The chamber beyond was vast, lined with old supply-bins and thick with long undisturbed dust. Cobwebs draped their grey shrouds over everything, and there was a musty odour of decay. Gemmel’s witch-light showed traces of footprints; they were faint, but still indicated where one large and one small pair of feet had gone out and back in again. Aldric stared at them. “My feet, years ago… and my father’s.” He cleared his throat and walked quickly away, as if to leave his memory behind. Heavy grey clouds rose in his wake and settled again without a sound, already blurring the old footprints and the new.
There was another door at the end of the chamber, which opened with only a slight creak from its hinges. Hesitating on the threshold, Aldric nodded slightly and made a curious little gesture with his right arm that Gemmel did not understand until he was inside.
Then he too made the small salute of respect which honoured generations of Talvalin dead. The crypt was filled with blocks of stone, some elaborately carved, others merely polished and inscribed. More recent burial markers were smaller, upright columns containing not coffins but the ashes of cremation, and he caught up with Aldric beside one such, knowing from the stela’s shape that the cinerary urn it held was that of a woman, and guessing without being told whose was the frail-featured pretty face etched into its surface.
“My mother,” Aldric said, not looking up. There was a barely discernible catch in his voice. “She died when I was born. My father’s place should be at her side… except—” The words faltered and his eyes glistened, blinking rapidly in the soft, pale fox-fire. Then Gemmel actually saw the glisten of one emotion become the hard and gemlike glitter of another. “But that’s why I’ve come back.”
Rynert stared incredulously as the enemy riders came surging up the slope towards him, feeling like someone taking refuge from the spring tide atop a sandhill. This was ridiculous: such suicide charges went out with formal challenges, single combats and the taking of heads. While he did not relish death, Rynert would have accepted being out-thought and out-fought, by a better general—but he seethed with indignation at the prospect of being cut down by a… a bloody anachronism. He remained seated, but set down his baton and put that hand to his
taiken’s
hilt. Although the blade remained undrawn.
It was not necessary. Dewan’s personal troops, the Bodyguard cavalry, formed a solid wall of men some twenty feet in front of the king, knee-to-knee and four ranks deep in the Imperial manner. They poured down on Kalarr’s men with the irresistible shock of a flash flood, breaking what little formation remained and sweeping them away in a swirling mellay. Which pounded them out of existence.
Rynert forced himself to ignore what was happening in order to issue more commands to his infantry, grouping some to draw a charge, scattering others away from the sluggish futile assaults of heavy
traugur
wedges. The Deathless Ones would roll right over any men they came to grips with—but had found the Alban soldiers quite impossible to catch.
Dewan trotted up, dismounted, saluted and bowed. Rynert looked at him, at what he carried, and asked himself what was happening to the modern warfare he was waging. Ar Korentin went down on one knee and laid a severed head at the king’s feet. “Their captain, king,” he said. “There were no other illustrious personages in that attack.” Rynert scratched his nose with the end of his baton, wondering if he was involved in a dream or perhaps some overly-elaborate joke. He stared at the head. Yes, its hair had been combed before presentation, as the old books said it should be. Illustrious personage, thought Rynert with a small tremor at the outdated mode of address, if this is a joke I cannot see how you can possibly find it funny.
“Very well done, Captain ar Korentin. My congratulations on your war-skill.” He had to force the words out past the questions clustered on his tongue. Then yelling resounded from the plain and he turned hastily from unreality to fact, grateful for a genuine excuse to do so. Beside him Dewan rose to see what was happening, and Rynert heard him curse savagely between clenched teeth. The king felt near to rage himself.
There had been at least one wedge of human foot soldiers among cu Ruruc’s host, and they had indeed been thinking for themselves. Clad like the rest of the wizard’s army, they had moved at the typical slow pace of the
traugarin
around them until they were close enough to one of the Alban regiments, and had then charged home with unavoidable
untraugurlike
speed. That regiment was now locked in combat, unable to manoeuvre, while on either side real, deadly corpse-troops wheeled and came marching in like so many wasps to a honeypot.
Worst of all, instead of leaving the solitary regiment to its inevitable fate as Rynert had commanded, someone—the king suspected young Lord Andvar, who had objected with great vehemence to such a ruthless attitude—had sent four more regiments jogging down the slope as reinforcements.
Reinforcing a broken tide-wall with a bucket of wet mud, Rynert thought viciously. He glanced up at the cluster of vermeil banners along the distant ridge. This is just what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? he demanded silently. From the distant yelp of trumpets and the waving signal flags, cu Ruruc’s answer was a stark and simple
yes
.
“You see, Lord,” the mercenary captain told Kalarr. “It is much more difficult to hold an army back than to send it forward.” He could almost feel the glow of satisfaction welling from the scarlet-armoured figure at his side.
Cu Ruruc’s steel-sheathed fingers opened wide like a clutching metal talon, then closed slowly to a fist. “I have you, King of Alba,” he hissed. “I have you now!” Rising in his stirrups, he made a great sweep through the air with his flail. Drums rolled and all across the plain his uncommitted wedges broke, reforming in a crescent which moved forward to outflank the Alban host, to buckle its formations and encircle it. Before annihilation.
“Good,” Kalarr purred softly as he watched. “Very, very good. Now, my dear captain…”
“Sir?” The mercenary stiffened in his saddle.
“These are your final orders. I need no prisoners, since all who fought here are my enemies—so kill them. Kill them all!”
“Where is everyone?” Aldric whispered. “No guards, no retainers, no servants. Nothing.”
“All gone to the battle,” Gemmel replied just as quietly. “Cu Ruruc has stripped the fortress. He wants to make absolutely sure this time.”
“He should have made absolutely sure that nobody would be creeping about behind him…” Aldric lowered Widowmaker from across his back and made her scabbard secure or his weaponbelt. “But where’s Duergar?”
“Somewhere with a lot of floor-space. He’s keeping thousands of
traugarin
on their feet—that means he’ll need room for a gigantic conjuration circle.”
“Then I know exactly where to find him. In the feast-hall. Follow me.” Aldric made off at a quick, stealthy pace, flitting through the dim, familiar galleries in his black armour like some ominous shadow from the citadel’s past.
Gemmel followed, not too closely, for his sorcery-honed senses had already warned him about the brooding violence which hung about the
eijo
now. The enchanter’s fondness for his foster-son was tempered by a wary respect for Aldric’s well-schooled viciousness, and he had no desire to be within the arc of Isileth’s blade should the
taiken
suddenly be unsheathed.
Gemmel remembered thinking the young man was frightening when they had first met. Now he was sure of it.
Aldric stopped at the foot of a flight of stairs and nodded towards the door at the top. “There’s the hall,” he murmured. Then his helmeted head jerked slightly. “Can you sense anything?”
“No,” said Gemmel softly. All I sense is the leashed ferocity which you wear like a garment, my son, the wizard thought to himself, but aloud he said: “Why, is anything wrong?”
Aldric’s frown was lost among the shadows shifting within his war-mask. “I thought I felt, heard, saw… something.” Gemmel heard him suck in breath between clenched teeth. “No matter. Come on.”
He was half-way up the stairs when a
traugur
lurched at him from a side-passage. Aldric jumped back with his nose wrinkling at the thing’s faint charnel stench—and then gagged with disbelief and horror. It was inevitable that such a thing might happen, but anticipation was no defence against the queasy shock of recognising bloated, undead features.
He had known this man long ago in Radmur; a trooper in the City Watch and a drinking companion who had often talked of joining the army in order to look fine in plumes and metal. He must have done so— joined Lord Santon’s legion—and come to this.
There was rage in the sweeping stroke which Aldric put through the
traugur’s
chest; rage, and great pity. Isi-leth Widowmaker clove the rotten flesh like cheese, releasing slimy foulness and a dreadful reek, but the corpse refused to fall and instead chopped Aldric with its own big axe. The
eijo’s
stomach heaved with the stink that filled his nostrils, but he ducked the axe-blow and cut through the creature’s nearest knee, toppling it with a sodden thump. Even then it tried repeatedly to rise, while loops of wet intestine bulged greasily through the hole torn in its body.
Aldric was almost sick at the sight and smell and sound of it all. He waved Widowmaker at Gemmel, who was standing near the bottom of the stairs, and snarled, “Finish it, for pity’s sake!” in a voice made thick and hoarse with revulsion.
“Duergar might sense it if I—”
“Don’t argue with me,
altrou
! Do it!”
Gemmel sighed and shrugged, then reached out with the Dragonwand and, muttering something under his breath, pressed its crystal point against the
traugur’s
neck. It flinched back from the contact, twitched once and flopped head-downwards, already beginning to sag as its flesh commenced a dissolution which sorcery had held at bay for almost a month. The enchanter fastidiously stepped across the wide dark stream of fluids trickling down the stairway and drew level with Aldric, noting how white the young man’s face had gone against the black armour which framed it. The Alban said nothing, but turned quickly and all but sprinted up towards the door.
For just an instant Gemmel thought that he had put all sense aside and was going to burst into the hall, but then the
eijo
stopped, listened and very gently eased the door back just enough to let him through. Gingerly the wizard followed.
Inside was dark, the daylight kept at bay by curtains over every window, and the air was heavy with the smell of incense. It tingled with enchantments, a crawling shud-dersome sensation which raised the hairs on Aldric’s neck and at the same time made him start to sweat. There was the sound of chanting from the lord’s dais at the far end of the hall, one sonorous phrase punctuated by the striking of a gong. After a brief glare of greenish light and a pause in which the threads of scented smoke grew thicker, the chant began again and the gong chimed its single note.
Gemmel recognised the spell; he had broken it not two minutes past, back there on the slimed and stinking stairs. It was a spell which held charmed Undeath
traugarin
, keeping their cold flesh from corruption, and it was a spell which would fade entirely if Aldric’s mission was successful. If…
Duergar’s unmistakable silhouette was plainly outlined by the glow of a charcoal brazier. Short, bald— and a perfect target. Aldric’s left hand dropped towards his hip, then clenched in a spasm of black rage as he remembered that he carried neither bow nor
telekin
. All were still cased or bolstered in their places around Lyard’s saddle—and might as well be on the far side of the moon for all the good they could do him.
Sliding along the shadows which connected each tall pillar to its neighbour, Aldric drew slowly closer until a single leap would bring him within lunging range of Duergar’s back. This was one instance where he had no scruples about a thrust between an unsuspecting victim’s shoulders… The necromancer had noticed nothing amiss; still chanting, he walked slowly to one side of the dais and returned with a slim rod, using it now to strike the gong, now to sketch an outline in the air. Aldric’s hackles rose, but he tensed, moving a little clear of the sheltering pillar to be ready for the instant Duergar turned away.
The necromancer turned—then kept on turning, right around, his left hand thrusting out and the syllables of the High Accelerator tumbling from his lips.
Already gathered to spring forward, Aldric threw himself wildly down and sideways as the destructive shock whipcracked through where he had stood and punched a gaping tear right through the wall. Duergar looked down at the sprawling armoured body and began to laugh.
“You should not have destroyed one of my children, Talvalin,” the wizard grinned. “Like any good parent I knew at once something was wrong.” The
eijo
said nothing, trying to anticipate which way to roll if he was to avoid the inevitable second blast of power that would otherwise smash him to a pulp.
Something flared like midsummer lightning and a monstrous detonation shattered every window in the hall. Burn-stench swamped the sickly incense odour and when Aldric raised his face from the floor he saw a smoking gash ripped across the dais. It looked as if the very basalt had charred like dry wood.
“Why not test your skill on mine?” Gemmel’s hard-edged voice was an arrogant challenge, a verbal slap in Duergar’s face, and the Drusalan reacted accordingly with a throwing movement of one hand. Something invisible tugged at the curtains and the door against which Gemmel had been leaning exploded into kindling. “Impressive,” the old enchanter observed sardonically from some feet beyond the target. “But slow. Very,
very
slow.”
Duergar snarled wordlessly and levelled his wand. The end of it glowed orange-red like the mouth of a furnace. Then the thing belched death.
Gemmel replied with the Dragonwand and the smoky air of the hall was suddenly laced with streaks of flaring light and heat. Pillars erupted fire-cored smoke, fabrics flashed to crumbling ash. All was searing flame and noise and colour.