Bloodforged (24 page)

Ulrika’s smile faded. He was right. The cult might have no difficulty at all. She sighed. ‘On we go, then.’

They stood and continued up the stairs, but after only two more full turns, they came to an obstruction that seemed entirely impassable. As Ulrika had noted when they had been observing the spire from a distance, part of it seemed to have melted. They had reached that part now. The walls of the stairwell and the tower had folded like they were made of hot wax, the storeys sinking down and flattening one on top of the other, and sealing off the way up in a closed throat of bulging, buckled walls.

Ulrika stepped up to the weird drooping ceiling and touched it. It was hard granite. Whatever force had melted it was gone now and the stone had reverted to its natural state.

Stefan sighed. ‘This may be the end,’ he said. ‘Not even a warlock will get through that.’

‘No,’ said Ulrika. ‘But a vampire might get around it.’

He looked at her curiously, and she beckoned him to follow, then returned to the landing they had just passed. The rooms of this storey seemed to have been the personal apartments of the mages who had lived there, for there were beds and tables and writing desks in them. There were also human silhouettes burned into the walls and floors, like shadows cast by a bright sun.

Ulrika crossed to a tall, shattered window, poked her head out and looked up. Unlike the smooth walls at the base, the stone here was pitted and crumbling, with plenty of handholds, while above, where the tower had melted, it was wrinkled and bulging and even more worn, like the skin of a snake, half-shredded.

‘It is practically a ladder,’ she said, then climbed out and began her ascent as Stefan stepped out and followed behind her.

But as they reached the level of the melted walls, the climb got more difficult. The stone hummed with trapped energy and made her fingers tingle and twitch, while weird winds with human screams battered her and tried to pull her off the tower. Then, out of nowhere, a man fell towards her, flailing and shrieking. She flinched, and had to scrabble with her claws to regain her grip, but he fell through her, as insubstantial as the air. More men fell as she continued on, and flashes of noise and blinding light began to explode all around her, only to vanish again instantly.

In the flashes she could see horrible winged creatures circling the tower, belching fire and black bile, while robed warlocks hovered on floating purple discs and blasted it with arcane bolts. Sorcerous defenders fought back with blasts of their own, burning the warlocks out of the sky with fire, and crusting the wings of the abominations with ice so they fell, though there were always more to replace them.

It seemed to Ulrika she was climbing through a storm of trapped time, where the events of the spire’s destruction played out for ever. Fire and black energy billowed around her, burning her flesh without seeming to damage it, while the wall beneath her hands was alternately straight and true, then molten and shifting, then warped and cold and unmoving. More than once she grabbed at holds and nearly fell when her hand discovered they weren’t really there. After that, she closed her eyes and climbed only by feel. Still she was buffeted by noises and winds and memories not her own, but eventually these grew less frequent and the currents and sounds abated.

She opened her eyes again and saw she had climbed above the melted section to an area where the stone was black and cracked, and the char came off on her hands and clothes. There was a window above her and to the left, and she crabbed carefully up and over to it, and at last pulled herself in, her arms trembling with fatigue, then turned and helped Stefan in as well. When they were both safe, they stood, brushing soot from their clothes and hands, and looked around.

The room was a high-ceilinged, wedge-shaped quarter of the tower, with a small door to the stairwell in the far wall, and large, arched and columned doors on either side, leading to other quarter sections. It looked as if it had once been some sort of treasure room, for there were chests and coffers and strange objects all around, all destroyed. The chests were blackened piles of tinder, and the things they had contained nothing but unrecognisable lumps. Suits of armour were heaps of shining slag, the jewels that had encrusted them cracked and clouded. A collapsed shelf spilled charred book covers whose pages had all burned away. Rivulets of silver and gold ran across the flagstone floor from cracked coffers. An obelisk from ancient Nehekhara lay black and shattered in one corner.

Ulrika squatted and picked up a cracked jewel. ‘If the fires destroyed this, how has the violin survived?’

Stefan shook his head and started for the door in the right-hand wall. Ulrika stood and followed. The next room was the same as the first, a black ruin filled with charred treasures. They crossed it to the next. The third room was also a field of wreckage, except for a massive stone vault built into the interior wall.

‘That is how,’ said Stefan.

They crossed to it, picking their way through the mess. It rose to the ceiling, and though its walls were as black with soot as the rest of the room, they were whole, as was its metal-banded door and all its hinges and locks and fittings. From within it, the violin called to them, a pitiful, pleading melody.

Ulrika stared, amazed. ‘The battle warped stone and made it burn like wood, and yet this survived?’

Stefan stepped forwards and wiped the soot from the lock plate, revealing a band of squat, angular runes running around it.

‘Dwarf work,’ he said. ‘My master had such a vault to protect his treasures. It was no guard, however, against Kiraly’s treachery,’ he added bitterly.

Ulrika pulled on the door’s sturdy handle. It didn’t budge. She kicked at the door. It was as solid as it appeared, and felt as if it were feet thick. She walked around it and looked at the sides. They were whole and solid.

She shook her head. ‘If all the power of Chaos couldn’t open it, I doubt we will find a way.’

Stefan turned towards the door. ‘We have only checked three sides yet,’ he said. ‘We may have better luck with the top, bottom or back.’

But they didn’t. When they went out to the circular gallery that surrounded the stairwell, and against which the back of the vault butted, it was whole, and trips to the storeys above and below the vault revealed the same for the top and bottom. In a place where nothing had remained untouched by magic, the dwarf walls alone had survived intact.

Ulrika sighed as they returned to the vault room and stood in front of its heavy door. ‘I was right earlier. We needn’t have come. No one will breach this vault. Not even a warlock. The cultists’ plan, whatever it is, will fail.’

‘You are likely correct,’ said Stefan, his brow knitted. ‘Still, it would be best to be sure.’

‘But how can we be?’ asked Ulrika. ‘The only way to be certain is to take the violin ourselves and destroy it.’

‘That would be the most certain way, yes,’ said Stefan. ‘But seeing the cultists thwarted by the vault would be a great reassurance too.’

Ulrika raised an eyebrow. ‘Wait here and watch them fail, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Very good,’ said Ulrika. ‘And afterwards they will be trapped here with us. We can question them in peace.’

Stefan smirked. ‘
Now
you sound like a vampire.’

They found the perfect place to wait and watch atop the columns that flanked one of the doors to the other rooms. These were crested with blackened, broken statues of double-headed Kislevite eagles, each taller than a man, and crouched behind them, Ulrika and Stefan were well hidden, yet still had a good view of the vault.

For an hour nothing happened, and Ulrika began to worry the sun would rise before the cultists came, and they would have to spend the day hidden within the spire, but then a sudden skirling of the violin brought her head up. Stefan looked up too.

Ulrika strained her hearing and her senses. There were faint voices from outside the tower and far below, and on the furthest edge of her perception, human pulses.

After a moment, a rich voice rose above the others. ‘You will experience some strange sensations as we rise, brothers. Close your eyes and ignore them. They are echoes of the past, nothing more.’

There were murmurs of assent, and then all fell silent.

Ulrika exchanged a glance with Stefan. She recognised the voice. ‘The warlock from Gaznayev’s,’ she whispered. ‘The one who tried to burn us.’

‘Excellent,’ said Stefan. ‘I have wanted to meet him again.’

They edged forwards, looking down towards the windows. She could sense three heart-fires coming closer, rising up the outside of the spire. A moment later came stifled shouts and grunts.

‘Steady!’ hissed the warlock’s voice. ‘Ignore them!’

Ulrika’s jaw clenched, hoping the men would lose themselves in the violent illusions of the mind-storm and fall to their deaths, but, disappointingly, she heard no further screams.

Then faint shadows touched the sill of one of the windows. Ulrika and Stefan crouched lower, trying to see better. Ulrika frowned. The men seemed to have scaled the wall very quickly. Even she and Stefan had taken longer.

The shadows loomed closer, and, as Ulrika and Stefan stared, three men in the veiled hoods and cloaks of the cult floated through the window hand in hand, surrounded by a nimbus of violet energy, and settled gently to the floor. The warlock in the middle was perfectly calm, as if flying was as natural as walking to him, but the other two men breathed sighs of relief to be on solid ground again.

‘On your guard,’ said the warlock, pointing to where Ulrika and Stefan’s footprints showed bright against the soot-blackened floor. ‘The interlopers are here. Search the place.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE HANDMAIDEN OF THE QUEEN

The two guards looked around uneasily.

‘Can you not use your sight, brother?’ asked one.

‘Here?’ The warlock laughed. ‘I can barely see reality for all the illusion that swirls around this place. My sight is useless. Go. And use the blades we made for you. If they are the ones who attacked before, you will need them.’

Ulrika and Stefan exchanged a glance at that, then watched as the men drew long swords and began to look through the burnt clutter that filled the room. The blades of the weapons gleamed with the sheen of silver. They looked as if they had been dipped in the stuff. The cultists had come prepared to face them.

While his men searched – one walking right under Ulrika and Stefan into the next room – the warlock stepped to the vault and began murmuring and moving his hands in complicated patterns. Despite what he had said about his sight being useless, Ulrika was sure he was trying to determine what was in the vault and what warded it. She wondered what powerful magic he would use to open it. It would have to be a great spell indeed.

After a while the two men returned.

‘We did not see them, brother,’ said one.

‘We checked the floor above and the floor below,’ said the other. ‘They have been there, but they are not there now.’

The warlock nodded. ‘Very well. Perhaps they gave up. Even for such as they, the vault would be impregnable. Be vigilant regardless, but first, you will do what you are here to do. Have you the hag’s hand, Brother Song?’

The man nodded and took a bundle from a pouch at his waist. He unwrapped it. It was a withered hand.

The warlock stepped back. ‘Do not let it touch the floor or walls or anything else here – myself included,’ he said. ‘Only the hand of one who draws their magic from the coloured winds may open the lock, and it must be untainted by any hint of Chaos.’

‘Yes, brother,’ said the man, holding the hand gingerly.

‘And you, Brother Lyric,’ said the warlock, turning to the other man. ‘Have you the key?’

‘Yes, brother.’ He drew a large key from his doublet and held it up.

‘Good,’ said the warlock. ‘Now, fix them together as I showed you.’

The two men stepped together and positioned the key in the severed hand as if it were holding it, then bound it in place using tarred cord.

‘Is it firm?’ asked the warlock.

‘It is, brother,’ said Brother Song, testing it.

‘Then open the door,’ said the warlock. ‘But be on your guard. I know not what lies within. You must protect me.’

‘With our lives, brother,’ said the men in unison.

Brother Song stepped to the door, holding the severed hand by the stump, while Brother Lyric stood on guard behind him and the warlock prepared a spell. Ulrika shook her head at the simplicity of it. She had imagined great magics being wielded. It hadn’t occurred to her the cultists might somehow have obtained the key.

Brother Song slipped the key in the lock, and tried to turn it. It did not move, for the fingers that held it were slack, and despite the cord, did not hold the key tightly. Frustrated, Brother Song reached forwards to clamp them tighter, but the warlock cried out behind him.

‘No!’ he said. ‘It must be by her hand alone. If your fingers touch the key while it is in the lock, it will not open.’

Brother Song grunted, annoyed, and tried again, pressing the hand against the lock and twisting. Had it been a human-made lock, the trick might not have worked at all, but dwarf locks, while immovable if the wrong key was used, were known for their smooth action, and finally, with the fingers of the hag’s hand twisted in a position that would have broken them in life, the key turned in the lock and there was a rumble of great counterweights moving and bolts drawing back.

‘Excellent,’ whispered the warlock, rubbing his hands. ‘Now step back and be on your guard. I will take over from here.’

Brother Song did as he was told, tossing aside the severed hand and key and readying his sword as the warlock stepped forwards and heaved on the handle. For a moment the door did not move, but then slowly, it began to glide open and a wild burst of violin music skittered out and danced about like a gleeful child freed from school.

Ulrika looked to Stefan, wide-eyed with shock. He motioned her to come to him. She shot a look at the two guards. Their eyes were fixed on the interior of the vault as the warlock stepped into it. She shifted across the arch.

‘When he has it,’ said Stefan, ‘we kill them. Him first, then the other two.’

‘Him?’ Ulrika asked. ‘But they have silver.’

‘And he has fire, remember?’ said Stefan.

Ulrika nodded and stepped back across the arch behind her eagle. She and Stefan drew their swords and daggers, then climbed up until they were crouched upon the eagles’ shoulders. Stefan raised his hand.

‘At last!’ came the warlock’s voice from the vault. ‘And unmarked by flame or decay. Splendid!’

The guards stepped back as he strode out, holding an oblong, gold-hinged mahogany case in his arms as if it were a baby.

Stefan dropped his hand, and like twin shadows, he and Ulrika leapt silently from the stone eagles and landed running, only a few paces from the three cultists.

The two guards hadn’t even heard them when Ulrika and Stefan shoved past them, and the warlock was just turning when they struck. Stefan ran him through the heart. Ulrika thrust her rapier into his surprised mouth, punching it out through the back of his skull and killing him instantly. It seemed too brief a death for one who had nearly murdered her with fire, but there was nothing for it.

They whipped their blades from his body and turned to face the two guards as he collapsed to the floor behind them, the violin case spilling from his grasp.

The guards charged in, slashing feverishly with their silvered long swords. Ulrika stepped back, parrying warily. Her man was a good blade, but no match for her – except for the silver. Without it, she would have dared a quick thrust and finished the fight as swiftly as possible, but one unlucky cut from his sword and it would be she who was finished.

The cultist laughed. ‘Aye, fiend! We know your weakness!’

He pressed in, slashing for her extended arm, but her hesitance had made him overconfident, and he left himself exposed. She bound his sword to the side with her dagger, then ran him through the heart with her rapier as he tried to retreat. Stefan dispatched his man at the same moment, ducking a wild slash and running him through the neck.

Ulrika let out a sigh of relief, then frowned. ‘We neglected to question them.’

Stefan shrugged. ‘With the violin in our possession, there is no need. Their plan is foiled.’

Ulrika turned to where the mahogany violin case lay on the floor beside the dead warlock. It was covered in runic wards and seals, all apparently designed to imprison the violin, but despite them, the thing radiated eldritch power like a black sun, making her skin itch. ‘Let us destroy it here and now,’ she said, raising her rapier. ‘I can feel its vile influence through the box.’

‘No!’ said Stefan. ‘If it is truly possessed by a daemon, we would be in mortal danger. Smashing it might release it, and it could kill us both.’

Ulrika looked at the case again, uneasy now. ‘But then what is to be done with it? If it remains whole, the cult will try to get it again.’

Stefan frowned. ‘It is a pity Boyarina Evgena has added you to her blacklist. She is a great practitioner of the arts, I have heard, and would likely know a way to destroy it safely.’ He grunted angrily. ‘Well, we will find some way, but now is not the time to think on it. We will have to take it with us and decide later.’

‘Very well,’ said Ulrika.

Her head swam as she reached for the case, and an almost uncontrollable urge to open it and take out the violin came over her. It begged her for release, promising her the fulfilment of all her desires, the vanquishing of all her enemies, the love of all whom she held dear. All she had to do was free it from its prison. She fought down the urge with difficulty, then slipped the case into a leather pack the dead warlock wore looped through his belt. Her spine shuddered as she slung the pack on her back. She could feel a burning that wasn’t heat sinking into her skin.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Quickly. I want to be rid of it as soon as possible.’

Stefan nodded and they stepped onto the windowsill. Stefan started down immediately, but Ulrika stared to the east. The sky above the mountains was light grey. Dawn was coming. They would have to move swiftly if they were to make it back to the safety of her bakery basement before the sun rose. Ulrika steadied herself, then began to descend, forcing herself to move at a measured, moderate pace.

As they reached the band of twisted stone, she braced, waiting for the visions and disorientation, but strangely, though they came, they were weaker, and did not overwhelm her. She didn’t need to close her eyes in order to find handholds this time. Was it because she had experienced the storm before? Was she used to it now? Had the warlock somehow damped them?

Then she knew the cause. The violin was doing it. It wanted to escape, and was helping her get to the ground by suppressing the visions. The thought made her shiver. Was she doing the right thing taking it with her, or was it manipulating her mind? How could she know if she was in control of herself or if it was pulling her strings?

They descended below the melted area and entered the spire again through a window. Ulrika worried about the vines and the bloodthirsty purple fruit, and wondered if they would have to return to the outside of the tower to avoid them, but when they reached the thicket, it was withered and dead, and all the pods lay motionless on the stairs, nothing more than little dried husks.

‘As I predicted,’ said Stefan as they ducked through the desiccated vines. ‘The warlock has cleared the way for us.’

Ulrika was suddenly very glad they had killed him before he was able to utter his spell.

From there on they hurried down the stairs almost at a run, passing without pausing at the strange scenes they had stared at on the way up. Then, just as they rounded the last turn before descending into the vaulted entry hall, Stefan jolted to a sudden stop. Ulrika stopped too, catching herself on the banister.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Heartbeats,’ he said. ‘Below us.’

Ulrika extended her senses and felt them too. A dozen or so, at rest at the bottom of the stairs. ‘More cultists.’

They crept silently down the stairs until they descended through the roof of the great chamber, then stopped at the wide gap where the stairs had broken away, and peered over the edge into the murk below. In the light of a few lanterns, a group of cultists in cloaks and masks waited amongst the rubble. Some paced, some sat, some murmured together.

One of the pacers turned to a man who reclined on the stairs, quietly reading a book. ‘What takes so long? Where are they?’

The man with the book spoke without looking up. ‘The climb is difficult and the vault may take some time to open, brother. Be patient.’

Ulrika’s lips curled. She knew this voice too. It was the crook-backed sorcerer she and Raiza had observed leading the ceremony in the temple of Salyak – the man who had trapped the innocent girl’s soul in a bottle.

Another cultist looked up at the pacer and laughed. ‘Do you fear this place, little one? When the queen comes, it will be a shrine!’ The voice was harsh and foreign, and sounded like two people talking at once.

Stefan pointed to the hole in the bricked-up front door and whispered in her ear. ‘If we can cross this gap silently, we can descend low enough that we will be able to gain the hole in the door before they can react.’

Ulrika looked at him, disappointed. ‘But the crooked man is here. The one who got away from me before.’

Stefan eyed her levelly. ‘Do you want vengeance, or do you want to save Praag?’

Ulrika hung her head. ‘You are right. Forgive me.’

Stefan shrugged, then, with infinite care, he took up one of the ropes that dangled from the broken banister and lowered himself over the edge of the last step. Ulrika selected another rope and did the same, slipping slowly down it hand under hand so she did not make it creak with her swaying.

At last her feet touched the top step and she planted them with care, making sure not to nudge any of the tools still scattered there. Stefan landed with equal silence beside her, and together they began to tiptoe down the curving stair towards the oblivious cultists.

It was then that the violin decided to play a tune.

Ulrika froze with shock as the cultists sprang to their feet and looked up towards the wild melody. Stefan glared at the pack on her back.

‘Treacherous thing!’ he hissed. ‘Down! Quickly!’

He pounded down the stairs and Ulrika sprinted after him, the violin shrieking its fevered song in her ears as it slapped against her spine.

‘Stop them!’ cried the leader. ‘They have the Fieromonte!’

The cultists swarmed up the stairs, drawing swords and daggers and howling barbaric battle cries as the violin sawed out a wild dance. Ulrika and Stefan met them two-thirds of the way down the spiral – and cut through them like so much chaff, their rapiers and daggers licking like lightning among them, blocking clumsy strikes and impaling chests, necks and groins.