by Adrian Cole
'You are right,’ agreed Korbillian. ‘We should begin the ascent of the stairs at once. First, let me attend to the pyres.’
'I'll ready the men.’
Brannog gently folded his daughter in his arms, and he felt the transmission of her sorrow. ‘You loved the boy?’ he asked gently.
'He was not my lover, father. But I knew he wanted my love. He was too young, and yet, you yourself said he was a boy no longer.’
'Was this an accident?’
'They fought. Wolgren drew his knife, it is true. Already he had threatened Guile.’
Kirrikree's voice interrupted her. ‘I meant only to ward the knife away when I swooped,’ he said. ‘I feared that he would use it. There was a strange fury in him. If I had not interfered, this might not have happened.’
'You were not to blame!’ Sisipher was quick to insist.
When she repeated the exchange to her father, he nodded. ‘Guile was defending himself.’
'Wolgren had dropped his knife,’ Sisipher protested.
'In the darkness, Guile would not have seen. You must not blame him.’
'He should not have accosted me! How dare he demand explanations of me when I have none.’
'He was wrong, I grant you. But we must travel on with great care. The death has shamed Guile, but let that be enough. The evil in this place would be glad to see us riven. What disputes there are between us, we must put aside.’
She looked at the Earthwrought as they began preparing the pyres, only now fully comprehending that Ilassa had also succumbed. ‘This should never have been.’
Brannog held her as she wept. He thought then of Eorna, who had died at Wargallow's instruction. The village expected him to avenge her, but he had used her as an excuse to leave Sundhaven. Should he avenge her and kill Wargallow? He had thought of this many times, prepared to wait for the proper moment. But the assault on the Mound was far more important. Wargallow's motives were clouded, yet he seemed to accept that the old ways of the Deliverers had been wrong. Perhaps later, on the return journey, he would answer his own questions, Brannog thought.
Ratillic stood with his wolves near the broken balustrade some time later. He watched the flames dance then roar as the pyres caught. The orange glow gleamed in the eyes of the wolves. ‘You were not to blame,’ Ratillic whispered for Kirrikree's ears. ‘The boy wanted Guile's death. And this place knew it.’
'He loved Sisipher deeply.’
'Aye. It could be felt as keenly as the heat from those flames. And does Guile love her?’
'What he feels may not be love,’ said Kirrikree.
'But you prevented Wolgren from killing him.’
'If the boy had done so, neither Sisipher nor Brannog would have praised him. He would never have won her love.’
'Then you interfered—”
'Not to see him die! I did not expect Guile to use his blade. But it is done, and I carry the shame, just as Guile does. Perhaps Wolgren has won the girl now. And Guile can never do so.’
'You are glad!’ said Ratillic
'It pleases me that Sisipher refused his offer. He is not worthy of her.’
Ratillic said no more, watching the conflagration of the two bodies. Behind him the army was already preparing to march. Although there had been no sign of attack, no hint of movement from the slopes of the canyon, there was now an acute awareness of malice among the men, a feeling that the dark had drawn itself together to strike.
'Do you feel it?’ Wargallow asked Korbillian.
He nodded, sensing also the current of pleasure in that coiled evil, as though the deaths had been a triumph.
'Is the business below finished?’ Wargallow asked. ‘The men are eager to be gone.’
'The darkness is within us all. Guard your back.’
Wargallow wondered at the remark, but already Korbillian was gone. The ascent got under way. Negotiating the great stairway would not have been easy in daylight but by the splashed moonlight it was treacherous. Many of the ancient stairs had been eroded so badly that the climb meant that men had to hoist each other upwards. Somewhere above, great statues gazed down at them arrogantly, but always there was that feeling that living eyes also feasted.
The night wore on as the army climbed. Ygromm and his folk, numbed by the death of Wolgren and Ilassa and the depth of Sisipher's grief, could sense the unrest under the earth, feeling the powers like waves of energy preparing to unleash themselves. Tempers were on tight leashes, nerves frayed. Brannog kept Sisipher close to him, afraid that she might see yet more spectres from the future.
They arrived at the flat top of the stairway just before midnight. There had been a proud wall around the city of Xennidhum once, but it had wasted away, now eaten by the plants that clustered about its bones, splotched with moonlight. Two huge idols had survived, carved from blood-red stone, not a sign of erosion upon them. Their faces studied the sky as if earthly matters were of no interest to them. Between them was the entrance to fallen Xennidhum, and in the streets beyond, nothing grew. Korbillian knew by instinct that not a single seed that had fallen upon those stones would ever have taken. Mists swirled about the crumbling ruins. There was no ancient splendour, no suggestion of far-gone majesty. Many buildings had survived, fed by something unknown deep below, but the air undulated with a feeling of decay. As the army marched past those indifferent idols, a new wave of unease lapped at it, a cold breeze from the dead wastes of memory, more dreadful than the jungles below.
It was not possible to see beyond the clustered buildings of the city, dead and wasting as they were, but Korbillian knew that the great Mound was not many miles distant. He did not pause for reflection now. The army was ready, every available weapon prepared to strike. The place was too silent, too vulnerable. They felt that death must surely sweep in suddenly, yet it did not come.
Kirrikree's folk swooped to and fro, alighting on roofs like ghostly inhabitants, but the great owl reported nothing yet. The city appeared deserted. But its spell worked on the men, inflicting silence upon them. Each man stood close upon his neighbour. No one strayed from the main street, no one sought to look into the houses. No one whispered. For an hour they marched and saw nothing other than rubble and dust. The silence smothered everything.
Korbillian felt again as though he were crossing a gigantic corpse. He knew that within it the maggots writhed, and they would rise. Where were the Children of the Mound? Why did they not strike? He stopped. Ahead of him the nature of the city was changing. He knew why at once. It was the Mound. They were coming to it at last. Once it had been no more than a slope in the city, but slowly it had thrust itself upward until now it had become a huge hill, its sides steep and treacherous. It had pushed out the houses upon it so that they leaned at bizarre angles, thrust sideways by the acuteness of the angle of the slope; some had toppled, sending whole chain reactions of collapse down the sides of the Mound. Darkness hid the upper reaches of the great hill. At its foot, many of the buildings were so heaped that they had become a formless wall, as if to ward away intruders.
'This is the place,’ said Korbillian, raising his hands. ‘Prepare! Once we begin the climb, we will be attacked. They have drained Xennidhum and all the land around it to fortify this place of evil. They have allowed us to come unopposed, but no longer.’
There were murmurs amongst the men, but no one desired to turn back. They thirsted for activity, for relief. Korbillian stepped over the wall, his leaders with him. He could see beyond that the Mound was ruptured in numerous places, and the holes that gaped went deeper than his mind dared fathom. He felt the rising of evil, and as he climbed, the first real onslaught began.
On his left a score of figures poured from some hidden opening, wrapped in dark robes and wielding long weapons that must have required great strength. With single-minded purpose these inhuman creatures raced upon Korbillian. The first of them smote at him, but he allowed the barbed weapon to meet his gloved forearm. It exploded, and in the blazing light of the explosion
, the assailant burst into flames, staggering away. Wargallow, Elberon and Brannog each cut into the enemy, and within minutes other men had come forward to support them. Between them they dispatched the rabble from below quickly. Cheers went up from the men of the army.
Korbillian was quick to shout to them. ‘This was nothing! There will be many more. You will need all your strength to deal with the numbers. I cannot remain here to help you, as I have to find the heart of the Mound. It is a place where no other may go. While I begin the working, you must protect me. I need my power for the destruction. I can spare no more of it for the vermin below. The slaughter of the spawn of this evil I leave to you.’
Again the army cheered, vowing to do as asked. Ratillic said nothing, but his doubts assailed him. Is this why you brought them? he asked. To protect you, who carry the power of the Hierarchs! You told them you wanted their combined power, to fortify your own, and that your own would not be enough. Yet now you seek to use them as fodder for the weapons of the enemy. Or is there some other reason? One that you are not aware of, one that they never told you of, just as they did not tell you of Naar-Iarnoc, who waited so long for the girl.
Ratillic felt suddenly very cold and exposed as he climbed. The air was redolent with treachery. What lives, and what has truly died in the past of this world and its Aspects? he asked himself. Korbillian, he was sure now, did not know the answers.
23
XENNIDHUM
Just as Korbillian had predicted, the forces of the enemy now began to swarm from their hiding places in the Mound. Down in the city, too, there was movement and the men at the back of the army saw entire columns of cloaked figures racing toward them, spreading out around the base of the Mound, out of sight where it curved away. Within moments the fighting had begun, and it was fierce and unrelenting. Steel sang and the air whined. Shoulder to shoulder, Deliverer fought with Empire warrior, and beside them yet fought the Earthwrought. Initially the waves of opposition that came at the army were made up of the cloaked beings of Xennidhum. They had no visible features within their hoods and seemed so insubstantial that it was almost as though they were no more than an illusion. But they fought with swords and with pikes and with other weapons not seen before and as these scored, they were as deadly as the men they fought. Although they were no less fierce than the men they sought to bring down, they lacked the excellent discipline and training of Korbillian's army, and for every man they slew, a dozen of them were felled. Above them all, the moonlight seemed to blaze like the eye of a god hungry for sight of the carnage.
Elberon led the vanguard up the Mound, hewing with his weapon, a grim battle smile on his face. Korbillian refrained from using his own power now to keep back this rabble, but he was well enough protected by the warriors about him. Out of the deep earth came the crawling things, huge, misshapen creatures, hardly recognisable as worm, or toad, or serpent, and their tongues flicked hungrily at the advance. Even so, the army dealt with them, cutting them back. Ratillic felt the mindless power emanating from them, as if wild dogs had been released. Many of these terrible creatures were so crazed as to turn upon each other, sinking fangs into the flesh of their neighbours and rolling aside down the slopes of the Mound. The battle raged, the noise growing as men swore and steel grated, and the press of bodies grew tighter. Higher up the Mound the army advanced, struggling for footing.
The slope was bare of grass and there were no longer any buildings. Like an empty expanse of moorland it rose up to its flattish top, and there the mist shredded away to reveal nothing but wasteland. Korbillian reached the highest part of the slope, and he could see from here that it was only the rear of the army that was under attack, but it could not be prevented from climbing.
'Keep well back from the centre of the Mound!’ he called, and the order was passed to everyone. ‘Form a circle around the perimeter.’ Slowly the army fanned out, and as with the incident in the desert when Korbillian had summoned the storm, the men occupied the top of the Mound, encircling him at a distance of some fifty yards. They yet beat back columns of the attacking army, but there were no fresh surges of beings from below the Mound. Their numbers had been severely depleted by Korbillian's army, but in the city below it was evident that thousands had gathered. The entire base of the Mound was circled by the servants of the Children of the Mound, and the sound of their murmuring rose up to the watchers like the sound of a dark sea.
'There's ill in this,’ said Elberon. ‘We did well to win this hill, but it was far too easy. See how we are outnumbered! They have surrendered to us the best position, but we are trapped here, unless we can fight our way out again. How many of them are down there!’
As he spoke, there was movement beyond the outer line of the army's defense. Up from the earth came the blunt noses of the stones-that-move. Slowly they rose until scores of them had raised themselves, great monoliths that ringed the army in like colossal teeth. Men drew back from them, sensing in them a power more bestial, more purposeful than that of the rabble down in the city. These were not mad dogs, no battle fodder. These were evil, rich in black power, and had stood for centuries, patient as night and just as enduring. They were far worse, thought Wargallow, than the stones he had seen.
'The stones-that-move!’ cried Sisipher, and Wargallow nodded. As they watched, they saw dark openings in the stones, fathomless mouths from which the waves of hunger pulsed.
Ygromm's people pushed their way to the front ranks of the army, insisting that it was for them to deal with this threat. At once they set up a quiet incantation, but the great ranks of stones gave an impression of immovability, as though nothing could weather them, nothing shatter their terrible presence.
Ratillic went to Korbillian. ‘Destroy them,’ he hissed. ‘You have the power. The army cannot fight these things. They are fuelled by the very evil we have come here to destroy.’
'I must begin the working,’ said Korbillian, in a strange, dream-like voice, the perspiration standing out on his brow in great beads. ‘I must open the Mound. The stones will not attack.’
'How do you know that?’ snapped Ratillic.
Korbillian shook his head and the droplets flew off. ‘I don't know. But I am sure of it.’
'Do you understand what is happening?’ Ratillic went on. ‘What's wrong with you? You have planned this carefully. Now you are here, you seem at a loss! Think, Korbillian! Concentrate. You have brought an army here. You are responsible for them. What must they do? Think for yourself, and not as the Hierarchs have commanded you. Obey your own instincts.’
'I must go below. I must not be stopped. Protect my back,’ he said, but still he seemed a little dazed. Ratillic scowled out at the army. Was Korbillian in control? The dread feeling that he was being used came to Ratillic over and over again. I must watch him. I must be careful, otherwise everything will go wrong here. There are powers at work in this place I can neither control nor understand, and I am not certain that Korbillian can either. The stones have ringed us, keeping us here for some reason. These people are in frightful danger.
Out among the black monoliths, figures had appeared. Half the size of men, like skinny versions of the Earthwrought, they capered and leapt like children in a frenzy. Their skin was translucent and strange organs pulsed within as they moved, their faces contorted as they shrieked. Some of them danced forward, teasing the front ranks of the Earthwrought, trying to break the strength of the chant against evil, until at length groups of them came to attack. Fights broke out and warriors joined the fray, cutting these new assailants to pieces easily, but the danger was in the Earthwrought breaking ranks. Their chant had power. Wargallow called to his own men to stand their ground, but a division of them was forced to draw back as another great stone thrust up from below in an effort to break the Earthwrought power. Men dropped back, a number of them falling to the ground and screaming as if they had been gripped by something invisible and powerful there. Wargallow went to the scene, his weapons gleaming. The monolith seemed to tower
over him, several Deliverers at its feet.
'Keep well back!’ he snarled, and his men had already obeyed. The ground beneath him seemed to shiver and he went down on one knee. It was as though he was being sucked into the very earth and he brought his killing hand down on to the soil, furrowing it. The monolith moved over him, almost as if it would fall and crush him. There was a flurry of movement as a dozen Earthwrought broke from their chant and rushed to his aid. Ygromm led them, shouting instructions. Wargallow watched through tears of pain as the tiny figures ran to the stone and pressed their hands against it. Something foul escaped from its black maw, and the figures were flung back. They scrambled up and again put their hands on the stone. A great cry went up from all the Earthwrought ranks and Wargallow knew that they were discharging power of some kind into this thing, and the effect on the stone was devastating.
Wargallow could only move his legs now, as if pulling them from a steel trap. He started to drag himself away. Again the Earthwrought were repulsed by the stone. A dozen of them were sprawled on the ground, either dead or in agony. Those that could went to the stone again. Wargallow wanted to shout out against this madness, but could find no voice. Ygromm ran at the stone, bawling in a voice that rang back at the watching army. He thrust his fists at the black stone and they seemed to be swallowed by it. Great cracks appeared in the monolith, and as Wargallow managed to scramble clear of the power that had sought to drag him to his doom, the stone fell. Ygromm was unable to move away, and the great weight bore him to the earth, crushing him.
Brannog had seen the tragedy and was about to rush forward, but it was Wargallow who prevented him. ‘Hold! Keep away from the stone.’
'Ygromm!’ cried Brannog, but the stone was sinking back into the earth like a corpse being absorbed, and of the fallen Ygromm there was no sign. Brannog turned on Wargallow, eyes smouldering with fury. ‘How did this happen?’