by Tom Lloyd
‘As you wish,’ he said eventually. ‘Just promise me you’ll see the other side of it. Witnessing such things loses its shine, I find. Remember to enjoy the life that comes after it too.’
‘Aye, sure, whatever you say, old man.’ She frowned at him. ‘You realise you ask for a lot of promises when you’re maudlin?’
‘I do?’
‘You’ve twice asked me never to start drinking – what’s that all about?’
He lowered his eyes. ‘It’s the easiest way to ruin a fine future,’ he muttered, thinking again of Doranei.
‘Let’s make sure we have a future first, eh?’
Morghien returned his attention to the army in the distance. ‘I dreamed last night of just that.’
‘Our future? Settle down, grandfather!’
‘No,’ he said, ‘that we didn’t have a future.’
‘Sounds like you’re in need of a drink, then.’
‘Aye, mebbe I am. I found myself in Death’s throne room: I was dead and awaiting the Last Judgement.’
‘Old Bones was a bit annoyed with you then?’ Shanas laughed, elbowing him. ‘I could’ve told you threatening the Chief of the Gods was a bloody stupid thing to do.’
‘If only that was the problem,’ Morghien said, shivering slightly at the memory. ‘Problem was, it wasn’t Lord Death on the throne, it was a shadow – Azaer, wearing a crown of gold and carrying Death’s sceptre.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Shanas exclaimed, all trace of humour gone. ‘No wonder you’re looking like someone walked over your grave today. So what happened?’
‘I don’t really remember – we spoke, Azaer said something, then I was dragged away in chains towards a great fire. That’s when the morning sun woke me.’
‘Good thing too. That’s not a dream you want to finish.’
‘But ever since, I’ve not felt like I’m truly awake,’ Morghien said. ‘All this day, ever since we sighted Keriabral, it’s felt like I’m trapped in a dream of my past.’
Shanas turned to face east, away from the army. There in the distance, just a vague shape on the horizon, was Castle Keriabral, the ancient ruins of Aryn Bwr’s own fortress. The Last King had built the fortress within a huge crater several miles across, using the near-sheer outer slopes as part of the defences. The castle stood on the highest part of the plain, and the land around it was desolate, except for a shadowed area to the south, where there was an oasis.
‘And that’s where your bad dreams came from,’ Shanas breathed.
Morghien turned to look. ‘A hundred years on, near enough, and that’s where I find myself in my nightmares. We had a division of Knights of the Temples to escort us – more’n enough, given the locals are malnourished savages.’
‘We?’
‘Mages and historians for the main. I’d become an apprentice of sorts to a brilliant old man by the name of Cheliss Malich. His son, Cordein, wasn’t so impressed with my presence, but anyone who knows their Farlan history shouldn’t be so surprised by that.’
‘Cordein Malich, aye,’ Shanas said. ‘And three of you survived: you, Malich and the minstrel Rojak too—’
Morghien scowled. ‘Malich and I survived. Azaer brought madness down upon us, infecting one man as he was digging up artefacts on the inner slopes, then slowly moving through us all. The shadow was interested in Malich and me and it spared us because of his talent and my unusual nature. And merciful Gods, that boy was talented – arrogant and spiteful at times, at others brilliant and noble.
‘The crazed ones turned on me when I refused Azaer, trailed me for miles once I escaped that place. But Rojak? I’m not sure I’d say he survived it, it was just that his body kept on going. He’d been a sweet lad. He wrote some fine songs about the castle our first week there. I don’t honestly know what happened to him; I only remember him gorging on the wild peaches that grew in the oasis – fruit the locals wouldn’t touch.’
‘And now you’re back.’
Morghien nodded slowly. ‘I’m the only one left from that folly,’ he drawled, ‘but I can’t say I’m much interested in returning.’
‘You expect me to come all this way and not see bloody Castle Keriabral?’ Shanas demanded.
‘Save it for later,’ Morghien said soberly. ‘The damn thing’s been there for seven thousand years. What’s left is impressive, but it ain’t likely to change. The remaining towers are a sight, that’s for sure, and so’s the Glass Bridge and the tiered gardens, even run wild. Ever heard of a water-falcon?’
Shanas shook her head, pushing back an errant trail of copper hair.
‘Most people think it’s a myth, as rare as a phoenix and harder to spot. That’s worth seeking out; you won’t find many more beautiful sights than that. But after last time I ain’t going without a high mage in tow, not until the shadow’s dead. Don’t reckon you should either, fancy tattoos or no.’
The wind suddenly raced down over them, howling mournfully as it swept icy fingers across their faces. Tiny snowflakes danced before Morghien’s eyes as his fur-lined hood whipped forward and long straggly hair fell across his eyes. The wanderer cursed and pushed the hood back again, though he didn’t mind the cold, instead recalling the searing sun of high summer.
‘We’re not going to Keriabral?’ Shanas asked, shivering slightly. ‘You said that was where we were headed.’
‘The vicinity,’ Morghien clarified. ‘I don’t think Ruhen’s heading there either. Some stories say Aryn Bwr forged the Crystal Skulls in his great forge at Keriabral, where its fires were fed by the River Maram itself, but I reckon that’s so much horseshit. Who’d live in a castle where a Devil’s Stair was open – whether or not daemons could get through, it wouldn’t be much fun to live anywhere near that. No, there’s nothing in Keriabral or even the crater that Ruhen wants. He’s got somewhere else in mind.’
‘Planning on playing the mysterious old bastard any longer?’ Shanas asked impatiently.
At last a small smile crept onto Morghien’s face. ‘All the days I got left. There’s only one other thing around here, and it’s the reason Aryn Bwr built his fortress here, in a place that was never populous, nor of any strategic value during the Wars of the Houses.’
‘Well, what is it – where do we find it?’
Morghien scratched his cheek, found a louse in his lengthening beard and crushed it between his fingers. ‘What is it?’ he echoed, ‘I don’t rightly know. Best you ask Legana about that. As for how we find it? We don’t, not us feeble mortals, anyway. It’s the heart of the Land, so Mage Verliq wrote, but it ain’t for the likes of us. Azaer knows it though; the shadow led Aryn Bwr there in the first place, and where an army of seventy-odd thousand men, women and children marches, I reckon we’ll be able to follow.’
He kicked at a rock and headed back down the slope to where their small troupe was waiting. Their numbers were much reduced after travelling through this unknown, dangerous wilderness. Just before he reached his horse, Morghien looked up again at the faint lump of Keriabral’s crater walls and the blur that would resolve into three enormous towers as they neared. Closer still, and the two fallen towers would be visible, the rubble crushing the small city that had comprised Keriabral’s lower reaches.
It was all a ruin now, though tribespeople from the Waste had colonised parts, but the crown of towers had been intended to be the Last King’s enduring monument and the magic was still strong, even millennia later. From those towers you could see the shattered remains of Aryn Bwr’s impregnable dream. Isak himself had seen it, in his own dreams, for the bitter memory had lingered long in Aryn Bwr’s mind.
‘You know, the bastard even bragged about it in Scree, so Emin told me,’ he said, rounding on Shanas, who stopped dead.
‘Who, Azaer?’
‘And Rojak,’ Morghien said. ‘A scene of slaughter painted on the theatre door – Emin recognised it from what I’d told him: four towers standing, one fallen, and flames getting ready to take another, the towers so tall even Tirah Palac
e looks like a child’s toy in comparison. Those towers burned the day Keriabral was taken, the day the Gods threw their armies at its walls and didn’t care that in the process they extinguished entire races they’d created for the war. That’s pretty much when Aryn Bwr became the shadow’s pawn. The more I think about it, the more I reckon that painting was Azaer announcing the slaughter to come, the destruction he’d profit from once again.’
Shanas looked at him a long while then said, ‘So it’s agreed, then. We don’t want him sitting on Death’s throne when our times come?’
‘No.’
‘Then get on your bloody horse, old man, there’s still work to be done.’
Ruhen walked ahead of his disciples, his remaining eye fixed on nothing that Ilumene could discern. The white cloaked-soldier followed at a distance, behind him trailing Larim, the Menin mage, Koteer of the Jesters and the black Harlequin, Venn. They watched Ruhen in silence, waiting for a sign from the child that they were finally at their destination.
Ilumene knew they were being watched; though he’d yet to find the observers, his senses prickled. The army had settled at the base of a long rise, while their small party continued on another mile to this hill. The ground was mostly rock and dust; stunted bushes and creeping roses were the only growing plants. The hill itself was as high as anything within sight, studded with enormous boulders and surrounded by more. It reminded him of a childhood story he’d once heard, of two giants arguing and hurling rocks the size of houses at each other.
A shallow slope ran north for miles, following the contours of a distant river, hidden by a narrow band of woods. It was the only visible boundary; in all other directions the undulating scrubland simply faded into the horizon.
He glanced back at Venn and the black Harlequin nodded, gesturing to the waiting soldiers behind. Two squads each of Harlequins and Acolytes of the Jesters spread out at Venn’s command, trotting at a brisk pace around the lower slope of the hill, heading towards the rear. The horse scouts had already swept the vicinity, but Ilumene saw no reason to trust them; he knew Morghien had not yet met up with the main force.
The old bastard’s got more sense than to take us on, Ilumene reflected, but that doesn’t stop him leaving a surprise in our path – a barbed gift like that damn Finntrail spirit in his head. But boredom set in and at last he called, ‘I only see broken stones and a whole lot o’ nothing.’
The boy turned to face him. With the low sun behind him, Ruhen’s face was even more shadowed than usual. Aenaris remained wrapped on his back, its light still hidden from view.
‘The sun has not yet set,’ Ruhen said in response. ‘There is nothing to see.’
‘Some sort o’ spell?’
Ruhen shook his head. ‘What we search for lies at the heart of the Gods’ power, hidden from all until dusk, when they recede a fraction from the Land.’
‘I thought they were weak enough already? Surely we should be able to find it when there’s still light to do something about it?’
‘Some conventions remain,’ Ruhen said plainly. ‘It is part of the balance of the Land: this place is revealed at dusk to those who know it’s here.’
‘Sounds like a load of mystical shit to me,’ Ilumene grumbled. The boy with shadows in his eyes smiled at his bodyguard’s irreverence. ‘The very heart of religion,’ he said with what might have been agreement, ‘but when one plays the game of Gods, one must respect most of the rules. It makes breaking the others far easier.’
Ilumene looked at the sun. ‘Not long to wait then,’ he muttered as Ruhen returned to his slow walk up the hill. The sky was more open here, Ilumene thought, and far preferable to the cramped atmosphere of the Circle City, where Blackfang Mountain intruded on most every sight. To the Byorans the Waste was huge and empty, even more than his home in Narkang, which looked out over the ocean. The Waste was too big a space for humans to live in; the horizons were too far away.
A man could get lost here; he could go mad while his soul wandered the miles of emptiness in all directions. Ilumene grinned. Except horizons won’t mean much to me soon. Precious little will limit me soon.
He turned back towards Keriabral, trying to pick out the crater wall in the distance, but it was out of sight now. Clouds massed on the horizon, blurring everything beyond the rabble making their way into the Devoted camp. There had been hundreds of deaths among Ruhen’s white-clad followers in the last few weeks, but no one stopped. No one cared. There were always thousands more, even some Chetse, following as dumbly and patiently as the rest, stepping over the dead and dying, who were blessed by the Wither Queen’s rat-spirits under cover of night and left for the Narkang troops. Each night the survivors would crawl into the tents of the weary, red-eyed Devoted soldiers, following some unvoiced command Ilumene never gave.
He had heard no word of rape or theft, or of violence done by the soldiers to their pathetic charges; that as much as anything surprised Ilumene. The camp was close to silent at night, the soldiers showing little interest in gambling, whoring or anything else. Instead, they huddled in small groups and spoke in hushed tones, as though they believed the holy mission their leaders had proclaimed.
Even Certinse, Vener and all the rest’re silent now, Ilumene reminded himself. They were so sure of their control, of their strength – and now they’ve found it run like dust through their fingers.
‘Ilumene, Venn,’ Ruhen called from thirty yards up the slope, and the two scrambled in his wake, Venn easily outstripping the heavier man, moving with nimble, economical steps.
‘It’s time,’ Venn breathed as he arrived at Ruhen’s side.
The boy was walking without hurry as the last rays of the sun faded and withdrew from the Land. Shadows deepened, stealing forward from rocks and crevices to swarm up the hillside. As the dark rose it flickered uncertainly, and Ilumene found his eyes watering at the sight. He blinked furiously, and saw Venn was similarly afflicted as they staggered after Ruhen, but the boy was unaffected by the wavering, shifting curtain of air around the peak of the hill. He pointed, and Ilumene saw the underside of his finger was still bleached white by Aenaris’ touch.
Gradually shapes began to form at the peak of the hill: silhouettes of things on the cusp of this Land and the next, drifting uncertainly between here and the Other Lands of Gods and daemons. Ilumene found himself pushing against a barrier of air that unexpectedly gave way, and as he stumbled forward, he almost collided with Venn.
A pair of standing stones loomed ahead of them, rising up from a raised area at the centre of the hill’s flattened peak, and now they could see others all around them, rough-hewn and weather-worn, but power hummed through them. Some had toppled over, others were broken-topped, but many of the ancient rune-engraved monuments still stood like sentinels. In the very centre was a rough circle of irregular paving stones spreading for thirty yards in all directions, surrounding the two tallest stones. Beyond the rise, Ilumene could see the strange rocks continuing across the tabletop hill, spreading like roots through the dusty ground as they merged back into the hill itself.
‘What is this?’ Ilumene gasped. ‘A temple? Out here?’ He looked around. ‘Must have been a damn big one – but where’s the rubble? And how have these engravings survived?’ He went up to one and traced the curves and lines cut into its surface, looking for words he recognised.
‘Think of it as the first temple,’ Ruhen said solemnly, ‘or maybe the soul of every temple. The boundaries of the Land are thin here.’
‘So not a temple then?’ Ilumene asked, frowning. ‘What about the stones, and this floor?’
Ruhen continued towards the tallest pair of menhir, where Ilumene could see a humped arch and a steep set of worn stairs. ‘Echoes of other temples, a place carved by the force of reverence itself.’ He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face them both. ‘And here is the entrance. Here is the heart of the Land and all its Gods.’
‘Here we become Gods,’ Venn added, the pleasure of that thought d
riving the wonder from his face. ‘I can feel the power here; it’s in everything – the air, the earth . . . all around us.’
‘And here we will become Gods,’ Ruhen agreed, ‘but first there is much we need to do.’
‘We’re not going in?’
‘No. We are not yet ready. Venn, you will stay with your Harlequins – keep these standing stones within waking sight at all times. Have the Acolytes guard the other side of the hill. No one must be allowed up here without my express order. Ilumene, we will return to the army. They must prepare defences for when King Emin and the white-eye come.’
‘They’ll be digging ditches and sorting ramparts, at first light,’ Ilumene confirmed before hesitating slightly. ‘What about your Children, do you want them stacking stones too?’
‘I have a greater burden for them.’ As Ruhen spoke a gust of wind surged up the hillside from the direction of the troops, and all three turned to face it. It carried the usual stinks of an army, sweat and animal musk, festering wounds, shit and urine – only now it was intermingled with something else, something stranger.
Ilumene heard a chuckle on the wind as he recognised the sickly sweet smell of overripe peaches. They had gathered cartloads of rotten fruit at the oasis outside Keriabral’s crater wall. They were withered and well past their season; the wind had dried them on the trees, and insects had burrowed into those that had fallen, eating the goodness from within, but still Ruhen had insisted the remains be collected.
Ilumene heard the voice on the wind again, and this time he made out Rojak’s unmistakable laugh. The dead minstrel was not quite so confined to Venn’s mind here, it appeared. The smell of peaches lingered, and Ilumene realised that the fruits were no longer inedible husks, though there was no way they could smell like that naturally.