CHAPTER 57
The crows circled in the blue sky. Some were already perched on skulls, pecking at the eyes. Segar watched the last wounded being carried away to the infirmary. He cleared his throat and spat. His boots were clogged in the mud soaked with blood. Dead horses, mutilated corpses, and severed limbs lay scattered in heaps. Judging by the faint moans here and there, not everyone was dead, but they would be soon enough. The battlefield smelled of iron and shit. In a few hours, it would stink even more. By night, the place would be infested by scavengers. He walked to the dragon’s carcass. Disturbed by his tramp, fat, blue flies flew in swarms.
The beheaded carcass still stood on the hill. The head had been taken to the camp. The body had been left to rot. Segar would not let it happen. This was probably the only dragon Trevalden had ever seen. Everything to its piss was valuable. Only with the scales and bones, Segar planned to become one of the richest men of Nysa Serin. His men would be there in a moment. He had come alone first to admire the beast himself. Such a beautiful creature butchered by that mongrel. And the man was still alive. Every survivor of the melee had seen him parade on the head of the dragon. The last thing the brat needed was a boost to his ego. All that because of Bertrant. At least, the commander drowned in his blood by now. Segar hoped the man would die. It would be one ally less for the two pretty captains.
Segar looked at the dragon and calculated its weight. He would never manage to get all of it. Besides, the flesh was already corrupted. Maggots would crawl all over it in a few days. He noticed something sparkling in the bloody mess. He took out his dagger and scraped the tissues. There was an object stuck in the gizzard. Probably something the beast had eaten. It was carved in silver and looked like folded wings. The object was certainly of some value. Segar regretted that the flask in the middle was chipped. When he put a finger on it, the glass splintered. The watery liquid inside the flask spread on his hand and disappeared, as if absorbed into the skin.
“What kind of shit is that?” he said, dropping the object. He looked at his hand and saw nothing. It did not hurt either. He picked up the metallic object again and tucked it into his pocket. On the slope, his men approached.
“Cut as much as you can of that thing,” Segar ordered them. “Use crates from the supply train. Soon, no one will use them anymore.”
They would probably enter the city tomorrow. He would have to find a way to smuggle the crates inside the city gates, unless he made the boxes look like leftovers of the supply train. The stench had become unbearable. Segar trotted back to the camp.
“The commander is dead,” Jamys told him when Segar entered his tent.
“Good. One less,” Segar replied. As a pathetic drunk, Bertrant had been harmless. Since he had been under the influence of the pretty bastard, he had only been a nuisance. His reputation and prestige would have opened many doors in the city for the captains. Now, unless Pembroke backed them, they would lose the support of the nobles.
“They will burn the body in the evening. Will you assist?” Jamys asked.
“I will. It would be suspicious otherwise,” Segar answered.
“Who commands the army now?”
“That, we will see tonight if it’s Pembroke or the whoreson.” That last possibility was still highly probable considering how the soldiers had cheered him today. Should the man win the war, Segar would have to disappear in the shadows of the capital. All would depend on the turn of tomorrow’s events. He had definitely planned to have a hand in the black market, a trade highly facilitated by his access to the army’s supplies. The slave trade would probably come to an end, but he would find other sources of revenue. Yet, he would not forget to take his revenge. Segar would not have minded to extend it to the whole gang. The scarred wench and the dashing archer were probably of the same sort. Still, he wanted to act discreetly, and his hate was centered on the arrogant fool. Now that Segar thought about it, he even had nothing to complain about when it came to the purple slut. The man used to shut his mouth and stay out of the way. But to strike one meant to hit the other. Besides, Segar wondered how pleasurable it would be to torture the slut in front of the flaunting bastard.
The torches burned brightly in the dim glow of the evening sky. Above them, the first stars glittered. The twilight air was cool, and a light breeze blew. Every man who had survived the battle and could stand on his feet had gathered on the plain outside the camp. Segar had rarely seen such a dismal and solemn party. Wood had been gathered in a large heap. On top of it lay Bertrant’s corpse. The commander had been dressed with care in crimson robes, and his sword had been placed in his grip, in the style of the recumbent statues of the kings. Behind the pyre, Pembroke and the two captains stood side by side, all dressed in their armours. If the men had been wounded during the battle, their appearance did not give a hint of it.
To Segar’s great annoyance, the whoreson stepped forward, a torch in his hand. Walking slowly in front of the men, he chose four soldiers. Each received a torch and placed himself at a corner of the pyre.
“Here lies Lord Bertrant Heymon, hero and commander of the Rebellion. May his soul rest among the stars,” Pembroke said.
The captains and the four men lowered their torches and set the wood ablaze. The whoreson stood grave, his hands behind his back. Much to Segar’s surprise, the man sang. His clear voice was sad and, Segar had to admit it, beautiful.
“Lo, the eagle’s funeral pyre,
Proud father of the Rebellion,
Glorious heart bursting into fire,
Though wounded by hostile iron,
With a devotion we admire,
Bertrant upheld, with the honour,
The valour,
The ardour,
Of warriors.
Our brave, alas, when he expired,
Still shouted to his companions:
We’re marching on!”
“You gave your life the sword shining,
Women such a hero will weep,
The hills and fields no more strolling,
Rest, brother, in eternal sleep,
To your wife, now returning,
In revenge we take up the spears,
Grey as tears,
Darkness leers,
Show no fear.
A new dawn comes at day’s ending,
Gather once more, fierce battalions:
We’re marching on!”
In a roar, the soldiers repeated the last verse over and over again, clapping their breastplates to the rhythm of the song. The captains raised their fists in the air, imitated by the whole army. The flames grew high on the pyre. The heat spread over the plain. The golden light reflected on the men’s armours and staunch faces. Segar gazed at the whoreson’s haughty look and knew that from now on until tomorrow, it would be Commander.
CHAPTER 58
The army marched on Nysa Serin. They had lost many men during the battle, but what was left of the Rebellion was still impressive. Besides, as the enemy’s forces had been crushed, a fierce resistance would be highly improbable. Lissandro rode at the front, behind Pembroke, Louis, and Selen. Louis had replaced Bertrant as commander of the Rebellion. His friend had given Bertrant a beautiful ceremony. Lissandro had still goose bumps when he thought about it.
Lissandro looked forward to arriving in the city. Louis had insisted that they drag the dragon’s head with them, as a clear message of their strength and intentions. As it was obviously too large to be put on a spike, they had fixed the head on a chariot behind the first lines. The stench coming from it was obnoxious and the swarm of flies, unbearable. Louis had said that, once they reached the city, the head would be boiled and its bones bleached before being mounted as a trophy. Until then, it had to look as frightening as possible. Lissandro could confirm that this part was a success beyond all expectations. Fortunately, the journey would not be long.
Nysa Serin appeared in front of them. The size of the capital could not be compared to the cities of his world, but Lissandro thoug
ht that Rome must have appeared as sublime to the victorious legions returning home as Nysa Serin was to him now. The city was built on the flank of the mountains in the west. Its imposing outer wall was made of ochre stone and contrasted with the whiteness of the last levels of the rich houses on the inner side. Here and there rose the red tile roofs of some imposing buildings. Among them dominated a large dome circled with narrow towers. It gave the impression to be the main temple of the capital. In the west, uphill, stood the king’s palace. It was wider than high, with three massive, angled towers and what looked like an immense great hall. A path rising from the city wound its way up the slope. The palace could be reached only from the southeast. The north and east sides were cut into a cliff. It did not have an outside wall. Such an eyrie did not need one.
Lissandro turned his gaze on the heavy gatehouse. It was at least a three stories construction and was riddled with arrow loops. The oaken doors, reinforced with metal and stamps, were still closed. As they drew closer, one of the doors opened, and a man came riding towards them. He was richly dressed and too plump to ride such a nervous horse. He bounced on his saddle like jelly. There was something grotesque about this vision. He halted a few yards from the front row. Louis rose his right hand. The army stopped.
“My name is Lord Honfroi Tollbridge. I come to you in the name of the inhabitants of Nysa Serin,” the man said, panting. “I would like to have a word with you, Commander.”
“Speak,” Louis said as straightforward as usual.
“Humph.” The man who had addressed himself to Pembroke was obviously disconcerted. “As we have understood, you came here to free us from Agroln’s grip and his creatures. We would gladly open the doors of the city to your army. However, we would like to be assured that no harm will be done to the population.”
“It is not in our intention,” Louis confirmed. “Is there any resistance left in the city? Orcs?”
“There are no more orcs in the city, my lord. None came back from the battlefield.”
“And where is Agroln?” Louis inquired.
“He is still in his palace, my lord. At least, that is what we think. We have not seen him for a long time, but the coming and going of his minions confirms his presence,” the man answered.
“We will follow you to the city and control the palace ourselves,” Louis said.
The fat lord turned his horse back towards the capital. The army followed him on his heels. Lissandro though that, should the invitation be a trap, the lord would never escape them alive. He gazed at the gatehouse’s turrets and saw neither archers nor the reflection of a weapon. They passed under the gate. He looked at the sharp teeth of the portcullis above his head. For a short instant, his heart stopped.
When his horse stepped on the cobbles of the inner yard, the splendor of the city took him aback. The white houses were high, most with wattle and daub walls, but a few were made entirely of stone. The small windows were glazed in green and orange glass. Shops displayed baskets of goods and colorful fronts. It smelled of pepper, oranges, and cinnamon. Some roofs had been converted into terraces with gardens. Grapevine and ivy grew around the balustrades. Some front walls were decorated with paintings representing scenes of life or animals. Lissandro guessed that they must be in a rich shopping part of the city. The main street was large and clean, but the alleys on the side were narrow, dark, and a watery liquid flowed in the gutters. There were squares decorated with fountains encrusted with mosaics, statues of lascivious women or heroes, and closed wells under the shade of green trees. However, besides the birds and some cats, the city was empty of life, as if the whole population had abandoned their activities in a panic. Lissandro guessed that no one would dare to go out of his house as long as their intentions had not been made clear. Still, he had no doubt that behind every shutter, eyes spied on them. They arrived on a square situated at the bottom of the cliff. The way to the palace stretched at their left, upwards in hairpin bends. When the first battalions of the army halted, the rest of the men still filled the streets that his group had crossed.
“Not everyone needs to climb up there,” Louis said. “I suggest we only take a battalion with us. The rest of the men will watch over the city and look out for enemies until we return.”
It took some time for the thousands of men to climb the hill. The path was steep, forcing the horses to walk slowly. On their left, cold water from the mountain cascaded in a whirlpool between rocky spurs. Lissandro felt unsecured. This bottleneck would have been the perfect place to trap them. Yet, nothing happened. They reached the gatehouse leading to the esplanade outside the palace. A barbican stood at the front, defending the entrance. A few yards behind, a broad stone bridge stretched from the main building on the left to a large tower on the other side of the path. The portcullis was raised. No guard was to be seen. They passed under the gate. From the courtyard, the view of the city and the Lowlands was breathtaking. Lissandro saw the eastern mountains on the horizon and the Eryas Lowlands where they had fought the day before.
Lissandro swiveled and gazed at the palace. At the right of the long wall, stood a wide staircase leading to massive wooden doors set with flower-carved metal plates. With its pinnacle turrets, the building looked like a church, but considering it couldn’t be a cathedral, Lissandro supposed it was the great hall. There were no traces of soldiers or people anywhere. The place was utterly silent. Louis, Selen, Pembroke, and Lissandro dismounted and approached the steps.
“Behind the doors is the great hall. It has a narthex,” Pembroke said. “I don’t like this silence.”
They pushed open one of the heavy doors slowly. Louis, who stood first in the line, stopped in his move.
“Pembroke, wait for us outside, if you please,” Louis said. “It is best you stay with the men on the esplanade. We will call for you if we need reinforcement.”
“Yes, Commander.” Pembroke stepped back and returned to the esplanade.
“What is wrong?” Selen muttered once the lord was gone.
“Look,” Louis said, opening the door wider. As light entered the narthex, Lissandro understood. The walls were not brown but red. The tiled floor was also stained as if wiped with a bloody cloth. Candles flickered on a stone table. They stepped inside the narthex.
“Close the door,” Lissandro said to Selen. “The men don’t need to see this.”
“I don’t like it,” Selen whispered. “It’s too quiet.”
“It’s not the silence that perturbs me most,” Louis said. “It’s this sweet, foul smell.”
Selen went to open the next door.
“No!” Louis exclaimed. “Don’t. There is something carved here.” He took one of the candles and raised it up to the wall between the two interior doors. An inscription had been cut with a blade. “I can’t read it,” Louis said.
“I can,” Selen said. Their friend stood silent for a while. Lissandro saw beads of sweat on his forehead. Selen was scared. “It’s Sumerian.”
“Can you read Sumerian?” Louis asked, surprised.
“It is a widespread literary language, in my world at least,” Selen answered. His voice was dead. He was still focused on what stood on the wall.
“No,” Lissandro whispered. It was more than that. “It’s the language of the great ancients. The language of the rituals.” He could not read it, but he had seen it in old books when he had studied the arcanum of his lineage.
“What stands on the wall, Selen?” Louis asked, anxious.
“Abandon all hope you who enter here, for my body is a thin rope between two realms.”
“In any case, don’t open that door,” Lissandro muttered, insisting on each word. Louis had dreamed of the dragon, but what Lissandro had dreamed of was beyond words.
“But we must. This is exactly why we have been sent here,” Selen insisted, fighting back his fright.
“We should listen to Lissandro,” Louis said, stepping back.
“No! We have to end this war.” Selen grasped the handle and op
ened the door.
They stepped into the hall. Though he never had seen it with his own eyes, Lissandro recognized it at once. He had read the descriptions of such constructions in old ceremonial books. His mentor Alexei had told him about it, creations born in the depths of darkness, old as humanity itself. Yet, it was not a legend, the fruit of a sick mind. It was there in front of him. In all its infernal splendor.
The walls had the appearance of flesh, in various shades of red. Stuck in heaps of bones, ceremonial candles reflected their swaying lights and gave life to infernal shadows. Stalagmites rose from the ground to the invisible ceiling, dark as the night. Some half-formed supports had been carved into stoups of blood. Vitrified bodies poked out of what had been columns once. The corpses had been flayed and were twisted in agonizing poses. Their empty eye sockets gazed at them in reproach, as if the three men were guilty of their damnation.
“Are they…?” Louis muttered.
“The gifts from Elye,” Lissandro answered. “His experiments.”
They progressed through the hall. The ground was moist and soft. The smell was sweet, like rotten fruits. But the flesh was not corrupted. It was made to be preserved for eternity. Above Lissandro’s head, membranes floated as veils. The standards of hell, Lissandro thought. On the dais stood a throne of bones and spikes, and someone, or something, sat on it.
The human creature dressed in golden robes rose. His yellowish limbs were elongated, unnatural. His face was more than emaciated, bones had grown out of his skin and pointed out like spikes, as if the result of a malformation or a terrible sickness. Scales covered one of his eyes. The other looked dead. He twitched his long clawlike nails, inviting them to approach. Lissandro and his friends did not move.
“Are you Agroln?” Louis inquired with a faint, taut voice.
The creature had a circlet on his head, but his body was too deformed to be the one of a king.
Rising from Dust (Light from Aphelion Book 1) Page 36