“My father is Lord Bragnon,” said Tom, breaking the silence. He took out his tarr pouch and for the first time Hargo noticed a crest on the side. A fox and three swords.
“Never heard of him.”
“No reason you should. So, where you headed?” asked Tom.
“Tyrnon. It’s a town about a hundred miles east. Up in the hills.”
Black Tom grunted. “I know it. Been there a couple of times. Lots of miners and woodcutters.”
“Next time you’re there, find me and we’ll have a drink.”
“Sounds good.”
“You’re buying,” said Hargo. “Rich boy.”
Black Tom laughed and stuffed another wadge of tarr into the side of his mouth. “Fair enough.”
“Good.”
“It goes the other way as well,” said Tom, and Hargo looked at him. “If you ever need anything, ask and I’ll do what I can. I won’t forget the Brotherhood.”
“Glad to hear it.”
They walked the rest of the way back to the city without talking, but it was comfortable and familiar. All Hargo wanted to do now was go home and see his wife. It had been so long since he’d seen her, part of him wasn’t sure he’d recognise her any more. And maybe she wouldn’t know him either. He’d worry about that, and what came after, another day. In the morning he’d start the long walk home, but tonight he was still a warrior in the Queen’s army and he intended to get drunk.
CHAPTER 48
“Get me a camel. Now!” roared Emperor Taikon.
The mad Emperor was sat on a throne, surrounded by piles of his belongings that had been brought to him from throughout the palace. In the last few days the throne room had become the only place he felt safe. Whenever he left the room he heard the voices. They always seemed to be far away and he couldn’t understand the language, but sometimes he thought he could see figures moving in the shadows. Creatures with tentacles, beaks and razor-sharp claws. That was why he kept lanterns burning in the room at all hours of the day and night, to keep the shadows at bay.
He slept and held court amid piles of bedding, rumpled clothes, broken glass, plates of rotting food, maps, books and an assortment of exotic animals. A white goat, painted with black stripes, was happily munching its way through the pages of an ancient text on the importance of wheat. Across the room a box full of mewling kittens writhed and cried out for milk from their absent mother. They weren’t interested in the five-foot lizard Taikon had placed in the box with them. In the rafters a brightly coloured songbird slept perched on one foot. It briefly opened its eyes at Taikon’s outburst, took a shit on the clothes below then went back to sleep.
“And a mirror. I need my special mirror!” shouted Taikon. From another part of the palace came the flapping sound of feet, and eventually a sandalled servant arrived carrying a standing mirror.
Nirrok, the last in a long line of royal servants, was sweating profusely and tried his best not to stare at the Emperor, the piles of rubbish, or the rotting corpse of the previous herald propped up in one corner. He tried extremely hard to ignore the cloud of flies, the stench, and the apple that had been inserted into the dead man’s mouth.
“What’s this?” asked Taikon as Nirrok slowly crept towards the throne, trying his best to avoid standing on anything.
“Your special mirror, Most Holy.”
Taikon looked confused and put a hand to his ridged forehead. “Yes, yes, I did say I wanted that, but it doesn’t look like my special one. Are you sure it’s my special mirror?”
Nirrok took a moment to consider before replying. “That mirror was… broken.”
“Kill them!” screeched Taikon. “Have whoever broke the mirror stabbed, hung and quartered. Then bring me their eyeballs in a bowl of pea soup. But it must be cold, not warm.”
“Yes, Most Holy,” said Nirrok, although there was no way he could fulfil Taikon’s request since it was the Emperor who had broken the mirror in a fit of rage.
“Hmm, well I suppose this mirror will have to do. Stand it up over there.” Taikon gestured vaguely towards a pile of books to his left and Nirrok edged towards it. Finding no room to set it down he slowly pushed everything to one side until there was enough space. Thankfully none of the piles tipped over and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Is my camel on its way?” asked Taikon as he stared at his reflection. Nirrok kept his face towards the floor, as was proper when stood in the presence of a living God.
“Yes, Most Holy.”
“Is it a green one? It has to be green.”
Again Nirrok paused before answering. He took a moment to consider if the truth was more or less likely to get him killed. “We can’t find a green one, Most Holy.”
“Did you say you can’t find one?”
“Yes, Most Holy.” Nirrok waited patiently, staring at the ground, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.
“Look at me. I command it.”
Nirrok took a deep breath then slowly raised his eyes towards the Emperor. The sight of Taikon proved to be even more disturbing than the first time he’d laid eyes on him. Even in that short space of time there were a number of visible changes. The black horns that had appeared out of his forehead had grown larger, and were now starting to curl backwards and loop behind the Emperor’s ears like a ram’s. Hung over one of the horns, as it would no longer fit onto his lumpy head, was a crown inlaid with diamonds and precious stones. The Emperor’s skin had become a sickly shade of pale blue and it was shot through with a broken network of black lines that pulsed like veins. But those things carried no blood, and they seemed to writhe under the skin as if they were independently alive. Even though he knew nothing about the latest tailoring fashions, Nirrok was aware that the Emperor’s purple jacket and green breeches clashed terribly with his skin tone. He resembled a giant bruise.
“Did you say you can’t find a green camel?”
Nirrok gulped, certain that his final moments were approaching. “Yes, Most Holy. I have searched everywhere.”
“I see.” A long silence stretched out, broken only by the chewing of the goat starting on another chapter.
“Perhaps I could look again?” suggested Nirrok, edging backwards in a desperate attempt to get out of the room before his luck ran out. “I could definitely find a different-coloured camel, if that would be suitable.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Taikon. “If you can’t get me a green one it’s just not worth it.”
“No, Most Holy.”
Taikon sighed dramatically. “Very well. Send in my Generals. We need to discuss ending this tedious war.”
Nirrok dithered again and this time decided to err on the side of caution. All of the Generals were dead, as were four sets of replacements, and then three more groups of junior officers who had been rapidly promoted. Any remaining senior officers had stayed on the front line after the first group had been butchered by the Emperor. Not that it had mattered; it just took the Chosen a little longer to find them and send back their heads for the Emperor’s collection. “Yes, Most Holy. I will bring them immediately.”
Nirrok scuttled out of the room as fast as his bandy legs would carry him. The guards outside were gone. He made it all the way to the front door of the palace without seeing a single person. He started running down the street and was still running an hour later.
Vargus had watched Taikon’s antics for the last hour, concealed behind a tapestry that led to a secret passage. The Mad King was so wrapped up in his own world, he’d never once looked in Vargus’s direction.
“Silly, silly,” muttered Taikon before preening in the mirror and trying to balance the crown on top of his misshapen head. Vargus had heard more than enough. After pulling on a pair of thick gloves he pushed the tapestry to one side and strode into the room, knocking aside whatever stood in his way. Plates cracked beneath his boots and broken glass was ground into powder. The goat wisely decided to move elsewhere and chew on something in another part of the room. Taikon didn
’t even notice Vargus until he was climbing up the steps to the throne.
“Ah, there you are, General,” said Taikon, shaking his head as if he were admonishing a child. “I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored. This war is dull. We need to make it more interesting, don’t you agree?”
Vargus ignored his ramblings and looked deeper into Taikon’s body, seeing beneath the skin and muscle to what lay beneath. Buried in the middle of his intestines lay the artefact, which was consuming the Mad King bit by bit. As he watched, another black tendril started to crawl its way up the side of Taikon’s left cheek beneath the skin. It writhed for a few seconds, stretched and then settled.
“Which one are you? Are you the smelly one?” asked the Emperor.
Seizing Taikon by one shoulder Vargus made a spear with the fingers of his other hand and rammed it into the Emperor’s torso, passing through clothing and skin without difficulty. As green blood began to gush from the wound, he started to feel around for the artefact. Taikon tried to shove him off and started screaming, more in alarm than pain, but no one came to investigate. No doubt they were probably used to hearing far worse.
Slightly more worrying for Vargus was that he could feel Taikon’s skin starting to heal around his forearm. Before he became a permanent part of the Mad King’s body, he yanked out his hand. The skin began to stretch across the wound and once it met in the middle it started to knit itself back together. Within a few seconds there was no sign of the wound. The blood quickly dried, turned brown and started to flake off.
Taikon slumped back on the throne, gasping for breath as his eyes rolled up in his skull. The artefact started pulsing again, creating even more tendrils, which made Taikon convulse. Drawing his sword Vargus approached the throne and swung at Taikon’s neck using all of his strength. The Mad King had some remaining instincts of self-preservation, as he held up one hand in a vain attempt to ward off the blow. The sword cut through Taikon’s arm just above the wrist before biting deep into his neck. Blood gushed out, spraying across Vargus’s face and he quickly spat out the sweet green liquid.
The sword had only partly severed Taikon’s head from his body, but even as Vargus tried to saw the blade back and forth to finish the job, the wound started to close again. Taikon’s severed hand turned black, the flesh putrefying at an accelerated rate, but something white pushed its way out of the stump of his wrist. New bones were starting to grow at the end of his arm, and muscles started to weave around them like a spider spinning a web. Taking a dagger from his belt Vargus stabbed Taikon a dozen times in the torso, then six more to make sure. The artefact was not without limits and the number of wounds caused the rate of healing to slow. This gave Vargus enough time to press Taikon’s head against the back of the throne and force the blade through the remainder of his neck. The mangled head of the Mad King toppled to the littered floor below where it continued to scream and babble. His body remained upright, independently alive from the head. Taking a deep breath Vargus tried again, this time cutting open a wide gash across Taikon’s stomach before reaching inside his chest. It took longer than he would have liked, buried up to his elbow in another man’s guts, but eventually he managed to get a solid grip on the slippery stone. Using one foot to brace himself against Taikon’s body, Vargus yanked his arm back and the artefact came free with a loud pop.
Almost immediately Taikon’s skin started to blacken and decay. The head on the floor stopped screaming and the Mad King’s final expression was one of stunned bemusement, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened to him. By the time Vargus had finished wiping his weapons clean on a discarded jacket, all that remained of Taikon was a pile of clothes and a few scraps of black hair.
Gripping the artefact tightly between his palms, Vargus slowly began to apply pressure, squeezing it tighter and tighter. Although he could feel it pulsing with energy, he was careful not to let it touch his bare skin. Even through his leather gloves he could feel it writhing and squirming, as the parasite inside the stone tried to find a way to bond with him. With relentless determination he squeezed harder, the muscles bunching in his hands and arms until he heard a loud crack. Bright purple light leaked out from between his fingers, bathing the throne room in strobing waves of colour.
Something tried to penetrate his mind and latch on to his thoughts, but he brushed away the weak attack and pressed harder with both hands. There was another crack and a shrill scream in his mind that quickly trailed off. The light faded until he held nothing more than bits of coloured glass, which he dropped to the floor. He cast one final glance around at the mess in the throne room before walking out.
Herakion, the capital city of Zecorria, had the blessing of being host to The First Church of the Holy Light, an enormous cathedral that sought to copy the oldest house of the Maker. The gaudy cathedral dwarfed every other structure in the city, forcing all inhabitants to live in its shadow. And much like the few buildings not touched by the church’s shadow, those who did not follow the Way were treated as outsiders. It was far easier to pay lip service to the Lord of Light than be treated as if you were a carrier of the red pox by the community.
With a sad shake of his head, Vargus pulled his hood forward again, just in case. Although foreigners were not uncommon in the city, it would be better if few people saw him, given what he might have to do.
The huge doors to the First Church were closed, but they opened easily at his touch. The doors had no keyholes, locks or bars of any kind. The church never closed its doors to its followers and a priest was always on hand, day or night, to offer guidance. The church was huge inside with a high vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows and long rows of hard wooden pews. The gold-coloured stone floor sparkled, reflecting the light from a thousand candles. Not content with having a monstrous edifice devoted to his worship, the Lord of Light had gone one step further in his First Church. Nine paintings covered the entire ceiling, which depicted the Lord of Light creating the world, showing the First Men how to plant crops, how to make fire, how to till the land and seven more lies for which he’d claimed credit. Vargus paid them no mind, although he did stop to stare at one small painting tucked away in a dusty corner.
Here was the truth, or at least an approximation. Even though the colours had faded, the paint was peeling and, at a glance, it looked like one giant black blob surrounded by white, Vargus could still make out the figures sat feasting at the long table. Twenty-eight men and women. A gathering that no mortal, other than the artist, had ever seen since time began. It had been a whim, a passing fancy of ego that some had embraced and others indulged. A meeting that would and could never be repeated, as some of those depicted no longer existed. The painting showed a glorious feast with a massive table heavily laden with food from all over the world. Light in the room came from candles on the table and a small boy holding a lantern. A small girl, her face smudged with grime, sat beside the hearth and attended to the fire. The flames bathed the room in golden light, driving the shadows to the far corners where a few more faces lurked.
Turning away from the painting with a heavy heart, Vargus focused again on the present. Ignoring the golden ornaments, marble statues and other gaudy displays of opulence, Vargus stared at the hunched figure sat in the front pew. The man hadn’t moved since his arrival, but Vargus doubted his presence had gone unnoticed.
Despite the late hour there were one or two other worshippers with their heads bent in prayer. He ignored them and sat down immediately behind the man. An overzealous priest started to rush over, but he stopped in his tracks when Vargus frowned in his direction. The young man gulped and hurried away, suddenly finding something pressing to do elsewhere.
“Do you remember that night?” asked Vargus. “The meal seemed to last for days. The plates of food were heaped so high the table groaned under the weight.”
The hunched figure sat back and threw off his white hood. “I don’t like to think about it,” said the Lord of Light.
“So much has changed since
then. Some of it happened almost overnight,” mused Vargus.
“Is that a threat?”
“An observation.”
The Lord of Light kept his face turned away as he stared up at the benevolent idol of himself. “Why are you here?”
“To tell you that the war is over. The fighting has stopped, and though the west is still in turmoil, it will heal in time.”
“I am pleased. Taikon’s perversion of my faith, and that of the Blessed Mother, was most disturbing.” The Lord of Light shivered. “Thank you for bringing me this good news.”
Vargus remained silent for a long time before he spoke again. “I know it was you.”
That made the Lord of Light turn around in his seat. “What was me?”
“You taught the Warlock. You showed him Talents that were lost for centuries, like spirit walking. You gave him the parasitic artefact from beyond the Veil.”
“That’s absurd. Why would I do that?”
Vargus shrugged. “Because you’re young, arrogant and greedy. Because despite all your power, you want more.”
“I grow more powerful every day. Why would I take such a risk by teaching such things to a mortal?”
“That is the only thing I don’t know.”
“Do you have any proof?” asked the Lord of Light with a knowing smile.
“The artefact was destroyed. The Mad King and the Warlock are dead, but even if they were alive, I doubt you were stupid enough to teach them directly.”
“I respect you, Vargus, but I’m deeply offended and hurt by your accusations. What you’re suggesting is that I interfered with the mortals. Something which is forbidden, as was recently pointed out to us all.”
Vargus snarled and leaned forward, but the Lord of Light didn’t move away. “It is forbidden, boy, and the punishment is not one you would enjoy.”
“You seem very fond of threats, and yet I doubt you have the power to back them up,” said the Lord of Light with a mocking smile. Here, at the heart of his power base, in a country dominated by his followers, he felt utterly secure.
Battlemage Page 42