Wrath of Kerberos tok-9

by Jonathan Oliver

  His heart racing, Emuel gulped down a mouthful of water before looking towards the great hole that had been punched into the desert floor. The sand surrounding it glowed a pale rose, then a deep scarlet as it cooled. He could hear a gentle hissing, as of gas escaping, and a hollow creaking noise. Hitching his pack onto his back, he set off, all the while checking above him and gingerly shielding his head with his cloak.

  When he reached the edge of the steaming pit, Emuel overbalanced and fell on his back, scrabbling with his arms for purchase, his feet momentarily kicking against nothing but air. Recovering himself, he stood and peered down into the crater.

  The steam obscured whatever it was that sat at the heart of the pit. There was a stench of rotting eggs and Emuel gagged; he tore a strip of cloth from his robe and tied it over his nose and mouth. Eventually the clouds dispersed and he saw a perfectly spherical rock, nestling in the blackened sand.

  Emuel cautiously picked his way down the side of the pit. At the bottom he looked up; the obsidian jewel rose before him to a height of just over seven feet. He put his hand to the stone, and it was flesh-warm. He rapped lightly upon it and it responded with a judder that made him stagger back. He watched it warily for a few moments, but the sphere remained still, and Emuel approached again.

  This time he thought that he could hear a low rhythmic thudding and, putting his ear to the stone, he heard the unmistakable sound of a slow, steady heartbeat. The realisation that this wasn’t just a rock, and that there was something within the sphere, cut through Emuel’s curiosity to where raw fear lay. He began to scrabble his way back up the side of the pit, but before he could pull himself out, there was a loud crack and he looked down to see a jagged rent running from the top of the sphere, a clear fluid leaking from it. Another fissure appeared, then another; an entire section of stone dropping back to reveal part of what lay within.

  And that was what really sent Emuel racing away from the hole and sprinting across the sand, for there, staring out at him from the heart of the broken black stone, was a huge, yellow eye.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ignacio shut the telescope and handed it back to Lieutenant Stefanelli.

  “I can confirm that there is no sign of Emuel or Lieutenant Berling.”

  “That’s seven members of the expedition we’ve lost,” Stefanelli said. “What is more, we appear to be nowhere near the remains of the Llothriall. I have absolutely no idea where we are, for that matter. I mean, where is Kerberos?”

  Ignacio was perturbed by the note of panic that had entered the lieutenant’s voice. This man had been hand-picked by Katherine Makennon to lead the expedition, but he was already losing control. He looked back towards the camp, but nobody among the tents and equipment would meet his eye. A few were praying, while the remainder were polishing swords, although quite what they expected to meet in all this nothingness was beyond him.

  “Brother Sebastian,” Ignacio said, waving over the priest. “Can you perhaps use magic to ascertain the location of the Llothriall? It could be that it’s close by and we just don’t realise it.”

  “Ignacio!” Stefanelli snapped. “May I remind you that until a few days ago you were considered nothing less than a heretic by the Final Faith. Just who do you think is in charge of this expedition?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but, with all due respect, it doesn’t appear to be you.”

  “Sinner!” Stefanelli began to draw his sword.

  “Please, Angelo,” Brother Sebastian said. “ Please. Let us try what Ignacio suggested. I’m sure that he didn’t mean to undermine your authority. The Lord of All forgives, lieutenant. We must remember that.”

  “The Lord of All also punishes the wicked.”

  Nonetheless, having had the last word, Lieutenant Stefanelli backed down.

  Brother Sebastian drew a circle in the sand, marking the circumference at three points with thick oil from a stoneware flask, which he re-sealed and handed it to Ignacio.

  “If I may have your assistance, brother, I will be most grateful.”

  Ignacio helped the priest lay out the elements required for the spell to work. He had never had the discipline for magic himself, and these days it was solely the preserve of the Final Faith. He could remember a time — during the last war between Vos and Pontaine — when every town or village had at least three mages amongst their citizens. Now any unlicensed use of magic was seen as blasphemy. Having witnessed the destruction that could be wrought through sorcery, Ignacio found himself in sympathy with this measure. After all, wasn’t the Church just trying to protect the common people?

  Brother Sebastian sat in the centre of his circle and closed his eyes. Ignacio was aware of the rest of the camp watching them, urging the priest to locate the broken ship they had been sent here to find. After half an hour, there were impatient coughs and the shuffling of feet. Ignacio thought that perhaps the priest had nodded off — he could understand that, in this heat — but when a fly landed on his nose, Brother Sebastian swatted it away angrily before opening his eyes.

  “They’re not there.”

  “What are not there?” Lieutenant Stefanelli said, striding over.

  “The threads. There is simply no magic to call upon.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ignacio said. “How can there be no magic?”

  “So, let me get this right, we’ve been sent to a place with no Kerberos and, more importantly, no magic!” the lieutenant cried, a note of hysteria entering his voice. “Well, isn’t that just great? That silly bitch Makennon and her ancient wreck of a sorcerer have gone and sent us God knows where on a mission we can’t possibly fulfill. We’re farked! Good and proper farked!”

  “How dare you refer to the Anointed Lord as a silly bitch?” Brother Sebastian said, getting to his feet. “She is the Lord of All’s representative on Twilight.”

  “Yes, but here her authority counts for shit.”

  Ignacio knew blasphemy when he heard it and, as a member of the Swords of Dawn, he was supposed to punish blasphemy wherever he encountered it.

  He drew his sword.

  “Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli. You are relieved of your duties, by the authority vested in me by the Anointed Lord, Katherine Makennon.”

  “What?”

  “You have committed an act of blasphemy and are no longer fit to serve as a representative of the Order of the Swords of Dawn.”

  “Brother Sebastian,” Stefanelli said. “Kill this man.”

  But the priest wasn’t armed, and even if he had been it was clear he had no inclination to carry out the lieutenant’s order. Indeed, nobody in the camp had moved to interrupt the altercation. As the newest recruit to the Swords, Ignacio was taking an enormous risk, but ever since the light of the Lord had been revealed to him, he was determined to take his duties seriously.

  Lieutenant Stefanelli used his own sword to bat away Ignacio’s blade.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ignacio. Has the sun got to you? Do you even know how to use that thing? Makennon only sent you on this expedition because of your affiliation with the rogue crew of the Llothriall. Don’t think for a moment that the Faith has any trust in you as a member of the Swords, or that it was ever the intention that you return from this expedition alive.”

  Ignacio brought his sword to bear again. “Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli.”

  The man standing before Ignacio was easily a head taller than he and broader across the shoulders, but he had killed bigger men before. The lieutenant’s anger would work against him.

  When their blades met, Ignacio shifted his weight onto his back foot and circled Stefanelli’s sword around his wrist, before forcing it away. For a moment there seemed to be an opening, but the sunlight suddenly blazed from Stefanelli’s weapon, dazzling Ignacio and forcing him to swing blindly. Fortunately he connected with Stefanelli’s attack before it could pierce his belly and forced the tip of the weapon down into the sand.

  Ignacio stepped back and circled around to his righ
t, so that the sun was now on his left, and moved to attack.

  Stefanelli was a fraction too late to turn Ignacio’s blade and he cried out as a deep cut appeared in his right bicep. Whatever zeal and righteous hatred drove him on enabled him to keep hold of his sword, but his forearm was now soaked with blood and he was visibly pained.

  “Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli.” Ignacio said again, meeting the man’s gaze with his own, trying to match the look of righteous fury that he saw there.

  “Angelo, this is insanity,” Brother Sebastian said. “Please, do what Ignacio says, just until we get this misunderstanding sorted out.”

  Lieutenant Stefanelli didn’t respond to the priest’s pleas; instead he moved in on Ignacio again, swinging his sword in low, coming in close and stepping so that Ignacio had to turn to face the sun.

  Momentarily blinded, Ignacio still managed to parry Stefanelli’s next few lunges. The lieutenant was weakening now, his face grey. He shifted his grip on his blade and fractionally changed his stance, and Ignacio saw his opportunity.

  Ignacio feinted to the right and stepped in close on his left foot. Stefanelli fell for the bluff and Ignacio’s sword went low into his back, the tip emerging briefly from his side before withdrawing.

  Ignacio flicked blood from his sword as Lieutenant Stefanelli fell to his knees.

  Brother Sebastian came over and prepared to perform the last rites, until a hand on his shoulder stilled him.

  “No, brother,” said a petite, dark-haired warrior of the Swords, whom Ignacio remembered was called Susannah. “This one does not deserve your mercy, or absolution.”

  Susannah grabbed Stefanelli by the hair and, with one efficient strike from her blade, removed his head from his shoulders.

  “Burn the remains, Brother Sebastian.”

  Susannah threw the head to the ground and held her hand out to Ignacio; blood slicked her palm.

  “The Lord of All chose well, Ignacio, and has revealed to us his chosen warrior. Will you lead us on this expedition?”

  Ignacio looked at the headless corpse at his feet and the blood staining the sand. His had been the hand of judgement and it felt right that his sword had been the tool of the Lord’s vengeance.

  “Do you see the light, brother?”

  “Yes.” Hadn’t this been the glory revealed to him in the cells of Scholten Cathedral? Hadn’t this been the path that the Lord had intended he take all along? “Yes, I see the light.”

  “Then lead us. Help us to find Makennon’s heretics and bring them to justice.”

  Ignacio took Susannah’s hand. Once the Final Faith had been his enemy, but now he could see that all he had been running from was his own destiny.

  Emuel didn’t know how long he had been crawling. Perhaps days. Once he had walked, but his water had run out, the sun had leached the last of his strength and he had been reduced to this — a babbling infant amongst the dunes. Even when the night came there was no relief; the moon burned as hot as the sun, its brilliant white heat searing into the very core of him.

  He had come as far as his body would allow and the darkness that was closing in had little to do with the night. Emuel welcomed it, but until it claimed him there was time for one last song.

  He took something of the song of the dunes, something of the song of the Stone Seers and something of the song at the heart of the Llothriall, and wove the cadences together. Though his throat was dry and his lungs ached, the quiet music that came from him made the coming end seem somewhat less terrible.

  Emuel’s breath faltered and he struggled to draw the air he needed to finish the song; it came only in a whistling gasp. His heart slowed, each beat shaking his body, the silences between them becoming longer and longer.

  In one of these silences he heard something moving across the sand towards him. He managed to raise himself on his elbows — though doing so caused him incredible pain — and what Emuel saw filled him with horror.

  The thing that had hatched from the obsidian egg had found him.

  It moved with its belly low to the ground, crawling on four stumpy legs that seemed unsure of themselves, as though they had only recently learned how to walk. Behind it, it dragged a barbed, whip-thin tail and the evening breeze rippled the paper-thin membranes of its wings. The creature’s hide was jet-black and reflected the moonlight in a golden sheen. It had grown since hatching: it stood almost three feet high at the shoulder, and was approximately the length of a grown man from its snout to the tip of its tail.

  Emuel hoped he had outpaced the beast, but now it was clear that it had been following him all along. Sensing his weariness, it was moving in for an easy meal. The eunuch didn’t have the strength to defend himself, so he sent up a prayer for a quick death.

  As the beast came, it was accompanied by a sighing that, at first, Emuel took to be the wind, but as the creature loomed over him and its hot breath blasted into his face, he realised that the noise was coming from deep within its throat. The creature swayed in time with its song. It was then that Emuel realised what it was doing; it was repeating the song that had not long since come from his own lips. The music was growing in strength and Emuel felt strangely invigorated by it. His body no longer burned with the dry heat of the desert, his breath no longer scalded his lungs.

  The creature looked into Emuel’s eyes as the song came to an end. It unfurled its wings and, as its shadow fell over him, Emuel thought that this really was the end. But instead of being devoured, he was gently plucked from the ground and laid across the creature’s back.

  The creature began to sing again as it carried him across the sand, introducing its own variations on Emuel’s theme — singing melodies that the eunuch had never heard before, that had the suggestion of something other, something alien; something vast.

  The creature’s back rolled beneath him and Emuel was reminded of the swaying of the deck of the Llothriall. He wondered where his friends were now and whether the Final Faith had finally caught up with them. He hoped not; he would rather they were dead than in the clutches of Makennon or Querilous Fitch.

  With the moon and stars gently rocking above him, Emuel found himself being lulled into sleep, and he went with it, grateful for its sanctuary.

  He awoke what seemed like only moments later, rolling over and landing heavily on the ground, his right hand sinking into something cold and wet. He looked up to see the creature sitting back on its hind legs, looking down at him almost expectantly, and then he looked round to where he had been brought.

  They were by a lake, surrounded on all sides by low, chalky hills. It was still night, though the moon was now on the wane. A great chorus of insects and amphibians shouted their song to the stars. Emuel realised that, beside himself and the strange creature, this was the first real life he had encountered in this arid place, and he found himself strangely moved by this night chorus.

  Emuel staggered forward as the creature’s snout prodded him in the back. He tumbled to his knees by the water’s edge and it was only as he did so that he realised how fiercely thirsty he was. He drank long and deep and the most wonderful coolness spread through him, banishing all memory of the desert.

  There was a soft snuffling behind him and he turned to see the vast lizard settling down to sleep, curled around its tail, its wings folded tightly to its sides. Emuel put his hand on the creature’s flank and was surprised to find that its flesh was dry and cool.

  Wrapping his cloak about himself, he lay next to his new companion and, feeling reassured by its presence, slept himself.

  The fish that he managed to palm out of the shallow water the next day tasted foul, and Emuel doubted that cooking them would have made them any more palatable. Not that his companion was complaining; the creature wolfed down two of the spiny, dull-scaled things and then went sniffing around for more. Emuel wasn’t inclined to go fishing again, however. Instead, he sat looking out across the water, wondering what direction they should strike out in next.

  The creatur
e sat behind him, flexing its wings, creating a pleasing breeze that played across the back of Emuel’s neck, ruffling his hair. He closed his eyes and began to hum idly to himself, the creature soon picking up the tune and joining in.

  “Hey,” Emuel said, turning around. The creature cocked its head and snapped its jaws. “How about we play a game? Remember this?”

  And Emuel sang the song he had been singing when the creature had first come to him in the desert. When he stopped, the creature took over and, together, taking turns, they wove a complex, eerie melody. Emuel could taste the taint of magic in the air, and he looked down to see the tattoos that covered every inch of his flesh entwining around one another, moving to the rhythm of the song.

  “What are you?” he wondered as the creature closed its eyes, seeming to move deeper into the music. He smiled and put his hand on the creature’s head. It nuzzled his hand and licked his palm. “I shall call you Calabash,” Emuel said, remembering the old choirmaster of his church in the Drakengrat range, whose legendary voice had attracted the praise of many a parishioner.

  A high-pitched keening sounded from across the water and Emuel and Calabash raced to the water’s edge. On the far shore was a creature almost identical to Calabash, although this one’s flesh had a dark ochre hue.

  The creature raced up and down the shore, calling out to Calabash, clearly desperate that they be united. However, it soon became obvious that this creature neither had the wisdom, or the intelligence to navigate the lake’s perimeter as, with a cry, it threw itself into the water.

  At first it appeared to be a strong swimmer, its snout cutting through the water like the prow of a yacht. But its wings trailed behind it, weighing it down, and as it reached the centre of the lake, its strokes began to slow.

  Emuel did nothing the first time the creature went under, sure that it would struggle on and reach them. The second time it went down, however, he could see the fear in its eyes. Without stopping to disrobe, Emuel threw himself into the lake.