpet around again, tied it on with some loose threads, aimed and threw. The sword flew to Klarm’s left but he gave a convulsive sideways jerk and his outstretched hand caught the hilt. He swung upside down again, grimacing at the pain in his ankle, allowed the carpet sheath to fall and bared the blade.
Only then did Maelys realise what he was going to do. ‘No!’ she whispered. ‘There’s got to be a better way.’
‘I designed the trap, Maelys. There’s no other way out of it. Step aside.’
Klarm’s jaw tightened, then he twisted his body and swung the sword before Maelys could look away. It crunched straight through boot and bone above his ankle and he fell, still holding the sword, tumbled over in mid-air and landed on his one foot. The livewire tightened on the severed ankle, squeezing it out of the noose, then his foot fell to the floor beside him. It was no bigger than one of her own small feet.
The stump was pouring blood and if it wasn’t stopped he might bleed to death. Maelys was wondering if she could bind the wound with strips of carpet when Klarm dropped the sword, hopped across to the tears and pressed the severed end of his leg against Reaper.
‘No!’ she yelled, feeling faint at the thought of such a terrible remedy.
There came a ghastly sizzling and Klarm let out a single, choked-off shriek. Smoke fumed up all around him; she smelt burned meat and charred bone; Maelys felt a shocking pain in her middle, as if Gatherer were radiating Klarm’s agony in all directions, but it faded and he lay gasping on the floor.