The Crimson Lord (The Dark God Rises Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  “I do. Come with me. There’s sorcery afoot in this fortress still, and I have to find its source. I may need your help when I do so.”

  “I see,” Taingern said. “And this will be dangerous?”

  “I don’t know. But it may be. Something is terribly wrong.”

  Brand led them away then, but footsteps sounded loud behind them. Sighern was running to catch up with them.

  “The banner is secured?” Brand asked.

  “At the very top of the tower,” the boy answered. “There was a metal loop there to hold a pole, and the flag is flying for all the countryside to see.”

  “Good!” Brand said. “That banner will serve us well. Soldiers will tell stories in years to come of how they fought beneath it. Best go now though and find a job to help with. Much needs doing, and little time is left, I fear.”

  “But where are you three going, by yourselves?”

  It was plain that the boy had sensed their urgency, and Brand had no wish to lie to him.

  “There remains sorcery of some sort still in the fortress. I must find it … and see what its purpose is. I don’t want to lock myself into this place until I’m sure it’s safe.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Brand looked at the boy long and hard. He was enthusiastic, but he was young and inexperienced. Whatever was ahead might prove beyond him.

  “It could be dangerous. Very dangerous indeed. I just don’t know.”

  Sighern did not hesitate. “No matter,” he replied. “I’ll take my chances, if you’re willing. No one lives forever.”

  Brand looked at him even harder. The boy had enormous courage, and Brand admired that. But he was struck again by just how unusual he was. Where had a boy of his age acquired such bravery? And, for that matter, such a philosophical outlook on life?

  But he had asked to go, and he knew it might be dangerous. It was not Brand’s way to say no.

  “Come along then. But keep your eyes open. And if something happens, run and get help.”

  Sighern nodded, but Brand had a feeling he would jump in with a blade drawn if there was trouble. He was not one to run away.

  7. Bones and Metal

  They moved through the fortress. Brand led them, allowing his senses to guide him. He did not invoke the magic again, but he did not need to. It was always a part of him, and some small element of it continually whispered in his mind and acted as a rudder to his instincts.

  The fortress was dim, for there were many corridors and rooms and none had good windows. This was no accident. The passageways were killing grounds in their own right, just as had been the tunnel through the outer wall. Here, just as there, slits provided opportunity for defenders to shoot arrows or spear the enemy.

  The floors were covered with the debris of long ages. The nests of rats and the signs of scavenges were everywhere. And well might they be, for the dead had once been everywhere too. The defenders had not surrendered even when the outer wall was breached, or had not been allowed to. The fighting continued throughout the fortress.

  All that was left of those who once fought and died here were bits of metal that crumbled like dust when touched. And bones. The bones were everywhere, and they had endured better here than in the courtyard. Out there, it was open to the elements, while in here it was enclosed. Most parts of the inner fortress were roofed by stone tiles, and mostly they endured too, keeping sun, wind and rain out.

  “It’s like a tomb,” Shorty muttered.

  The words struck a chord with Brand, and his instincts flared. It was very much like a tomb, and the dead were everywhere. The deeper they went, the more he began to sense them. There was truth to the legends of the Duthgar, but he pushed on. He was deeper into the fortress now than he ever dared as a child. And that had been just as well. Could a ghost harm the living?

  “What are we looking for, exactly?” Shorty whispered. “It all seems the same to me.”

  “This way,” Brand answered vaguely. But he led them on confidently.

  It all looked the same, yet it was not quite so. In places, the fighting had been fiercer and the sense of death stronger. It was a trail of sorts, for while the defenders retreated they had a destination in mind, one last bastion of hope, one final task to accomplish before they died.

  At length, they came to the center of the fortress. This was a mighty dome, and above them the arched ceiling still gleamed with color and shifting lights from the many narrow windows in the walls. No doubt there were tiles on the ceiling forming decorative works of art, but the dimness and the grime of millennia obscured them.

  But there was light enough to see the floor. Here men had died in the thousands, and the remnants of swords and spears and shields were everywhere. So too the bones of the dead. And even after all this time, there still remained in the air the faint scent of corruption.

  Brand led them on, and every step was the desecration of a grave, but it could not be helped. To the center he led them, for here was a strange dais, triangular in shape, broken and half ruined, but not by time. The enemy had done this, and he saw why.

  A trapdoor lay in the middle of what was left of the dais. The door itself lay discarded to the side, a thing of twisted metal and ruined wizardry. Once, it had been warded by enchantment, but sorcery had broken it. Had it been built to keep something locked beneath the dome? Or was its purpose to keep the enemy out?

  There was only one way to find out. Brand peered into the hole the trapdoor once had covered. There were stairs there, and gently he stepped onto their surface and tested them with his weight. They were made of stone, and held.

  He moved slowly, testing each step carefully as he went. The others followed him, and soon they reached an underground chamber with a level floor. There were torches set in the wall, held by metal brackets. He took several of these and handed them around. Whatever oil or tar had been used to make them seemed intact, and Shorty withdrew a small flint box and tried to make fire.

  Several times he struck the steel striker against the stone. Sparks flew, and soon the fine and fibrous cloth he used for tinder caught. He breathed upon it, flaring it to life and held it against the torch that Taingern held toward him.

  The torch did not catch. The cloth flickered out and Shorty flicked it away with a curse as it burnt down to his fingers. Three times he tried this and failed, but on the fourth the tar-like material at the head of the torch ignited with a splutter of smoke and sparks.

  When the torch had caught properly, Taingern held it to the others until they too caught, and then they proceeded.

  “What is this place?” Shorty asked.

  “I don’t know,” Brand answered. “But the Letharn liked underground chambers, and there are places such as this all over Alithoras. Sometimes … the remnants of their magic guards them still.”

  “Is this one such place?”

  Brand was not sure. “There are traces of wizardry and sorcery all about. I can smell it in the air. The sorcery is still alive, that much I can tell, but what form it takes I cannot say. I’ve felt nothing like it before. But no, I don’t think there’s any trap or guard left by the Letharn. From them, we’re safe.”

  It was not reassuring. He was not certain what had happened, but just as the men of this fortress had been overwhelmed, so too had the magic, or the wizard, that defended it.

  They moved along the path, the light of the torches flaring and subsiding by turns and filling the air with an acrid stench and greasy smoke. They were on a long corridor, and from it branched other tunnels. There were wooden doors in places, some still hanging from rusted hinges.

  “I think this is a cellar,” Taingern said.

  Brand thought he was right. But the cellar was only a subterfuge. There was some other room beyond it, or below it. That much he knew, though he was not sure how.

  He found nothing as he searched but more passageways and the remnants of ancient barrels. It was Sighern who called out, having made a discovery.

  “Lo
ok at this,” he said.

  Brand looked, and he saw. It was the opening of a passage like any other in this place, but there were even more dead here than anywhere else. Hollow-eyed skulls gazed up at him. Rusted shards of swords and spear points littered the ground thickly. Arrow heads carpeted the ground like autumn leaves in a forest.

  “You’re right, Sighern.” Brand said. “This corridor is different. The fighting was fiercer here than anywhere else, and that must be for a reason.”

  Carefully, he moved ahead. The others followed, and the flickering fire of the torches hissed and spluttered. If anything, the fighting had grown more intense as it carried down the corridor. But carry down it had, and it ended in a small room.

  The battle had been at its worst here, and Brand could almost feel the terror of fighting in such a confined space. Arrows could not miss, nor spear thrusts nor the cut of blade. It was a bitter fight, without mercy or hope of escape. And the desperate shouting and screaming of their comrades would have filled their ears as they died.

  At the back of the room was yet another trapdoor. Once, perhaps, it was secret, for the stonework of casing around it was well made, and perfectly level with the floor. But the door itself was a twisted sheet of thick metal that lay in a corner slowly turning to dust.

  “The attackers fought hard to reach this spot,” Shorty said. “As hard as any army ever has for anything.”

  Brand peered down into the blackness of the square opening. “And the defenders tried just as hard to keep them out. Why?”

  There was a reason, even if he did not know what it was. And finding out could be dangerous, but they were close now to the answer.

  Sighern gave a nonchalant shrug. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? Let’s go down and see.”

  The boy was right, but again Brand wondered about him. Did he never know fear? Had he been stupid, that was a possibility. But he was quick of thought and never needed to learn something twice. It was a rare man that was both smart and courageous, at least if he did not have to be. But Sighern had wanted to come, knowing the dangers. And now he wanted to push ahead.

  Brand gave a shrug of his own. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He eased himself down the opening, and as there had been last time there were stone steps here as well. He trusted these no better, and he took his time. But eventually he came to the bottom, perhaps six feet below the opening, and here he lifted his torch high to see better while he waited for the others to join him.

  The walls were no longer built by the hand of man. Here, they were in a natural cave. But it was a narrow passageway still, else Brand would have worried about the weight of the fortress above.

  He led them forward once more. The remnants of battle were still thick all about them, and it seemed the long-ago battle had continued to some other point.

  They walked a good while, and Brand was sure now that they had passed beyond the perimeter of the fortress. And at that point the cave began to widen. He went ahead, more cautiously now, and drew his sword also. Wherever they were going, and whatever remained there after the battle, must be close now.

  “The floor has begun to slope,” Taingern said.

  He was right. It was a light incline at first, but it grew steeper rapidly. Soon, they found a set of stairs carved into the natural stone of the floor. Brand moved down them.

  The air grew colder as they moved deeper beneath the earth. Was this a secret escape route of some sort? Had the defenders fled the fortress?

  The stairs ended. Ahead of them was a vast cavern, and the light of all the torches combined did not reach its extremities.

  To the left were the still waters of an underground lake. The farther shore was not visible, nor was there the slightest movement or ripple disturbing the dark surface. And dark it was, black as midnight. Brand wondered if it were even water at all, but the light was strange and he could not tell. This much he knew, he would not touch it.

  To the side of the lake ran a pebbly shore. It too, like everywhere else, showed the remnants of battle. The fighting had not ceased even here.

  Brand paused. He felt the spirits of the dead all around him. Thousands of shadowy voices whispered in his ear. They were cries for help, he thought. The skin all up his spine tightened. Why were they here? What did they want?

  “They are all about us,” muttered Shorty.

  The presence of the spirits was now so strong that no magic was needed to sense them, yet to Brand the invisible weight of their will was like a heavy fog that settled all over the vast chamber.

  “The dead can offer us no harm,” Sighern said with confidence.

  Brand was not so sure, but he moved ahead anyway. Having come this far, he must go on and see this through to the end. But he did not like it. Did the spirits yet guard in death what they had guarded in life?

  8. The Power of the Gods

  Onward Brand led them. His boots crunched on the pebbly shore. At least, where there were pebbles. Most of the ground seemed to be bones, and they gleamed white in contrast to the black water of the lake. Brand wondered if this should even be so. Was it not the sun that bleached bones white? Underground, would they not be discolored? He dismissed such thoughts from his mind though. The whispering of the dead had grown more urgent.

  They moved along the pebbly ribbon of shore. To the right, the cave wall rose high into darkness. To the left, the black water of the lake was silent as the void. All around them was a secretive darkness that pressed forward.

  And then the shoreline curved to the left. The wall to the right receded. As they moved, a great space opened up around them, and a stele stood in the floor.

  The stele was three-sided, and tall as a man. It was a marking stone such as the Letharn had used, and Brand knew there would be writing on it. But the light was not good, and he caught only glimpses of a strange script cut into the hard surface. He would not be able to read it even if he saw it well, anyway.

  It did not matter. His eye was drawn elsewhere. If the battle had been fierce in the fortress, it was fiercer here. This was the place where the defenders made their final stand. Bones and rusted weapons lay everywhere. But that was not all. Over all were the marks of fire. Sorcerous fire. Brand could smell the stench of it, vile and evil.

  The bones were scorched. The metal of blades and armor had melted into strange shapes before rust set in. Even the walls were blackened in long streaks. The battle of men against men had culminated here, but so too the one of wizard against sorcerer.

  Brand moved with great care. Some element of the sorcery remained alive, and it was here in this place. A sense of dread filled him, but he eased forward, one cautious step after another.

  The lake disappeared beneath a great arch of natural stone, and ahead a wall came into view. This was blackened and pitted also. Falls of rubble piled beneath it where sorcerous blasts had torn at the stone, shredding it to loose rocks and dust.

  And against that wall was pinned a figure. Brand slowed, but did not stop. The others came with him, step for step, and what was before them gradually became clearer. The light from the smoking torches lit up what had remained in the dark for thousands of years while the world spun and the stars wheeled for countless nights in the open lands above.

  The figure was that of a man. Unlike the dead that lay all around, scorched bone and mounds of dust, some sorcery or vestige of wizardry had slowed its decomposition. The man yet had arms and legs and a head that lolled to his chest. After all this time, the once-white robes he wore still hung from his body, though in filthy tatters from the withered frame. The marks of battle were upon him. Arrows pierced his flesh, the shafts dried and brittle with age, but intact. So too a spear that pierced his body, driven deep toward his heart. The gash of an axe opened up his shoulder, and the robe there was a mess of blood that had dried to black dust. Of the axe, there was no sign. One half of the man’s face was burned and twisted by sorcerous fire. His left hand was blackened and burned to a stum
p.

  This, Brand guessed, was the wizard. And he had died a terrible death. But the worst of it was that his staff had been taken from him. It too had been used to kill him, for it pierced him like a spear, tearing through the man’s body and by the power of sorcery, boring into the stone beyond. Upon that length of wood the wizard hung, impaled.

  Brand drew close. He saw now that the body hung not just by the staff. Four metal spikes had been driven through arms and legs to secure the wizard to the wall. Long-dried blood colored the robes at those points. This had been done while the man lived.

  A shudder flowed through Brand, and he came to a stop before the body. What agony had this man endured? What person could have inflicted it upon him? It was obscene, and Brand felt a wave of nausea threaten to make him vomit, hardened though he was to battle and death.

  And then, beyond comprehension, the body moved. Slowly, the head lifted from the chest and burned-out eyes, sockets of dried blood, gazed at him.

  The wizard yet lived, and Brand understood the sorcery that had sickened him. It had caught this man on the cusp of death, and kept him there, kept him between worlds in eternal agony. It was the single greatest evocation of magic that he had ever seen, and the single worst act of humanity he had ever witnessed.

  The mouth of the wizard moved, but the lips peeled and blistered. There was no sound, and yet Brand heard words in his mind. Not only did the wizard live, he retained some power of magic.

  “Who … Are … You?”

  Brand forced himself to remain still. “I am Brand, the rightful chieftain of this land. I now use your fortress as a defense against my enemies.”

  The wizard shuddered. It seemed that fresh blood oozed through his many wounds.

  “The fortress. Has fallen. The enemy is within. No. No. That was … long ago.”

  Brand gritted his teeth, else he might vomit. “That was long ago. My enemies have not yet arrived.”

  “What then do you want?” The figure strained against his bonds, and the whisper of a moan came from his mouth. “Do you come to taunt me?”