Prison of Power
Chris Northern
Prison of Power. Copyright 2004, 2007 by Chris Northern
Published by Chris Northern at Smashwords
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
ISBN 978-1-4523-4866-7
This book is for Mike Moorcock, who said “Read a lot, write a lot, and if you are any good you will eventually publish."
Other Works
(The Price Of Freedom)
The Last King's Amulet
The Key To The Grave
The Invisible Hand
Prison of Power
Chris Northern
Chapter One
The boy is an enigma, and you know how deeply I love to work through a puzzle until I reach a solution.
I found him on the streets, as dangerous a child-thug as you could dread to meet alone on a dark night. Still, here was something about him that seemed worth saving – though what first drew me to intervene on his behalf I cannot now imagine. I hate to think what he has endured in his struggle for survival. Far more dangerous, I now know, than I could have at first imagined. He is so wrought about with magic that has altered his flesh that he is clearly the product of a great investment of power; yet it was here, alone and impoverished that I found him. As to where he has come from and why he is here I cannot guess, and he will not say. Had I found him to be petty, cruel, violent and arbitrary I would have given him a few coins and sent him away. He is wild, dangerous and distrustful, but whatever harm has been done to him, he has not let it destroy his basic nature. I see his struggle against the desire to inflict suffering on others as has been done to him, and believe that this betrays an intelligence and nobility of spirit that deserves to be nurtured.
Kaldrathan: Letters to Dormisadias
On the west bank of the Golinda the day was full of fire and men and horses. Dense clouds covered the skies and threw occasional bolts of lightning that fell amongst the troops, tossing men aside as casually as a child discards a cloth doll in which it has lost interest.
Yissa stood on the hill inside the low walls of the encampment they had built the previous night; last night, when the army had still been organized and confident. Now she stood and cursed her lack of Source. She knew how to dispel the raging storm above them but didn’t have the power to do it. As a consequence of her weakness, her Lord’s men were dying. She had never felt so worthless, so useless; her man needed her strength and she had none to give.
The dozen men of her honor guard stood around her, awaiting her decision. Below, soldiers streamed into the fog that cloaked Ormindas’s gate. They would emerge safe and sound within the keep at Hustlan; a welcome haven after the horrors of today’s fighting. Hundreds fled and hundreds more were being drawn up in companies to wait their turn to pass through to safety. More men were crossing the ice that Ormindas had thrown over the Golinda to give the army a line of retreat.
She glanced behind her; saw the cavalry forming in columns outside the walls of the camp, ready to flee by a more conventional route. The traveling gate itself must be taken up at some point, taken and protected. The infantry could pass through to Hustlan, with the wounded that could be saved. But the cavalry must remain, to make the long march back to Hustlan with Ormindas and the traveling gate. But where would Castal be? Would he pass through the gate or travel with the Cavalry? Where should she go?
Undecided, she turned back to look at the river. Beyond the ice-bridge scattered pockets of resistance fought on, even as the main force retreated so ignobly, leaving them to their fate. Cut off from the retreat, forced into the river or surrounded by enemy forces, those men were doomed and she would weep for them when she could. A wave of shame and remorse flooded over her. This was her fault. Her fault for not having the power to help her Lord as he deserved. She caught a glimpse of Castal, mounted on his charger and clad in mail, standing in the stirrups and shouting orders and encouragement to his men. On the far bank more than two thousand soldiers milled in chaos, desperate to cross and yet unable to do so for the press of men and horses already on the bridge. “Damn Grantha,” Yissa whispered vehemently.
On the low rise beyond, a fresh force of the enemy was mustering. Thousands of well-ordered troops under the banner of the Eyeless King were making ready to sweep down on Castal’s already shattered army and destroy it utterly.
Even as she watched, helpless, she felt the sudden surge of imminence that presaged a spell. A moment later a ball of flame rolled rapidly down the hill into the disordered ranks, consuming the men it touched. Living torches flailed and fell, adding to the confusion, and the weight of the press.
Why should Grantha commit his men? Yissa thought bitterly. Why should he waste them when he and his Enchanters can merely stand back and slaughter us with magic? How much Source do they have? How much damage can they do before they exhaust themselves?
Desperately, she looked about for aid. Who was left alive? Of Castal’s Enchanters, how many had died in the battle and how many survived? All around the gate she spied Ormindas’s Warrior-Priests ranged in a protective circle, and among them Ormindas himself, watching over his gate like a broody mother. His favored disciples were easy to pick out amongst any other company; they glowed and sparked with an ethereal purple light that shielded them from harm. Divine magic, unseen in the world in living memory until Ormindas had brought its secrets back from obscurity. They and he guarded the gate and would not be distracted from that task.
Down by the ice bridge, the other Enchanters stood in a huddle, bursts of imminence flowering intermittently, each with a slightly different flavor and texture depending on the nature of the spell and the Enchanter who cast it. She counted four there, and recognized each. That left three unaccounted for. Three and the Yhar’sharem called Regret who had come, unannounced, to the camp the previous day. There was no sign of him. He had come unlooked for and left unmarked. Clothed in illusion save at council with Castal, where his pale hair and wolf eyes had been revealed, he had proved as arrogant and secretive as any of his kind. Having no love of Unbound Enchanters, such as the Eyeless King, he had promised Castal what aid he could in the battle and was true to his word. He had saved hundreds of their own and killed hundreds of the enemy. But now he was gone.
A powerful imminence caught her attention, its flavor dark and foul and its texture unquestionably that of the Eyeless King himself. She gasped at the power of it, aware that she could never have countered so strong a casting, and shuddered as she searched for the effect.
Rhiad, the captain of her guard, sensed her distress and asked her what caused it. Yissa shook her head, distractedly. “Something. He has cast something … ill. There!” Her arm shot out, pointing to the bridge of ice across which her lord’s army fled. Beyond, among the scattered bodies of the fallen something moved. A twitching, ragged movement, as some and then many of the dead, though broken in body, climbed stiffly to their feet.
“May the gods preserve us,” Rhiad whispered.
On the bridge itself the panic redoubled; the rearmost ranks either turned to fight the new threat or pushed others aside in their desperation to reach the safety of the gate that would instantly take them far from the scene of the carnage they had endured.
Swiftly, Yissa formed and released a farspeaking, warning her lord. She watched him take a moment to assess the situation. He barked orders to a nearby aide, who galloped toward Ormindas and the gate.
“He is going to close the gate,” Yissa guessed.
“Then we will be trapped here.” Rhiad sounded resigned.
“You have horses for us?”
“For us, yes. But for them?” He gestured to the panicked mass of soldiery that tumbled across the ice bridge and ran blindly toward the gate. The aide that Castal had sent had to force a passage through them with his mount.
“He has to quell the panic, Rhiad. If the gate is down the reason to run goes with it. It can always be restored, later, when all are safely across.”
“Too late for that, lady. I have been in such chaos as this once before. Nothing but time can calm them, and there is none. Look.”
Yissa looked to where he pointed. Grantha was on the move.
“Mount up, Rhiad.”
He nodded. “There is nothing else to do, now.”
The last half a hundred horsemen thundered by, to join the mass of cavalry behind them. Only foot soldiers remained below. Even Castal had turned away, she saw, and was making his way up the hill to where she waited.
At the gate the mist that had hidden it suddenly faded as the gate closed, stranding hundreds who had been racing for its safety.
Ormindas darted forward and lifted the black sphere that was the traveling gate in one hand and hid it in a bag he slung on his back. The ground around them was clear for only a few moments. She had time to see Ormindas ahorse, his Warrior-Priests fast behind him, and then they were surrounded by Castal’s men and had to force a passage through the panicked soldiers. A flash of light nearly blinded her. Only the distance between them saved her sight, and even so it seemed dark for a few moments. When her sight returned, Ormindas and his Warrior-Priests were in the clear. Behind them men staggered blindly or stood still, shouting curses with voices twisted in bitter and futile rage.
Yissa turned and climbed into the saddle. Her Duke approached with his lieutenants and aides around him. Not far behind them came Ormindas and the Warrior-Priests. She heard Castal shouting to Ormindas as they drew close. “We will reopen the gate not more than a mile away, and hold that position until all are through who may come safely to us before dawn, you understand?”
“Aye, my Lord. I understand. What of the ice-bridge?”
“We stop at the crest and wait until we can wait no more. Then you destroy it!” The rage in his voice at having to make such a hard decision filled her heart with pity. For he was fiercely loyal to his men and counted each loss the loss of a friend. To order such a harsh thing tore his heart, she knew.
As they came close, Yissa pulled her mount around and fell in near him. Not so close as to be an intrusion on his thoughts but close enough to be at hand if he should need her. Her bodyguard fell in behind, riding beside Ormindas’s Warrior-Priests.
“Move out the armored horse!” Castal shouted. “One mile west and no more. The rest wait for the stranded infantry and double up!” He turned to Ormindas. “Leave it till the last moment, Ormindas! Let not one more man than need requires be stranded on the far side or pitched into the river, you hear me?”
“To hear is to obey, my Lord Castal. It will be as you say.”
His next words were spoken lower, almost to low for Yissa to catch. “For my own part,” he said, “I cannot bear to watch.”
With that said, he rode on to go with the heavily armored Kataphraktoi, men clad in chain with a breastplate or lamellar corselet worn over, and mounted on the largest of chargers. Yissa pulled her horse aside and was followed by her bodyguard. With them, she waited for the stranded infantrymen to catch up. One more man saved if I stay, she thought. One more man alive to fight another day. One more man to help save Castal’s kingdom.
As she turned her mount, another bolt of lightning fell from the pendulous clouds and slew a dozen of her lord’s men. On the far bank the risen dead fought and slew and were hacked apart in their turn. Down the rise the ordered, disciplined men of Grantha’s army advanced. Yissa stayed and watched it all, until the end, so that she could faithfully report to her lord that his will was done and not one more man was lost than required.
As Yissa watched, she wept.
###
Regret Yhar’sharem hid behind illusion as the riders thundered past him, their torches burning with unnatural brightness to turn the night into day. Those that looked his way saw the stump of a felled tree, covered in moss and snow, he knew. None could see through the illusions of the Yhar’sharem, not even the Unbound Enchanters.
Dusk had fallen on the field of battle, and the Eyeless King had won the day. Castal’s men had been broken into smaller and smaller units as the battle progressed, and many had been trapped on the east bank of the river. Some few remained, moving through the night or hiding. But Grantha hunted them, and more would die before the dawn.
When the riders had passed, Regret crossed their path and began to skirt an uneven hill. He was alone, and that unnerved him. Kindjal should have been by his side, but Kindjal was dead. Slain by the Heir that Regret had sensed in the battle. Kindjal had been tall and strong and deadly, but the Chosen One had proven stronger and Kindjal had fallen. Regret had taken the sword from the cold body with his own hands, and wept.
A sudden clash of arms brought him around. Beyond the hill to the north another band of Castal’s men were meeting their fate in the night. Would he find the Heir there, fighting for his life? Or was that one already dead in the night? A cold, stiffening body with Yhar’Harran’s blood cooling in his veins, his seed dying with him. Or was he in the thick of the fighting that Regret could hear in the night, slaying Grantha’s men even now?
Regret narrowed his pale eyes and started towards the sounds of battle. North was a reasonable direction to search; Castal would retreat through Ormindas’s gate to Hustlan and lick his wounds. Any survivors would also head north, even if trapped on this side of the river, hoping to make it back across higher upstream and then on to some stronghold of Castal’s.
As he came closer to the fighting, Regret adopted the appearance of a wolf. It amused him that he could keep his wolf eyes with this illusion, eyes that he normally turned brown, just as he normally made his white hair seem red. His eyes were sharp, augmented by magic that changed the shape of the cells at the back of his eyes. It was a simple spell that enabled him to see with less light at the expense of color vision, which he did not need in the dark in any case.
When he was close enough to see the fighting, he moved warily closer. A hundred of Castal’s infantry were beset by twice the number of Grantha’s men; some mounted, but most on foot. Castal’s men had lost discipline and were broken into small defensive knots that fought with fierce desperation.
Like the others that Regret had seen, Grantha’s horsemen bore torches that burned unnaturally bright and illuminated the slaughter more clearly than Regret needed. He was close enough to be able to sense the Heir if he had been present. He cursed under his breath. There must be fifty or more skirmishes occurring at this moment, but he could move only so fast. And he could only feel the Heir if he was within a hundred yards or so. That made him angry. Normally he could sense an Heir within a mile of him, feel the blood of Yhar’Harran sing out to him. But this one knew who he was, and had found a way to dampen the Yhar’sharem’s ability to sense him. He was hiding. Hiding in the night.
And who could blame him for that? Regret thought. In ninety years since Yhar’Harran’s fall more than two hundred of the blood had been slain.
Regret skirted the fight, moving cautiously around the Eyeless King’s men, for he was also hiding from them. The Unbound Enchanters never passed up an opportunity to secretly slay one of Yhar’Harran’s servants; even though the High King’s bloodline was so diminished that this Heir he had found at Golinda was the first he had sensed in thirty years and the chances of a Yhar’sharem bringing an Heir to the throne had diminished almost to zero.
And I must find him, Regret thought, I must.
He glanced up at the moon, its silvery light all but invisible behind the dense cloud cover that hung low over the battlefield. Nine days until the moon was full, nine days until he could travel in spirit to the Chapterhouse at Ibarak and tell his sisters that an Heir had been found.
###
Though the main battle was over, the night was far from peaceful.
From his vantage atop a ruined wall, Clavis listened and watched for the small units that scoured the surrounding area, hunting active units of Castal’s broken army. Clavis was acutely aware that he was on the wrong side of the river. Here on the east bank of the Golinda the main army of the Eyeless King held the field of battle and hunted survivors. On the other bank, any remnants of Castal’s army that might exist would be gathering or fleeing. The battle at Golinda had not gone well for Castal.
As the day’s fighting had progressed, the battle had turned into a one-sided slaughter in which Clavis had found himself on the wrong side. As the shadows had lengthened so had the odds against victory for Castal’s army. When his Enchanters were unable to counter the greater number loyal to the Eyeless King, the battalions had been forced to split into smaller and smaller units, spreading out to avoid concentrated magical attacks and thus making themselves vulnerable to Grantha’s host of cavalry. By nightfall one battle had turned into hundreds of smaller skirmishes in which Castal’s troops consistently came off worse. His own unit destroyed, Clavis had fled south with a small number of survivors and found a temporary refuge in the ruins of an ancient bastion built by some other king to serve in some other war, he supposed. Here, he stood in the crumbling remnants of a tower on the north wall and listened to the night.
Even now that full dark had claimed the battlefield the slaughter was not over. The occasional flash of lighting blazed briefly, crisp and bright in the night sky, followed by thunder that rolled over the low hills that lay to the north, drowning out the clash of arms that signaled the end of another broken unit. He judged that they were less than two miles away.
Though unnatural storm clouds still filled the northern sky, above him the cloud cover was low and white and gently released a thin fall of snow that lightly dusted the cold, hard ground. Where the snow had settled the ground blazed brilliant when the lightning flashed. Another man would be blinded, as the sudden light overwhelmed pupils that had been adjusted to the dark, but Clavis possessed eyes that adjusted so rapidly to changes in light that he was never affected. He saw no movement in these brief intervals, and intended to remain on vigil only long enough to be assured that discovery was unlikely for the moment.
When the last screams that marked the skirmish north of him were abruptly cut short, an eerie silence returned. The brief quiet was broken from further away by a sudden roar from hoarse throats and a clash of arms. He heard Castal’s battle cry and knew that somewhere in the night another would-be hero was leading his men in a desperate and doomed bid for life.
It did not matter to Clavis. He was safe enough here and now. There were but two hours to dawn and by then he would be gone.
Castal’s war was over. This battle at Golinda had proven as much to Clavis; the force Castal could field was no match for the Eyeless King. Ormindas had promised much from his new band of Warrior-Priests but they had delivered little. They fought well enough, and the spirits they called made them dangerous foes one-to-one; but a man can only kill one man at a time, and the Warrior-Priests were few while the Enchanters that the Eyeless King brought to the field were many. The small principality Castal ruled would certainly fall, becoming part of the Eyeless King’s domain. That would make Grantha the second most powerful Unbound out of the dozen whose lands ringed Ibarak like a noose. But that would change nothing. The balance would remain, and the wars would continue. No single Unbound was strong enough to destroy another or to conquer Ibarak. And Ibarak, held by the Yhar’sharem, was not strong enough to openly challenge any of the Unbound.
As he descended the broken stair to the ruined hall below, Clavis was sure of only one thing. He would have constant employment, should he desire it, in the wars that raged around the edges of Ibarak like a tornado around its eye. This thought brought a sour smile to his full lips, for Clavis secretly harbored his adopted father’s dream; the dream of the historian, the dream of a golden age of peace, the dream of empire under a benevolent rule; the dream that an Heir would be found and brought to the Crimson Throne to restore order, with the inherited might of his august ancestor. But to him the dream was now no more than a dream. The dynasty of Yhar’Harran had never been benevolent, rather the Yhar’Harran had been ruthless and cruel and had gathered others of their kind around them. There had been peace but the cost was too high, the price of stability had been freedom.
Well, Clavis thought wryly, they are all free now and I suspect they have had a bellyful of it. The golden age was in the past and all of the High King’s heirs were dead, even though the Yhar’sharem Enchanters still searched. A world of war and chaos was all there was and all there would ever be. If the gods had survived their own ancient wars they would laugh. Or weep.
Times will change, his father whispered weakly.
Clavis walked carefully through the band of sleeping men and found a place to rest, nestled in a corner of the ruined hall where he was taking shelter from weather and enemies along with his latest comrades. Only then did he look at the gold band upon his finger, turning the plain ring that held his father’s withering soul, as was his habit when they spoke.
Things will change and they will stay the same, he thought. People will be born and they will die. Rulers will rise and they will fall. Disease will run rampant and fade. Famine will come and go. Love will blossom and decay; and battles will be lost and won.
Things will change, his father repeated.
Clavis did not believe him. A loud curse cut through his thoughts and brought more immediate matters to mind. The physic stitched the wound of a youth without the benefit of anything to ease his pain, a broad and deep cut the length of his chest that laid bare his ribs.
“Be silent!” Clavis growled. “Unless you want to fight some more tonight?”
The lad raised his eyes. There was more than enough light from the physic’s bull’s-eye lantern for Clavis to see the fear there.
Carlin also glanced up from his work on the boy’s chest. “Leave be, Clavis. He’s young and unused to pain.”
You should kill him, his father murmured.
Clavis smiled grimly. “He’d better get used to it fast. There is nothing in the world so sure as pain.”
A hollow laugh sounded in his head. He felt rather than saw a stirring in the dark as Hurrak moved his great bulk. “You should tell him that when he stops feeling pain he should worry,” Hurrak paused for effect, “in the few seconds he has left of life!”
Hurrak understood the speech of the Kingdoms well enough but his tongue had difficulty forming the words. Clavis reflected a moment and then translated from Hurrak’s native Vrakki. Carlin merely sighed and went back to his work. Clavis let his eyes linger only a moment on the lad’s face. The weak smile as the boy tried to show his appreciation of the joke made him feel suddenly sick.
“Finish your work fast and kill that light,” Clavis growled, returning his eyes to the ring that held his father’s soul.
Why should I kill him? he asked, silently.
He is no use to you. What wound of yours has not healed?
Childhood memories surged to the surface and were ruthlessly put down in a way that had become almost instinctive.
And Hurrak? he thought. And the boy?
What use are they? his father scorned, a fat old mercenary who doesn’t know his own father and a stripling youth who has to be told when to pee. You won’t rise to power with these as your fellows.
And for this I should kill them?
If they are not an asset, then they are a liability. These twenty mortals are of no worth or consequence. Kill them or leave them, but don’t waste your time on them.
You were a cruel man, father.
And you are not?
Clavis remembered a silent scream and bulging eyes full of horror. Hot blood pumping over his hand as he twisted the knife. Another childhood memory risen to haunt him and just as quickly suppressed.
I have been, he thought. I have been.
I must rest now; I am tired.
You grow tired more swiftly now than you did.
I’m dying.
“You are dead already,” he whispered
“What?” Hurrak grunted in the darkness.
A blast of cold air brought a sheet of sleet into the hall through a gaping hole, like a spatter of blood from an open wound. So the snow had turned to rain and the morrow would find a field of mud and a sea of blood, he thought. How much of that have I seen? How much have I spilled? How many nights in the rain with the remnants of defeated armies? Victorious ones? He shrugged the maudlin thoughts aside.
“Get some sleep,” Clavis told him, absently.
“And in the morning?”
“I head south for Tragella. You go where you will.”
Hurrak sat silent for a moment, but judged correctly that Clavis was in no mood to argue the point and rolled into his blankets to sleep.
The physic finished tying off a bandage, his nimble fingers gentle but firm against the boy’s wincing movements, and turned about to face Clavis. “Did I hear you say Tragella?”
“You did. What of it?”
“Duke Castal will be regrouping; probably at Hustlan.” His voice was vaguely accusing.
“The campaign season is over. Castal’s army is destroyed. Whatever force he gathers at Hustlan or elsewhere will fall to the Eyeless King come spring or sooner.”
“Ormindas’s gate will allow us to field armies all through the winter, and supply them in the field. It is not over. We have not lost yet.”
Clavis held his temper on a tight rein. “You may be a citizen of Burgain and Castal’s man. But I am a mercenary with a contract and my unit is reduced to a tenth its complement. Unacceptable losses. I am free of my contract. I am heading south to winter in Tragella. Alone.”
“Then Grantha will win.”
Clavis shrugged. “Someone has to.”
Carlin seemed about to argue his case but Clavis forestalled him, touching one hand to the hilt of his sword and making his quiet voice hard as iron. “Cover that lamp and get some sleep. You will need it come morning.”
He watched as Carlin doused the bull’s-eye lantern and listened as the physic and the boy rolled themselves into blankets to sleep. He could feel the resentment radiating from the older of the two, the confusion from the other. It was forty miles to Hustlan, and with Castal’s army scattered this remnant would be unlikely to make it across that now hostile territory alone. But then, the land had not been safe to travel for generations. The rebellion that had seen the High King slain had made peace, even his harsh and uncompromising peace, a dream held in the hearts and minds only of scholars and historians. The Unbound Enchanters that the High King had once held in his thrall, now made war to eclipse their former master and hunted down and killed any rumored to be of the royal blood. New powers arose and fell; all the king’s bastards who would sit upon his Crimson Throne and rule were dead or in hiding. The wars that had erupted at the High King’s death had lasted ninety years. And no one ever won.
He closed his eyes to the darkness and rested his head against the cool stone wall behind him. No, he thought, no one ever won. The wars that had continued to flare briefly across the land resolved nothing.
We live in a world of chaos, he thought, and only the strength in one’s own mind and body make for any security. So Grantha would win this war. And what of that? Wars were won and lost and nothing changed. If only the Yhar’sharem would allow someone, anyone, to sit upon the Crimson Throne. With their backing and the armies of the kingdom anyone could sit that throne as figurehead; enough other powers would come to back a new High King that the Unbound Enchanters might fall one by one and then there might be peace one day. But the Yhar’sharem would not permit it; all the High King’s powers would come to him who sat the throne if he were of the royal blood, and the Yhar’sharem would allow no other to come near to the inner city at the heart of the ancient capital of Ibarak.
They have reasons, his father whispered.
What reasons? But his father did not answer. If an Heir lived, he could unite the world under his rule. That was the dream, the hope; though Clavis was now convinced there was no hope that any Heir lived, let alone one who might be innocent of evil. That much power, Clavis thought just before he fell into a restless sleep, would corrupt any but the most innocent, so even if an Heir yet lived it would be better if he died.
Chapter Two
I was thrown to the ground and lay half conscious in the mud of the road. When I came to, the boy was kneeling beside me, his expression clearly showing his deep concern. I found three men dead around me. Three grown men. They had cudgels and knives and the boy was unarmed. He showed neither regret nor remorse for killing them, but was full of anger at them and fear for my well-being. It seems I have found a protector. And a mystery.
Kaldrathan: Letters to Dormisadias
Lamplight threw flickering shadows onto the walls of the audience chamber, deep within the palace at Hustlan. Grylantha could hear the babble of muted voices that came from beyond the doors. He sat with his back to a wall to one side of the door, invisible and unnoticed, privy to what should have been a closed meeting between Duke Castal and his chief Enchanter, Ormindas.
The middle aged Duke sat moodily on the throne of what had once been, and might still be, his kingdom. Though not, Gry thought, if the powers that surrounded him have their way.
The Kingdom of Burgain will fall when Hustlan falls, Gry thought, and though the palace is more fortress than residence, it will not stand against what will come against it.
The palace itself stood on high ground at the edge of the town of Hustlan, surrounded by old buildings, and hard against the curtain wall of the city, beyond which lay clear wasteland. Even within the thick defensive walls of the city, with half the northern army billeted within and the rest encamped three miles south, Duke Castal looked uneasy and threatened. His brooding brow, bordered by short-cropped salt and pepper hair, gave the impression of deep thought, reinforced by an unfocused look to his eyes. The palace might be a fortress but it was a fortress to which Duke Castal had fled in defeat after the battle of Golinda.
The battle, Gry had heard moments ago, had become a rout. Three of Castal’s seven minor Enchanters lay dead on the field, and three thousand of the soldiery he had commanded were lost in that action. This much both Gry, and his master the Death Knight, had predicted. The simple fact was that the Eyeless King commanded three times the number of Enchanters.
The Duke gave a slight start as Ormindas spoke, as though he had forgotten he was not alone.
“All magic is based on the power of the Immortals.” Ormindas reiterated the central point of his argument, as though tired of waiting for a response.
Gry could not see Ormindas’ expression as the bald Enchanter faced the Duke, but he watched Castal’s face as he slowly marshaled his thoughts, bringing his eyes to focus on the vulture-like visage of the Priest-Enchanter who, if truth were told, was the author of all his troubles. If he had not accepted the advice of Ormindas, he would not have permitted the worship of the old gods within his lands; and the Eyeless King would have continued to ignore him as irrelevant, content with an annual tribute which in no way stretched Castal’s resources. But Castal had allowed himself to be persuaded. If he could not attract Enchanters to his service, then what could be better than the aid of Gods that Ormindas insisted merely lay dormant due to lack of worship? The few warrior-priests Ormindas had accepted into his circle proved beyond doubt that some vestige of divine power remained, but Gry had doubts that it would prove more than a fragmented remnant of the power that had once been.
“You are certain you know where He is hidden?” the Duke asked again.
“The research of the scholar Kaldrathan filled the only gaps in my own knowledge. I am certain. The God called Rasheth is entombed within a maze of traps created around the Source at Oyal within the Duntarsk Mountains. The Necromancers that spawned Yhar’Harran did not kill the immortal Rasheth; instead they imprisoned him, though it took all their might to do it.”
“And the god has lain undiscovered all this time?”
“Yhar’Harran destroyed his own contemporaries some short time after, all but she who was to become his queen. She is long dead, and when he fell to the Unbound a mere ninety years ago the Unbound Enchanter Kuljin made the Duntarsk a preserve for his children, the Dragonkin. No human has stepped into the foothills of the Duntarsk and lived since then.
“Even if other Enchanters knew, or guessed at the nature of the Oyal Source they would have stayed away. Enchanters have always feared the power of the gods, even more than they fear other Enchanters. Perhaps it was known and He was simply left there to rot. But He is there. I’d stake my life on it.”
“I would be staking all our lives on it, if I do as you would have me do.”
“With the power he would grant me in gratitude and as his High Priest, his only priest, the safety and security of your kingdom would be assured.”
“There is great risk.” The Duke fell silent again, brooding.
Castal had sent for Yissa shortly before falling into his last long silence. Gry was surprised that she had not yet arrived. Had it not been as long as he thought? She was ever close to hand.
“It is sure,” Ormindas calmly stated what must be an unpalatable truth, “that the Eyeless King will win this conflict as things stand.”
“I have sent word to the Harvak League.” The Duke answered absently.
“Who will take a year to make a decision and are unlikely to make themselves a threat to the other Unbound Enchanters by attacking one. Remember that I have lived there. I know them. They will not field an army in your defense.”
Castal sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Ormindas, I see that your argument is persuasive. No southern principality will aid me so long as the trade route past the Duntarsk remains secure, and it will always be so regardless of who rules there. Nor, in all probability, will the Harvak League have any desire to aid me. Ibarak is in the hands of the Yhar’sharem Enchanters and is likely to chew away at my northern border next year, just as the Death Knight will take some of my western lands. It is clear to me that all will soon be lost.
“Yet still, I fear what you propose. The Duntarsk is perilous and I only have one army in the field, making a gift of my lands to anyone who would have them should I go into the Duntarsk. And,” he added, “the risk of releasing such an ancient power into the world weighs on my mind.”
“And is the very reason I did not bring the possibility to your attention before Golinda. But now the situation has changed, or perhaps become more clear.”
Gry resisted the urge to turn and look as the doors opened just enough to admit one person. In a moment the young Enchantress, Yissa, came into his view. Dressed in a burgundy gown of crushed velvet that accentuated her pale skin and merged with her darkly auburn hair, she moved almost silently toward the throne, stepping out of the shadows behind Ormindas as she spoke.
“You sent for me, my lord.” The calm young voice came as a surprise to both men, neither seeming to have noted her arrival. Castal was transparently relieved that Yissa was there. Ormindas half turned to face her, and acknowledged her presence without any show of affection. Though she was theoretically his peer as an Enchantress, none doubted who was the greater power. And it was also true that being the Duke’s concubine lessened her in the eyes of other Enchanters. The nobles also dismissed her because she was only Castal’s consort and not his wife. All in all, Yissa was alone. But Gry did not feel for her. She had made her own bed - Castal’s bed, to be precise - and now must lie in it.
Without changing her pace, Yissa stepped onto the raised platform, coming to rest beside and one step below the throne; she placed herself so that she could look easily at both men.
Castal continued the conversation without explanation. Not, Gry thought, through lack of regard, but rather in the certainty that she would soon understand what was under discussion. “Then you admit there is a risk?”
Gry watched Ormindas turn his attention back to Castal. “Of course, I accept that there is, my lord. But not as great a risk as it might seem at first glance. The Immortals favored their chosen, the High Priests who represented the lands and peoples they championed. Each priest bore a token that marked him as a favorite of the god, given to him by the god’s own hand. The token would bind the priest to the god. But it also bound the god to the priest. It was the physical sign of a covenant which neither could break.”
“You have such a talisman?” Yissa sounded surprised.
“I have.” Ormindas voice was replete with grim triumph as he reached within his robes and pulled forth a crimson gem upon a gold chain. Lamplight reflected evenly from the smooth surface of a jewel that was so dark a red as to seem almost black. “My brother and I, many years ago, began researches into the powers given to the Priest Kings and their like. We traveled and searched for decades. We learned much, sharing our knowledge. Eventually I found this relic; most such talismans were destroyed with their makers, some were merely lost. This one was hidden. This is the fruit of my efforts.”
“And his efforts?” Yissa asked.
Ormindas shrugged. “My brother? He abandoned his researches as far as I know. He became Yhar'sharem some time since.”
“I thought only the High King could initiate Yhar'sharem?” Yissa seemed puzzled, then her expression cleared to one of surprise as the implications of her own statement dawned on her. “Ormindas, how old are you?”
Ormindas shrugged his bony shoulders. “It was a dark time for Enchanters, Yissa. You either served him or worked in hiding. I chose the latter and was, then, weak enough to escape his notice. Laharn chose to serve.”
“This relic will work?” Castal asked, bringing all minds back to the matter in hand.
“Rasheth will know it. Released from his prison, he will have no choice but to honor the bargain already made. I know how he is bound and how to release him. With the patronage of a god, my Lord, your land and people will be secure. Who would dare oppose the will of a god?”
“And will you be content to be his High Priest, Ormindas?” Yissa spoke evenly.
“I have never sought secular power.” Without haste, he slipped the gem back within his robe and let his hands fall to his sides.
Yissa worried her lip for a moment. Gry could almost guess her thoughts. The Oyal Source would be a great prize for any Enchanter who could take it. But the Immortal bound within presented a greater danger than any traps laid there, traps that would be supported by the Source itself.
It had been centuries since a god had walked the earth. Who could guess what such a one might do on His release? Her Duke had not yet asked for her council and she would doubtless not give it until he did, but Gry guessed she must advise against the attempt. As he himself would.
Ormindas was typical of his kind: ambitious for power, old and so afraid of death that only more power could assuage his appetite for immortality. Even if the feat could be done safely, who would own the gem? Ormindas. Of all the Enchanters Gry knew or had known he was nearly the least sane choice to exercise such power.
“If you fail,” Duke Castal grumbled “then all that we will achieve is to fight a battle with the Dragonkin in the Duntarsk and gain the enmity of their master, the Unbound Enchanter Kuljin. I would lose the trade route, which if worst came would otherwise be my last secure power base.”
“The Oyal Source lies within the Duntarsk Mountains?” Yissa asked. At Ormindas’ dismissive shrug, Yissa turned urgently to voice her opinion, her face a mask of concern bordering on fear, but Castal had already parted his lips to speak.
“Yet I see no other answer to our dilemma.” Castal spoke with decision. “We will make the attempt.”
Castal climbed to his feet. Accepting Yissa’s hand upon his arm, Castal straightened his back and rolled his shoulders to loosen the knots of tension before stepping down from his throne and freeing the tapestried mantle that fell below his knee. His boots made a heavy echo at every step, each footfall more firm and swift as he strode across the hall. “Come, then!” He barked. “If we are to do this thing then it is best done swiftly. We will travel through your gate, Ormindas, and return to the army at once.”
“Yes, my lord!” Ormindas could not keep the enthusiasm from his voice as he moved in his master’s wake.
“The Eyeless King has not followed us across the Golinda so we have but to steer a course a little west to avoid his scouts, then south,” Castal continued as he walked. “We should be at your Source in a few short days if we travel hard; and we have the three thousand billeted within the city to reinforce us in Duntarsk should need be.”
“That is true, my lord.” Ormindas hurried ahead and opened the door before Castal and his lady, then followed as they strode through. Gry heard the household guards come smartly to attention as they passed into the well-lit chamber beyond, where dozens of lesser functionaries awaited the pleasure of their lord.
###
Gry rose slowly to his feet. Even his supple and muscular frame protested at having remained so long in one position. Despite his familiarity with such prolonged stillness he had to suppress a groan of complaint when he first moved.
Invisible to any eye as long as he remained still, Gry had gone without sleep all the previous day and night that he had waited here. To move was to be seen, and to be discovered here without cause was to be questioned, to be caught spying on a private meeting would mean torture, perhaps death.
But the Death Knight’s gift of concealment had proved as effective as ever, the enchanted clasp holding the more mundane black mantle about his stocky frame hid him from view so long as he did not move. Over the years of his service to Sheandra, the Death Knight’s consort and the woman who so ably controlled his spy network, Gry had become accustomed to such stillness as was required to conceal himself. His muscles complained that he had remained still so long - the water clock by the doors showed that two hours had passed since he had last been alone here and therefore free to move - but briefly and less than might be expected.
No indication of his mood, a half smile played about his lips and his brown eyes glittered merrily. He was keen to leave, now that he had learned something worth the effort of his labors. He would have been forced to leave soon in any case. A man has to eat, he thought, and sleep. Added to these discomforts, and despite precautions, he ached to piss. The constant draining of the water clock did not help, but all he had to do now was wait until the audience chamber filled and he could simply walk away unchallenged. The sound of many voices came through the open doors from the outer chamber but no one had yet entered. Until they did he must remain patient. Fortunately he had much to occupy his mind.
Like everyone else, Gry had believed that all the Immortals were long dead, killed by the weapons they had themselves created. Some of those weapons had been living creatures; others were items imbued with destructive power. Not even those weapons had survived to the present day. Only the legacy of the Sourcestone remained. The bodies of slain Immortals turned to a pure white liquid that seeped into the earth before solidifying into a crystal through which anyone with a hint of the blood of gods in their veins could draw vast amounts of power. But every Sourcestone bigger than a man could carry had some building or enchantment about it, created to assist in the defense of the Source, to prevent a rival Enchanter from stealing the Source by attuning it himself.
The control of such a Source, to which an Enchanter could attune himself, was the ultimate goal of those who had the ability. Some Enchanters had attuned more than one Source and the High King had a dozen or more. Hidden and protected, some had now been found and taken by the Unbound Enchanters. Others remained lost. Some had been broken apart, the body of the immortal desecrated, to form fragments of Sourcestone that changed hands at extravagant prices no matter how small the piece. This much was common knowledge amongst Enchanters and their intimates. Whereas a Source, whole or Sourcestone, was depleted by use and must be left to replenish itself, the gods themselves had each been a living Source. Alive, their bodies had constantly replenished themselves; there was no limit to the power of a god. What could an immortal not do? More to the point, what would this god do if freed?
The voices from the outer chamber were a backdrop to his thoughts, any change in that constant drone would signal the imminent flooding of the throne room with people. Then he must become still again, until the room was crowded, but for now he could relax.
He had not paid much attention to the ancient histories, what little of them survived. Ninety years of chaos were preceded by three hundred years of the rule of Yhar’Harran. By his order every book and scroll had been gathered into his own library at Ibarak, which had been plundered and destroyed during the rebellion.
And before the rule of the Yhar’Harran there had been a millennium of barbarism with only a few small beacons of civilization, and little had survived from that time. The war of the gods was established fact, but little detail survived. So, Gry thought, which god is Rasheth? Who was he? What were his deeds? What was he like? And how had he not been freed in all this time or freed himself?
He wondered if anyone else in the world knew that a god still lived. Clearly it was not common knowledge. Perhaps only Ormindas, Yissa, and the Duke Castal know.
And I know, Gry thought. No wonder Ormindas was keen to free this Immortal. He, at least, had no doubt that Ormindas intended to gather power solely for himself. What other point in such exacting research as must have been necessary to find Rasheth’s prison? No. Ormindas would make covenant with Rasheth and use the power gained to further his own ends, whatever they may be. The High Kings had ruled for centuries. Why would Ormindas aim for less? Another greedy, power-hungry and possibly mad Enchanter, Gry thought. Just what the world needs.
The noise from the outer chamber faded suddenly, and Gry’s thoughts snapped back to the present. Some clearing of throats and shuffling of feet indicated that those outside were maneuvering for position as they prepared to enter. Gry became still, pulling his mantle tight to his body, and slowing his breath to a whisper. Impassively, he watched the door as two servants entered carrying more lanterns to light the hall.
A short while later, Travach, the Castellan of Hustlan strode with calm purpose toward the throne. As the senior Magistrate within the town, he would preside over the court. After him came the vastly overweight Chancellor, Preman, who administered the public purse. As Gry watched the old man waddle across the hall, he knew there would be more than one question concerning war taxes; many a landowner would have been assessed to more liability than he thought was fair.
In his wake an ordered crowd of senior magistrates and dignitaries entered, followed by minor officials and other worthies. Lastly a mob of petitioners crowded in, nearly filling the hall and coming within feet of Gry.
Gry knew there would be no important business discussed here and now. He had witnessed the handful of audiences presided over by Duke Castal just before he had sequestered himself with Ormindas and sent word for his whore to join them. Travach would now preside over the rest of the day’s business, as he always did in the Duke’s absence. Petitions, hearings, legal judgments, all these would be heard now.
Gry maintained his half smile. As usual, he would be able to simply pick his moment, adjust his cloak and walk confidently from the hall. No one would notice his sudden appearance as they all faced away from him, except for Travach and a handful of others at the far end of the hall. And the crowd restricted their line of sight.
Bless you, Chaltrask, he thought for the thousandth time. The clasp had transformed Grylantha’s life. He had made good use of the gift, in ways not intended by Sheandra and her bedmate. He had accumulated a significant personal fortune through theft, assassination, and the sale of information to other Unbound Enchanters, and to the Yhar'sharem. It was a risk, and he would gain Chaltrask’s enmity should he learn of it, but Gry loved risk. It added a spice to life unattainable in any other way. He loved risk, but was no fool, and always wary of Enchanters. He held no illusion that if Ormindas or Yissa had been actively looking for him, he would not have been found. When Castal had ordered the hall cleared at Ormindas’ request, both men had watched the room slowly empty and both had clearly assumed that as they saw every man and woman leave that no one remained. They were not the first to make that assumption. Through his own small talent for the art magic, he had felt Ormindas’s spell that guarded against magical eavesdropping. But Gry was undetected because he had been listening and watching with his own eyes and ears. This did not, however, lull Gry into any false confidence where other Enchanters where concerned. Chaltrask himself would look with eyes that saw, knowing the risk. And if Chaltrask, then others might also. But after careful testing, he felt secure in the presence of Yissa and of Ormindas.
Gry shrugged and shifted his weight slightly, by that small movement becoming visible once more. He drew his hood back and pushed the black cloth of the mantle over one shoulder to reveal the green tunic and blue leggings beneath. He half listened to an issue concerning an undischarged debt owed a southern shipping agent by a merchant of Hustlan. Gry paid scant attention, as his attention roamed over the backs of the assemblage, picking out a profile here and there. He knew several of those present. Gry’s half smile never faltered as the perfect companion came under his gaze.
Without haste, Gry edged through the crowd toward the tall, thin man with the pockmarked face and the overly complex black velvet hat. Indastin always wore the hat, no matter the occasion. The rest of the landlord’s garb was in similar vein; overstyled and a decade short of the fashion, but dark in color and inconspicuous. Gry didn’t despise him much more than most men but now Indastin was a welcome sight and a convenient tool. Though tall, he was so nondescript in every way as to be overlooked by almost everyone who met him.
He stopped by Indastin’s side and raised himself on his toes to peer through the crowd as though interested in the proceedings. As soon as Indastin noticed him, he half-turned and caught his eye.
“Do you know this merchant, Indastin?” Gry asked, as though they had not just this moment met.
Indastin appeared more confused than usual, then dismissed the brief worry that he might have come here in company and forgotten that Gry was with him.
“I know him, Grylantha,” he answered. “Fandor has a small warehouse on the eastside, near one of several that I own. It is his habit to pay late for goods transported on his behalf, insisting that the purchase price included shipping and that the wagon master must seek redress from the seller.”
“But he does pay in the end?”
“Always,” Indastin answered. “But he keeps no store of ready cash and must wait until someone he has loaned money to sees fit to pay him back - with interest. Fandor does not believe in leaving money idle and so has an overstrained cash flow.”
“Ah,” Gry commented, trying to appear interested, “I see.”
“I would not recommend doing business with Fandor.”
Directly implied by Indastin’s tone was that Gry should do business with himself. Gry maintained his smile though he badly wanted to laugh. Indastin was a perfect dupe and Gry was looking forward, when occasion arose, to fleecing him soundly.
“I actually don’t believe I will be doing much more business in Hustlan,” Gry commented airily, having decided to lay some bait while the opportunity was present.
“No?” Indastin looked down at him, an eyebrow arched inquisitively.
“No.” Gry shrugged. “I have an idea to move my center of operations south.”
“So you will be selling some assets?”
Gry nodded absently. “All my property here.”
“Land is not very robust right now,” Indastin told him, losing interest.
“No,” Gry answered. “I have been moving most of my assets into stock this last year.”
“Still there are transportation problems...” Indastin’s interest was reawakened.
Gry nodded. “Livestock.”
Indastin smiled a predatory smile, but before he could speak his name was called. “You will wait for me?” he asked.