A Place Among the Fallen [Book One of The Omaran Saga]

by Adrian Cole

  Wargallow shook his head. ‘He gave his life for me,’ he said, amazed that it should be so. ‘Why? My people have persecuted the Earthwrought, hunted them.’

  'Blood to the earth,’ said Brannog. ‘Will there be enough blood shed here to satisfy you?’ A vision of Eorna sprang up before him now, and all the bitterness her murder had instilled in him wept like a fresh wound.

  Wargallow looked at him coldly, as if he would use his killing steel to silence any further insults, but he shook his head. ‘This place makes killers of us all. Brannog, I have been responsible for the taking of Omaran blood. No more.’

  It was Sisipher who restrained her father's anger, her eyes filled with tears for the death of Ygromm and the other Earthwrought who had fallen. ‘Ygromm died to absolve you,’ she told Wargallow. ‘He carried the burden of guilt for his people.’

  'Guilt!’ protested Brannog.

  'For Xennidhum and what it has become, and for the Fall of Cyrene. I think Ygromm had made up his mind to give his life in atonement’

  'The guilt,’ said Wargallow, ‘belongs to them.’ He indicated the two figures that were just visible on higher ground within the protective circle of the army.

  'Let them purge the earth,’ said Sisipher. ‘And let us not quarrel. We have more work to do yet.’

  The Earthwrought had already renewed their joining of power and had set up a fresh incantation. The others watched the monoliths. For a time they remained motionless, but the fear that others would burst up among the ranks of the army remained, and there was a slow withdrawal towards the centre of the Mound. The sadness of the Earthwrought at not having been able to recover the body of Ygromm was a sharp ache in Sisipher's breast.

  Guile stood beside Elberon, but the warlord had said little to him since the death of Wolgren. ‘Five would die, the girl predicted. You should have let me question her further. She sees the future. Why do we not demand to hear it?’

  Elberon did not look at him. ‘Your insistence on questioning the girl brought about the death of a fine boy. Yet still you make demands.’

  Guile felt the intensity of Elberon's contempt. ‘But Morric, I meant no harm. I thought he would kill me. If it had not been for the bird, he would have.’

  'I promised you a throne, Ottemar. We have been friends. But when I saw you pleading, I saw something I had not expected of you. I saw the fall of your dignity. It diminished me. We may all die here, and so I will tell you this. How am I to respect you now? You tossed the throne at the feet of the girl, a girl who means little to you. A throne that possibly thousands of men will die for. Am I to watch while you do this? Am I to risk my own life for such acts of rashness?’

  Guile tried to laugh, but could not hide his uneasiness. ‘I hardly knew what I was saying. I thought they would kill me. What else could I say? I was desperate. I'm no warrior, Morric. And I confess to a lack of bravery.’

  'You would sacrifice this girl if need be? To be sure of the throne?’

  Guile was taken aback at the unfamiliar coldness in Elberon. He tried to laugh, but again failed.

  'And these others? All of them?’

  'What do you expect me to say, Morric? If need be, so be it. Korbillian's cause is noble enough, but when it is done, our cause remains the same. We have a whole nation to think of.’

  Elberon nodded, as if this satisfied him. Still he did not turn to Guile. ‘So you would give your word, but break it to suit yourself, and spend the lives of the men who would make you an Emperor. And my life? Is that to be thrown aside when it suits you?’

  'This is fool's talk! It was not easy for me to persuade you to come on this venture. You were eager enough to abandon these people to it once.’

  'So I was. I was concerned about my friends in the Chain who are depending on us. But you convinced me that these people were worthy of support. That the safety of Omara precludes that of the Chain. And besides, there are codes.’

  Guile did not like what he read in the warlord's face. ‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘And loyalty. Remember who I am.’

  'I will not forget it,’ Elberon nodded, but his mind had moved away. Guile sensed at that moment that he had lost him.

  Presently there was a great shout and the clash of steel. From beyond the monoliths another wave of the enemy had surged forward, and once more a bloody battle ensued.

  Ratillic heard the noise and turned to Korbillian. ‘Go and help them,’ said the latter. ‘I must begin my work.’ Korbillian stood at the very apex of the Mound, and there were small stones here, ringing it, though there did not seem to be any life in them. Ratillic watched as Korbillian reached down and pushed his hands into the earth. In a moment there was a distant roar, as if a storm raged not above in the heavens, but deep below the earth. Ratillic withdrew, joining the ranks of the fighting men.

  Korbillian felt the power within him surging up at his call. What had been fused into him by the Hierarchs responded now and he exulted in it. Beneath him, immersed by the Mound, was the lost citadel of the Sorcerer-Kings of Xennidhum. And within it, somewhere, was the sealed Opening to Ternannoc, as well as the Openings to the other Aspects where the source of the evil lay. Korbillian felt the earth move, and saw the hole appear. Like a window on the stars, it spread, a pool of darkness above which he felt himself floating. Power streamed from his arms down into the pit, and below him he saw nothing yet heard a roaring like the sound of falling mountains. Gently he began to drift down into that abyss.

  While he was performing his working, the army fought to hold back the enemy, for now it seemed that the Children of the Mound sensed that they were under real attack from Korbillian and pushed their forces forward. Time and again they were repulsed by the heroic efforts of the defenders. Man by man, the warriors and the Earthwrought were cut down, but they continued to die dearly. The enemy slain were piled high, making it impossible for the battle to be fought properly. The defenders had to give ground, but they continually changed their front ranks, bringing in fresh men from the rear. Elberon and Wargallow were both superb organisers when it came to battle tactics, and they were everywhere around the defensive circle, ensuring that men rested and that no ground was given without maximum defense.

  In a brief respite, Wargallow came upon Elberon. ‘Ill in this indeed,’ Wargallow commented, recalling Elberon's words. ‘Are we to stand here and die? Where is this sharing of power?’

  Elberon wiped blood from his cut arm. ‘I am a fighting man. The only power I have ever known is here, in this. But unless Korbillian can release another of his storms, we are dead men.’

  The battle began again and they separated. Elberon launched himself into the fore of the attack, a splendid example to all around him, seemingly indefatigable. Yet he was deeply troubled. This place ate into him just as a disease would have done (as Korbillian had once explained it would) and the despondency threatened to engulf him. He tried to reason that Guile had acted from an instinctive self-defense, but somehow the bond that had existed between them had been severed. It's this place, Elberon told himself. Guile is Guile and no worse than he should be. I am unreasonable. Elberon fought for concentration. He flung himself into the fray with new abandon, and it was this schism of concentration that undid him. Somehow he found himself separated from his men, surrounded by the grim fighting spectres from the dead city. Their smell choked him and they pressed in, careless of their own lives, packed like rats in a sewer.

  'Elberon!’ someone roared above the battle din. He swung his blade in a bloody arc, but could not save himself from the upward thrust of a barbed pike. It tore into his underbelly and caught there. He slashed down at the hands that held it, severing them, but the cruel weapon was deep in him. He dropped to his knees and in a moment the enemy swarmed over him, absorbing him. Mercifully he died quickly.

  When word came to Guile, he sagged back, safe for the moment from attack. Ratillic found him at the back of the army, where a number of wounded were being tended.

  'What is it?’ said Ra
tillic.

  'Elberon. The fourth victim in the girl's vision.’

  Ratillic scowled. ‘We are not beaten! Pick up your sword, man. Your warriors need you.’ He turned to the skies and called out to them in words that Guile did not understand. At once there was a flurry of wings and Kirrikree swooped down. ‘It has to be now, great owl!’ said Ratillic. ‘Korbillian has begun. We are hard pressed. Bring your birds down upon our foes.’

  Kirrikree swooped away and soon afterwards Guile saw him lead a great cloud of birds as they dived upon the ranks of the enemy. They tore with their claws, attacking the front ranks of the cloaked men, and in the skies there were other winged creatures now, unlike anything the men had seen before, undoubtedly the spawn of the Mound. These attacked the owls and the hawks and the eagles, but Kirrikree's folk were faster, more sure of their flight and the aerial battle became an uneven one.

  Ratillic had noted how clumsy the attack of the enemy was all round them. It was only partially organised, and every one of the enemy was expendable, as if their lives meant nothing. Yet some power had organised a defense of the Mound. The power within it should be mindless, without purpose, and yet it was not. It sought to defeat Korbillian, to prevent him from carrying out his working. Who were the Children of the Mound? Ratillic studied the army as it fought, supported by the diving birds. It was holding its ground, still superbly drilled even though Elberon was lost. Wargallow seemed to be in command, and he was no less capable than the warlord had been. Elberon's warriors took his command for granted, which was good. Ratillic slipped away, going up to the forbidden ground once more.

  He found the gaping pit that had been opened by Korbillian. It offered only darkness, like a window on to the deeps of space between worlds, but he could hear the thundering of powers far below. Cautiously he walked to its edge, then allowed himself to drift down. He must follow Korbillian. He had to know what he would do, what powers were really at work.

  Korbillian was far below, as though he had entered another world. His dream-like fall into the pit had ended when he found himself standing within another circle, this time of sand. His hands blazed with white heat, garishly lighting the surroundings, and he could see that he was in a circular chamber, hewn from solid rock. Miniature monoliths stood at its edges, and upon them were the runes of a lost epoch. Beyond them were a dozen corridors, pointing like the spokes of a wheel away into the Mound. One of them led to the inner citadel, the place where the Opening would be found. But there were guardians and they stepped forward now into the ring of white light.

  These, he knew by instinct, were the Children of the Mound. Like the priest of a temple's holy of holies, they confronted him. They held high their sigil-woven staffs, rich in earth powers that Korbillian did not understand. Their heads were not visible, hooded in white, their bodies draped in folds of thick material, but somehow their shape did not seem human. As one they directed their staffs at Korbillian's head, and he lifted his arms in response. Powers locked, but there was no explosion, no incandescence. Instead he heard words, just as he imagined Sisipher heard the words of the great owl. The voices blended, but were clear, seductive, winning.

  'We are the Children of the Mound,’ they told him. ‘You trespass, Korbillian. Omara is not your world. You are a blasphemy upon it. Take your power and go back. Do this, and your people will be saved.’

  'I will not go back,’ he said aloud, his words racing away down the corridors.

  'Then you will die with them.’

  'No.’ He shrugged off their grip as easily as he would have shrugged aside a child, and they could not disguise their fear. He felt it writhing in his mind.

  'You mean to repair the broken Chaining of the Sorcerer-Kings. If you do that, you condemn every Aspect where the old powers lie.’

  'What do you mean?’

  'You understand nothing of the powers within the Mound.’

  'Only that I have come to destroy them.’

  'You do not have the power. Listen to us. Hear the truths that have been kept from you by your foolish masters. We are the servants of the Mound. Long ago the masters of Xennidhum stumbled across the mysteries of the Aspects, the many phases of the world. Through their interference, the Sorcerer-Kings discovered many of the old powers, whose minds drifted freely between the Aspects. In attempting to chain these old powers, the Sorcerer-Kings were only partially successful. They were able to lock them into a limbo between Aspects. Omara was free of them. They called this their great Chaining, and it ensured that none of the old powers could materialise in any one Aspect. This Chaining would have lasted, but for the Hierarchs of your Aspect, Ternannoc. Jealous of the knowledge of the Sorcerer-Kings of Omara, who had visited them and foolishly boasted of their powers, the Hierarchs agreed to perform a working of their own to find the secret Openings between Aspects. Armed with insufficient knowledge, the Hierarchs did this.’

  'They had not been told about the Aspects,’ said Korbillian, recalling the words he had heard in Cyrene.

  'Quite so. Thus they caused havoc. They damaged the Chaining. The old powers seeped out into many Aspects, destroying some blindly.’

  'Why? Why this blind will to destroy?’

  'The old powers are still chained. Only certain of their powers seep like dreams into the Aspects. As you are aware, these broken powers are like a disease. The old powers cannot control it.’

  'And here in Omara?’

  'The Mound is a manifestation of the old powers. They seek to heal themselves. To this end they have shaped us. We seek to heal the Mound, to bend its power to our will, the will of the old powers.’

  'To do what?’

  'To free the old powers from the Chaining.’

  Korbillian looked appalled. ‘And then?’

  'The old powers that were wronged can be returned to their true Aspects. The seeping of powers will cease, the blind evil that threatens to engulf Omara and that has already destroyed so many other worlds. Had this Chaining not been performed, such release of evil would never have occurred.’

  'You wish me to use my power to destroy the Chaining, to release into Omara the old power? What will it do?’

  'Restore order.’

  It was a reasoned argument, but Korbillian thought back over the things he had known in Omara: the creature that had shrieked for his death at the Swiftwater Bridge; the frenzied efforts of the powers around Xennidhum to kill him; the death of Ilassa, Taroc, Wolgren and all the others. He could envisage the kind of order that the old powers would impose. Ordered evil, a thousand times more appalling than the corrupt power of Grenndak's Abiding Word. The Sorcerer-Kings had fathomed the terrible nature of these old powers and had known they were a threat to all the Aspects. If they were set free, a new kind of world would emerge, one given over to darkness and pain. Man would cease to be. Korbillian shook his head.

  'Stand aside,’ he said softly, knowing that the Children of the Mound were fashioned out of the power of the forces that he had come to destroy. They knew him for their bitter enemy and would not submit.

  Knowing that he would not be swung from his purpose, they closed in, and he let the power given to him blaze up. It was far too potent for the Children of the Mound and they were hurled back, smashing into the walls of the chamber. Korbillian heard the rushing of feet and there were suddenly many creatures and half-men choking one of the main corridors. It was a token gesture of defiance; he used his power mercilessly, directing a bolt of white fire at them, charring and smouldering them, cutting a swathe through them and passing on up the corridor without glancing at them. They could not touch him.

  Into his mind came a last mocking howl from the Children of the Mound. ‘Pass on, Korbillian! But you shall never have what you desire.’

  He ignored the voices, insisting to himself that they lied and sought only to cause him pain.

  The corridor went on for half a mile, like the drained artery of a dead god. At its end he came out into an enormous chamber, the walls and ceiling of whi
ch were lost in shadowed distance. Its vastness hung over him like a world, and within it were ancient ruins, the heart of the original city of Xennidhum, the very citadel of its lost Sorcerer-Kings. Across what he took to be a plaza that had perhaps once opened on the sky, he saw, rising up like pillars that would support a world, twin columns that dwarfed everything. Into each of them had been inscribed the forgotten histories and pictographs of the city, work for a hundred historians. Korbillian had no desire to ponder that epoch-spanning detail. The burden that had been placed upon his shoulders would be heaviest here, for between these mighty pillars was a darkness that spoke irrefutably of the portal, the sealed entry to the other Aspects of Omara. Beyond here would also be the chained old powers, the godlike beings that had been locked into limbo for so long.

  While Korbillian stood before this most terrible of altars, Ratillic had come down from above to the floor of the pit. He rose to his knees and saw the figures gathered around him. They held him locked in that position of near-supplication with their staffs.

  'The Children of the Mound,’ he muttered, then heard their voices inside his head.

  'You come too late to prevent the betrayal,’ they told him, allowing him to stand.

  'What betrayal?’

  'He will open the gate,’ said the voices. ‘You trusted him, you fool. He serves the old powers. The Hierarchs will not destroy them, for they serve them. Now they will free themselves.’ The laughter hammered at him and he also fell again to his knees, but it was a trick, more deceit, his mind cried out. He sensed the desperation of these creatures, the nearness of their despair. He forced their laughter from his head.

  He ran from the chamber, and they did not stop him. He saw the corridor, the ruin of bodies there that marked the terrible passing of Korbillian. Lies! his mind told him. The Hierarchs sought to destroy the old powers. They would submit to no other power but their own. They would rather perish than see their power eclipsed. Yet the doubts trickled in. He stopped, breathless, at the mouth of the huge cavern, peering into its monumental shadows. There he saw the huge pillars that framed the Opening. It was closed, but a pool of light betrayed Korbillian. Like a tiny statue he stood before the pillars, his hands aglow, his preparations almost complete.