by Tim Stead
“You should know better than to ask, old friend.”
Delf nodded. They embraced briefly.
“Good luck, Cal Serhan,” he said, then stepped out of the hut and was gone. Darius was sitting at the table still, looking at the plan for the temple. He was not familiar with such drawings, but his eye was good enough to see what it was.
“This building is obscene,” he said. “It treats wasted space as a virtue, and the grossness of it will oppress anyone who enters it.”
“An obscene building for an obscene purpose, Darius, but I believe that it will never be built.”
“I will not ask,” the captain said, rolling up the plan and handing it back to Serhan.
“You grow wise,” he laughed.
“You plan something reckless, though. I am sure of it.”
“I plan to fit the circumstances, and I act when the time is propitious. You would do the same, but it does not matter. I have business to attend to and things to arrange. Do not return to the fortress for at least an hour, but do not tarry much longer than that, for I may need you.”
“Again, I will do as you say.”
Serhan shook his hand and left the hut. It was bright outside, and a wind was coming up, blowing from the west. Dust was in the air. He blinked against it, turning his head and slitting his eyes. Perhaps the west wind was a good sign, something that signified himself.
He rode back around the base of the rock, and when he came to the track he rode up it into the fortress. All the time he was expecting something to change, everything to be different, but it was the same. Guardsmen did what guardsmen always did, the sun shone, the wind blew.
He returned the horse to the stable and went back to his chambers. He was relaxed. He was cheerful, greeting a few people that he knew on the way.
These actions had been planned for months, and he had lived them a hundred times in his head, but now it was different, and he felt light headed, almost drunk.
He went to the secret chamber and stood in front of the desk on which Soul Eater lay in its sheath. This was a moment that he had waited for, and he took his time. Slowly he slid the black blade free and held it in front of him.
There really was no choice. He was done with choosing until the doing was done.
He touched Corderan’s ring to the wall and stepped into it. When he stepped out he was in a part of the fortress that he had never been, a place that no man had stood for four hundred years.
He was afraid. The light was poor, the air was stale. He stared, trying to make out details.
Everything here had been flattened. A whole section of this level had been cleared, walls pulled down and decoration stripped. Even the outer walls on the south side had been demolished roughly so that the wind blew through into a huge open space at least fifty yards on every side and the remains of the shattered wall framed the opening like worn teeth.
The space was not empty. This was the lair of Dragan, most powerful of all the Faer Karan, and the most feared. Dragan did not tolerate humanity. Where he was sent, people died, everyone died. For this reason Serhan had chosen to come here. The great shape before him shifted, making a noise like a sack full of wheat dragged across a stone floor.
Dragan was aware of him. The great head swung round and the yellow eyes with their slitted pupils regarded him. The head alone was larger than Serhan, perhaps larger than Gerique, but he forced himself to remember that it was only an illusion, an act of will.
“Who are you?” Its voice was deep, like thunder, but quiet.
“I am Serhan, Seneschal of White Rock. A man.”
“He should have known better than to send you to me.”
“I come of my own will.”
“To die?”
“Perhaps.”
Serhan could see Dragan’s flanks swelling as he drew in breath, and when he released that breath it would be nothing but fire and annihilation. He lifted the sword and aimed a great cut at the creatures head, noting as he did so that the Faer Karani did not flinch from the blow, did not even seem to notice it. What could a sword do to one so mighty?
There was a sound like a cork being drawn from a bottle.
Soul Eater bucked slightly in his hands, but met no further resistance. The hilt became slightly warm and Serhan nearly pitched over forwards, carried by the weight of his blow. He was astonished to see that Dragan was no longer there. He looked around the great space for a moment, hardly daring to believe.
So easy?
He sheathed his blade and walked with feet that wanted to dance over to the broken wall that had been Dragan’s door. Beyond the shattered stone he could see the lands of White Rock stretching away to the south. He was filled with a growing sense of elation. It worked. His magic had worked and he had done something that no man had ever done. He had defeated a Faer Karani, driven it from the world; and not just any of them. He had banished Dragan.
One of four hundred.
It was almost as if Rin had spoken to him again, but the thought was his own. There were still three hundred and ninety-nine to deal with, and it was a great task, even if it was well begun. He put his hand to the injured stone.
In time I will heal this place.
He stepped back and used the ring to move to another part of the fortress. Now he stood at the foot of the Faer Karan stair, his sword sheathed and the temple plans in his hand. How many times he had climbed this stair ignorant of what cause he was to serve and less than eager to know it? Now it was his own cause, and his own will that took him upwards.
At the great door which headed the staircase he paused again, but this was not hesitation. He paused to relish the moment, and realised as he stood there, savouring the conflict to come, that he was completing Brial’s mission, serving yet another cause that was not his own. But in truth Brial had become unimportant; a scar from a distant time that now only itched and annoyed him. There was no longer real anger when he thought of his old master. He was free of him.
He knocked quietly on the door. It was a door that demanded to be hammered by a fist or the hilt of a dagger, but he knew that Balgoan the doorkeeper was there, and would hear him. The softness of his knock was almost an insult in itself.
The door opened.
He quickly adopted a kneeling posture. In the years that he had served Gerique at White Rock the doorkeeper had never permitted the same informality that had become commonplace between his master and Serhan. He demanded the customary forms.
“Faer Karani,” he said. “I have come with something that your lord has required from me – the plans…”
“I do not wish to know, mortal man,” Balgoan cut him off. So there was some friction there, too. Perhaps even the loyal doorkeeper did not admire the idea of godhood.
“As you wish, Faer Karani.”
“Now rise and take your plans to the great one.”
“As you command, Faer Karani.”
He stood and walked forwards, feeling the doorkeeper behind him every step, close behind. He paused before the final door and turned again.
“One more thing, Balgoan…”
“You dare to name me?”
The Faer Karani’s eyes flared and he stepped towards him, hands reaching out, exactly as Serhan had planned he should. Even so he was barely fast enough. Soul Eater sang as it flew from its sheath, and this time Serhan was confident, knew what to expect.
There was a jolt, a pop, and the chamber was empty.
It will become more difficult than this.
He sheathed Soul Eater again and pulled on the great door. It swung slowly open. This was going to be the real test. Dragan had been powerful but stupid. Balgoan was brighter, but less confident and easily manipulated. Gerique was the best of them all. His only real weakness was arrogance.
He left the door open and stepped inside. Gerique was aware of him almost at once, and rose from where he sat to face him.
“My lord, I have the plans that you commanded.”
“For a temple?”
Gerique looked puzzled, and did not come forwards.
“Yes, My Lord.” He held out the scroll for the Faer Karani to see.
“Did you speak to Balgoan?”
“I did my lord, but I think that he left. He did not seem to be enthusiastic about the plans, or perhaps the temple. I do not know.”
Gerique nodded absently and beckoned him forwards.
“Show me,” he said.
Serhan unrolled the plan on a convenient table and pinned it down in the corners so that it would stay unfurled. He stepped back. He was waiting for a moment when Gerique’s attention was elsewhere, and he was close enough to draw and strike quickly.
Gerique seemed disinclined to cooperate. He looked briefly at the plans and then raised his head and looked distractedly into space. After a while he looked at the plans again. Serhan allowed his hand to move towards the hilt of his sword.
Gerique stood again.
“What have you done?” he asked.
“I do not understand the question, my lord.” Gerique was looking at him now. Perhaps there was to be no surprise attack after all. It made things that much harder.
“Balgoan is gone. I can sense him wherever he is, and I cannot sense him at all. Dragan is gone, too.”
“Gone, my lord?”
“No longer in this world. How have you done this?”
“Perhaps some other Faer Karani…” but he knew that he had been caught out.
“Balgoan was with you a moment ago. I sensed him. You admitted it.”
It seemed odd to Serhan that the Faer Karani showed no fear at all. Two of his mighty and previously undefeated servants had been disposed of in some way that he did not understand, and yet he did not seem concerned, or even angry.
It was all about speed now. He ripped Soul Eater from its sheath and tried to move sideways and forwards at the same time, but Gerique did not have to draw breath to strike, he was not as arrogant as Dragan.
A bolt of what must have been pure energy, or raw magic, leaped from Gerique in Serhan’s direction, and he raised his sword, more by instinct than wisdom, to fend off the strike.
It worked. Soul Eater swallowed the raw power like a chasm swallowing a waterfall. Serhan was unharmed, and for a moment they looked at each other across a space of no more than twelve feet. Gerique looked surprised. That was something that Serhan had never seen before.
“I see,” Gerique said.
Serhan felt his muscles bunch for the leap that would put him within striking distance of the Faer Karani when something, a small noise or a movement in the air, told him that there was danger at his back. He leaped to one side, turning, trying to get his blade between him and whatever it was. He was not quite quick enough.
The bookcase struck him on the right side and threw him hard into the wall. It hurt a lot, but nothing seemed to break. Even as he assessed his injuries he could see other furniture beginning to move, surging across the room towards him. Things seemed to slow down, and he had a moment to think. He took advantage of the moment.
His hand was next to the wall, and he pressed Corderan’s ring to the stone, in the same moment rolling towards it. He watched with fascination as almost all the room’s furniture, bookcases, desks, cupboards, chairs, smashed with considerable force against the point at which he had been lying. It was like watching a furious and malevolent storm of splintered wood just inches from his face. He shuddered while he lay safe inside the wall.
It was over in a few seconds, and he stood, still safe within the stone, and stepped out to face Gerique with Soul Eater held before him.
“Run out of furniture?” he asked. There was no deference in his voice now. All pretence was gone.
“I underestimated you,” Gerique said. “You have the key.”
Serhan limped towards him, his leg painful where the bookcase had struck him, and the Faer Karani backed away. He followed, but was unable to close the gap until he had more or less backed Gerique into a corner.
“Nowhere to run now,” he said.
“I have no need to run, Mortal Man,” Gerique replied. “I have summoned the power of the Faer Karan, and now I wield the strength of all my kind. You cannot stand against us.”
“So if I defeat you I defeat all. That is a fair challenge.”
He stepped forwards again and met another blast of raw power from Gerique. It was far greater than the first, but Soul Eater swallowed it as easily, though the hilt grew warm. That could be a problem, the warmth, the heat. Just how much power would flow through the blade?
He struck. It was like pushing the blade into treacle. The hilt shuddered in his hands and Gerique roared. He could not tell if it was anger, fear, pain, it was just so loud. Glass shattered. He could feel the rush of power through Soul Eater, like standing by a great waterfall, it seemed to suck at him, draw him down into it.
The hilt was more than warm. It was hot, and then very quickly it was very hot.
As fast as he could he ripped at his jacket, winding what he could tear off around his right hand while he held onto the sword with his left, then he changed hands. That was better, but it rapidly became clear to him that he had not solved the problem.
He had made a mistake, and it was going to cost him dearly.
It got hotter. He could feel the heat on his face, forcing him to turn away, trying to protect his eyes and mouth. It was getting difficult to breath. Now his right hand was burning, and there was a smell of smoke as the cloth around his fist began to smoulder. His left hand was sore, but he ripped off more cloth and protected it as best he could.
The power still flowed unabated through the blade, bleeding into the hilt. It could be minutes, or longer still before the power of the Faer Karan was exhausted. If he let go of the blade he would be dead in moments. There would be no mercy from Gerique after this. If he held on he would probably die from the heat. His hands were already burned, and the pain was getting worse.
He spoke the spell that would reduce the pain, but nothing happened. For a moment he was confused. His ears were ringing from Gerique’s continuous roaring, his hands hurt, he was twisted away from the hilt of the sword, and his eyes were all but closed against it. It was the sword. Even the simple spells that could help him were made ineffectual by its power, sucked into the blackness of the blade.
So this was it, then. He would hold on, find a way to hold on until his hands were burned and useless and could grip no more. Then he would die.
He could feel his face beginning to burn, could smell his hair. His arms had become two rivers of pain, flowing up into his body, crashing into his mind like a great waterfall, eroding his consciousness. There was a blackness at the edge of his mind.
Remember hate. Hate was good. He thought of Mai. He thought of Dragan, and all the innocent people burned. This was their time, and he was their instrument of revenge.
His right hand began to fail, the sword to slip, and he seized it with his left hand, allowing the right to fall away and hang uselessly by his side. It was just pain now. That was its function, to give him pain.
His sleeve caught fire. All around the room small fires were appearing among the shattered wood and scattered paper.
He could hear another noise now, and it took him a moment to realise that it was himself, screaming.
43 New World
Darius Grand rode through the unguarded gates of White Rock into a scene of complete confusion. It seemed that everyone that lived under White Rock’s roof was in the courtyard. He saw cooks, grooms, guardsmen and even servants. They all looked afraid. Some stood around silently in small groups, others engaged in animated conversations, shouting and gesticulating at each other. Some arguments were on the verge of becoming fights, and here and there people openly wept.
Cora appeared at his side.
“Something terrible has happened,” she said.
“Tell me.” It had to be Serhan.
“About ten minutes ago there was a great howling from up there,” she glanced up towar
ds the windows of Gerique’s quarters, and for the first time Darius saw that they were shattered. Smoke was drifting out through what was left of the frames. Bits of wood stuck out at angles, and glass littered the courtyard. “It went on for five minutes, maybe six, and then suddenly stopped. We went up to the door and pounded on it, but there is no answer.”
Darius shivered. So there was no sign of Serhan, and none of Gerique. He knew what needed to be done now, but he did not relish the task. Like everyone else, he was afraid. This is the way that everything ends. White Rock was a world, and its centre was Gerique, and perhaps Serhan. Without them it would fall apart, and without White Rock the world would soon follow. For now its people needed to know that something was being done, to believe that someone knew what to do.
He looked about the courtyard and saw a small group of four guardsmen that he knew were level headed, loyal to him and were bearing arms. He abandoned his horse and strode through the crowd.
“Captain,” one of them said, seeing him approach, “We are relieved to see you. We do not know what has happened.”
“We must discover what it is,” he replied. “We must go up.”
They exchanged fearful glances, but in a moment found their courage. Their faces became calmer, resolute, the faces of guardsmen.
“We are ready to do as you command, Captain.”
He led them across the chaotic courtyard to the foot of the Faer Karan stair. As they went the crowd parted for them, and people recognised Darius. They called out to him, asking what was happening, what they should do. At the doorway he paused and faced them, standing on the second step and looking out so that all could see him. He scanned the crowd briefly, but could see no sign on Colonel Stil. He felt false and untrue, like a mask concealing a dead face. They trusted him.
“I know as little as you,” he announced. “But something has happened, and we must discover what it is. I am going up. When I come back down I will tell you all what has come to pass.” If I come back down.
It was all he could offer them, but at least they would know that someone was doing something. They had something to wait for. He turned and walked up the stairs. He took them slowly, almost expecting to meet someone, or something, coming down, but the stairs were empty.