Masque of Death (Kormak Book Nine) (The Kormak Saga 9)

by William King

  “Seemed is the operative word,” said Rhiana.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” said Shahad. Zamara’s praise of the merchant had fuelled his rage.

  “The Count is right,” said Kormak. “We need to find the shapeshifter and fast. I want this house searched from top to bottom. Everyone is to go in groups of at least six, and they are not to let anyone in their group get out of sight.”

  Zamara’s face blanched as he realised the reason for this. He swallowed once and said, “And what are we looking for?”

  “Hidden cellars, secret passages, places of concealment, vaults. We’ll know it when we find it.”

  “As you wish, Guardian,” Zamara said and turned to give orders to Terves.

  “And get Frater Ramon up here! I want him to take a look at this,” Kormak added.

  Frater Ramon wheezed his way into the chamber, looked at the corpse and said, “I think there is something here that I can work with.”

  Kormak looked at him and said, “You’d better get on with it then. I can’t help but feel that we are running out of time.”

  The priest nodded and kneeled down in the centre of the mess. He closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, holding the two central fingers of each hand to his palm with his thumbs. He took a deep breath, exhaled for seven heartbeats and then in a long monotonous whisper began to repeat words in the Old Tongue over and over again.

  Kormak felt the elder sign grow warm against his chest as the magician intoned. Tendrils of light emerged from Frater Ramon hands and touched his brow. Slowly he lowered his hands, and the guttural chanting faded. His eyes opened, and they contained a yellowish glow. He turned those blind-seeming eyes towards the Guardian and then sniffed the air like a hound tracing for a scent.

  The priest’s head tilted to one side like that of a falcon. There was something inhuman about the mannerism as if he had been possessed by some demonic entity from the Outer Dark. He sniffed the air again; his eyes focused on Kormak, and he shook his head ever so slightly as if he did not like what he smelled.

  “There is something strange here,” Frater Ramon said. “There are two scents, but one of them is not very strong. It’s almost as if I am picking up traces attached to the man’s clothes rather than the scent of the man himself.”

  “Is it a human scent?” Kormak asked. “Or is it something else?”

  “Human, I would say. But there is something distinctly odd about it. Something altered. That’s just a guess, though. The chances are that under normal circumstances I would not have noticed it at all. It seems to be fading very quickly. It’s almost gone now.”

  “Can you follow it?”

  The priest rose to his feet. The glow faded in his eyes until it was all but imperceptible in the lantern light. If you looked closely, you could still see it, and Kormak guessed that in the darkness it would be very evident, but right now Frater Ramon looked human. It was just as well; Kormak didn’t want to spook the soldiers with them if it could be helped.

  The priest sniffed the air once again. His brow wrinkled in confusion. “This is a very slippery creature.”

  He snuffled like a hound on a scent then moved over to a large wardrobe, opened it and inspected it.

  “It looks like there is some clothing missing.” Kormak fought down his disappointment. That meant nothing. Perhaps the merchant had sent it to be cleaned. Frater Ramon smiled triumphantly.

  “He took the clothing. He put it on. There are traces of camphor and mothballs on it. I can follow them as long as the spell lasts.”

  “How long have we got?” How long a mage could maintain a spell depended on his strength. Kormak had known magicians who could keep tracking spells alive for days if need be. He had also known those who had only the stamina to keep them up for minutes. Frater Ramon did not look like he had that much strength in him.

  “I can hold this level of concentration for about half an hour. The trail leads out of here and down the stairs. I think we’re going to have to go underground.”

  Kormak and the rest of the small party followed the soldiers down into the basement. The trail ended at a stone wall.

  It was dark, and they only had the flickering light of lanterns to work with. Rhiana produced a glowing green gem from inside her jerkin. Kormak inspected the wall closely. He was reminded of Count Balthazar’s mansion and the secret library. He tapped the wall, with his ear pressed against it and heard a faint echo.

  Shahad strode right up to the stone. He extended his hands and began to push. His breath rasped within his chest as he exerted his full strength. The stone did not move. He muttered something and drew back his meaty fist as if to punch the rock.

  Kormak put a restraining hand on his arm. “Wait,” he said. “There will be better uses for your hands than breaking them on unyielding rock.”

  “I have seen things like this before,” said Frater Ramon. “I can open this.”

  He traced an eldritch rune in the air with his finger. The symbol hovered in the air, limned in witch light. Ramon swept his hand through the symbol and slapped the wall, speaking a word of power. Kormak felt the amulet on his chest grow warm. There was a grinding sound, and the wall seemed to slide sideways and vanish.

  “A useful spell,” said Kormak.

  “If ever I lose my keys,” said Frater Ramon. His smile was wan. Kormak could tell that using all this magic was draining the man’s strength fast. They needed to push on.

  The opening led into a darkened tunnel. The floor was damp. There were puddles of moisture and traces of what must have been boot prints.

  “Escape tunnel,” Zamara said.

  “Or an easy way of coming and going,” Rhiana said. “Sometimes merchants don’t want to be seen leaving their houses or for others to know who is visiting them.”

  “You sound like a smuggler,” Zamara said, smiling at her.

  She smiled back. “Funny that.”

  Kormak said, “There’re tracks here—water splashed from puddles in the floor, boot prints in the mud. I would say they are fairly recent. It’s a good bet that the men we are looking for came this way.”

  Shahad pushed past them into the tunnel. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “There might be traps,” Kormak said.

  The nobleman ignored him and fumbled his way forward into the darkness.

  By the light of Rhiana’s glowing pearl, they stalked forward through the gloom. The ceiling was low overhead. The stonework had taken on a coarse ancient look.

  “We’re deep under the city now,” said Shahad. “These tunnels were built long before the Solari got here. The city was built on top of them.”

  “Funny that Orson’s house should just happen to sit on top of an entrance,” Zamara said.

  “I doubt it is a coincidence,” said Kormak.

  “They go on a bloody long way,” Rhiana said. She hunched down even more than she had to. A haunted look flickered in her eyes. She did not like being underground. Kormak understood that. He felt the same way himself but not to the same extent. He reached out and squeezed her hand in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. She gave him a scared grin.

  Behind him, Kormak could hear the marines grumbling. They did not like being here any more than she did. He hoped they were not going down into some underground temple complex. He had spent too much time in such places dealing with the legacy of the Old Ones.

  Shahad muttered to himself. He was on the verge of cracking completely, and it was not because he was afraid. He was mad with grief over the death of his wife and filled with anger not just at her killers but at himself.

  The tunnel ran down a long way. The air grew cold and clammy.

  Kormak’s breath came out misty. It was hard to believe that above ground it was warm enough to make men sweat.

  Somewhere up ahead of them, a monster waited. The familiar pulse of excitement began in his brain. He lived for this, for the thrill of the hunt, for the feeling of being alive it brought. Ahead of him was a de
adly enemy that might prove the death of him but at that moment, he did not care.

  His heart beat faster. His wits were keener. His sword felt steady in his hand. The tunnel curved upwards again. A look of relief passed across Rhiana’s face. They were heading towards the surface once more.

  The muscles of Kormak’s legs felt the change. The slope was steep. The stonework slippery. Here and there he could see traces where men had fallen on the slick floor. He glanced ahead. There was some space behind the support arches where men might lurk, but he doubted anything human would wait here in the darkness to ambush them.

  The arches themselves were carved with ancient runes and stone faces of demon gods. This is how the local people had seen the Old Ones when the Eldrim had ruled them. There were many skulls carved into the stonework. The local gods were gods of death.

  Ahead of them was a larger arch. There did not appear to be any exit, but that did not trouble him. He was sure given time they would find one. There had been no place for the people they were following to turn off.

  Frater Ramon repeated his opening spell.

  The stone block slid sideways. Warm night air hit his face bringing with it the smell of lush plant life and rot. Looking down the slope, he could see that they were outside the city walls and looking down at the great ziggurat of Xothak.

  Lights moved through the streets of smaller buildings surrounding the towering temple. As he watched, they vanished. He tried to memorise their position when they had winked out.

  The brilliant moon blazed down on the old ruins. The soldiers emerged from the tunnel behind them.

  Rhiana said, “There is power in that place tonight.” She pointed at the temple. Kormak was in no way surprised.

  “We’d best be getting down there. Shahad, you men, all stay back. I want Rhiana beside me with her light so I can see any tracks, and I don’t want them spoiled.”

  No one except Shahad seemed inclined to object, and even he kept his mouth closed. Kormak began to pad forward, Rhiana at his side. The green light of the pearl showed more prints on a trail leading down.

  “Not many people come here,” said Shahad. “They avoid the parts of the city near the ruins. They are supposed to be haunted.”

  “Perhaps they are,” said Kormak.

  “You have a way of saying the least reassuring things, Sir Kormak,” said Zamara.

  The ancient streets near the temple closed in around them. Like the walls of the buildings around them, the pavement was made from blocks of solid stone. Lichen blotched the rock. Huge gaps rent the stonework in places.

  “Quarried by the locals,” said Frater Ramon “They used the stone to build the walls of Maial and some of the towers. They broke it up to make dykes for their fields. It was just another resource as far as the Sunlanders were concerned. Some say the stone was accursed. That is why Maial is such a wicked city.”

  It was less far-fetched than it sounded. It was possible that the residue of old evil magic had impregnated the stone, that the taint had spread to the city’s inhabitants. Kormak had seen stranger things.

  “Why did the people not move away?” Rhiana asked.

  “They were lazy.” Shahad did not bother to hide the contempt in his voice. “And the stone was there, and they believed the priests when they said the place was purified.”

  There were some gasps at his tone. Such words would have been enough to have Shahad dragged up before the Inquisition back in Siderea.

  “Perhaps the place was purified,” Zamara said. “Perhaps the curse is in your imagination.”

  It was obvious from his tone of voice that the Admiral did not really believe that. In the gleaming moonlight amid the ruins of the ancient city of the moon worshippers, it would have been difficult to do so. There was a sense of palpable evil about the place. Kormak took out his wraithstone amulet. The shadowy threads in the centre did not seem any thicker than they had done before. If there was a taint in this place, it was slow and subtle.

  Ahead the ziggurat loomed. Their path had taken them to it in a suspiciously straight line. Kormak wondered if the tunnel beneath the city had been aligned with it. Often such things had a geomantic significance to the builders. This was particularly true of the moon worshippers, who liked to weave potent spells into their structures.

  Ahead of them the shadow of an arch loomed like the maw of a waiting beast. Through it came the echoes of thousands of voices, chanting, singing, talking drunkenly. Hundreds of lights flickered. Hundreds of drums thundered.

  “Last night of the Masque of Death,” said Frater Ramon. “Everyone still capable of walking will be in the Temple Quarter to taunt the Lord of Skulls.”

  Kormak looked at the ominous bulk of the ruins. A premonition of death flickered through his mind.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kormak and his companions plunged into the crowds revelling in the Temple Quarter. More and more celebrants surrounded them. Some were naked except for body paint and the smallest of loincloths. Some of them wore elaborate costumes. Many were smeared with dye in deep reds or yellows or greens.

  Something tumbled through the air towards Kormak, spilling a cargo of red as it did so. He ducked. It passed over his head and splattered against Zamara, turning the Admiral’s tunic as crimson as if he had taken a mortal wound. For a moment, Zamara looked outraged and then he grinned.

  “Dye,” he said. “If this is the worst thing that hits me tonight. I’ll be happy.”

  Frater Ramon shook his head. The glow in his eyes was dimming, and his shoulders had started to slump. He sniffed the air then said, “Too many people, too many scents, too much incense. This is going to be much more difficult than it was below ground. I’m going to have to concentrate harder, and I will burn out quicker.”

  “Do what you can,” said Kormak. “Don’t give up now. We must be getting close.”

  They pushed their way through the bodies of the revellers. Arms reached out from the crowd to try and draw them into embraces. Someone offered one of the marines a hookah and was rebuffed with a blow.

  Skeletons danced around them. Men and women in skull masks, their bodies painted with white lines against black backgrounds frolicked around them and taunted them. Kormak considered striking out at them, but that would most likely only cause a riot. Instead, he stuck close to the sorcerer and shouldered his way through the crowd, stepping on feet when he had to, nudging people in the ribs with his elbow when it was needed.

  Frater Ramon stiffened, rose up on his toes and took a deep breath through his nostrils. “We are getting very close. Not much further now.”

  Kormak’s heart hammered at his ribs. Mostly it was excitement, but some of it came from the narcotic incense that filled the air and made his skin tingle.

  The thunder of drums sounded like a giant’s heartbeat in Anders’ ears. The night was a riot of colour and sound and smell. The scent of a dozen different narcotics reached his nostrils. People laughed and danced and threw paper bags full of dye at each other. The bags burst in an explosion of pigment, transforming their targets. Few were offended. Most laughed at the person who had assaulted them. More often than not they went off arm in arm into the night.

  Grim-faced mercenaries surrounded Anders. Their glances flickered everywhere seeking potential threats. These men were keyed up to such a high pitch that any flash of motion drew their attention immediately.

  Orson ploughed through the crowd like a bear, pushing aside anyone who made to embrace him. Somehow the bags of dye never made contact. For such a large man he moved with surprising grace.

  With all the chaos surrounding them, the guards were distracted. Orson was not watching them either. Anders looked at Gregor to see how the little man was taking it. One bruised eye framed itself into a wink. Gregor spat on the ground near one of the guards’ feet, and the guard did not notice it. Anders chose to take this is a good omen.

  Just as he was congratulating himself on spotting the opportunity, he saw something that made his he
art sink. Shouldering through the crowd in their direction was the Guardian who had been with Orson earlier. Accompanying him was a man in the robes of a priest, and a large group of hard-looking soldiers garbed as Imperial marines.

  Better not go that way if we make a run for it, Anders thought. It looked as if one escape route had been cut off. He turned, seeking another path. Orson stared back the way he had been looking. Something like fear showed on his face.

  What was going on here, Anders wondered? Had there been a falling out between the Guardian and the merchant? If hostilities broke out, that would certainly increase his chances of getting away.

  He balled his fists, took a deep breath and made ready to run.

  The changeling cursed. Of all the dreadful luck. The idiot revellers surrounding him had delayed him long enough for the Guardian to catch up.

  It did not seem possible unless the man was aided by the gods or magic. Then the changeling noticed the faint glow in the eyes of the priest standing at Kormak’s side. Sorcery was indeed involved.

  The wizard pointed a finger at him.

  The changeling’s mind raced. How was a mage able to follow him? His aura was untraceable.

  He told himself not to panic. He had been in tighter situations. First, he would kill the magician and then the Guardian if he could. If that was impossible, he would disappear into the crowd, altering his form so that he could not be followed. Whatever happened the wizard must die. Someone who could track him through this night and crowd could not be allowed to live.

  The false Orson dived away from his mercenaries and into the crowd, letting his features flow into a new shape. The extra muscles in his torso collapsed altering the outline of his form.

  He reached into his tunic and drew out his poisoned stiletto, the one certain way of ending this particular threat.

  Kormak followed the pointing finger. It drew his attention directly to the massive form of Orson. Or rather the creature that had taken the merchant’s shape. He was surrounded by soldiers and loomed over a couple of battered looking men who might have been prisoners.