***
Within the Tower of Ash, Alomar stood in the centre of the round room, two marks in front of the chair in which he had spent the previous day. His wounded arm had not deteriorated further. The doctor’s ministrations might even have saved it – for what, though?
In a tempting bundle to one side lay his lacquered armour-plating, complete with leggings, cuirass and chainmail, sword, shield and helmet. But as six spears completely surrounded him, he shrugged. Tempting his accoutrements might be, but he could resist that kind of enticement! He wondered at the small weights about his waist.
Without warning, the floor beneath him gave way and he fell a distance of about three marks onto a criss-crossing of round wooden poles.
Lidless eyes wide, he quickly appreciated he was in full view of an audience below, all pointing at him, laughing and talking.
The trapdoor above slammed shut before he could stand and attempt jumping up.
He now understood why the tower had been so named. Black ash showed below through the gaps between the poles.
Abruptly, one of the poles moved and was pulled out.
He understood at once. So, a dance of death!
The audience mostly stood now, waving fists and cheering, many of the women as bad as their men.
As another pole was retracted and another, he saw Yip-nef and Iayen laughing together. But no anger crossed the immortal warrior’s face; he was too intent on guessing which pole would next be pulled from under him.
One slip and he would speedily sink into the ash, aided by the weights round his waist.
Another pole was removed and he skipped back. The loss of his lids was annoying. He had to keep wiping away the salty stinging sweat and yet concentrate on the poles as well.
It appeared they were being retracted purely at random.
Yip-nef Dom vacated his throne and jumped up and down by the balcony baluster, wishing the warrior would slip.
Iayen too was smiling, her misshapen features hideous in the bright clear light of day.
Suddenly, a cheer went up from the audience below.
Yet another pole was removed and Courdour Alomar jumped to safety, tottered and almost lost his balance.
Righting himself barely in time, he skipped away onto another pole as the one beneath his feet rolled and moved, swiftly withdrawn.
“Not long now!” Yip-nef said, spitting as he spoke. “Look, Iayen! There can’t be more than six poles left!”
“Yes, dearest, he is too big to balance on only one – it won’t be long now!” She drew beside him, encircled his waist with her thin arm, arousing him. “Afterwards, we must celebrate your triumph, father!”
“Yes, yes, my love – but look, look, he nearly went then!”
***
Sensation had left Fhord but recently, bewilderingly. Her senses had suddenly attenuated, rising to a peak she had never known. It was as if she were no longer physical, as though the threshing, lancing pain were other than her own.
A threshold, as if she had stepped into a different chamber, somewhere without the presence of Honsor.
Could it be delusion? Delusion before death?
Her eyes still recorded images, but the lower chamber had altered, seemed brighter.
The walls shone white and shimmered. And at the centre of all this whiteness she vaguely discerned a white shape on white. An inchoate symbol formed, shaping itself on the apparently reed-paper-thin walls.
As the symbol changed, gleaming with incredible effulgence, she saw flames of white. Fire. White-fire – Osasor!
***
Against all odds, Alomar had managed to balance upon the depleting number of poles. Now, the immortal warrior remained perched upon the final pole. But his efforts were inevitably doomed to failure, and finally this too was retracted.
Though unable to hear the almighty cheer that went up from the audience, he caught sight of them, mouths gaping, eyes starting, fists in the air.
Then he fell into the ash.
Choking clouds blanked out his view of the death-hungry crowd. Yet even with the small weights about his waist, Alomar was determined to deny them their pleasure for as long as he was able.
No sooner did he hit into the ash than he began to dog-paddle in an effort at keeping his head above the choking stuff. This proved difficult for his right arm was weak, swollen and almost lifeless, but it moved if stiffly.
He managed to remain with his chin just above the surface of ash, his eyes watering as grains grated against the lid scars. But he continued to paddle, fighting the weights, ignoring all else.
The day had been long. The audience had not appreciated the passing time as they watched till they grew hoarse.
Dusk approached.
The crowds gesticulated and hissed and booed as twilight fell.
Alomar smiled grimly, pleased at their annoyance.
And he continued to paddle, creating choking gusts of ash-cloud that stung his streaming eyes.
Though his thoughts repeatedly returned to Jaryar, he knew this time she would understand. Perhaps he would succumb to the choking dust and sink in time, but as long as he was able, he would fight it, and cheat them all of their sport.
If die he must, it would be with honour.
CHAPTER TWENTY
RITE
The gong sounds the orm of rites unholy
And stirring the creatures of Below
Evil rears and stalks the lonely
Frightened people with nowhere to go.
– Night from
The Collected Works of Nasalmn Feider (1216-1257)
Outside the palace walls, the noise of the king’s blood-lusting guests drew crowds of the curious and the morbid. The Tower of Ash was held in great awe – it contained countless rebels and visionaries who transgressed against the accursed Por-al Row. Ash was so much a part of their minds – everyone was incinerated on dying, without exception. Ashes were regularly transported to the Manderranmeron Fault and dumped – save for the honoured few. Kings and those of the royal lineage had their ashes interred in the cellar vaults of the palace. Traitors and rebels had their ash left within the tower.
Gradually, as the evening’s shadows deepened, the crowds dispersed. But a few remained.
“Whoever they’ve got in there is keeping them in suspense!” said a stooped old man in an entranceway.
“’Tis the warrior – Courdour Alomar.”
“The one who loosed the arrow?”
“The same. This time Yip-nef and Iayen – curse her to ashes! – have gone too far. Legend has caught up with them, old man, at last!”
“What ails you?” queried the old man. “You sound treasonously disenchanted with yon two royals!”
“Aye, I’m more than disenchanted, friend – I’m sick unto death. When I think of all those years – wasted, ruined now. You see before you an empty man, broken in spirit, afraid to–”
“Afraid? Never, not you! But listen, this Courdour fellow still has them going hoarse! What I’d give to see it! No, friend – if you dare speak out – aye, even in shadows – you’re a braver man than most of Arisa can boast.”
“But I’ve turned my back on–”
“If you lead, they’ll follow, you know.”
For the first time in a long while, a lively light shone in Dab-su Hruma’s eyes.
***
In the darkness of First Sufinma the courtyard was silent, illuminated by shagunblend torches in sconces upon the palace walls.
The benches were deserted save for the figures of Yip-nef Dom and his daughter. Both huddled close and involuntarily shivered as they watched the indistinct bobbing head of Courdour Alomar.
The warrior continued to dog-paddle in the mushrooming clouds of ash.
As the beginnings of the first quarter cast its silver light upon the scene, Yip-nef Dom rose and shuddered with subdued anger.
His daughter joined him as they strode down the benches and out through the wrought-iron gate, entering the pa
lace through a side-door. Above, a cage of red tellars swung on its pulley, abandoned for the night.
“Tomorrow...” the king murmured, dejected. “Tomorrow, I shall become legend!”
***
As the royal couple left the courtyard, Fhord’s mind reached out and ignored the pains and the sickening stench of her own roasting body.
She was heartened by her so-white vision.
Her smile at seeing white-fire remained fixed.
It pleased her to see that her inquisitor appeared sorely troubled.
***
King Yip-nef Dom rose early. Having dressed himself quickly, he hurried through his apartments to the royal balcony. Through here the First Durin’s sunlight streamed.
A fresh day, a momentous day, he thought, shaking off the dejection of last night. He only regretted he had been unable to see Courdour’s last moments of life –
His single eye stared and his fleshy face paled as he leaned over the balcony. No, it isn’t possible!
Yet Courdour Alomar was still there, ponderously paddling amidst the clouds of ash. The warrior was even grinning down at a few watchers in the courtyard who were calling him names and cursing over their lost wagers.
Burned out torches issued intermittent purple wisps of smoke across the scene.
At that moment Por-al Row approached the king. “Excuse me, sire, but the time nears...”
Shocked by the alchemist’s soundless approach, the king swung round. “Eh – what? Time, time for what?” The spectacle of the Tower of Ash had sent his brain scurrying madly. Then slowly he comprehended. “Oh, the sacrifice! Already, Enchanter? But the rite isn’t until tonight.”
Por-al Row put on a pained expression. “If you will recall, sire, I warned you that your own personal preparations would take some time. We must begin early, to accomplish all you desire this eve.”
“Damn your–” Yip-nef bit back on his words. “Very well, but let me join you in an orm’s time, in the shrine salon. In the meantime, I shall be closeted with my daughter.” He sighed. “It is a pity you cannot project Courdour’s death into the salon. I would have liked to see...”
Sudden cries of delight from outside interrupted.
Heart hammering, Yip-nef hastened to the balcony.
Courdour Alomar finally sank beneath the surface of ash, close up against the glass so that they could see most of his naked figure and, surprisingly, he had folded his arms. He remained visible against the glass walls as he sank, his face impassive, as though resigned, without any fear or panic etched there.
The king, Por-al Row, the audience – all of them watched enthralled as the warrior slid down against the glass walls without protest. Then he slithered back, into the depths of the ash, out of sight.
Whispers wafted up. No man had ever accepted suffocation in this manner – none! Usually victims had screamed and cried, ineptly attempting to struggle but only succeeding in pushing themselves down faster.
Troubled, Yip-nef Dom turned on his heel and left the salon. In a way, Courdour’s final gesture of defiance had robbed him of the sweetness of revenge. But at least the man was dead! Soon his ashes would be part of those already there.
As he left, the trapdoor above the ash opened and the soldiers threw down the immortal warrior’s accoutrements for the gear was too weighty and ancient for any Arisan to wear or wield. They sank quickly without trace.
***
Strength from Fhord knew not where filled her being. She was apart. As though floating above, she saw herself stretched out upon the ironwood spit, turning and sizzling as her earthly body scorched and blistered, reddening horribly.
And the torturer of Honsor bent to the handle, turning, turning, and talking all the time with words that melded into one long half-muted chant.
She could see herself still, apart, as the fire-ravaged figure that was Cobrora Fhord strained at the metal shackles which had gradually become red- then white-hot.
Suddenly the chains broke away and she sat up amidst an abrupt cavorting of flame. But these were not tongues from the torturer’s brazier: these flames seemed to sprout from the very air itself, licking towards the dark ceiling of the chamber.
Darkness no longer existed in the low chamber. Darting white flames flecked with the faintest tinge of blue sought out the smallest corner. Blinding bright.
Ulran had seen something to fell his stoical calm.
The torturer stepped back, hands covering his sweat- and smoke-streaked face.
But their eyes no longer remained on the sitting figure of Fhord. Now they looked upon the intrusive white flames themselves.
“A battle ‘tween Honsor and Osasor!” screamed the torturer in tremulous realisation. He stumbled back towards the wall near Ulran.
Fhord staggered off the rack, landed upon the stone flags amidst a spray of upset charcoal from the brazier. She was burnt and ragged. Her flesh sizzled as she walked jerkily, her hue red – as red as the sunset. And one eye would not open, damaged by a multitude of wicked sparks.
Yet on she walked, amidst the flashing shadows by the dancing flames.
While behind, just beyond the forsaken brazier, flames of white and brown-black spat and gyrated in tumultuous silence. Their very movement shook the entire chamber.
Trulan ineffectually tried shielding himself from the incredible heat that emanated from the battle and the approaching figure of Fhord.
Ulran strained again at his shackles.
The scorched city-dweller diverted her inexorable tread, and moved towards the innman. At sight of her, Ulran involuntarily flinched. Fhord lurched towards him, the stink of her burnt flesh clogging the innman’s nostrils.
Bones were now visible in parts. Bubbling body-fat was on her shoulders, drooling down her burned-red and branded breasts. It was as though Fhord was being burned up alive from within!
Then she was upon him.
The stench was asphyxiating. Smouldering hands fell upon Ulran’s chains. Nails had gone; the bones of her hands glinted red as they snatched hold of the chains near the ringbolts.
Transfixed, Ulran watched as the chains in her grip whitened and snapped as if they were only brittle reeds.
Trulan jerked out of his immobility and shock. His captives were attempting to escape, no matter by what hideous means. He rushed forward, snarling loudly, and snatched up a halberd from the wall.
Fhord dropped the broken chains and turned unsteadily. Flames now began to sprout from her neck and engulfed her entire head. Ulran found the sound and smell overwhelming. It was uncanny but while Fhord burned and sizzled, she still retained her basic appearance.
Suddenly unsure, Trulan stopped with his halberd pointed in front of him. But the torturer was lost, his mind no longer his own. Fhord’s now blind dark coals of eyes drew him unwillingly.
Hands suddenly limp upon the weapon, Trulan lowered it as he approached Fhord. There was little struggle of will, for Trulan’s mind was not capable of this form of contest.
As Ulran stepped away free from the wall, short lengths of red-hot chain hanging from each wrist, he noticed for the first time that, despite the flames, no smoke filled the chamber. Only raw fire, an intense conflagration that seemed without surcease.
Ulran watched as he had never seen the like before; he was filled with a morbid fascination and buoyant admiration for his travelling companion, the quiet psychic woman. As he watched he rubbed his arms, relaxed his body in degrees and slaked off the weariness of his earlier attempt at calling up reserves.
Finally Trulan walked into Fhord’s out-stretched flaming arms.
They fell together, embraced, and upset the burning charcoal brazier. The fire’s contents spread across the floor. The coals bounced and burst into fresh red flames, a kind of phosphorescent incandescence that briefly blinded the innman.
In an almighty roar and explosion the walls behind the fallen brazier shook and trembled.
Ulran felt the slabs beneath him quake convulsively. But his eyes
were upon Fhord and the torturer in her embrace. They lay upon the coal-covered floor. Each seemed to melt into the other, burning into a black and red dust.
Words from the Book of Concealed Mystery forced themselves upon him: “I dare as well defend the great Osasor, refuted by men of sagacity, since my heart dwells in fires which thirstily I drink, and feels no pain.”
Ulran made for the stairs and then hesitated at the bottom for one final farewell to Fhord. Rising from the black and red dust was a white incandescence, a shimmering thin spiral; this dazzling white light quickly coalesced into an opaque beam that pierced the torture chamber’s blackened ceiling. Moments later, Ulran shielded his eyes as sparks filled the place and a fissure appeared in the stone roof. Then the white light was gone, plunging the room into silence and darkness.
Until that instant, Ulran had felt Fhord’s powerful presence, but now she had departed.
***
A number of guards were attracted to the few flames and puffs of smoke that issued from the doorway under the arcade. But they were tardy in their estimation of the fire’s seriousness.
The charge-sergeant detailed a man to fetch a water cart. In the meantime, he advised the others to use the water in the nearby horse-troughs and watch the area and raise the alarm only if the fire looked like getting out of hand.
The nobles on the benches in front of the ash tower dispersed, absently noting the small puffs of smoke in the arcade area. The soldiers could handle that.
Many of the nobles who lingered chatted about the warrior who had surprised them all and only but recently smothered.
Others remained behind to toy with their women, the sight of Courdour Alomar’s death having aroused them.
Tomorrow the warrior would be ashes, adding to the tower itself. Life’s transience impinged upon a few wise enough to associate Courdour’s death with their own life; but what use philosophising, when –
Floreskand_Wings Page 36