However, I would not have expected her to cry out under torture. What terrible thing was being done to her in order to draw that scream from her lips?
No! No! I told myself. That cannot be. That cry cannot be from Grimalkin!
Agitated, I continued to pace to and fro, pausing just once to take another sip of water from the jug.
I’ve always been good at judging the passage of time; if I wake up in the middle of the night, I can usually estimate what time it is. But now it seemed as if my normal senses and abilities were blunted.
Nor could I tell how much time had elapsed between the moment when I was plunged into unconsciousness by the mage and the moment when I awoke in this cell.
I wondered if there was any chance of being rescued. The few warriors we had led into the tower would all be dead now, slain on the stairs by the Kobalos. Yes, it had been a well-executed trap.
But what of the hundred or so we’d left beyond the trees? My heart sank when I realized that we’d get no help from them. Surely Kobalos warriors would have already driven them off or killed them.
Jenny had been with them. She might already be dead.
Poor Jenny! She would never get her wish to become a spook. I had brought her here to her death or perhaps to something worse: enslavement by the Kobalos.
My heart plummeted even further when I thought of the danger to our army of seven thousand. Lenklewth had known we were planning an attack and would have made provision for them as well. No doubt a Kobalos army was now approaching from the north; soon they’d be surrounded.
I continued to pace up and down.
Time dragged on. Eventually, exhausted, I sat down with my back to the wall, facing the door. I fell asleep, to be awakened by the sound of the bolt being drawn across. The door was eased open and a woman stared into the cell.
I couldn’t see her face: there were others standing beside her holding lanterns and she was in silhouette. Quickly she ducked into the cell, set something down on the floor and retreated. The door clanged shut and the bolt was drawn across again.
I had noticed at least three other women, dressed in tattered clothing and armed with clubs. The one who had entered my cell had bare arms that were covered in scars. So they were purrai; the wounds were inflicted by the Kobalos as part of their training or perhaps as a punishment. These purrai were sometimes snatched from their homes by the Kobalos, but most were born in captivity.
I got to my feet and walked over to the door. On the floor was a small bowl containing something that looked like lumpy grey porridge. I tasted a bit and confirmed it. It was a little too salty for my liking but I ate it all. I needed to keep my strength up for whatever lay ahead.
I slept again – for how long I do not know – and was awoken once more by the rattle of the bolt. This time the door was flung violently back so that it bounced against the wall behind.
Instead of the women, three fierce Kobalos warriors were standing in the doorway, staring into the room. Unlike the mage I’d faced earlier, their faces were unshaven, and their eyes glared at me with such anger and hostility that I thought for a moment that they intended to slay me on the spot. Had the mage ordered my execution? I wondered.
One was armed with a huge double-bladed axe and he faced me, legs apart, weapon at the ready, while the other two entered the cell and dragged me outside. They forced my arms behind me and pushed me down a flight of steps; I nearly fell headlong down them.
Were they taking me to be executed? The thought made me tremble with fear. At first I’d had no memories of what had happened to me after death, but recently images of horror and pain had come back. They’d seemed like nightmare visions, but I now feared that they were dim recollections of what I’d experienced: I’d felt a terrible pain in my shoulder. Someone had been screaming – the noise had set my teeth on edge. Then I realized that the person screaming was me.
I didn’t want to go through that again.
Somehow I managed to stay on my feet. Down and down we went, passing the floors I remembered from our ascent. We went past the door through which we’d first entered, and I knew that we must now be heading deep underground.
TOM WARD
FINALLY WE CAME to a large door and the Kobalos warrior in front rapped on it three times with the hilt of his sabre. It opened wide and I was thrust inside.
Two things surprised me: the vast size of the cellar and the large number of Kobalos who occupied it. They were dressed in full armour, but for their heads. Some of the body armour was splattered with blood, as if they had recently been fighting.
The noise was deafening. The Kobalos communicated by shouting at the tops of their voices, spitting into each other’s faces and spraying food from their mouths in an effort to be heard.
More than a hundred of the soldiers sat at long tables, chomping and chewing at their food; before them were set huge plates of meat, some of it was charred and blackened, some almost raw; blood matted the hair around their mouths and dripped from their chins. Seeing me, they let out great bestial roars and beat rhythmically upon the tabletops with their huge hairy fists.
I was pushed along between them until I reached the head table, which was raised up on a dais. Beside it, in the huge open fireplace, yellow flames flickered up into the dark mouth of a chimney.
Its two occupants looked down upon the other tables. One was the High Mage, Lenklewth, who was warming his hands at the fire; the other was a warrior whose hair was braided into three long black pigtails, marking him out as a Shaiksa assassin: he was likely to be as dangerous and skilled in combat as the one I’d fought. Neither one wore armour; instead they were dressed in leather jerkins decorated with strange whorls and loops of gold thread.
Then I looked up and saw two wide marble shelves on the wall directly above the fireplace. I realized that they were altars. On the top one was a statue of a skelt, its body, thin, multi-jointed legs and long sharp bone-tube crafted out of what appeared to be volcanic rock. It was shiny and black but for its eyes, which were ruby-red. Without doubt this was a likeness of Talkus, the newly-born god worshipped by the Kobalos.
But impressive and astonishing as that was, on the lower shelf was something that defied belief. It was clearly a depiction of Golgoth, the Lord of Winter, who had allied himself with the Kobalos and their new deity. But this statue wasn’t carved from black rock but from white ice. The circular mass of ice was topped by an oval head with two black eyes. A multitude of clawed limbs and tentacles protruded from it, some hanging down below the shelf, close to the flames in the fireplace. By all the laws of nature they should have been melting, but the heat of the fire had no effect on them.
I was thrust forward and pushed down onto my knees. One of the soldiers grasped my hair from behind and forced my head forward into a bow, banging it against the flags. Three times he did this, as if determined to dash out my brains. For a moment I saw stars while my stomach lurched and I almost lost consciousness. I kept perfectly still, fearing more violence. I could feel the blood trickling down my forehead.
My head was jerked up again so that I was looking at the high table. Lenklewth was talking to the Shaiksa assassin in Losta, gabbling rapidly. By now I understood a few words of the language but only when it was spoken slowly and clearly. The warriors at the other tables were silent, listening to what was being said.
Suddenly the mage changed languages and addressed me directly.
‘What was it like to be dead?’ he demanded. ‘What did you see?’
In response to his question, something flashed into my mind – a fragment from my experience after death. Something sharp and white was cutting into my shoulder and I felt hot breath on my face and heard shrill screams, like the noise made by a pig when its throat is slit. In a second it was gone and I was left gasping, my heart in my mouth. I tried to reply but my voice came out as a croak and I started coughing. At the second attempt I managed to force out my lie.
‘I remember nothing from the moment I collaps
ed in the water to when I was awoken.’
‘Do you think you were really dead?’ Lenklewth asked. ‘Or was it just trickery from the human mage?’
I had often asked myself this question. Had my death been faked in some way? Had Lukrasta used his dark magic to create some sort of illusion?
‘I don’t know, but others tell me that beyond question I was truly dead,’ I replied.
‘I do not believe that Lukrasta had the power to bring someone back from the dead,’ the mage growled. ‘It was simply a clever trick that fooled most humans and achieved what he intended. The story of your resurrection is still spreading. Cities far to the south are responding and would have rallied to your flag. Unfortunately for them, you are now in my hands and as good as dead. There might have been sufficient opposition to give us pause, but now it will quickly be snuffed out. Lukrasta’s plan has already failed.’
My master, John Gregory, had taught me to engage any captor in conversation; one could gain valuable information that might be used at a later time. I decided to do just that. I would flatter this mage.
‘So you knew all about Lukrasta in advance? Your magic must be very powerful to foretell the actions of such a formidable human mage.’
Lenklewth stared at me for a few moments before replying. I was suddenly worried. What if he could read my thoughts?
He spoke in Losta again, addressing the gathering. When he had finished, a great roar went up and they began to beat the tables with their fists again. This went on for at least five minutes, until Lenklewth raised his hand and they fell silent again.
I hadn’t understood a word of what he had said, but it had certainly pleased his warriors. It seemed to me that he had accepted my flattery at face value and communicated my words to his followers.
Once more he spoke to me, a triumphant smile on his face.
‘I believe that your human witches use mirrors to see into the future – a method they call scrying. Your mage, Lukrasta, used a different process to achieve the same end. But there is a third way. I am a High Mage of the Kobalos and I use something that we call tantalingi. It is far superior to any human technique. I set a trap for Lukrasta.
‘First I sent a Shaiksa assassin to offer combat on the banks of the Shanna River. How easily you humans took the bait! Tantalingi showed me that it would attract the attention of the human witch called Grimalkin. I foresaw that she would bring you to fight the Shaiksa. I saw beyond her too; I glimpsed the mage Lukrasta, but it was a while before I understood what part he would play because the future changes with each new decision. Lukrasta decided that you and the witch would become his tools. You defeated the Shaiksa, but he engineered your seeming death and rebirth. The prophecy of you as a leader was powerful but Lukrasta took it even further. Your resurrection was to be a clarion call to gather a powerful human army who would follow you to war.
‘But none of you, not even Lukrasta, saw the trap that I had prepared! Foolishly believing that she could seize Kobalos mage-magic, Grimalkin was drawn to this kulad like a moth to a flame. Now I have you both in my power!’
This revelation hit me like a hammer blow between the eyes. Grimalkin had used me, but these creatures had used me, Grimalkin and Lukrasta, in that order. The levels of scheming were like the layers of an onion, and I was right at its centre, the puppet of them all. Anger blazed within me, and it was only by a huge exertion of will that I stopped myself launching an attack upon the Kobalos mage.
Lenklewth reached down and lifted something into view, placing it on the table in front of him. It was my Starblade.
‘This is a most impressive magical artefact. It’s hard to believe that it was created by a mere human. The witch Grimalkin is very talented. I was going to have her executed, but now I think it would be better to enslave her. A year or two in the skleech pens with the other purrai will teach her humility. We can use her skills to serve our people. And as for the sword, it is of use only to you, so I will melt it down and forge a new weapon from it. The metal is precious and rightfully belongs to us anyway. The witch assassin entered our territory and stole it. And then, soon, we will deal with you . . .’
He looked at the Shaiksa assassin, nodded, then turned back to me. ‘Remain here while we pray and then feast. Do not attempt to move. Even one flicker of an eyelid will bring an instant reprisal. Later I will give you to the Shaiksa, who will have the satisfaction of avenging his brother assassin. This death will be no simulacrum; it will be offered as a sacrifice to our gods. You will not survive the assassin’s blades. He will cut you many times and kill you slowly. It will be the shameful death – the once we call slandata and reserve for rebellious purrai. Only when you cry and beg for death, as they do, will he deliver the killing blow and release you from your torment.’
The experience of death was still sharp in my memory and I’d an extreme fear of it. But it seemed to me that I could not avoid the fate the mage had planned for me. All I could do now was perhaps choose the manner and moment of my end. If I launched a sudden attack on the mage he would have to defend himself. Perhaps that would gain me a quicker and less painful death. I would wait my chance.
The mage and the Shaiksa assassin then knelt on the floor facing the two statues of their gods. I heard movement behind me: the whole gathering was kneeling now. Hands were no longer gripping me, but I knew that at least two Kobalos warriors were standing just behind me.
The mage began to speak in Losta, but the tone and cadence were different to normal speech. Every so often he paused, and the voices of those behind me answered in deep rumbling voices like a chorus. They were praying to their gods.
It seemed to me that the statue of Talkus moved slightly; its stick-like limbs twitched, while the bone-tube went up and down. However, I put that down to my imagination – not to mention the discomfort and stress I suffered.
But something was certainly happening to the representation of Golgoth, and a sudden chill ran down my spine; something from the dark was approaching. The mage could have accounted for this, but there were other indications to support my reaction. The fire suddenly died in the grate, and I could feel cold radiating from the ice statue.
Was Golgoth merging with the statue? Would he be present in the room as a witness to my sacrificial death?
The mage and the Shaiksa assassin cried out and held their hands towards it, then bowed so that their foreheads were touching the floor. After a few moments they came to their feet and stared towards the ice statue in silence.
At last the worship ended and everyone returned to their seats.
Lenklewth ignored me and began to talk to the Shaiksa. All around me I heard sounds of feasting, punctuated by roars and the beating of fists on wood. It went on for a long time. I forced myself to remain calm, trying not to think about what lay ahead.
Then, very suddenly the High Mage came to his feet and there was absolute silence. He gestured and I heard the assembled warriors rise as one. I inclined my head a little so that I could see what was going on. They were abandoning the feast, leaving food uneaten on the tables. What was happening?
That was the last thought I had for some time: the response to my slight movement was violent and immediate. Once more my hair was seized from behind and a huge fist struck my left temple. There was an explosion of light and I lost consciousness.
The next thing I remember, I was being dragged to my feet and pushed backwards. I staggered, lost my balance and crashed down onto the floor once more. I looked about me and saw that, but for the mage and the assassin, the room was empty. The Kobalos warriors had been dismissed, but I wondered what errand they had been sent on.
Lenklewth was still sitting at his table. It was the Shaiksa who had dragged me to my feet; he was holding a wide-bladed dagger.
The fire was now just embers in the grate and the air felt cold. The mage and assassin had changed into body armour, but I was naked to the waist, my upper garments stripped off me. Moments later I realized why.
Before I
could react, the assassin stepped forward and, with the tip of the dagger, cut me across the chest from left to right.
The pain was sharp and burned like fire. I gasped in agony. Then I glanced down at the wound and saw that it was very shallow; only a faint line of small bright-red beads of blood showed where it was.
Before I could retreat, the Shaiksa cut me again, this time from right to left, making a diagonal cross. The pain I felt seemed out of all proportion to the wound, and I staggered backwards. However, I was determined not to show the agony I felt. I would not weep – though I couldn’t help letting out a groan and my eyes filled with tears.
The Shaiksa looked at me in satisfaction, readying the knife to cut me again. ‘The blade is specially treated with a poison that causes extreme agony. Already the tears are falling from your eyes. Soon you will scream and beg!’
I tried to summon one of the gifts that I had inherited from Mam. I would attempt to slow down time and halt it. If I could achieve this, then I could seize the Starblade.
Nothing happened. The pain was so intense that I could no longer concentrate. Any thought became impossible.
Looking along the cellar, I saw that the door in the far wall was slightly open. Could I reach it and escape? The Shaiksa was blocking my path, and I would never get past him.
It was then that my instincts took over. I realized that I had but one chance here. So when he attacked again, I leaped up and ran.
I ran towards the Starblade. It was still on the table in front of Lenklewth. The High Mage saw me coming but he didn’t move. For a moment I thought I’d taken him by surprise and hope soared within me. The blade was almost in my grasp when a blow sent me backwards onto the flags. I rolled over and over, away from the table.
Lenklewth hadn’t touched me; he had simply blasted me with mage-magic. I came up onto my knees, but before I could rise the Shaiksa assassin cut me on my back. This time, despite all my efforts, I let out a scream of agony.
Spook's: The Dark Army Page 10