by Tom Lloyd
Jackdaw looked blank. ‘What power? I know none, bar Death’s own.’
‘There was a time,’ Venn said softly, ‘when creator and destroyer walked across the Land hand-in-hand, when they commanded the dust at their feet and the air above.’
‘Creator - you mean Life, Death’s bride? But she died at the Last Battle, and Aenaris was buried with her. Not even with her sword could the Queen of the Go-‘ Jackdaw stopped abruptly, a look of horror sweeping across his face. He gaped at Ilumene, who gave him a broad smile in return.
Clutching his hands to his chest, Jackdaw wheezed, ‘Death’s magic? Death’s own weapon? But Termin Mystt was broken during the battle, it was destroyed …’
‘Not exactly,’ Venn said, nodding towards the book as the woman, her eyes wide, clutched it even tighter. ‘Not at all, in fact, but history is written by the victors, who tell what they choose to tell.’
‘How can you, of all people, say that?’ Jackdaw asked, still shaking. ‘You were a Harlequin, a teller of the past - a teller of the truth!’
‘Exactly so,’ Venn replied, a nasty gleam in his eye, ‘and I tell you truthfully: Termin Mystt drove a Yeetatchen maid insane when she touched the hilt during a feast in Lord Death’s honour. The Key of Magic is so powerful that it will twist the mind of anyone who touches it - and that was what drove Vorizh Vukotic mad. He stole the sword in desperation, trying to undo the curse on his family.’
‘You’re hunting Termin Mystt,’ Jackdaw said dully, overwhelmed. ‘And this book will tell you where he hid it?’ A small spark of anger flared inside him and he pointed at the woman holding the book. ‘What about her? Are you going to kill her to take the book from her?’
The woman gave a whimper of fear and shrank from Ilumene.
Jackdaw waited, shivering, for Ilumene to smash his fist into the woman’s face, but the man from Narkang only laughed.
‘But of course not,’ Ilumene said gently to the woman, ‘not when you’re with child. I was sent to protect you both.’
‘A child? But how do you know?’
‘It has been foreseen,’ Venn intoned, ‘and when your child is born, you will gift him your treasure.’
‘Him? It’s a boy?’ she asked. ‘I wanted a girl… I think I had a little girl, once-‘
A boy,’ Ilumene said with certainty, ‘and one who will grow to be a prince. He will build you a palace of ivory.’ He smiled at her, his arm around her shoulder, and urged her to start walking.
Her steps hesitant, she passed Jackdaw, who was still frozen with shock.
‘A boy?’ he echoed hoarsely. ‘A prince?’ ‘A new dawn, a new Land,’ Ilumene called cheerfully over his shoulder.
‘Oh Gods,’ Jackdaw breathed as a cold presence swept over him.
‘Gods,’ said the shadow softly, ‘will soon have no place in this Land.’
The Grave Thief
TOM LLOYD
Orion
www.orionbooks.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Map
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
ENDGAME
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
For Fiona, with all my love
Acknowledgements
Anyone who lives with a writer and puts up with them is a saint in my book; that Fiona manages to do so with such generosity and cheerfulness is rather humbling. Without your efforts, Fi, the book would have been all the poorer and I’d have struggled to enjoy writing it, so thank you.
Thank you also to the nice folk at Blake Friedmann who helped by accommodating my eccentricities, and my readers, Nat and Richard, yet again did sterling work pointing out all the stupid stuff I’d done. Thanks also to Nathan and Dave, for the cigarettes and philosophical musings. The last word, as always, goes to Jo Fletcher, whose efforts on my behalf go well beyond mere editing, but she does that bloody well, too.
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
Abbot Doren, head of an obscure island monastery, flees to the city of Scree with the apprentice Mayl. They are hiding from a murderous monk, Jackdaw, who has thrown in his lot with the shadow Azaer. Meanwhile King Emin of Narkang also sets out for Scree, lured by the prospect of hunting down the man who betrayed him for Azaer several years before.
Lord Isak, the new Lord of the Farlan, has left Narkang, determined to return home before news of his predecessor’s death encourages rebellion. He carries with him two Crystal Skulls, given to him by a sect within the Knights of the Temples who believe him to be the Saviour of Mankind, and, imprisoned in his mind, Aryn Bwr, the last king of the Elves, who had hoped to use Isak to return to life and continue his war against the Gods.
When they reach Farlan territory, Isak’s small party is ambushed by the Certinse family, which includes the new Duke of Lomin. Isak’s men are badly outnumbered, but they are saved by a religious sect called the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings, led by Suzerains Torl and Saroc and Chaplain Disten, the man who uncovered the Malich conspiracy.
During the battle Carel is badly injured and Isak realises there are others whose association with him is putting them in unnecessary danger. He dispatches the failed Harlequin, Mihn, and Morghien, the man of many spirits, to the Yeetatchen homeland, to fetch Xeliath, the white-eye girl who was crippled by a stroke when Isak’s fractured destiny was tied to her own. She too carries a Crystal Skull.
Isak is met by Ilumene, the man King Emin is hunting, and Ilumene, pretending still to be in the service of the king, encourages Isak’s presence in Scree. Isak initially ignores him and continues home, but he knows he will have business in Scree soon enough, as it is the nearest stronghold of the White Circle, the sisterhood who tried to enslave him in Narkang.
In Scree, the vampire Zhia Vukotic continues to masquerade as a member of the White Circle, and starts to develop a power base for herself there. She takes control of the sisterhood’s recently recruited mercenary armies in anticipation of a Farlan assault, while also knowingly taking a Farlan spy, Legana, under her wing. Further south, Kastan Styrax returns to Thotel, having killed Isak’s predecessor, Lord Bahl. Thanks to Azaer’s warning, he manages to put down a coup within his own ranks. Styrax also comes to an agreement with the highest-ranking Chetse general, paving the way for the recruitment of Chetse legions. During the battle he is contacted by Isherin Purn, a Menin necromancer in Scree, who has sensed an artefact of immense power appearing in the city. He requests help to secure it, but Styrax, preoccupied with his injured son, resists the temptation, instead sending only a few soldiers to scout the situation in his place.
Back in Scree, the novice Mayel and his criminal cousin discover that the strange theatre group who have taken residence there are not all they appear to be - especially the minstrel who leads them, Rojak. Isak has finally reached Tirah, where he is to receive the blessing of the Farlan chief religious council, and issues a summons to all Farlan ranking noblemen, before making plans to go to Scree himself. King Emin arrives in Scree with members of the Brotherhood, his band of agents, and one, Dor
anei, makes accidental contact with Zhia Vukotic, who takes a shine to him. Zhia has rebuffed Rojak’s advances at the theatre run by Azaer’s disciples just as her brother, Koezh Vukotic announces his presence in the city.
Kastan Styrax’s soldiers arrive in Scree and are met by Nai, the necromancer’s acolyte, only to be ambushed by King Emin, who has been tricked into believing one of the soldiers is Ilumene. Zhia, in her White Circle guise, arrives to keep the peace and takes Nai and two of the soldiers prisoner. By now tensions in the city are significantly raised: Siala, Scree’s ruler, has declared martial law, there is an unnatural summer heatwave, and there is growing resentment towards the Gods.
Isak arrives just as the madness on the streets increases a notch.
He saves Mayel from a blood-crazed mob, and a man is beaten to death for wearing what appears to be a priest’s robe. As he watches Ilumene forcing another man into the now-deserted Temple of Death.
Two separate armies arrives on Scree’s outskirts, while inside, the White Circle appears to have lost control of its mercenary forces. The Witch of Llehden and the Demi-God Fernal arrive in Scree and encounter Isak, and working together they realise that the new theatre at the city’s heart has been imbued with a spell that is increasing the tensions in the city and driving the natives to madness.
In the south, Lord Styrax has also been busy: he has double-crossed the daemon he’s been dealing with for several years, freeing himself of its influence, while finding the opportunity to demonstrate his peerless martial skills to the Chetse generals - and he ‘accidentally’ demolishes the great Temple of the Sun in Thotel, revealing the hiding place of one of the Crystal Skulls.
Back in Scree, all order has collapsed, and even well-trained soldiers are hard-pressed to walk the streets without being overwhelmed by the crazed mobs. Isak, discovering that Isherin Purn was instrumental in Lord Bahl’s death, insists on attacking the Red Palace, where Siala has secreted the necromancer. He manages the attack, but is cut off from the bulk of his army by the mobs and forced into a desperate last-stand defence of the Temple Plaza, which the Knights of the Temples are trying to save from attack.
While they are fighting in the north of the city, Rojak puts the next part of his plan in motion. He sets the southern part of Scree on fire, to drive the mobs towards Isak. He ensures that Abbot Doren announces his presence in the city. And he brings King Emin and Zhia Vukotic down on himself. By this point Rojak is close to death, having tied his life to the spell he is working on the city. Rojak’s troops are driven off by Koezh’s undead troops, and Abbot Doren is killed by Zhia. King Emin retrieves the Crystal Skull that Abbot Doren had brought from his monastery, trying to keep it safe from Jackdaw, and finally manages to kill Rojak, though the minstrel is dying anyway.
Back on the Temple Plaza, Isak’s massively outnumbered troops are pushed back until they are defending the steps of the Temple of Death. In desperation he reaches for any help he can find - and the Reapers, the five violent Aspects of Death, answer his call. They go berserk and start slaughtering the mobs just as Rojak dies and the spell is broken. Once he realises they are saved, Isak manages to stop the Aspects killing anyone else and dismisses them before accompanying the leader of his allies into the temple to give thanks -but as they do so, they’re attacked by a man possessed by a daemon. Isak responds savagely, but manages to stop himself from killing the man when he recognises him as his missing father.
Several days later, while the fires in Scree slowly burn out, three of Azaer’s disciples are trekking across the obliterated city. In the cellar of the abbot’s house they find a woman, once a mercenary in Zhia’s employ, now a helpless - pregnant - amnesiac. She is holding a book, a journal written by Zhia Vukotic’s insane younger brother Vorizh, which may lead them to a prize far richer than the fabled Crystal Skull they sacrificed to get it.
CHAPTER 1
Evening fell with a whisper. The day’s thick-falling snow had abated with the failing light and now, as the sky turned deepest blue, the air was clear and still. Venn felt the silence of the forest stretch away in every direction, disturbed only by his own laboured breath and heavy footsteps. The bite of the chill night air was savage and he urged himself on, knowing he had to reach the clearing before the cold took him. Too many travelers misjudged their journeys and succumbed. The Vukotic could keep their Saljin Man; winter was a daemon all on its own in these parts.
At last he reached the clearing and, against all common sense, stopped at its edge staring dumbly forward. It had been years since he had last been here. The Land itself seemed to catch its breath, as if waiting for the tremors his return would bring. At last he stepped forward into the clearing, the ruin of his people hidden in his shadow.
He walked hesitantly, somewhat humbled by the grand, silent scene. Above him pink wisps of cloud catching the last of the light provided an unearthly backdrop for the place he had never expected to see again. The only sounds were his boots crunching through the snow and the occasional creak and groan of laden branches in the forest behind. He fumbled at his bearskin, trying to tug it tighter around his shoulders, but the weight of his shadow made it hard and after two attempts he gave up, leaving it open at his throat. His goal was visible now, and that was all that mattered.
The entrance to the cavern was only a hundred paces off, crowned by snow-burdened dwarf pines that covered much of these crumpled mountains. It abutted a long slow rise in the ground that continued for miles into the distance and formed one of the two crooked ‘legs’ of what was called Old Man Mountain. There was a shrine to a God no one remembered, derelict, yet still imposing, near the top. Venn remembered visiting it once, out of youthful curiosity. The God, whatever his name was, had been stooped and aged; like the bare mountain that served as his memorial. He had been no match for Ushull when the reckoning came.
Venn paused halfway to the entrance and looked back over the expanse of pine studded by enormous cloud-oaks like nails driven part-way into the slopes, but before he could dwell on his childhood love of this view Jackdaw’s wheezing broke the spell. Shaking his head, Venn turned away. He had been spared the sight of Jackdaw’s twitching tattoos and scowling face that final day at least, as well as the man’s incessant chatter, and for that much, Venn was glad. Once the former priest had cast the spell to bind himself within Venn’s own shadow, he had learned not to waste his strength on complaints.
The cavern entrance up ahead was unchanged since he had first marched out into the Land, his swords strapped proudly to his back and his white mask hiding the man underneath. Free-standing brass braziers on either side of the enlarged cleft cast a weak light over the darkened interior and the sap of fresh spitting pine cones mingled with incense in the evening air. Each brazier stood atop an octagonal stem thicker than a man’s waist, high enough that some priests had to stand on tiptoe to see over the battered edge.
They were centuries old and had suffered during those years. Venn remembered his disappointment when he had learnt the truth about the faint markings that covered the braziers. He had thought them incantations in a secret language, when instead they were only scratches, the effect of weather and time, of careless priests and gales tipping them onto the stony ground. His father had huffed and frowned at his imagination where others would have laughed.
Was that the first step on this path? he wondered. That first loss of wonder: was that the day I saw my father as something other than an otherworldly servant of the Gods? Where once I beheld priestly robes and a half-mask of obsidian shards, I found just a tired man with thinning hair and a piercing wheeze when he slept.
‘Hey-! Hey, you!’
Venn stopped walking. He didn’t turn, knowing the speaker would have to walk into his line of sight. The speaker turned out to be a round-faced priest, his arms laden with logs. In his ear Venn heard an intake of breath from Jackdaw. He was invisible and near-incorporeal, at least as long as he stayed in Venn’s lee, and yet Jackdaw remained a coward.
Ven
n recognised the priest despite the smooth black porcelain that hid half his face. They were of a similar age and from the same clan, which had forced them to be something approximating friends as children. Corerr was his name, a foolish, fat little boy who’d grown up into a bewildered junior priest who’d never even lost his puppy-fat in the process, a man still sent to fetch the wood for the fires in the cave, though doubtless there were younger priests to do that tiresome duty.
‘Who are you? Why are you here?’ Corerr called as he trotted forward to place himself between Venn and the cave entrance. Under the bearskin Venn’s dyed-black clothes were just visible, clearly marking him as not belonging to any of the clans.
Venn didn’t respond, preferring to wait for a grander audience. One face had already appeared at the cave entrance, his lined cheeks and lank, wispy hair illuminated by the weak light. Corerr took another step forward, peering anxiously into the gloom of Venn’s snow-capped hood. In the twilight he would be able to make out that Venn wore no mask, yet he had a blood-red teardrop falling from his right eye, the same teardrop that Harlequin masks bore.
Venn kept his eyes on the cave entrance, knowing Corerr wouldn’t have the courage to do anything more than look. At last another face appeared, this time that of a woman. She loomed over the first by at least half a head. Venn saw her mouth move. She was speaking softly to her companion, while never taking her eyes off Venn. He took that as his cue to abruptly move again, causing Corerr to yelp in alarm and almost fall over backwards. As Venn closed on the cave mouth he recognised the woman with eyes like polished cairngorm. Even after the long years of his absence she retained the bearing of a warrior-queen.