The Fall to Power (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  He reached the front gates of thick, sturdy wood, twenty feet tall and a foot thick, impressed that enough oak had been acquired in the middle of the desert in order to form such a mighty barricade; the desert people must have travelled far and traded much to acquire it. He shattered the gates with one kick of his sandaled foot, the inward explosion of splinters bowling over a troupe of dozens that had been sent to meet him.

  Standing in the now empty gateway, the King turned to look back at his troops as they charged across the clearing before the city, noting with some dismay that they suffered beneath the withering hail of missiles from the archers that bedecked the city walls. Nodding, he reached with his free hand and unsheathed Sinister, the left hand glaive with its broad, flat cleaver-like blade. Releasing his hold on the weapon, it floated in front of him, by its own volition, awaiting his command.

  “Defend.”

  At the word, the glaive flew, instantly accelerating to invisible speeds, till it hovered above the heart of the charging army, where it licked out, this way, that way, countless times each second, shielding the men from the relentless barrage of arrows. Invictus grunted in satisfaction; fully half the missiles were no longer reaching his men, their flights intercepted by the slicing form of his weapon.

  He turned, leaving the glaive to continue its tireless work without him, focusing on forging ahead through the city itself, even as the first waves of his men forced their way through the gap he’d opened in the defences, swarming up the steps to assault the archers on the ramparts. The scattered defenders before him, dazed by the destruction of the heavy door, had begun to stir, gathering their senses and rising, eyes wide in fear as the God-King bore down on them.

  A blur of motion, a rushing of wind, and twenty nine of the thirty warriors were dead, dismembered in an instant, Invictus towering over their leader, who stood, terrified, the neck-piece of his finely embroidered desert headdress quaking in tune to his tremblings. Invictus expected the man to fall to his knees, grovelling, but no, miraculously the warrior pieced together his shattered nerves, before charging the King, who merely watched with a raised eyebrow, as the warrior sped towards him, a shrill, warbling battle-cry on his lips.

  A moment later, the warrior was backing away now, gazing in confusion at the bronze sword now bent out of shape, almost semi-circular where it had struck the King on his iron-hard arm. His contemplation was rudely interrupted by the obsidian point of Dexter that lanced into his chest, neatly piercing the sternum and spearing out a foot from his back.

  A clang of metal as the desert-man dropped his sword to the ground, gurgling in shock, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth as slowly, inexorably, he was lifted clean off the ground, suspended on the end of the six foot glaive, feet dangling helplessly in the air. Invictus made some quick calculations, before grinning, then powering the blade upwards, vertical over his head, his hapless victim sliding clean off the end in a spray of blood and launching high, high into the air, his screams receding into the distance.

  Ceceline would have quite the shock when the still-screaming warrior lands ten feet from her, chuckled the King to himself. He looked up to the sky above the sandstone city, the clear blue air turning a mucky orange as the sandstorm approached. He hoped that he hadn’t distracted her too much, for if the storm were to hit, then things would get interesting. While he was certain he could still fight in the dust, possibly even take the city single-handed, he wasn’t so sure how his men would fare.

  And what point a General, with no troops to lead?

  ***

  The Clansman approached the top table with barely disguised nerves, for the wrath of the Huntmaster was terrible to behold. And the messenger bore no good news.

  “My… my Lord Kurnos.”

  The rotund and ruddy faced commander turned, his beard still soaked with the last remnants of an entire pint of Vorda, the fumes of which rocked the messenger back on his feet, yet the belligerent eyes that glared out from that lined face bore no trace of intoxication as of yet, only the veiled threat that there would be consequences should the interruption not have a good reason.

  “Well what is it? Speak, Clansman!”

  The Huntsmaster’s deep bellowing voice boomed throughout the Hall of Pen-Argyle, drowning out the din of music and merriment, for the Hounds of Kurnos, those berserker Barbarians, his loyal corps of chariot-riding hunters, were long prone to losing themselves in the excess of a party when not abroad on the hunt.

  The messenger cleared his throat, grooming his long moustache in nervous anticipation of the outburst to come.

  “My Lord, we have received Falcons from the commanders of the raiding parties scouring the foothills.”

  “Go on…”

  “Three more parties have gone missing, my Lord. Among them, Marzban Joltar’s.”

  He flinched, expecting a bellow of rage to come his way, then relaxed as it seemed none was forthcoming. An instant later, he was flattened, as his Lord’s stone stein came hurtling out of the air to smash him on the nose and send him sprawling, unconscious to the floor.

  The Huntmaster rose to his feet, face red with fury.

  “Someone fetch me my stein and get me a drink! And get that miserable wretch out of my sight!”

  As serfs hustled and bustled in an effort to get away from his wrath and carry out his orders, a figure strode up to him, wary but used to his outbursts after so many years by his side.

  “What would you have us do, my Lord? The Clansmen fail, but the Hounds are yours to command…”

  As suddenly as it had overtaken him, the brutish Lord’s ire drained away, and he clasped one meaty hand to the shoulder of the warrior.

  “Egor, my friend, you’re right, as always.”

  The veteran warrior showed no outward pride after the compliment, knowing his commander as fickle as the wind. A compliment from Kurnos could be easily followed by a knife to the gut. He stood and waited in silence as the bellicose Huntmaster mulled things over before reaching a conclusion.

  “Assemble the Hounds, make ready the chariots and round up our finest hunting dogs. Send word by Falcon to the Clansmen in the forest, bring them back here. Their work is done, for it is time for the Hunt to scour the forest.”

  “Very good, my Lord.”

  As Egor stalked off to carry out his orders, Kurnos sat down slowly, in his chair at the head table, gazing out on his feasting warriors attended by dour-faced Plainsmen, serving drinks and food. His eyes were dark as he recounted the tales of hidden death told by returning warriors who had, these past weeks, been taking turns scouring the dark and endless forests of the mountains in search of the hidden valley.

  “Shamans, spirits; these things can wait,” he muttered to himself. “There is someone out there, toying with our men. Taunting me.” He spat the words, unused after so many decades of power to the thought of having a nemesis, an enemy, as opposed to a prey.

  “Whoever you are,” he murmured darkly, as he reached once more for his refilled stein, “I am coming for you. And forget my dogs; I shall tear out your throat with my very own teeth.”

  ***

  In the distant past and far away from the mountains, Invictus continued his slaughter as he made his way through the winding, dusty streets of Lanakah, leaving in his wake the strewn corpses of each and every unit of troops who’d had the misfortune to cross his path.

  He was on the roof of a building now, high above the ground so that he could get a good view of proceedings. Looking back on the way he had come, he could see that his men were making good progress, albeit still lagging half a mile behind him. Turning the other way, to the desert on the far side of the city, a wall of sand, red and dark, rose up into the air many hundreds of feet, racing towards them, ready to flush out the intruders in a storm of dirt and grit to clog the eyes and confound the breathing. No doubt the natives would have some cunning mask to hand, a mesh to keep them safe and let them fight in the storm. His own men, however, did not.

  He c
ould feel the raging anger and pride of the desert djinns that drove the storm, ancient spirits full of malice and spite, and grinned, for such pitiful creatures as they could not hope to prevail against the dark power that fuelled the King and the Sorceress.

  With a grin, he felt it, like the shockwave of an underwater landslide or distant earthquake, as his Lady Witch, nearly a mile behind him, completed her conjuration, invoking the powers that dwelled beyond the veil to halt the encroaching storm.

  A ripple issued upwards from the desert floor, a scorching flash of unnatural heat that seared its way up across the face of the storm, leaving behind it the unmistakable scent of sulphur. The incandescence was only momentary, but it was enough; the particles of sand that formed the storm-front were superheated, fusing, till a wall of dusty, impure glass a mile high but mere inches thick stood, impossible and amazing, rising up from the desert floor. It held for barely a second, before the rushing torrent of still-driven sand behind it cracked the construct, shattering it to fall to the ground in great shards the size of trees that stuck, point down in the dune. But a second was enough, the momentum of the storm broken, its advance arrested.

  Invictus laughed from the roof of the building as he felt the indignation of the djinns, as they turned and fled back into the dark and dusty places from whence they’d been called, the dusty cloud of sand falling, descending gently like a curtain far away from the town.

  But their essence didn’t fade away entirely.

  A dry, dusty scratching, like a cat clawing at an old door, remained in the back of his head. Somewhere in this city, there was still a djinn. Close by, too. He leapt from the high roof, landing with a crunch on the ground below, the sandstone flags of the alleyway shattering beneath his feet, before walking purposefully through the streets, following the source of the irritation.

  After a time, he stopped outside a building, feeling the djinn’s presence nearby, and entered in through the door. Down a corridor he went, till it opened out into a hall, dim, dusty, bereft of life. But still he could feel the ancient malice of the desert spirit. It was frantic, flailing, scratching and clawing as though imprisoned, as though pent up and wanting out.

  The King spied a wall, on the far side of the hall, certain that the emanations were coming from that direction. Slowly, he walked up to the wall, placing his ear gently against its stones, hearing the insistent, dry struggle of the spirit on the other side. Abruptly, the noises stopped.

  And the wall exploded.

  Invictus was sent flying backwards, somehow staying on his feet as he screeched along the floor, the soles of his sandals smoking with friction as they rubbed against the dry, stone flags. He shook his head to clear the haze from his vision, the dust from his eyes, and reached up to touch his nose that had taken the brunt of the impact. His fingers came away with a smattering of fresh crimson blood.

  He raised an eyebrow, impressed.

  In the gap that had been smashed through the wall, a fist of pure desert stone, grotesquely over-sized with only three fingers and a crude thumb. Presently, it was joined by another monstrous hand, before the two together began to rip and prise the blocks of the wall, pulling the structure down with as little effort as a man tearing a loaf of fresh baked bread and revealing the abomination behind.

  The God-King took a step back as the Golem strode into the room, each leaden, automaton footstep causing the ground to tremble, motes of dust to fall from the ceiling. The beast rose to its full height, eight feet, nine, no ten, looming, a monster, a giant, dwarfing even the mighty form of the Barbarian King, who opened his mouth, half smiling, unable to be anything other than impressed by this crude, yet effective instrument of war.

  The keening, scratching noise again, the dry rustling of a trapped spirit, and, as Invictus looked into the monster’s artlessly chiselled eyes, he could see now the raging torment of the trapped djinn within. Somehow, the Sand Lords, the desert sorcerers of this region, had managed to trap this restless spirit within the construct, forcing it to serve them for all of eternity.

  The God-King grinned, for he saw the evil genius of the idea, but at the same time he saw its folly; for you do not send a spirit against Invictus, for he was an avatar of a power beyond that of the elements. With a thought, he bade the anguished spirit to go, to flee its stone body and fly back to the desert.

  A moment passed, then the Golem took another thunderous step towards him, the stone of the floor splintering beneath its tremendous weight.

  Ah, he thought. A spirit can’t flee if it’s bound, no more than a man could flee if tied to a ball and chain. Fair enough, there’s more than one way to skin a Golem.

  Invictus, in a flurry of dust, blurred towards the construct at superhuman speed, shoulder barging the beast in the midsection, the booming report being heard even as far away as Ceceline on her hill on the outskirts of the city. The dust cleared and Invictus looked up, a hideous, jarring ache in his shoulder, to see that the beast had barely moved. With a keening wail of torment, the Golem raised a boulder-like fist, bringing it crashing down with the force of an impacting meteor. Invictus blurred sideways and the stone fist smashed down, through the flagstones and deep into the ground beneath, the limb held fast by the suction of the earth.

  Evading the other flailing claw that tried to grasp him, Invictus found Dexter to hand, leaping onto the monster’s back, climbing up towards its head, ready to smash the sphere asunder and release the trapped elemental that powered the abomination. He raised the obsidian glaive high, but before he could strike, the creature reassembled itself in a grinding of stone on stone, the head swivelling back a hundred and eighty degrees to face him with anguished eyes, its shoulder joints rotating so that its free arm rose up to grasp him about the neck with thick fingers like bollards of granite.

  With a wrench, the Golem pulled its trapped arm free in a spray of earth, to grasp his sword arm about the wrist, using the combined might of both its limbs to lift him of its now-chest and down to the floor, where it bore down on him with all its stupendous bulk. Invictus’ face turned purple as the blood struggled to flow from his head, such was the grip the beast had around his neck. He strained against the creature’s inhuman might, trying to stay upright, but his trembling legs gave way, dropping to one knee, a shockwave rippling the floor and forming a crater about the wrestling duo, the God-King and the Golem.

  With a thought, he summoned forth black lightning to wreath the construct, but the stone was unharmed, the lightning finding no purchase, merely drawing scorched lines over its rough surface. The djinn raged at him from within those sunken, soulless eyes, eager to gain at least a little vengeance on the mortals that had imprisoned it.

  But the smile that spread across the face of its foe rang warning bells in its primitive mind.

  This was no mortal.

  “Return.”

  Over the grinding of the beast’s joints and the cracking of the stone beneath Invictus’ knee, a fresh noise could be heard; a piercing, shrieking whistle of tortured air, punctuated by a staccato beat of smashing walls that grew louder and louder and louder until…

  The golem’s head exploded in a spray of shrapnel, the spirit crying out in triumph as it fled from the chaos, back to its brethren in the furthest regions of the dusty desert.

  Throwing the now-powerless construct from him with a grunt of disdain, Invictus rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his shoulders. Sinister hovered, loyal and patient, by his side, having been recalled from its steadfast defence of his troops and the King released his grip on its twin, both swords flying about him now in a defensive circle, sensing the mood of their master.

  “Enough games,” he sniffed. “Let’s find the ruler of this place and bring him to heel.”

  ***

  The hounds prowled the courtyard of the Pen, sniffing, yapping, salivating, their bloodlust up for they knew when a hunt was about to begin. Their human namesakes were equally excited, bare-chested, their topknots streaming with ribbons, the vivi
d banners that rose high from their chariots flapping in the northern breeze.

  In the midst of it all, atop his huge, decorated chariot, pulled by twin stallions, wild-eyed and barely tamed, Kurnos, the Lord of the Hunt. His cruel whip, barbed with the teeth of his vanquished enemies, was coiled about his barrel chest. He raised his Hunter’s Horn to his lips, giving a great blast that echoed throughout the town, signalling the Hunt had begun.

  “We ride, my Hounds, like the Thunder Gods of old! We ride to the capture of our enemies! We ride and our foes shall be crushed beneath our wheels! We will find this gloating fool that presumes to play games with us, we shall take him back to Pen-Merethia and there, he shall find out the true meaning of Games!”

  The assembled hunters roared their bloodthirsty approval, eager to spill the blood of their enemies and bring their foe bound and helpless back to their King. Another long blast of the Horn and the ground shook, as a hundred chariots and a hundred baying dogs began their journey north to the hills.

  ***

  The victory had been swift and decisive. But, much to Ceceline’s amusement, the ruler of Lanakah didn’t seem to see it that way.

  “His Royal Highness, Grand Sheikh Al-Balakh, Ruler of Lanakah, Lord of the Sandy Seas and King of Kings generously extends the offer to discuss terms of peace between our two mighty peoples.”

  The words spoken by the emissary in stilted Steppes-Tongue, so haughty and proud, rang hollow as they echoed about the plaza, perhaps something to do with the five thousand Clansmen who ringed the palace courtyard, the small cluster of remaining enemy soldiers and their leaders huddled about a throne in the centre where sat, impassive, clutching a glass of wine, their many-titled Lord.