Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) (39 page)

There was a jolt, a pop, and the chamber was empty.

It will become more difficult than this.

He sheathed Soul Eater again and pulled on the great door. It swung slowly open. This was going to be the real test. Dragan had been powerful but stupid. Balgoan was brighter, but less confident and easily manipulated. Gerique was the best of them all. His only real weakness was arrogance.

He left the door open and stepped inside. Gerique was aware of him almost at once, and rose from where he sat to face him.

“My lord, I have the plans that you commanded.”

“For a temple?” Gerique looked puzzled, and did not come forwards.

“Yes, My Lord.” He held out the scroll for the Faer Karani to see.

“Did you speak to Balgoan?”

“I did my lord, but I think that he left. He did not seem to be enthusiastic about the plans, or perhaps the temple. I do not know.”

Gerique nodded absently and beckoned him forwards.

“Show me,” he said.

Serhan unrolled the plan on a convenient table and pinned it down in the corners so that it would stay unfurled. He stepped back. He was waiting for a moment when Gerique’s attention was elsewhere, and he was close enough to draw and strike quickly.

Gerique seemed disinclined to cooperate. He looked briefly at the plans and then raised his head and looked distractedly into space. After a while he looked at the plans again. Serhan allowed his hand to move towards the hilt of his sword.

Gerique stood again.

“What have you done?” he asked.

“I do not understand the question, my lord.” Gerique was looking at him now. Perhaps there was to be no surprise attack after all. It made things that much harder.

“Balgoan is gone. I can sense him wherever he is, and I cannot sense him at all. Dragan is gone, too.”

“Gone, my lord?”

“No longer in this world. How have you done this?”

“Perhaps some other Faer Karani…” but he knew that he had been caught out.

“Balgoan was with you a moment ago. I sensed him. You admitted it.”

It seemed odd to Serhan that the Faer Karani showed no fear at all. Two of his mighty and previously undefeated servants had been disposed of in some way that he did not understand, and yet he did not seem concerned, or even angry.

It was all about speed now. He ripped Soul Eater from its sheath and tried to move sideways and forwards at the same time, but Gerique did not have to draw breath to strike, he was not as arrogant as Dragan.

A bolt of what must have been pure energy, or raw magic, leaped from Gerique in Serhan’s direction, and he raised his sword, more by instinct than wisdom, to fend off the strike.

It worked. Soul Eater swallowed the raw power like a chasm swallowing a waterfall. Serhan was unharmed, and for a moment they looked at each other across a space of no more than twelve feet. Gerique looked surprised. That was something that Serhan had never seen before.

“I see,” Gerique said.

Serhan felt his muscles bunch for the leap that would put him within striking distance of the Faer Karani when something, a small noise or a movement in the air, told him that there was danger at his back. He leaped to one side, turning, trying to get his blade between him and whatever it was. He was not quite quick enough.

The bookcase struck him on the right side and threw him hard into the wall. It hurt a lot, but nothing seemed to break. Even as he assessed his injuries he could see other furniture beginning to move, surging across the room towards him. Things seemed to slow down, and he had a moment to think. He took advantage of the moment.

His hand was next to the wall, and he pressed Corderan’s ring to the stone, in the same moment rolling towards it. He watched with fascination as almost all the room’s furniture, bookcases, desks, cupboards, chairs, smashed with considerable force against the point at which he had been lying. It was like watching a furious and malevolent storm of splintered wood just inches from his face. He shuddered while he lay safe inside the wall.

It was over in a few seconds, and he stood, still safe within the stone, and stepped out to face Gerique with Soul Eater held before him.

“Run out of furniture?” he asked. There was no deference in his voice now. All pretence was gone.

“I underestimated you,” Gerique said. “You have the key.”

Serhan limped towards him, his leg painful where the bookcase had struck him, and the Faer Karani backed away. He followed, but was unable to close the gap until he had more or less backed Gerique into a corner.

“Nowhere to run now,” he said.

“I have no need to run, Mortal Man,” Gerique replied. “I have summoned the power of the Faer Karan, and now I wield the strength of all my kind. You cannot stand against us.”

“So if I defeat you I defeat all. That is a fair challenge.”

He stepped forwards again and met another blast of raw power from Gerique. It was far greater than the first, but Soul Eater swallowed it as easily, though the hilt grew warm. That could be a problem, the warmth, the heat. Just how much power would flow through the blade?

He struck. It was like pushing the blade into treacle. The hilt shuddered in his hands and Gerique roared. He could not tell if it was anger, fear, pain, it was just so loud. Glass shattered. He could feel the rush of power through Soul Eater, like standing by a great waterfall, it seemed to suck at him, draw him down into it.

The hilt was more than warm. It was hot, and then very quickly it was very hot.

As fast as he could he ripped at his jacket, winding what he could tear off around his right hand while he held onto the sword with his left, then he changed hands. That was better, but it rapidly became clear to him that he had not solved the problem.

He had made a mistake, and it was going to cost him dearly.

It got hotter. He could feel the heat on his face, forcing him to turn away, trying to protect his eyes and mouth. It was getting difficult to breath. Now his right hand was burning, and there was a smell of smoke as the cloth around his fist began to smoulder. His left hand was sore, but he ripped off more cloth and protected it as best he could.

The power still flowed unabated through the blade, bleeding into the hilt. It could be minutes, or longer still before the power of the Faer Karan was exhausted. If he let go of the blade he would be dead in moments. There would be no mercy from Gerique after this. If he held on he would probably die from the heat. His hands were already burned, and the pain was getting worse.

He spoke the spell that would reduce the pain, but nothing happened. For a moment he was confused. His ears were ringing from Gerique’s continuous roaring, his hands hurt, he was twisted away from the hilt of the sword, and his eyes were all but closed against it. It was the sword. Even the simple spells that could help him were made ineffectual by its power, sucked into the blackness of the blade.

So this was it, then. He would hold on, find a way to hold on until his hands were burned and useless and could grip no more. Then he would die.

He could feel his face beginning to burn, could smell his hair. His arms had become two rivers of pain, flowing up into his body, crashing into his mind like a great waterfall, eroding his consciousness. There was a blackness at the edge of his mind.

Remember hate. Hate was good. He thought of Mai. He thought of Dragan, and all the innocent people burned. This was their time, and he was their instrument of revenge.

His right hand began to fail, the sword to slip, and he seized it with his left hand, allowing the right to fall away and hang uselessly by his side. It was just pain now. That was its function, to give him pain.

His sleeve caught fire. All around the room small fires were appearing among the shattered wood and scattered paper.

He could hear another noise now, and it took him a moment to realise that it was himself, screaming.

Darius Grand rode through the unguarded gates of White Rock into a scene of complete confusion. It seemed that everyone that lived under White Rock’s roof was in the courtyard. He saw cooks, grooms, guardsmen and even servants. They all looked afraid. Some stood around silently in small groups, others engaged in animated conversations, shouting and gesticulating at each other. Some arguments were on the verge of becoming fights, and here and there people openly wept.

Cora appeared at his side.

“Something terrible has happened,” she said.

“Tell me.” It had to be Serhan.

“About ten minutes ago there was a great howling from up there,” she glanced up towards the windows of Gerique’s quarters, and for the first time Darius saw that they were shattered. Smoke was drifting out through what was left of the frames. Bits of wood stuck out at angles, and glass littered the courtyard. “It went on for five minutes, maybe six, and then suddenly stopped. We went up to the door and pounded on it, but there is no answer.”

Darius shivered. So there was no sign of Serhan, and none of Gerique. He knew what needed to be done now, but he did not relish the task. Like everyone else, he was afraid. This is the way that everything ends. White Rock was a world, and its centre was Gerique, and perhaps Serhan. Without them it would fall apart, and without White Rock the world would soon follow. For now its people needed to know that something was being done, to believe that someone knew what to do.

He looked about the courtyard and saw a small group of four guardsmen that he knew were level headed, loyal to him and were bearing arms. He abandoned his horse and strode through the crowd.

“Captain,” one of them said, seeing him approach, “We are relieved to see you. We do not know what has happened.”

“We must discover what it is,” he replied. “We must go up.”

They exchanged fearful glances, but in a moment found their courage. Their faces became calmer, resolute, the faces of guardsmen.

“We are ready to do as you command, Captain.”

He led them across the chaotic courtyard to the foot of the Faer Karan stair. As they went the crowd parted for them, and people recognised Darius. They called out to him, asking what was happening, what they should do. At the doorway he paused and faced them, standing on the second step and looking out so that all could see him. He scanned the crowd briefly, but could see no sign on Colonel Stil. He felt false and untrue, like a mask concealing a dead face. They trusted him.

“I know as little as you,” he announced. “But something has happened, and we must discover what it is. I am going up. When I come back down I will tell you all what has come to pass.” If I come back down.

It was all he could offer them, but at least they would know that someone was doing something. They had something to wait for. He turned and walked up the stairs. He took them slowly, almost expecting to meet someone, or something, coming down, but the stairs were empty.

At the top he drew his dagger and pounded on the door. He waited and listened, but there was no response. No sound penetrated the massive portal.

“Lend me your strength,” he said to his men, and twisted the great handle as they pushed against the heavy, metal-bound door. It swung open.

They stood before the opening for a few moments, again expecting something to happen. Nothing did. It was quite dark within. He signalled his men to spread out across the room and search it thoroughly. There was shattered pottery on the floor, and at first he could make no sense of it, but then he saw a reflection on the ground and touched it: oil. He realised that these were the lamps that usually lit the great space. They lay shattered where they had fallen, robbed of their magical support.

Perhaps it was a good sign.

They stopped again before the final door. He could see that his men were afraid once more. This was the door that gave onto Gerique’s personal chamber. Darius had been on the other side of it, but none of his men had. To pass this way without being summoned was death, but there was no other way to know.

He drew his dagger again and used the hilt to strike the door.

It moved inwards an inch.

He looked at the tiny gap. The unlocked door spoke to him of an empty room beyond. There was a smell, too, of burned wood and cloth and…and something else.

He kicked the door open and stepped into the room.

The space inside was filled with a thin haze of smoke that stung his eyes. Here and there things burned; broken furniture, books, tapestries. As he scanned the room he was aware of his men filing through the door behind him.

“Captain, over here.”

They found what was left of Serhan propped against a wall half way down the room. He was badly burned, most of his jacket was gone, and his arms seemed worst of all, though his face was burned mostly on the right side, and his lower face seemed to have been shielded from the heat. A sword like no other he had seen, with a black blade, lay on the floor beside him. It looked dangerous, evil. Darius did not have much hope but he bent down to check that his friend was dead.

“You took your time.” The whisper startled him and he pulled back. The one good eye in Serhan’s face was looking up at him.

“You’re alive.” He could not keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“It seems so, though I wasn’t sure until you heard me.”

The voice was very quiet, and Darius bent down again.

“Is there anything I can do, Cal?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Sheath the sword. Fetch water for me, then guard the door for as long as you can.”

He looked at Serhan’s ruined body in disbelief. Fine? Perhaps. He was looking at the man who had faced the Faer Karan.

“You won?” he asked.

“I think so. Small margin though. They’re all gone, Darius. All of them.”

The sword was carefully put away and laid beside Serhan. One of the guardsmen arrived with a dented silver goblet filled with water. Darius took it and held it to his friends burned lips. Serhan winced as he sipped it, but took it all.

“Now go,” he said. The voice was stronger; some of the old resonance was back.

“We’ll guard the door, but against what?”

“You’ll see. Now go.”

Darius took his men out into the doorkeeper’s chamber and closed the door behind them. Now he was the doorkeeper. He waited patiently as the minutes passed, and tried not to imagine what was taking place in the chamber behind him. It was magic, and magic was forbidden.

But was it?

With the Faer Karan gone, if indeed they were, the rules were also gone. Who now was to say what was forbidden? Only men. He realised now that everything hung in the balance. Thousands of possible futures led away from this moment, and he was inadequate to make the choice. But he had orders, and he was a guardsmen. He had orders from the lord of White Rock, the conqueror of the Faer Karan, whatever state he was in, and if he was nothing else he was a guardsman, and knew how to do his duty.

At the far end of the chamber the door from the stairway opened again and a group of about ten armed men entered. Darius recognised Colonel Stil.

Now he saw how wise Serhan was.

Stil knew that something had happened, that power was changing hands, and this was his chance to put his own hand into the ring, to grab what he could. The colonel had nothing to loose. He was Gerique’s man, and would aid his master if he could, and if not, he would seize what he might.

“Colonel, you may not pass.”

Stil stopped a few yards away and studied Darius and his men, allowing his own contingent to get slightly ahead of him, slightly closer to five drawn swords.

“Who are you to bar my way, Captain? I am here to speak with Gerique.”

Darius smiled.

“I have my orders from the Lord of White Rock,” he replied. “You may not pass.”

He could see Stil’s uncertainty, even in the gloom of the doorkeeper’s chamber. The colonel’s face was twisted with apprehension and doubt.

“I am your colonel, Grand. I will take this duty. You are relieved.”

“Indeed he is, Colonel.”

Stil spun round at the sound of a voice behind him. Three more figures had entered the room from the stair, and Darius recognised Cora’s voice.

“Captain Bantassin, you are not needed here.” The annoyance was clear in Stil’s voice.

“I think differently, colonel. If a sword is raised against Captain Grand and his men you will be the first to die. All three of us cannot miss, even in the dark.”

“This is rebellion, Captain.” Stil was furious. “You’re just as likely to spit your friends as my men. You wouldn’t dare shoot.”

“We’re not aiming at your men, Colonel.”

The colonel was edging slowly towards a pillar as he talked, seeking some sort of protection from Cora’s archers, but Darius knew it was a futile move. Trapped in such a confined space he would be easy to kill, and even as he moved the archers were moving, too, spreading out and closing the gap. The colonel’s men, on the other hand, seemed hesitant. In the long history of the White Rock guard there was no recorded incident when guardsmen had fought guardsmen. Their loyalty had always been to White Rock, which meant the guard and its commanders. Stil was the nominal commander of the guard, but Darius was their leader.

“Very well, I will leave,” Stil said.

“No, colonel,” Darius said. “If we allow you to leave you will be back with more men and a better story. We’ll all wait here.”

“Wait for what?”

“The Lord of White Rock.”

“For pity’s sake, Captain,” one of Stil’s men said “Will you not tell us who the lord of White Rock is?”

“I am.”

Serhan appeared, not through the door as they had expected, but by stepping directly out of the wall next to it. The wall opened up with a noise like steel on stone and shut again behind him. It was an entrance that they would never forget. Somehow he was whole again. No sign of the terrible burns remained, and he was dressed in his now customary black and green. He stood for a moment looking at the tableau before him, and then spoke a word and gestured with his hand.

The broken lamps that lay scattered about the floor reassembled themselves and rose towards the ceiling, light sparking from them, and in moments the room was as well lit as it had ever been.

“I am Master of White Rock,” Serhan said. “I expect loyalty. In return I will give you order, justice and prosperity. I am the inheritor of Corderan, not of Gerique, and the line of mages that was broken is now reborn.” He turned to Darius. “Darius, Colonel Grand, you now command here,” and finally he turned and looked at Stil. By this time the men who had come with him to this room had put up their swords and adopted a stance that indicated they were awaiting orders. Stil looked scared, but he had not relinquished his blade.

“Stil, you are banished. Within an hour you must be gone from the fortress of White Rock, on pain of death. Within two weeks you must be gone from its domains, on pain of death. If you ever return, plot against White Rock, or if I hear that you have incited others against me I will seek you out and kill you. Be certain that you cannot hide from me, though you cross the ocean to another land and bury yourself a mile beneath the ground. This is mercy, and perhaps more than you deserve. Now go.”

Stil hesitated for a moment, then sheathed his sword and walked calmly from the room, turning his back on Serhan. There may even have been something of a swagger in his step.

When he had gone, Serhan spoke.

“No blows were exchanged?”

“None, my Lord.”

“That is good. I would not have bad blood between the men.”

He walked with them out of the doorkeeper’s chamber and down the Faer Karan stair. In the courtyard the crowd had grown quiet. They had seen Stil emerge moments before, but Stil had said nothing, had dared say nothing. When Serhan stepped out in front of them Darius could hear a murmur roll round them and every face turned to see. He glanced across at Cora, and she was happy, rigid with pride just a step behind Serhan’s left shoulder. He could feel the doubt slipping away as the meaning of what they were seeing sunk in.

Serhan raised his hand and the murmur was stilled.

“The Faer Karan are gone. The age of their domination of this world is at an end. This change is wrought by my own hand, and I claim White Rock and all its domains as my own, for as long as I can hold them. Those of you who wish to stay and serve me, you are most welcome, but understand that you bind yourself to this place, and to me. Those who do not wish to stay; you may go with my good wishes and seek whatever fortune you desire. I ask only that you decide within seven days. Give your answers to Colonel Grand before the evening of the last day. The choice is yours, and only yours.”

When he was finished he left them and returned to his quarters.

Darius stood and watched the crowd as it dispersed slowly. He had no wish to impose order on it. This was a kind of uncertainty and chaos that he had never seen before. He saw people talking. They were unsure, but they were smiling. Others stood or sat and gazed at nothing, just thinking. This was not a time for orders. Seeing it for the first time, Darius recognised it for what it was.