The Fall to Power (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Invictus turned to the Seeress, bemused, and Ceceline could only shrug her shoulders, a wry smile on her beautiful face, no strain showing from the effort of containing the magical powers of the Sand Lords, who stood, impotent and sweating, at the sides of the enemy King.

  The God-King turned to his opposite.

  “Terms? The only terms are those of your surrender, o’ Grand Sheikh. And for pity’s sake, grow a backbone and speak for yourself, man.”

  The ruler of Lanakah glanced over at his emissary, venom in his eyes, and the speaker opened his mouth to relay once more his master’s wishes, but stopped, eyes wide with fear as he was prodded forward a fraction. He slowly looked down and behind him. The sharp point of a hovering obsidian blade gently pricked him again in the back. His mouth promptly closed and remained so.

  “Very good. Lesson learned.”

  Dexter returned to Invictus, sheathing itself at his back, before he motioned once more for the Sheikh to speak. The fat, jowly monarch sitting like a toad, albeit red with building rage instead of green, opened his mouth, his words dripping with disdain.

  “I am the Grand Sheikh. I will not lower myself by speaking your filthy tongue, Barbarian.”

  “Not a problem,” replied the God-King, his Desert-Tongue fluent, his accent perfect, lilting, giving him at once the air of an aristocrat, the authority of a general and the affability of a friend.

  The toad-sheikh frowned.

  “How do you speak our language?”

  “I learn fast. Now, back to your terms of surrender…”

  The sheikh looked as though he’d been slapped, then turned to his advisors, speaking in hushed tones, unaware that Invictus could hear every muted word as clear as day, even from across the courtyard.

  “A trial of champions, you say?” he asked, smiling as the jowls wobbled in shock, like a startled jellyfish. “A duel for the fate of your city?” He stroked his square chin, clearly enraptured with the idea, before nodding. “Very well, choose your champion.”

  The toad-king smiled revealing jagged yellow teeth, rubbing his greasy hands together as though Invictus had fallen into some carefully laid trap, rather than he being forced into this predicament by the destruction of his army.

  “Bring forth the Slave…”

  Desert warriors came forth from a doorway at the side of the plaza, dragging between them a chained figure, chuckling to himself as he was led to the centre of the makeshift arena. The ‘Slave’ as they called him wore a loin cloth about his waist, with plates of beaten copper lashed to each limb and a brazen chest-plate to cover his upper torso. The man’s eyes, as they looked out from his long, lank, brown hair, were maddened, intoxicated by the thought of impending battle and Invictus could feel the bloodlust radiating out from the man in powerful waves. Another warrior came close, bearing a heavy hammer with a crude, stone head, handing it to the captive champion before darting back out of harm’s way. With a clink, the manacles about his wrists were released and his two escorts withdrew, leaving him alone on the combat floor.

  Invictus nodded with a grunt, then turned to his men.

  “Bhajeer?”

  The General of the Clansmen looked at his King.

  “Sire?”

  “Care to try your hand in this?”

  The veteran warrior stroked his long, greying moustache as he regarded the gibbering slave in the centre of the courtyard; the man looked strong, but he also had the look of a berserker about him. Bhajeer had fought against madmen before, some driven to frenzy by opiates before battle, others simply insane, and he knew how to take them. Tempt them into making a mistake, then capitalise. Easy.

  He smiled.

  “Certainly, my King.”

  The General took off his cloak that he had worn to keep the desert dust from ruining his clothes, handing it to a Marzban, then drew his scimitar, walking forward to the arena floor, rolling his shoulders and warming himself up as, all the while, the Slave watched him draw closer, gibbering and laughing quietly to himself.

  “The terms,” spoke the Sheikh, rising with effort to his feet, “are as follows. The duel is to the death. If your champion wins, I will declare my surrender and the city is yours. If, however, my champion should win, then you shall leave here and never return. Do you agree to these terms?”

  Invictus raised an eyebrow. The man sounded confident in his slave.

  “Agreed.”

  “Then begin,” shouted the Sheikh, with a hiss of glee.

  The seasoned Clansman took his time, not rushing in, not underestimating his opponent, instead circling him, sizing him up. The head of the stone hammer was still resting on the floor. Speed would be the Steppes-man’s advantage in this, he thought.

  He lunged in and lashed out with a looping sweep that turned back on itself, hoping to catch the Slave twice with his sharp blade, but the warrior was quicker than he’d anticipated, none of the dulled drug-induced reactions he had hoped for. Raising one bronze-clad arm, he deflected the first strike, then raised the handle of his giant hammer to stop the second sweep dead.

  The blade edge dug only half inch into the haft, but enough to lodge it there, if only momentarily. The Slave kicked out with one bronze-booted leg, winding the General who fell backwards, losing his grip on his scimitar. With a chortle, the bedraggled warrior threw the blade away, skidding out of the Clansman’s reach, who reached down, retrieving a knife from his belt, before rising, painfully into a knife-fighting crouch.

  Knife versus long-handled hammer. Things had taken a turn for the worse.

  Waiting for the Slave to make the first move this time, Bhajeer seized his chance as the stone hammer swept out to take his head, rolling expertly beneath the swing and into his enemy’s guard, bringing his dagger up in an attempt to puncture the spleen, but the Slave was wise to him, turning ever so slightly, the pointed tip of the dagger screeching as it was turned aside by the bronze plate, before the warrior continued his spin, bringing his elbow into the side of the General’s head, dazing him.

  It took but an instant for him to come to his senses, but an instant was too long, the plated-boot kicking out once more, low this time, into the knee-joint of the grizzled veteran and, with a scream of pain, he collapsed to the ground. The haft of the hammer came round like a battering ram, smashing the teeth from his mouth in a spray of spittle and blood and the General now lay on his belly, defeated and broken, before his opponent.

  Turning, dragging himself by his fingernails across the stone floor, he looked up to his King, eyes imploring forgiveness, but he would never hear an answer, as the Slave lifted his heavy stone hammer into the air with a shriek of glee, before bringing it crashing down into the centre of Bhajeer’s back. A hideous crunch, like the breaking of glass shards wrapped in thick fabric and the General twitched spasmodically, limbs flailing, though the dismayed warriors that saw his face could see that the life had already left his eyes.

  The General was dead.

  The toad-king rose to his feet, his many chins rippling in exultation.

  “The duel is over!” he cried with joy, even as the Clansmen dragged their ruined General off the arena floor. “By the terms of the challenge, you shall now leave our- “

  “NO!”

  The roar cut him short, but it was not from Invictus, but the Slave who still stood on the bloodstained plaza floor.

  “No,” he repeated. He raised his stone hammer in one lean, muscled arm, pointing directly at Invictus. “I want to fight him.”

  A gasp from the crowd at the lunacy of the man, but his eyes were shining with fervour.

  “Preposterous,” retorted the Sheikh. “Guards…”

  The Slave kept his escorts at bay with swings of his hammer and, seeing first-hand the damage the man could do, they wisely kept their distance.

  The crowd waited with bated breath, Clansmen and Desert-Dwellers alike, before the God-King smiled and strode out onto the combat floor, to the raving grin of the hammer-toting slave. No harm in lighten
ing the mood, thought Invictus; the men could do with a boost after seeing their General slain, plus the prowess of the Slave intrigued him. He turned, away from his opponent, placing his glaives point-first into the ground, raising his hands in an appeal to the crowd.

  “Who would like to see me beat this champion bare-handed?” he smiled.

  The crowd roared their approval at the idea, so he turned, little realising the duel had already begun in his opponent’s eyes.

  The hammer smashed into the side of his face with jarring crack of stone and the Barbarian King went down on one knee. He shook his head, a high-pitched ringing in his ears and reached up to his lip. Blood. Twice in one day.

  Annoying.

  Even as he knelt, the hammer came round again, but the King was prepared this time, catching the stone head with one hand, absorbing the impact with no harm, before twisting, wrenching the weapon from his foe’s grip and casually tossing it aside. As the hammer clattered to a halt on the stone floor, Invictus rose to his feet, looming over the tall warrior, wondering what his opponent would do now. He didn’t have to wonder for long, as the Slave took a couple of steps back before charging forwards, leaping high into the air, despite the cumbersome weight of his armour plate, one leg outstretched to kick in front of him, aimed for the King’s face.

  He took the kick to his nose, which bent, very slightly, but didn’t give and gravity snatched the arrested warrior from the air, bringing him to the earth in a crash of metal to the laughs and cheers of the gathered Clansmen. Invictus watched with interest as, undeterred, the warrior rose again to his feet and changed his tactic, aiming now for the body rather than the head which had so far proven all but indestructible. Mailed fists rained blows upon the King’s muscled torso, tearing through the leather of his armour but doing little to the flesh beneath. Finally, the warrior dropped to a low crouch, powering through a fist towards the King’s groin, but Invictus had dignity and would only let the Slave hit him so much, snatching the man’s wrist with a blur and wrenching him upwards, his arm twisted at the shoulder, the wrist snapping with an audible crack. His foe immobilised, he raised his own mighty leg in a side-kick that sent him careening clear through the air of the courtyard to land with a roll at the feet of the Sheikh’s throne.

  “Do you give in yet?” asked the God-King, no sarcasm, just genuine interest.

  The Slave rose to his feet yet again, legs trembling, clutching his dented chest-plate where a rib had clearly broken, but shook his head, grinning despite the pain, before hobbling to a Clansman and snatching his bow, changing tactic once again.

  Invictus raised an eyebrow, impressed at the man’s perseverance, even as the arrows aimed impeccably at his heart clattered, broken and useless to the floor. Let’s see how far his perseverance will go, he thought to himself.

  In a blur of supernatural speed, Invictus appeared at the Slave’s side, who turned in shock, as the King grabbed his shoulder and threw the warrior across the courtyard with no more effort than one might casually toss an apple. Before the Slave could land, the King was there, drawing back his fist, connecting with a mighty punch that sent him soaring once more back the way he came. Again, Invictus was there and again another blow launched him across the arena floor. The God-King repeated this several times, till it seemed like he was playing catch with himself, but on the last launch he appeared at the halfway point, his sailing foe crashing into him with a thud, before falling to the ground in a heap, next to his discarded hammer.

  “Yield?”

  The Slave, miraculously still alive, looked up at the King with swollen eyes, coughing a tendril of blood from his split lips, before spitting out a tooth and reaching out with broken fingers to grasp the haft of his hammer. As he watched his opponent rise, hammer in hand and shuddering with pain, he had nothing but respect for the man, for he saw past the outward appearance of a raving berserker, seeing instead the proud and skilful warrior and tactician that he had once been before being imprisoned and forced to duel for the entertainment of his obese overlord.

  This man had potential. And perhaps, with time, the gibbering madness would recede.

  “What is your name?”

  “Slave,” came the gurgling reply from a ruined mouth.

  “What is your real name…?”

  The Slave thought for long moments, eyes blank, as though forgetting he’d had a life previous to this existence of constant slaughter.

  “…Bavard, they called me.”

  Invictus nodded, smiling.

  “Well, Bavard, thanks to you it appears I’m down exactly one General.” His eyes glinted in amusement. “Care to put yourself forward for the role?”

  The half-dead warrior’s mouth dropped open and his swollen eyes pricked with tears.

  “Of course,” continued the King, “I would have to ask you to renounce your former service…”

  The warrior span on the spot, his hammer sweeping up, before releasing it to hurtle end over end. The toad-sheikh didn’t even gasp in surprise before his head was split like an egg by the heavy stone weapon.

  The Slave, now Bavard, General of the Clansmen Armies, turned and dropped to one knee before his new master, gurgling through bloodied teeth.

  “Consider it renounced.”

  ***

  Invictus awoke on silken sheets, puzzled, as the silver light from the three moons streamed in through his chamber window.

  Again with the memories. Granted, he’d allowed himself to fall asleep this time, no bewitchment implicit in his slumber, but twice now in recent months he’d had such strong and vivid dreams of the past. Why was his unconscious mind reaching back so far into his past? Was it searching for something? For what? Answers? To what question? He was Barbarian King now, a God-King by all measures, above stress and petty concerns, his every whim a command, every pleasure his for the taking. What question could there be that plagued him?

  Yet, despite his power, he couldn’t help somehow feeling as though he were caught up in something bigger, even, than himself. He was feeling of late, as though he were being swept along, as though what he’d started a century ago was now bigger than him, overtaking him, and that now he was no more than an observer, despite all his might and supposed authority.

  At times like this, when even a God-King was blighted by uncertainties, this was when he usually turned to Ceceline. He rose to his feet, padded his way barefoot across the floor to the open window, where he looked out, spying in the distance the Isle of Storms, ever wracked by the fury of the ocean. That island bustled with activity right now and it was there too that Ceceline currently dwelt, her keen intellect focused almost entirely on the construction of the Beacon, imbuing it with her power and knowledge, with the potent sorceries of Those Beyond the Veil.

  The Beacon, yet another example of something that he felt out of his control. Ludicrous, he knew, for the whole thing was virtually a monument to himself, to what he’d achieved in the last century. Yet the reasoning behind it, the manpower Ceceline had requested, it all seemed a bit flimsy, a bit shallow, for his liking. But still, he trusted his Seeress, his friend, his lover, his counsel.

  Invictus would never have an equal, not now. His power, what the whispers had wrought him into, rendered him above mere mortals, even those rendered themselves nigh-immortal by virtue of his presence. He could experience pleasure – and did – in all its many forms, but he could never truly love. Never find an equal.

  But Ceceline, that ice-queen, with her raven hair and her bewitching smile; she was the closest thing he could think of to it. A nagging doubt, flashes of half-glimpsed dreams in the back of his mind, of frolicking pixies in a green glade, deep brown eyes full of warmth, telling him that he was wrong, but in an instant they were gone and all he could see once more was her slender pale face and her amused blue eyes.

  Trust in her, Invictus.

  Were those thoughts his? He didn’t know any more. Perhaps there was a limit to the power of a God-King, a limit to the energies that cou
ld be contained in one vessel before it finally shattered, body and psyche, into a million fragmented pieces.

  But with a resignation and a heavy burden of knowledge, he knew that it were not so.

  His body, his psyche; there was no limit to the power they could channel.

  Power was a drug, the ability to change one’s fate, to influence the world around you addictive, pleasurable. Imagine a drug that gave you ecstasy, on demand and that you could take it freely with no risk to yourself. Would you ever stop taking it?

  That was Invictus; a drug taker, addicted, yet who could never overdose, for the very drug he took, the power that channelled through him, kept him safe from its influence, whilst in the same breath keeping him bound in its grip.

  He knew that he would not – could not – let go of the path he was on, no matter how out of control he felt.

  His green eyes bored into the distance, searching out his Lady consort, his counsel, his almost-equal, wondering what, in truth, was happening on that blighted isle, yet knowing that he would go along with it, come what may.

  ***

  His hands almost slipped once again on the slick, black rocks as yet another wave nearly blasted him to his death.

  Yet they still kept coming. They’d already eaten his boots – his boots, by the seventy-seven djinns! – yet they still hungered for the rest of him. He remembered, with a despairing laugh, hearing about crabs from a merchant he’d met, only last year, as he’d roamed the desert with his tribe.

  Insects, he’d told him, yet they live in the sea. And people eat them, he’d asked? The thought was disgusting and he’d sworn at that point, despite the unlikely odds with him living in the desert, that he’d never let one pass his lips.

  The revulsion was obviously not reciprocated.

  With a clack of claw on stone, they continued climbing, hungering after him, their eyes on swivelling stalks, their huge, chitinous claws snipping together in anticipation of his soft, juicy flesh. He scrambled up, further and further, the callouses of his hard labour threatening to tear off with the effort of grasping the sharp, sheer cliff-face. His hand flailed, empty air, and he turned, seeing a narrow ledge that dug in a couple of feet into the rocks. He clambered onto the prominence, wedging himself in place, with his legs pointed out to the raging ocean a hundred feet below.