“As you wish,” he sighed. “I’m going to scout about. Get some rest.” And he was off into the labyrinth.
I stifled a yawn, bunching up a blanket to use as a pillow. I made myself as comfortable as possible on the cold stone floor and settled down for desperately needed sleep.
It was deep in the night when I woke with a start. I looked around the dim chamber, trying to figure out what had woken me. I stared at the dying fire in the center of the room for a while, and Holgren’s snoring form on the other side of it. I closed my eyes again.
Wake. little thief I have something to show you.
The Flame. I sighed. “What do you want?” I whispered.
As I said. I have something to show you. Come. A tiny golden flame popped into being in the air above my head, and floated toward the corridor.
“This better be good,” I muttered, and rose from my makeshift bed.
I followed the bobbing flame out into the corridor, around a corner, and down another corridor that I didn't remember seeing on the way in. From there, it led me down a set of dusty stairs.
Those stairs went on and on. They finally ended in a long, high chamber lined with twisted pillars. The Flame stopped at the base of the stairs. At the other end of that chamber was a simple wooden door, about six feet high by three wide.
I may go no further. The answers to many of your questions are behind that door.
Something about this felt wrong. Part of being a successful thief is relying on your instincts. That innocuous door was making mine very nervous.
There is nothing inherently dangerous to you beyond. But there is much that is ... unpleasant. What you feel is much like a stain, left over from the past. The Flame actually seemed uncomfortable.
“Why don't you just tell me what's in there? That way we can both avoid any unpleasantness.”
I cannot. This you must see for yourself. No harm will befall you in these halls.
I took the last few steps down into the chamber and started walking toward the door. I was sick of mysteries and riddles. I wanted some answers. As I approached the door the small hairs on the back of my neck tried to rip themselves out of my skin. The entire underground labyrinth practically radiated magic, but whatever was behind that door was something else again.
I began to have third and fourth thoughts about what I was doing. I kept walking. A sort of pressure began to build, gently at first, like a friendly hand trying to turn me aside. A few steps later and I was walking against a strong wind. A few steps more and I was trying to push myself through a stone wall. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, and put one foot in front of the other, straining with all my inconsiderable might. Just as I was about to give up, the resistance vanished.
I opened my eyes. The door stood in front of me: plain, unadorned, innocuous. There wasn't even a lock. I had no tools to probe with, but I inspected the frame and flagstones around it as best I could, searching for any tell-tale signs of alarms or traps.
Nothing else guards the door. You are free to enter.
“I guess I'll just have to take your word on it.” I put one hand on the knob, turned, and pushed. The Flame was right. Inside was much that was unpleasant.
Chapter 5
I suppose it could have been called a throne room. It could also have been called an abattoir, or a mausoleum.
The room was about forty feet long by thirty wide, low-ceilinged, dressed in pale marble. It was lit by four blue-burning braziers, one at each corner. Walls, ceiling, and floor were all spattered with old, dried blood. Desiccated corpses strewed the floor.
The bodies were contorted, their withered faces eerily similar in their expressions of agony—or was it ecstasy? The ancient finery they wore was stained black with massive quantities of dried blood. In the center of the room was a low dais on which stood a high-backed chair that faced away from me. On the far side of the room a pair of bronze-sheathed double doors took up most of the wall. That was it, except for the chilling residue of massive magics.
What answers was I supposed to learn here?
I nudged the nearest corpse with the toe of my boot, one with a jewel-hilted dagger sticking out of its chest. The corpse collapsed into a pile of dust; clothing, skeleton and all. The dagger clattered on the floor. I turned to go.
A chill wind started up from nowhere and the braziers flickered and dimmed. Shadows began to play on the walls, creating moving shapes I know I didn't imagine. My imagination isn't that fertile. Or perverted. I turned back around, quickly. I didn't want my back to that room.
The wind picked up and blew the corpse dust into a vaguely human shape that searched the room with hollow eyes. It darted from corner to corner as if it were searching for something, pushed by or riding on that corpse-wind. It paused every so often as if to sniff the air. And then the voices started.
Not human voices. No human throat could have produced those sounds. If time, madness, and desolation could talk, they would have given tongue to voices like these.
Who disturbs our rest? Who ... who... can smell their blood ... can hear their heart... But where? Can taste their fear ... no one comes here... ...flesh and bone... is it pretty? Is it food... ...Where ... Wherewherewherewhereoh WHERE?
“Right here,” I said, praying the Flame had been right about nothing being able to harm me. My words seemed to take them aback. The voices quieted to a murmur, and the dust ghost stopped its frantic search. It hung nearly motionless, half obscured by the chair in the center of the room.
Master, it moaned. Someone has come.
“I know,” said a mild, elderly voice that emanated from behind the chair's back. “Go back to your rest,” it said, and whatever power held the ghost's tenuous form together abated. The dust-ghost broke apart and drifted to the floor.
I snatched up the jewelled dagger from the floor. It was good to have a blade in my hand again, though I doubted it would do much good if things came to violence.
“Come here where I can see you, my dear.”
I shook my head. “I don't think so.”
“That you stand in this room means you know no harm may befall you, necklace bearer, Flame's champion. Indulge me. I cannot come to you, and would not harm you if I could.”
The voice was cultured, and kindly. I distrusted it completely. I stayed put.
“You've come for answers, no? These I can supply.”
“Fine. If you try anything I'll skewer you.”
A chuckle was the response. I picked my way carefully along the edges of the room, careful not to disturb any more of the corpses, and careful not to come too close to the dais. I wanted a clear shot at whatever was sitting in that chair if I had to take it.
As I came around, the chair's occupant became more and more visible. He was old—ancient. His wrinkles had wrinkles, and there were a lot of them to see, since he was completely naked. Not a pleasant sight. I stopped in front of him. several arm-lengths away.
He sat, utterly still. One hand lay on the chair's arm rest; the other was a twisted claw drawn up across his chest. His head was cocked to the left, almost as if he'd fallen asleep. All his limbs were shrivelled, and with more than age. His joints were great knobby bulges, but the rest of his limbs were hardly more than sticks. He was completely bald, and an intricate pattern of tattoos spiralled from the top of his head down to an inch or so above his white eyebrows. The design was of a repeating pattern of arcane-looking symbols. Age had not distorted them. They were crisp, sharp-edged, and pitch-black. The tattoos seemed to hover just slightly above the old man's skin.
The only thing that seemed alive about him were his eyes. They glittered with a keen intelligence, and tracked my every move.
“Not a pretty sight, am I?”
“I've seen worse,” I said, truthfully.
“I was born this way, you know. Cursed by the gods, my parents said. As if an unborn babe could have done anything to offend the gods.”
“Everybody has it hard growing up. You said you have answers for me. Good
. I've got a lot of questions.”
He stared at me, and a small smile played across his lips. “The Flame made an interesting choice in you,” he said. “Very well, ask your questions, and I will answer them as I can.”
“Let's start with you. Who the hell are you?”
He chuckled again. “I'm no one.”
I have never been a particularly patient person. I have learned to be cautious, but it's been a hard-won skill. Just then, I'd used up all my patience, and caution seemed to have deserted me. I stalked over to the wrinkled riddler and stuck the knife under his chin. In my best back-alley voice, I said “Don't toy with me. I'm not in the mood. Answer my questions straight or you'll be wearing a second smile.”
He looked down at the knife as best he could from his cockeyed position, then looked up at me.
“As you wish.” But there was no fear in his voice. I lowered the dagger.
“I spoke truth,” he said, “though not plain truth. I am no one now. What I once was—it has been erased from history. How I came to be what you see before you is a long tale.”
“Just give me the juicy bits.”
Another chuckle. "A millennium ago I was a king, and a mage of the highest order. My power stretched over nearly half the continent. Armies marched at my command, and magic bent the world to my will. It was not enough. I could prolong my life, but not indefinitely. I could assume other, healthier forms, yet eventually I always needed to return to the seat of my power, this twisted shell you see before you. I wanted more.”
It didn't take a genius to make the connection. “You're the Sorcerer King that destroyed the Thagothian empire.”
“I was. I am that person no more.”
“A thousand years to think about it made you a new man?"
“No, dear. I am literally only the animated husk of the Sorcerer King. When I said I was no one, that is exactly what I meant. There is no soul, no spirit in this flesh.”
I chewed on that for a bit. “You seem pretty lively to me. What animates you?"
"Ah, now you strike at the core of the conundrum. Can a mirror see itself? Can a coin be minted so thin that it has no edge? Which is more important, words or the space between them? But to answer your question in a way satisfactory to you: magic. In ways too arcane for even me to fully fathom, I must exist, that the others may.”
“What others? I don't know what you're talking about. And I'm starting to think you don't either.”
“Forgive me. It has been a thousand years since I last held a conversation. I will endeavor to speak more plainly—though the finer points of the Art may be lost on you.”
“I’ll try to muddle along,” I said as I stuck the knife in my belt and eased back from him. He smelled—unpleasant.
“You see these corpses all around you?” he asked. “Powerful mages, in their time. My khordun, my coven. When mages link, their powers grow exponentially.”
“I've never heard of such a thing. I didn't even know it was possible.”
“Such a joining was rare even in my time. There are ... dangers involved. And difficult trade-offs.”
“Such as?”
“One will rises to gain dominance in the khordun. The strongest will. The others are subsumed, eventually, leaving little more than vessels of power—animate shells with only a rudimentary intelligence, and no free will. And once a khordun is formed, it is a perilous thing to attempt to disband it.”
“So all these mages became your slaves? Did they know it would happen?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you?”
He just smiled, wanly.
I shook my head. “You were a very bad man, my friend. I'm glad you're not still roaming around loose. Now what does this have to do with what I need to know?”
“You know of the fall of Thagoth. You know of the Flame, and the Shadow King. And now you know of me. What conclusions can you draw, I wonder, from these disparate facts?”
“You're the one that's supposed to be answering questions.”
“Indulge me. I beg you. I had an interest in riddles, once.”
Impatience struggled with natural curiosity. What did all these things have to do with one another, if anything? I tried to make the facts hang together.
“The Flame is connected to this place, somehow. That much I know. It told me these halls were his. Perhaps the Flame was some sort of punishment on you.”
“That’s a pretty picture, but you've left out most of the pieces.”
“Look, you withered up old husk—” And it began to come to me. I remembered what the Flame had said as I lay pinned in the rubble. I am what the Sorcerer King discarded when he attempted to become immortal. I looked around the chamber, at all the bodies. The corpse I'd kicked, with the knife in its chest: Hadn't its own withered hand been on the hilt?
“You tried something, some ceremony to get you power, to get you immortality, didn't you? You tried it and something went wrong. Now there's three of you. The Flame, the Shadow King and you. Two sides to a coin, and its edge.”
Again that dry chuckle. “Very good, my dear. You have a facile mind. But what of Thagoth? How does it come in to our little passion play? How does it figure in to our sordid equation?”
What had Tha-Agoth told me? Something about the wizard-king poisoning Athagos's mind. The ceremony that was supposed to kill Tha-Agoth. But he couldn't be killed. Was that what went wrong? I didn't have enough information to be certain.
“You tricked Athagos into trying to kill her brother,” I guessed, “but it didn't work. Somehow that fouled your own ceremony, didn't it?”
“Some coins can indeed be minted without an edge, it seems. Athagos and her brother were and are inseparable. Or at least the method I employed to pry them apart failed, when everything said it should have succeeded. The very moment that my domination over reality itself seemed assured, the core of my being was sundered. Flame and Shadow, light and dark.”
“And you.”
“I am no one, and can affect nothing. I suffer an eternity of impotence, trapped in this form I hate so much.” A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, and disappeared into the folds and crags of his leathery face.
I felt no sympathy for him. Tha-Agoth, yes, but not him. He'd brought it on himself.
“Look,” I said, “we've been rehashing the past, and it's been interesting, but I need to know about what's happening right now. I've got problems of my own. You said you had answers for me, so start answering.”
“I will answer, if you ask.”
Where did I start? “Who is the Shadow King? Is there any way to escape his creatures? The Flame said it had been waiting for me—for what? Why is it so secretive? You called me necklace bearer. What is the necklace, and how the hell do I get the Kerf -damned thing off?”
The Flame could go to hells, if I could get the necklace off. Free of it, Holgren and I could steer clear of all this and make our way home.
That damned chuckle again. “Which question would you like answered first?”
“Tell me about the necklace.” If I could remove it, the rest of my questions were mildly interesting at best.
“Come closer, then, and let me see it.”
“Why did you call me necklace bearer if you don't know what it is?”
“I know its form, but not its intent. You wear a slave-chain. I made many such, in my time.”
“And that really makes me want to trust you.” But I stepped forward. I wasn't afraid of him, but he definitely made me uncomfortable. Perhaps if he'd had some clothes on.
“Bend down. I cannot see it very well.” I did so. I didn't like it. A delicate scent of putrefaction rose from him, more noticeable the closer I got. I suppressed a shudder.
After a time he said “That will do.”
I backed away. He was silent for a while. As the silence stretched on, it also stretched my patience.
“Well?”
“The Shadow King has learned to work with the material world
more intricately than I would have given him credit for, and has lost no skill or subtlety in the Art. That, or he has enlisted other minds and hands to do his will.”
“I don't care about all that, old man. I just want to get it off my neck.”
“Then you must place it on the neck of the one it was intended for.”
“What?”
“This slave chain was fashioned to bring Athagos to the Shadow King. Does he seek to complete the ceremony interrupted so long ago? But no, she alone would not suffice—would she? I wonder…” He was obviously talking to himself more than me. His eyes stared at some middle distance. Then they snapped back to my face.
“Where did you come by this?” he asked.
“I took it off a doomed man's neck in Thagoth.”
“Were you near Athagos at the time? You had to have been, but how could you have been? She would have consumed you.”
“She tried. She failed.”
The old man looked at me with new respect. “The Flame chose well indeed, then, when it chose you. But back to the necklace. It was meant to draw Athagos to the Shadow King. Somehow it found you instead. It must have sensed her power when you took it.”
I remembered how it practically leapt into my hand when I took it from the Duke's neck. Where had the Duke gotten hold of such a thing? I'd probably never know. It didn't really matter. I had much bigger things to worry about. A dark realization came to me and fear flowed like icy water through my body.
“So the only way to get it off is to get Athagos to put it on? But it won't let me go back to Thagoth. It’s herding me. To the Shadow King. Kerf's balls!”
“What will he make of you, I wonder? He's cast his net for a goddess and caught a sneak thief. What are the chances of such a mishap?”
“Too good for my taste. What will he do if I can't avoid him?”
“He will use you. In some form or fashion, he will turn events to his advantage. It is what I excelled at. Even more than magic, it was my true Art; using others to do my will. Such is learned early when one is crippled. In order to survive, others must be coerced or convinced to do one's bidding.”
The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye Page 8