Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01]

by The Mask of Tamrel (epub)

  Nuir nodded, pointing to the left. “We go that way, down all the lineages, back to the first bandit lord to throw up a fortress on this hill. He has a very crude statue.” She stepped forward, hesitated, and looked back to Jacobson. “Perhaps you should lead from here. There are two conventional entrances to the Hall from the house above, and I somehow doubt they are being properly guarded.”

  Couching his grip on Andrych, Jacobson moved forward with a firm soldier’s step. The silver lute glimmered on his back, the strings seeming to vibrate but emitting no sound; Kelrob watched them flutter, his brain throbbing with the effects of the stimulant. The mage’s tongue was dry, his eyes glassy, his mind near-dead with weariness and sick awe. A leadeness, heavier than any drug, was overtaking him.

  The gallery curved downwards, twice intersecting with large sets of rune-embossed doors that opened on passages leading to the manse above. The second set hung ajar, riven from their hinges, the thick iron rods twisted as if by inhuman force. Jacobson tensed and motioned for Kelrob and Nuir to fall back, his sword leaping into a defensive poise. “What do you make of that, my lady?” he whispered to Nuir.

  She surveyed the damage, hand tightening on the hilt of her dagger. “No servant of my House would dare defame my ancestors in such a way,” she murmured.

  “I thought not. Looks like it was done by some manner of beast.” Jacobson tightened his hold on Andrych, the sword’s leather-plaited grip creaking. “Keep close, you two, and watch our backs. We were obviously expected.”

  Forward they went, moving with utter caution, the light of the enchanted broadsword warring with the shadow-dance of the everlasting braziers. The faces and garb of the statues became more alien as they progressed, reflecting the styles and shifting genetic sands of an age. The work was cruder, but wilder, the human form no longer as meticulously re-created, fires of polished moonstone flaring from beneath strangely exaggerated brows. Kelrob averted his eyes from the effigies, much as he had at that bygone funeral. He felt scrutinized beneath their lifeless stares, was convinced that some brooding awareness lurked in them, yearning to be challenged. A most un-magisterlike perception, though that aspect bothered Kelrob far less now than it had then. The world was newly made, and he felt naked in it, all his accumulated knowledge sinking into the unsound mire of its foundation.

  The statues stared at him, and Kelrob shivered. Each graven face now resembled the mask of Tamrel.

  A flicker of movement caught in the black-smudged edge of his vision. Kelrob cried out as five men leaped from behind the statues ahead, blocking the way. Their bodies were naked save for whorls of brightly-colored paint, though the tallest of the men, the seeming leader, was robed in a long cape of crudely stitched human flesh. His face was obscured, lost behind a hollowed elk’s skull, no human eyes visible in the umbra of its sockets. In his hand he bore a long-handed battleaxe, the blade thick with coagulated blood and clumps of hair. The other men bore swords, their blades similarly fouled; garlands of teeth dangled from around their necks. Without a word they swept towards Jacobson, weapons upraised, then cast themselves to their knees before the big man in sudden adoration.

  “O great Lord!” the four men intoned, raising their weapons and stabbing at the air. “O great Lord, we praise you!”

  Jacobson stood his ground, the mask hiding the baffled twist of his features. “What in the Nine Hells?” he snarled as the men bowed their heads with a collective groan of reverence, baring their painted necks to his swordstroke.

  The man in the robe of human flesh came behind his companions, his stride long and smooth, the antlers of the elk skull sharpened to jagged points. He raised his axe, and said, in a deep rumbling voice, “Hail to you, vessel to the Lord of Song. My name is Anwas, former guardsman of Tannigal.”

  Jacobson grit his teeth as he surveyed the five men, Andrych vibrating eagerly in his hand. “A proper pleasure,” he said. “My name’s Jacobson. Fine cape you have there.”

  Anwas drew up the corner of his oozing mantle, smearing a blotch of noxious blood between the skull’s empty sockets. “The flesh of my kills. I have slain many more in a long life of slaying, but never truly allowed myself to glory in the work.” He breathed deeply of putrefaction, the sound of his flaring nostrils deadened by the skull’s carapace. “Always I wanted blood, to bathe in it, to taste it, to drown in it as it pulsed from the stump of a severed limb. I always led my company in battle, taking and dealing the first wound, but there was never time to savor the butchery.” At this he dropped the cape; it fell to dangle wetly against his naked flesh as the skull tilted in hideous introspection. “I was born to be an avatar of war, but in this world there is no glory to be found on the field. Either butcher Aks like cattle or march about in formation to the beat of a merchant-lord’s drum. Both bored me, deadened me, shriveled and castrated me. I came to Tannigal to retire, thinking I would never know the true flush of battle. But last night...” Anwas raised his axe on high, the gore-smeared blade glistening in the light of the braziers. “Last night I heard the song of my soul. I was freed, and an ocean of blood followed.” Laughter rang in the man’s naked chest, which was marked with deep runic incisions.

  Jacobson cast a quick glance at Kelrob and Nuir, sweat forming a sticky film between his face and the mask. “I’d prefer an ocean of ale myself,” he said to Anwas, “but to each his own. It seems like you’ve done well for yourself up there.”

  The war axe came down in a harsh chopping motion; the four swordsmen moaned and swayed in their oblations. “Those hearts that do not burn brightly I hew down,” Anwas said. “There were many in this city who had not heard the Lord of Song; now they are dead, the streets littered with their uncleanliness. Why did he not sing to them as well? Because Tannigal must be bathed in her own blood if she is to be cleansed. A sacrifice in proportion to what she has stolen, what she has gluttonously consumed.” For the first time some spark of human life glittered in the sockets of the skull, a flare of dark eyes utterly consumed in a conflagration of purpose. “I have come here, along with my sworn guard, to thank the Lord for our freedom, and see him through the hidden gate. His song must go forth for others to hear. This is only the beginning of a greater cleansing, one that will sweep beyond Tannigal to consume the world!” With a wild war cry Anwas raised his axe and shook it, gobbets of blood flying from the blade to spatter the nearest statue. The four swordsmen rose and clamoured their blades together, joining in the yell - Nuir covered her ears and blanched away. Kelrob endured the sound, and smiling bleakly stepped forward to stand beside Jacobson.

  “An honor guard,” he said, with a faint shake of his head.

  Jacobson nodded, watching as Anwas ordered his men to march ahead of the party, their swords held in stark salute. “Aye. The bemusement thickens.”

  Kelrob turned towards Nuir, who was going to great pains to avoid looking at Anwas’s charnel cloak. “How can they possibly know about the passage?” she whispered through her fingers.

  “It matters more what kind of sendoff they have prepared,” Jacobson said as he started forward, drawn by Anwas’s deferential summoning. “Be ready to run, both of you. I mean it.”

  The strange party advanced the remaining length of the Hall of Effigy, Anwas and his men chanting martial rhythms and making primal bleating noises, their swords lashing out to hew the stone heads from each passing statue. Rock clattered, gemstone eyes sprang from their sockets to skitter across the floor. At last the great door to the crypts hove into view, a high stone portal framed by columns of twisting necromantic design. The poorly-molded form of the first hill-lord stood here, his face a blunted semblance, a great marble sword lashed at his waist. With frenzied cries the four swordsman set on him, and Anwas chuckled as their blades sundered the ancient stone, the statue’s blobbish head rolling off into the shadows beneath a claw-footed brazier. “Thus to the self-styled lords of the earth,” the warrior incarnate said. Turning to the compani
ons, he motioned them towards the huge, slablike door. “The way is clear. You need only the key, which is held by the daughter of Tensi Azumana, whose blood I’ve lately had the pleasure of drinking.”

  Nuir stepped forward trembling, her black eyes incandescent with fury and fear. “How do you know all this?” she demanded with forced haughtiness. “These tunnels are a secret, kept by my House.”

  Anwas chuckled. “There are no secrets anymore. There is only truth. Come forward and open the door.”

  Nuir clutched her hand against the key, fell back a step. “You want me to open the way for your hordes,” she said.

  The elk’s skull shook sincerely. “No. The work here is not yet done. The Lord himself would tell you that.”

  Jacobson’s head twisted towards Nuir, and a faint azure glow welled from the eye-slits of the mask. “He tells the truth,” came Tamrel’s thin, amused voice. “Tannigal has been razed, and now the flames must burn. Anwas will be the chief attendant to that flame.”

  The swordsmen fell to their knees again, and Anwas bowed deeply, his bloodied axe crossed over his chest. “My Lord,” he said as he straightened, “do you like of our work? It is the toil of our truest selves.”

  Tamrel nodded, flipped Andrych playfully about. “You have done well, but you do not need my affirmations. You act in accordance with your desire, and that is the whole of being.” Turning to Kelrob, the bard motioned towards the sealed doorway and said, “Is this not the ultimate object? Let us make haste. I would see Anwas return to his work.”

  At Kelrob’s urging, Nuir moved towards the door, walking between the rows of venerating swordsmen. The key was held in her hand; as she neared the doorway it began to shimmer with an array of bewildering colors. Holding up the enchanted object, Nuir spoke several long words of command, the cadence of magic coming falteringly to her tongue. The key glowed with multihued light, and the great stone door ground slowly open, revealing a deep, unlighted blackness beyond. A gust of cold, earth-damp air blasted into the gallery, causing the braziers to gutter and spit.

  Nuir lowered the key. “Let’s go,” she said over her shoulder to Kelrob and a bleary, re-awakening Jacobson. “Quickly.”

  As the warrior and the mage came forward, Anwas reached down a blood-caked hand and gripped Nuir by the shoulder. “Your purpose is fulfilled,” he said as she tried to tear herself away. “It is time for you to join in the fate of your House.” As he spoke he raised his gore-stained axe, and Nuir screamed, struggling to break free of that iron grip.

  The axe swept down, and there was a bright flash as the burning blade of Andrych lashed out to meet it. Jacobson grunted, then drew back the sword and struck again, slicing through the axe’s oaken haft. Anwas staggered backwards in surprise, Nuir wrenching herself free as he scrabbled for a longsword stitched into the pestilent underside of his cloak. Kelrob and Nuir raced into the tunnel as Jacobson hewed the warlord’s head from his broad shoulders, the blade of Andrych screaming. The elk’s skull tumbled bloodily, the head contained within; “It is an honor to be slain by the vessel of my Lord,” came Anwas’s voice, echoing up from within the skull. The body stood for a moment, groped, and tumbled, blood fountaining from the smooth stump of the neck.

  The other four swordsman were on their feet now, weapons bared and glowing, their cries of reverence changed to wails of fury. Jacobson brandished Andrych, but the vampiric brand had gone dark and silent, as if discontented by its most recent kill. With a curse the big man turned and ran for the tunnel, the band of swordsmen in howling pursuit.

  Kelrob and Nuir watched as their doom swept towards them. “There is no time to close the door,” Nuir breathed, the key pressed against her breast. “No time...”

  Jacobson made it into the tunnel, followed closely by the screaming band. A sudden, psychotic idea occurred to Kelrob; turning to Nuir, he thrust out his hand. “Give me the key,” he said.

  Nuir complied without hesitation. Kelrob wrapped his long, trembling fingers around the enchanted object, waiting for Jacobson to reach him. The big man’s labored breaths sounded close at hand, and suddenly he was rushing past Kelrob, unaware in the dark. The swordmen swept closer, their eyes burning like malevolent lanterns in the blackness of the passage; Kelrob steeled himself. Slowly he raised the key over his head. He could feel magic beating in the object, but felt also its inaccessibility, for the chromox had been set to task by a powerful will, and could not be freed from that caster’s intent without explosive consequences. Explosive consequences.

  The four swordsman swarmed towards Kelrob; he closed his eyes. Now. With a stab of will he clipped the conduit of energy sustaining the key’s multidimensional existence. Immediately the object began to destabilize, sending off puce sparks that burned with the malevolence of vitriol. “Run!” Kelrob cried to Jacobson and Nuir, then hurled the key towards the swordsmen, who were nearly within stabbing range. The key blossomed with crimson light, melting in midair, then exploded outwards with a concussive blast that blew the naked reavers back into the Hall of Effigy. There was a crumbling sound, then a deep rending as the entrance to the crypts collapsed, huge slabs of stone falling from the tunnel’s ceiling to choke off the entrance. Kelrob flung himself to the ground, curled in a ball, and waited for death, expecting a gigantic rock to crush him into paste at any moment. When the rockfall lessened to a trickle he uncurled himself experimentally, then rose to unsteady legs in the darkness. “Hello?” he called out hoarsely, black dots struggling to consume the nothingness of his sight.

  There was a scuffle of shifting stone. The light of Andrych welled in the dust-choked passage, dim but constant; Kelrob cried out joyfully as he saw Jacobson extract himself from a pile of rubble, Nuir shielded beneath his body. He took one step towards the big man, stumbled, and fell to the ground, his legs no longer capable of supporting him. The drug boiled in his blood, causing him to feel feverish; Kelrob pressed his cheek against the cool rock of the floor and twitched, all strength and will fleeing him. He hung limp as Jacobson wrapped his strong arms around him and bore him up. The big man spoke to him, peeled back his eyelids, but Kelrob could make no response, merely stare and tremble uncontrollably.

  “Is he alive?” Nuir’s voice, strangely desperate and near at hand, her hot breath tickling in his ear.

  “Aye. He’s in shock.” Jacobson adjusted his grip, and Kelrob lolled his head against the big man’s shoulder. He tried to speak, to utter a single garbled syllable, but his throat and mouth were numb, the black spots swarming locust-like as they fell to gorging on the last shreds of his consciousness. Kelrob surrendered completely, heaving a deep, jagged sigh. The next inhale brought the scent of Jacobson’s body, musky with sweat and polluted by the iron stink of blood. Andrych hummed in his left ear, singing a soft sinister song that slid deep into his mind, promising unwholesome visions.

  “Is the passage clear ahead?” Jacobson’s voice, somewhat breathless on account of his burden.

  “It seems unobstructed.”

  “I’ll need to bear the lad, though I’ve barely the strength. Wish I knew where he kept that bottle hidden.”

  “I can help you bear his weight, if need be.”

  “You are most gracious, my lady.”

  They began to move forward, Jacobson cradling the mage to his chest. Kelrob felt a stab of guilt through the haze, a sense of disgust at his weakness. His limbs were leaden, unresponsive, his fingers twitching with spasmodic jerks; closing his eyes, he allowed himself to spiral downwards into obscene dreaming. Several times he stirred to awareness to see the sloping floor of the passage moving beneath Jacobson’s feet, the black mouths of catacombs yawning to each side. The journey was not gentle, and several times Jacobson stumbled, though he managed to maintain his grip on the mage. There was a sensation of plunging downwards, of endless subterranean winding, of a gradual plodding ascension. A wisp of fresh air tickled Kelrob’s nose, and he roused somewhat, though
he kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. At last there was a deep grinding sound, as of a crypt being prised open, and Kelrob looked about blearily as the three of them emerged into a wind-swept night beneath the glare of the twin moons.

  They were in a farmer’s field. A weave of cold-blighted vines covered the earth, occasionally broken by the orange lump of an over-ripe pumpkin. Nuir led the way across the patch, Jacobson following; Kelrob craned his neck to peer behind them, saw that they had indeed emerged from an old sepulcher sunk into the hillside at the field’s edge. A cottage loomed near at hand, though the windows were dark; the mage groggily wondered if the property was maintained as a front for Lord Azumana’s smuggling operations. He watched the pumpkins as they hove by, their bodies plastered with brown-gold leaves. From somewhere close by came the dry rustling of foliage.

  They passed beneath the darkness of trees. Jacobson’s heavy boots crunched in the loam, Nuir’s footsteps a lighter crackling whisper. They went a short way, then Kelrob felt himself lowered down onto a bed of leaves. The smell of decay was in his nose; he looked up to see Jacobson collapse beside him, the big man wheezing as he sprawled against the trunk of a wizened oak. Nuir lay down a short distance from the pair, shivering as she curled into a tight, featureless ball.

  The wind rose, tossing the boughs overhead and loosing a flurry of leaves that drifted down to cover Kelrob’s eyes. With a final, exhausted exhalation, he freed the last dregs of energy from his body, let them seep into the forest floor. Sleep came, dreamless and abysmal, his only vision that of a grinning mask hovering in the void.

  24: Ithenmere

  The Gyre Itself sat rigidly on Its throne of hammered chromox, the sacred alloy cradling and infusing Its body. Before It yawned a well of million-hued light, a font whose delving reached to the planet’s tempestuous core. The Gyre contemplated the interplay of harnessed forces; then, extending one azure-suffused hand, It smote the raw energy with the utmost intent of Its will. The light contorted and seethed, then surged upwards in a pillar of brilliant flame, roaring as it burst against the crystalline ceiling of the Great Forge. The Gyre Itself watched the display with bored precision, twisting Its intent until the varicolored light died back down beneath the lip of the well. There was a commingling, a twining and discarding of various hues; the Gyre bowed Its chromox-crowned head, spoke the primal Word of which It was sole custodian. The light burning from the well turned a sudden azure cast, and the Gyre sighed, watching in some impatience as the immutable became mutable. A half hour passed. At last the working was complete, and with another word It banished the sacred fires back to the depths, light dying out from the well’s glassy throat.