‘There was no sign of the man. But there was plenty of blood. And a trail. We did not follow.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘The guide says it was a hunting cat. One of the great fanged ones.’
Pon-lor could not suppress a shiver of atavistic fear. A fanged cat! Nearly a horse’s weight of muscle, tooth and claw. As tall as nine hands at the shoulder, some claimed. Long eradicated from Thaumaturg lands. No wonder they did not pursue.
Their guide was the last to emerge, and he came walking backwards, his gaze fixed on the undergrowth. ‘Jak,’ Pon-lor called. ‘You will take us to the fortress – now.’
The young man bowed. ‘Of course … m’lord.’
Tun clapped his wrapped hands and the column formed immediately and they set out at once.
The evening’s rain began soon after. A guard offered Pon-lor his parasol but he waved it off; the undergrowth was too pressing. Often he had to duck under thick creepers, or swing a leg over the fat roots that writhed all over the hard stony ground. With the rains arrived the evening: a darkness even greater than a densely overcast night as they struggled beneath an impenetrable canopy. He could make out shafts from the Visitor lancing down here and there through breaks in the tangled branches. A strong wind tossed those branches, making the green radiance dance and flicker. Ahead, the men of the column would appear and disappear in the wavering light as if shifting from one Realm to another.
After a long sodden march the column halted and Tun emerged from the drifting mist of rain to invite Pon-lor forward. He was led to where their guide waited and when he arrived Jak gestured in the dark.
‘Fortress Chanar.’
Pon-lor squinted into the gloom. Eventually a much denser black emerged from the murk to resolve into a rearing heap of stone. A golden glow shone here and there from what he presumed to be windows. At ground level a whipping flame revealed where a torch might be set at a doorway.
‘Very good, Jak.’ He urged the guide onward.
Overgrown stone heaps lay to either side. They appeared to be walking an ancient road, or ceremonial way. The heaps proved to be squat plinths supporting equally squat monolithic heads as big as huts. Roots gripped these enormous heads and most sported tall trees like fanciful hats, but all were identical. Portraits, they were, of a man in an armoured helm. Savage hard staring eyes, a long straight nose, and a slit mouth that looked as if not one word of mercy had ever passed its lips.
And Pon-lor knew that face, that man. And his breath left him in one gust. A cold slither of something gouged a nail up his spine.
That face. Always the same face
. He’d seen it before on the coins and funerary statues that littered the tables in Master Varman’s study – his hobby of collecting pre-catastrophe artefacts – where,
spurred
by curiosity, half knowing the answer already, he’d asked: this ancient likeness, is it a man or a god?
And Master Varman had studied him for some time in silence, his head lowered, eyeing him from under his thick brows, until finally he cleared his throat to say, ‘Strange that you should put it that way, Pon-lor. As you no doubt suspect, that is the face of the greatest evil of his day, the self-proclaimed God-King, the High King. These days the ignorant name him the Fallen One or the Demon-King, the infernal Kell-Vor. But that in truth is not his real name –
that
I shall never speak aloud. For it carries with it a curse. A terrible ageless curse.’
Pon-lor blinked now in the rain, suddenly more chilled than he had been in days. Was Chanar merely built on these ancient pre-Fall ruins? Or was this building one of the few surviving structures from that age? In any case, the scholar within Pon-lor was roused. What an unlooked-for opportunity! Here in the wilds of the border region. Yet, where else? Was he not approaching the lands of the Ancient Queen? And were there not legends that claimed King and Queen ruled together and that the catastrophe of the long ago Fall slew the King while the Queen survived? A twisted shadow-play of the truth, no doubt. But still, both figures could be traced back to those hoary dawn ages of humanity.
‘Magister …?’ a voice called from the dark. Their guide.
He’d been standing in the rain for some time, his guards encircling him. He nodded. ‘Yes, coming.’
A single guard in plain leathers awaited them at the gate. A young man of his age, spear in hand, a bow at his side. ‘Welcome,’ this one murmured. ‘The lord will see you in the Great Hall.’
Jak invited Pon-lor forward. ‘I know the way.’
Overseer Tun blocked the narrow stone entranceway. ‘I will walk with you, little guide.’ He waved for two guards to remain at the gaping stone portal, then signed for the rest to attend on Pon-lor.
Jak shrugged, and lit a torch. ‘This way.’
The halls were dark. Pon-lor’s wet sandalled feet kicked through a wind-blown litter of leaves. In side corridors tiny animals scampered from the light, and cobwebs choked the ceilings and corners.
‘These halls are abandoned?’ Pon-lor asked Jak.
‘Khun-Sen is an old man. He has few remaining servants or followers. And each year they are fewer.’
‘Ah. I see.’ So, soon this great brooding edifice overlooking the Pass of Seven Peaks would once more lie empty. As it had for thousands of years. For with its cyclopean stone construction, its dark sandstone
blocks
, its flat squared lintels and mottling of lichen growth, Pon-lor recognized it for what it was – the colossal and overbearing architecture of the self-glorying God-King.
They exited on to a narrow inner bailey that was nothing more than a miniature jungle of tall trees. Across the way, stairs climbed to a higher inner structure and faint light glowed from high windows. Pon-lor had no training in military readiness but even he was appalled by the neglect and dilapidation. ‘Was no effort made to clear the overgrowth?’ he asked Jak.
The young man gave an unconcerned shrug. ‘No. It was no priority of Khun-Sen’s.’
‘I see.’ When he returned he would have much to report regarding the activities, or rather the lack of activities, of this self-styled general on their borders.
Within, the overall neglect continued with trash and wind-blown litter hastily brushed aside, and a minimum of torches and lamps lit. Chambers to either side lay dark and empty. In one, a long low table held the remains of a meal, plates and goblets in place. In the unlit gloom Pon-lor thought he glimpsed cobwebs on the table. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.
‘Readying themselves to greet you, perhaps,’ Jak answered, his voice tight with some emotion. Fear, was it? Was he also unnerved? Somehow Pon-lor found this reassuring.
They entered a large room. A bonfire burned in a central fire-pit. A second-storey viewing terrace encircled the walls. Pon-lor assumed this was the main hall. He turned to Jak. ‘A rather subdued reception …’
The young man wet his lips, his dark eyes glittering as he scanned the viewing terrace. ‘There must be some problem,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps the lord is ill. I will go and see.’ He turned to leave.
‘Halt!’ Tun snapped. He signed to two guards. ‘Accompany our guide. We would not want him to get lost.’
One of the guards gathered up a handful of cloth at Jak’s shoulder and the three marched up a passageway. The glow of their torch slowly faded. Tun edged close to Pon-lor to whisper: ‘I do not like this, Magister. This is an ill-omened place at best. We should go.’
‘Ill-omened?’
‘Yes. Tales of travellers disappearing. Of a midnight court of the dead.’
Pon-lor arched a brow. ‘Really? I’m not familiar with such folk tales. However, I agree. Perhaps we were better off with the fanged cat after all. Call the men. We will withdraw.’
‘Very good, Magister.’ Tun paced to the passage entrance and bellowed: ‘Harun! Vayach! Recall!’
Something like a weak shout echoed down the corridor.
‘Did you hear that?’ Pon-lor asked.
‘Yes, Magister. A cry. But distant. Should we advance?’
‘No. I’m beginning to believe we have come much further than we should have. We will withdraw. We know the way.’
Tun snapped a sign and the men surrounded Pon-lor.
My remaining men! By the ancient false gods, I’ve already lost a quarter of my command. If this is an ambush then it has been masterfully played
.
Tun led the withdrawal. At a sign from him the men drew their blades and raised their shields. From his place at the centre of the column Pon-lor spied a figure ahead in the darkness blocking the exit to the inner court. Shifting moonlight behind revealed it to be someone new. One of Khun-Sen’s men? ‘What is going on here?’ he called. ‘I am a representative of the Circle of Rulership.’
The armoured figure did not answer. Tun waved him aside, bellowing, ‘Make way for a magister of the Thaumaturgs!’
In answer the newcomer thrust forward and a spearhead burst from the back of Tun’s studded leather hauberk. The overseer dropped his torch, which snuffed out in the damp. The lead men loosed yells of shock and rage and hacked at the figure. Despite taking a number of solid blows it calmly yanked its spear free.
Those strikes sounded strange to Pon-lor. It was as if his men were hacking stone. And that reminded him of something. Something alarming. ‘Retreat!’ he yelled. ‘Back up, now!’
Even as he shouted one of the lead men fell to the spear. ‘Damn you!’ he roared. ‘Do as I say!’ The troops began edging backwards. The figure advanced with them, but slowly, a black silhouette against the night beyond. It was too dark to see much, so Pon-lor could not be sure of his guess, but the man’s slow shuffling walk fitted in with what he suspected. Back in the main hall, he ordered men to scout the other exits. In moments all reported back that the ways were blocked by other figures. He ordered a defensive circle close to the hearth bonfire. At least now they did not lack for light, anyway!
Then a laugh of scorn echoed through the chamber. It came from the second-storey terrace. Pon-lor raised his gaze, knowing just whom he would see. It was their raider-in-tatters, Jak. The young man held a bow. ‘How does it feel to be the hunted one now?’ the lad shouted down.
‘What is this?’ Pon-lor asked, his voice mild.
‘What is this? What does it look like? Revenge, fool! Justice.’
Dragging steps sounded from all around. His guards shifted, fearful, hunched with swords ready. ‘Revenge?’ Pon-lor asked. ‘Justice? Whatever for? What have I done to you?’
The question seemed to enrage the youth. ‘Done? What have you done!’ He snapped a quick shot, which Pon-lor sidestepped. ‘Rich pampered bastard! Look at you! Your family probably bought you your rank!’
‘I have no memory of my parents. I was taken from them when I was very young.’
Jak fired another shot that a guard caught on his shield. The former guide appeared almost maniacal in rage and coiled eagerness. He lifted his gaze across the hall and gave a fierce nod.
Pon-lor felt his shoulders fall.
Damn. Allowed myself to be distracted
. ‘Ware!’ a guard shouted the instant something hammered into Pon-lor’s back, punching out all his breath. Only his years of Thaumaturg training allowed him to stop the shock from dominating his mind.
Isolate the pain. Breathe. Constrict the vessels
.
His diaphragm expanded and breath rushed into him once again.
Too low for a lung. Thank the ancestors!
‘Protect the magister!’ a guard yelled, his voice oddly distant. Men crowded, shields raised.
A part of Pon-lor calmly studied the many side portals. Figures now emerged all around. Their gait was unnaturally stiff. They were a mix of male and female, armoured soldiers and clothed civilians. They held spears and tarnished swords in awkward, unswerving grips. There was something familiar in their rigidity; it plucked at a thread from his training. He just could not be certain … yet.
A number of his men bellowed war cries and charged, either battle-maddened or unable to endure the wait. Pon-lor clutched at one fellow to keep himself erect. ‘No,’ he snarled through teeth clenched against the pain. ‘Disengage!’
‘Aye,’ the man answered. He yelled: ‘Fall back, dogs! Withdraw!’
The majority could not hear – or chose not to. Iron rang from iron or bit into wood and armour. The encircling figures hardly defended themselves. They moved in a sort of dreamy slow motion, but with deadly power. Leather armour hung in rotting strips. A few wore chain or banded coats half fallen away or flapping uselessly in rusting sections. Some wore plain clothes now in rags. Immobile faces held a strange grey pallor, the eyes empty pits. That, and the ring of metal
on
stone when a guard smashed the face of one, confirmed what Pon-lor had suspected.
Oh, poor fool! Stupid fool! He lures us here to die at the hands of these cursed souls, little knowing just where their curse came from!
‘Jak!’ he called, having now mastered the agony of the wound. ‘Why do they not attack you?’
The young man was squinting down the length of a nocked arrow, searching for an opening through the guards’ raised shields. ‘I did not lie, you bastard! I
am
from here. They attack no one of their blood.’
Yes. They retain at least that much sense of their past lives, imprisoned as they are in flesh that has betrayed them. Thank you, Jak
.