by Tom Lloyd
The journey downslope was far easier than the ascent, and the further they got from the gates of Ghenna the faster they moved, ignoring the dead landscape around them The silver pavilions were empty, though Mihn thought he could sense some presence in the air that he assumed was the Mercies. Isak, feeling it too, lowered his head and tightened his grip on Mihn's arm, but they passed freely, finding themselves a step closer to the Land. Ghain itself appeared abandoned, for they walked a different path to that of the dead, and if there was pursuit, it was far enough behind to leave no trace.
They stopped once, after all of the pavilions were behind them, when Isak began to huff and whimper like a frightened dog. He kept his head down, staring blindly at the ground, but a swirl of wind wrapped around them and he looked increasingly pained and fearful.
Mihn hauled him onward, until he saw the reason for Isak's terror and dread descended over him too: there, on the horizon, stood the vast black doors of Death's chamber, set in a huge, weathered stone frame attached to nothing. A great darkness hung above it, black as pitch.
What if I open that door and there is nothing but Ghain's wilderness on the other side? He shook the thought from his head and upped their pace, his own sheer determination overriding Isak's shaking reluctance. As he neared the gate Mihn saw the darkness above it start to shift and a loud clanking of chains rolled out across Ghain like discordant temple bells.
'Now would be a good time,' Mihn muttered under his breath, 'assuming you aren't too tired after insulting every daemon in existence.'
A clap of thunder came as response and Xeliath flashed into existence, appearing at their side and walking in perfect time, as though she had been with them the whole journey.
'They needed a reminder of how things are,' Xeliath commented lightly, spinning an ivory glaive in her hand before letting the weapon rest upon her shoulder.
Mihn looked at her. The chestnut-skinned girl was as heartstoppingly beautiful as when she'd spoken to him in his dreams. The visor on her crystal helm was raised enough for Mihn to see a contented little smile on her face.
'Grandiose insults and the prospect of violence,' Mihn commented. 'Bloody white-eyes.'
Xeliath's grin widened, but any further conversation was cut off as an enormous shape fell to the ground in front of the gate with a crash. They all staggered as the earth quaked underfoot, but not even the cloud of dust was enough to hide the huge dragon now blocking their way.
Mihn faltered, stunned by the monstrous size of the beast. He had never seen a dragon up close before – they were rare creatures in the Land; he'd only ever seen the beasts flying high in the sky. In the Elven Waste he had seen war wyverns go into battle, but they were lesser cousins; this dragon was as powerful, as terrifying, as any that had ever existed.
Measuring more than fifty yards from tail to snarling nose, the dragon was a sooty-black colour. Its torn, ragged wings looked as much smoke as membrane. The wings were crookedly raised, as though shading its body from the sun, and Mihn, remembering the stories of its enslavement, realised the beast could no longer furl its wings properly. Death himself had shattered the bones, and the deep scoring on the stone doorframe indicated it was forced to climb to its perch.
A curved horn rose from its long snout, and grey tusks swept back from the lower corners of its mouth, past its eyes and over its head. The dragon's muscular body was ungainly, its limbs twisted and misshapen, and its thin tail, curled like a scorpion's, finished in a long crescent blade.
The chained beast roared its defiance and Mihn clapped his hands over his ears even as he gagged at the foul stench on the wind: the stink of decay that emanated from the dragon.
Xeliath kept on walking, her arms raised to ensure the dragon's attention was on her alone. Her hand burst into spitting green swirls of magic and white light flooded the plain. The dragon reared, spreading its torn wings as best it could and beating at the air as though trying to retreat – causing the light to falter until Xeliath snarled and intensified the surging coils of magic around her hands.
She began to speak quickly in Elvish, the air around her shuddering at each syllable, but the dragon, fearless and full of rage, ignored her, advancing until the pitted chain that tethered it to the doorframe was stretched taut. The wind swirled up around Xeliath until she was partially hidden from view by shadows glinting with gold and emerald. As the pressure on Mihn's ears began to build Xeliath stamped one foot, and long coils of light lanced forward to lash the dragon's body.
The magic carved furrows through its flesh but the dragon just roared louder, refusing to retreat. It snapped at the glimmering coils with its huge mouth, somehow finding purchase on one, and wrenched its head from side to side like a shark feeding.
As the dragon pulled Xeliath off-balance, her concentration broke and the magic dispelled. It raised its forelimbs, claws extended, and raked through the air towards them. Mihn saw the trails of magic in the air and dropped to the ground, pulling Isak with him, as Xeliath made a sweeping gesture through the air with her glaive and a blistering white shield appeared in front of them all.
In the next moment black slashes tore through its surface and even Xeliath flinched away.
'Give me Eolis,' she yelled, reached back towards Mihn with one hand.
'I thought you would be able to force a path through!' he shouted as an ear-splitting roar of fury deafened them.
'It must be a bloody male,' Xeliath shouted back, a mixture of bloodlust and elation on her face. 'The bastard thing is too proud to back down!'
'Can you kill it?'
'Who knows?' she laughed. 'The Gods failed, but I'll give it a damn good try! Get Isak to the side and wait for your chance.' She grabbed Eolis from Mihn's unresisting grip and hefted it appreciatively.
'What about you?' he began, but she was already moving.
'Go!' Xeliath yelled, breaking into a run directly towards the dragon and shrieking a Yeetatchen warcry.
Mihn tore his attention from the shining figure and looked to Isak, who was staring at the dragon as though physically pained by it. With Mihn's support he moved to the right of the black doors and stood, trembling, watching as Xeliath charged with wild abandon, cutting and hacking with all a white-eye's force. A white band of energy thrashed around her, protecting her from the dragon's raking claws. She forced the beast back, then feinted left, and the dragon followed.
That was the opening Mihn had been waiting for and he pulled Isak towards the door with all his strength as Xeliath screamed in furious delight.
They were a foot away when the dragon whipped its tail along the ground and slipped the horn-blade underneath Xeliath's protective ring. She screamed in pain, and the sound of shattering crystal rang across the plain, swiftly followed by a roar from the dragon as the spitting band of light slanted around and pinned the tail to the ground.
As Xeliath stabbed Eolis right through it Mihn pushed Isak forward, not stopping even when he saw the dragon pounce: once they were through, then Xeliath could retreat. Light exploded up from the ground as the creature smashed its claws down, but Xeliath knocked its head aside, tearing a chunk of decaying flesh from its face. That wasn't enough to stop the creature biting down, to the sound of more shattering crystal. As he laid his hand on the black door itself Mihn heard Xeliath's bellow.
Though he hated to leave Xeliath he couldn't wait. He put his shoulder to the door and drove forward as hard as he could. Isak stood for a moment, then added his own weight. The black door resisted a moment, and then something gave and the two men collapsed forward. Darkness enveloped them, a rushing cold that hit Mihn with all the shock of a kick to the gut.
He tumbled forward in panic, freezing cold all around him, and a moment later he felt some force dragging him up until he broke the surface of the lake. Mihn's first breath was a howl of agony, and his remaining strength failed him. It was only a strong hand grabbing him by the scruff of the neck that stopped him dropping back in the water and sinking like a stone. He fell
roughly against the side of the boat, and instinct was strong enough to make him grab on for all he was worth.
An animal yowl shocked him so badly he almost let go entirely, but as he flailed in alarm he realised the agonised sob came from Isak. The white-eye's huge bulk had risen to the surface too, and like Mihn he was gripping the side of the boat for all he was worth. His cries were shaking the entire boat.
'What happened to Xeliath?' demanded the witch of Llehden, standing in the prow of the boat, a rare look of concern on her face.
Mihn was summoning the strength to reply when he saw Xeliath slumped in the bottom of the boat, still and apparently unbreathing.
'How -?' he began, as Xeliath gave a sudden, violent jerk, but his immense relief was short-lived as the girl lifted her shoulders and coughed up gouts of blood over her stomach. She started to convulse and her eyes opened, reflecting not victory but agony.
He threw himself into the boat to hold her, but she twisted out of his grip and screamed in pain before vomiting more blood.
'Mihn, see to Isak,' the witch commanded, though there was little he could do for the white-eye, who remained clinging to the side of the boat with all his Gods-granted strength, keening piteously.
'No!' shouted the witch, who lifted the girl's head as Xeliath's struggles lessened. She held Xeliath close and began to mutter an invocation, but as far as Mihn could see the only effect she was having was to make the blood flow faster.
Xeliath twisted her head towards Isak and at last she seemed to focus, the pain receding in her eyes for a moment. Her damaged features twisted into a small smile.
'Free,' she whispered, almost too feebly for Mihn to hear. She coughed again and the smile vanished, followed a moment later by the bright spark in her white eyes,
'Xeliath,' the witch cried, but quietly now, the voice of mourning. Mihn felt a familiar presence suddenly descend, shrouding the boat to darken the night even further. Something hard clattered on the bottom of the boat and Mihn's heart sank. The cold of the lake filled his bones as Mihn watched the Crystal Skull roll to a stop in front of him, freed at last from her grip.
CHAPTER 4
The biting wind gusted through Byora's streets. The sky had been a uniform grey for days now, but there had been little more than a smattering of rain this morning and as midday approached Luerce decided it would stay dry and settled down for the day on the cobbled ground. The disciple of Azaer arranged a white blanket around his shoulders like a tent, keeping out the chilly air, and set to playing the mystic.
He didn't mind; it was easy enough to sit there motionless all day, watching his flock, though he saw no reason to endure a soaking too. From all around him came the keening of the faithful. The cant of liturgy had devolved into meaningless sounds, but interspersed within the drone were new prayers that Luerce had instilled in the minds of the weakest. It was a modest start, but fear would provide fertile soil, especially with him there to tend it and a dragon's shadow cast over the quarter.
Luerce looked around. The crowd had grown again today; hundreds were clustered around the gates to the Ruby Tower compound. Many were beggars but already there were others, lurking on the fringes, seeking something, though they did not yet realise that. He saw grief in their eyes, and loneliness. Some were consumed by petty hatreds or avarice, and Luerce took especial note of those: the bullies and the cowards, those with a lifetime of identifying the vulnerable, they'd be ideal to swell the ranks of Ruhen's preachers.
Luerce occupied an honoured position within the crowd of devotees, and even the newcomers could see he was special. Most of the disciples sat in tight circles of five or six, with Luerce alone in the middle of them all, with his back against the compound wall. From there the Litse could survey his small kingdom: the desperate and the mad, all huddled pathetically in the shadow of the Ruby Tower where Ruhen lived, hoping for salvation from the Circle City's latest terror.
On Luerce's left a craftsman, still wearing his tool-belt, approached the wall, a reverent look on his face. He picked his way carefully past the mumbling, white-swathed bundles, hunched over as though apologetic about being upright while everyone else was sitting. The man sank to his knees as soon as he was within reach of the wall and looked up at the fluttering strips of prayer-inscribed cloth adorning it.
He raised his own contribution, fixed to an iron nail like the others, and hammered it in. He was large and powerfully built, his brown hair tangled and his beard unkempt, giving him the appearance of a barbarian from the Waste, but the expression on his face was piteous. A muddy thumb-print adorned his cheek as though in mockery of a Harlequin's bloody teardrop, and his face was streaked by tears that flowed once again as he prayed.
A child could look fiercer than this bear of a man, Luerce thought as he gazed past him and noted with satisfaction that the guards on the gate were paying no attention. The watchful gaze of a Harlequin ensured that: while the storyteller had not spoken one word except in song, its demeanour was unmistakable, even to the witless thugs who comprised the duchess' personal regiments. It stood over the crowds day and night, a sentinel for the faithful as they awaited Ruhen's benediction.
Slowly we go, oh so slowly. Luerce's attention drifted from the motionless Harlequin to a white-clad disciple who was handing out black-crusted bread to the crowd. The man was speaking urgently as they jammed the bread into their mouths, bending right over them as he whispered.
Keep on with the good works, my friend, but any more of your religious nonsense and you'll find an accident coming your way. We cannot bully the people into following Ruhen; they must beg it of him. He rubbed his thin fingers over his bald head, feeling the unfamiliar shape of his skull once covered by luxuriant blond hair. The beggar beside him looked up at the movement, awaiting his next command. He could see in her hollow eyes the awe she still felt, the otherworldly image he now presented to the Land. Once she had been beautiful, but hunger had taken its toll – for which Luerce was profoundly thankful. He had no wish to discover how his master would react if he discovered Luerce submitting to temptation whilst playing the holy man – and Ruhen would find out, no matter how he tried to cover his tracks. He had no doubt of that.
'Go and read the latest prayer,' he said softly. She scrambled to obey, almost barging the bear-like man out of the way in her haste.
'A prayer for salvation,' she announced with what she clearly thought was grandeur, 'salvation from the dragon that killed his family yesterday.'
The wordless prayers increased in volume at her words, and drained what was left of the man's remaining strength. He huddled over his knees, doubled up by the pain inside.
Luerce smiled inwardly. About bloody time. I was wondering if I was going to have to do it myself.
He looked around, searching for a picture of misery amidst a sea of it. The mercenary Grisat was difficult to pick out now that he'd shed his penitent's uniform, but Bolla, Grisat's brother-in-arms, was far easier to spot. The tall shaven-headed man sat bolt-upright, staring into nothing as he chewed numbroot day and night.
Ah, numbroot addicts, the most amenable of fools. Luerce smiled inwardly, remember his former life of petty theft and fraud. Numbroot was as benign a drug as one could find, and it took real commitment to wind up an addict, as Bolla clearly was. Aracnan, the Demi-God who served Azaer, had used Grisat to engineer a campaign of resistance after the failure of the clerics' rebellion. Bolla had played his part in that without questioning his orders, using numbroot to dull the pain of his injuries along with his ability to care about the rest of the Land.
'Our brother asks for salvation,' Luerce called out, causing a small commotion as the huddled mass turned to look at him. 'Byora's children cry out for salvation! Pray, pray with me for intercession!'
As he finished his eyes came to rest on Bolla and Grisat. More voices joined in the chant, the volume increased and Bolla began to sway in an unconscious response to the sound. Grisat, a solid-looking man, contrived to look even more miserable. Thou
gh he looked as if he had entirely gone to seed, the mercenary was still strong, well worth his pay – but Luerce only had one use for him. Finally, reluctantly, Grisat lifted his grey eyes to meet the Litse's. The order was understood.
The mercenary flinched and tugged his filthy coat tighter around his body, but he wasted no time in using the magical link Aracnan had created between them to contact the Demi-God. In a few moments Luerce saw Grisat shudder and knew the mercenary had found Aracnan. The Demi-God had been wounded as he went to join the battle against the Farlan, shot with a poisoned crossbow bolt by a Narkang agent. It was taking all of Aracnan's considerable skill just to stay alive, and the pain had left him unhinged. This would not be a comfortable experience for Grisat.
Satisfied the bond was active, Luerce bowed his head and added his own voice to the wordless anthem ringing out down the street. The beggars squatting in the street as though protesting the state of the Land were the broken and the lost; their mournful song was almost primal, and their many hurts the most basic a human could feel. Luerce felt himself enveloped in the building dirge. Swept up by the fervour, by the desperation of those around him who had lost everything, he found tears spilling down his cheek as his voice rose above the rest.
Spurred on by the Litse's fervour the howls increased until he was lost in a bubble of mourning, voicing their fears and their grief, their rage against the Land and the inaction of the Gods. Some were mad, driven by what they had seen. Some were ill. Some were sickened by the actions of priests and lords alike.
The great towers of Byora's noble district echoed with their pain, pain that could not be exhausted even by hours of song, and as evening began to close in and the ghost-hour spread shadowy fingers over the streets, their prayer was answered.
The delegation was small, no more than fifty-strong, including the squads of Ruby Tower Guards ahead and behind. Natai Escral, Duchess of Byora, rode side-saddle at the head of the nobles, the child Ruhen perched in her lap and Hener Kayel, her bodyguard, riding alongside. The duchess was a middle-aged woman, though she looked older than her years, however immaculately turned out she was. She couldn't hide the crow's-feet or the shadows of broken sleep under her eyes, and she was stooped with fatigue, riding without her customary grace.