She began to speak quickly in Elvish, the air around her shuddering at each syllable, but the dragon, fearless and full of rage, ignored her, advancing until the pitted chain that tethered it to the doorframe was stretched taut. The wind swirled up around Xeliath until she was partially hidden from view by shadows glinting with gold and emerald. As the pressure on Mihn’s ears began to build Xeliath stamped one foot, and long coils of light lanced forward to lash the dragon’s body.
The magic carved furrows through its flesh but the dragon just roared louder, refusing to retreat. It snapped at the glimmering coils with its huge mouth, somehow finding purchase on one, and wrenched its head from side to side like a shark feeding.
As the dragon pulled Xeliath off-balance, her concentration broke and the magic dispelled. It raised its forelimbs, claws extended, and raked through the air towards them. Mihn saw the trails of magic in the air and dropped to the ground, pulling Isak with him, as Xeliath made a sweeping gesture through the air with her glaive and a blistering white shield appeared in front of them all.
In the next moment black slashes tore through its surface and even Xeliath flinched away.
‘Give me Eolis,’ she yelled, reached back towards Mihn with one hand.
‘I thought you would be able to force a path through!’ he shouted as an ear-splitting roar of fury deafened them.
‘It must be a bloody male,’ Xeliath shouted back, a mixture of bloodlust and elation on her face. ‘The bastard thing is too proud to back down!’
‘Can you kill it?’
‘Who knows?’ she laughed. ‘The Gods failed, but I’ll give it a damn good try! Get Isak to the side and wait for your chance.’ She grabbed Eolis from Mihn’s unresisting grip and hefted it appreciatively.
‘What about you?’ he began, but she was already moving.
‘Go!’ Xeliath yelled, breaking into a run directly towards the dragon and shrieking a Yeetatchen warcry.
Mihn tore his attention from the shining figure and looked to Isak, who was staring at the dragon as though physically pained by it. With Mihn’s support he moved to the right of the black doors and stood, trembling, watching as Xeliath charged with wild abandon, cutting and hacking with all a white-eye’s force. A white band of energy thrashed around her, protecting her from the dragon’s raking claws. She forced the beast back, then feinted left, and the dragon followed.
That was the opening Mihn had been waiting for and he pulled Isak towards the door with all his strength as Xeliath screamed in furious delight.
They were a foot away when the dragon whipped its tail along the ground and slipped the horn-blade underneath Xeliath’s protective ring. She screamed in pain, and the sound of shattering crystal rang across the plain, swiftly followed by a roar from the dragon as the spitting band of light slanted around and pinned the tail to the ground.
As Xeliath stabbed Eolis right through it Mihn pushed Isak forward, not stopping even when he saw the dragon pounce: once they were through, then Xeliath could retreat. Light exploded up from the ground as the creature smashed its claws down, but Xeliath knocked its head aside, tearing a chunk of decaying flesh from its face. That wasn’t enough to stop the creature biting down, to the sound of more shattering crystal. As he laid his hand on the black door itself Mihn heard Xeliath’s bellow.
Though he hated to leave Xeliath he couldn’t wait. He put his shoulder to the door and drove forward as hard as he could. Isak stood for a moment, then added his own weight. The black door resisted a moment, and then something gave and the two men collapsed forward. Darkness enveloped them, a rushing cold that hit Mihn with all the shock of a kick to the gut.
He tumbled forward in panic, freezing cold all around him, and a moment later he felt some force dragging him up until he broke the surface of the lake. Mihn’s first breath was a howl of agony, and his remaining strength failed him. It was only a strong hand grabbing him by the scruff of the neck that stopped him dropping back in the water and sinking like a stone. He fell roughly against the side of the boat, and instinct was strong enough to make him grab on for all he was worth.
An animal yowl shocked him so badly he almost let go entirely, but as he flailed in alarm he realised the agonised sob came from Isak. The white-eye’s huge bulk had risen to the surface too, and like Mihn he was gripping the side of the boat for all he was worth. His cries were shaking the entire boat.
‘What happened to Xeliath?’ demanded the witch of Llehden, standing in the prow of the boat, a rare look of concern on her face.
Mihn was summoning the strength to reply when he saw Xeliath slumped in the bottom of the boat, still and apparently unbreathing.
‘How — ?’ he began, as Xeliath gave a sudden, violent jerk, but his immense relief was short-lived as the girl lifted her shoulders and coughed up gouts of blood over her stomach. She started to convulse and her eyes opened, reflecting not victory but agony.
He threw himself into the boat to hold her, but she twisted out of his grip and screamed in pain before vomiting more blood.
‘Mihn, see to Isak,’ the witch commanded, though there was little he could do for the white-eye, who remained clinging to the side of the boat with all his Gods-granted strength, keening piteously.
‘No!’ shouted the witch, who lifted the girl’s head as Xeliath’s struggles lessened. She held Xeliath close and began to mutter an invocation, but as far as Mihn could see the only effect she was having was to make the blood flow faster.
Xeliath twisted her head towards Isak and at last she seemed to focus, the pain receding in her eyes for a moment. Her damaged features twisted into a small smile.
‘Free,’ she whispered, almost too feebly for Mihn to hear. She coughed again and the smile vanished, followed a moment later by the bright spark in her white eyes,
‘Xeliath,’ the witch cried, but quietly now, the voice of mourning. Mihn felt a familiar presence suddenly descend, shrouding the boat to darken the night even further. Something hard clattered on the bottom of the boat and Mihn’s heart sank. The cold of the lake filled his bones as Mihn watched the Crystal Skull roll to a stop in front of him, freed at last from her grip.
CHAPTER 4
The biting wind gusted through Byora’s streets. The sky had been a uniform grey for days now, but there had been little more than a smattering of rain this morning and as midday approached Luerce decided it would stay dry and settled down for the day on the cobbled ground. The disciple of Azaer arranged a white blanket around his shoulders like a tent, keeping out the chilly air, and set to playing the mystic.
He didn’t mind; it was easy enough to sit there motionless all day, watching his flock, though he saw no reason to endure a soaking too. From all around him came the keening of the faithful. The cant of liturgy had devolved into meaningless sounds, but interspersed within the drone were new prayers that Luerce had instilled in the minds of the weakest. It was a modest start, but fear would provide fertile soil, especially with him there to tend it and a dragon’s shadow cast over the quarter.
Luerce looked around. The crowd had grown again today; hundreds were clustered around the gates to the Ruby Tower compound. Many were beggars but already there were others, lurking on the fringes, seeking something, though they did not yet realise that. He saw grief in their eyes, and loneliness. Some were consumed by petty hatreds or avarice, and Luerce took especial note of those: the bullies and the cowards, those with a lifetime of identifying the vulnerable, they’d be ideal to swell the ranks of Ruhen’s preachers.
Luerce occupied an honoured position within the crowd of devotees, and even the newcomers could see he was special. Most of the disciples sat in tight circles of five or six, with Luerce alone in the middle of them all, with his back against the compound wall. From there the Litse could survey his small kingdom: the desperate and the mad, all huddled pathetically in the shadow of the Ruby Tower where Ruhen lived, hoping for salvation from the Circle City’s latest terror.
On Luerce’s left a craftsman, still wearing his tool-belt, approached the wall, a reverent look on his face. He picked his way carefully past the mumbling, white-swathed bundles, hunched over as though apologetic about being upright while everyone else was sitting. The man sank to his knees as soon as he was within reach of the wall and looked up at the fluttering strips of prayer-inscribed cloth adorning it.
He raised his own contribution, fixed to an iron nail like the others, and hammered it in. He was large and powerfully built, his brown hair tangled and his beard unkempt, giving him the appearance of a barbarian from the Waste, but the expression on his face was piteous. A muddy thumb-print adorned his cheek as though in mockery of a Harlequin’s bloody teardrop, and his face was streaked by tears that flowed once again as he prayed.
A child could look fiercer than this bear of a man
, Luerce thought as he gazed past him and noted with satisfaction that the guards on the gate were paying no attention. The watchful gaze of a Harlequin ensured that: while the storyteller had not spoken one word except in song, its demeanour was unmistakable, even to the witless thugs who comprised the duchess’ personal regiments. It stood over the crowds day and night, a sentinel for the faithful as they awaited Ruhen’s benediction.
Slowly we go, oh so slowly
. Luerce’s attention drifted from the motionless Harlequin to a white-clad disciple who was handing out black-crusted bread to the crowd. The man was speaking urgently as they jammed the bread into their mouths, bending right over them as he whispered.
Keep on with the good works, my friend, but any more of your religious nonsense and you’ll find an accident coming your way. We cannot bully the people into following Ruhen; they must beg it of him
. He rubbed his thin fingers over his bald head, feeling the unfamiliar shape of his skull once covered by luxuriant blond hair. The beggar beside him looked up at the movement, awaiting his next command. He could see in her hollow eyes the awe she still felt, the otherworldly image he now presented to the Land. Once she had been beautiful, but hunger had taken its toll - for which Luerce was profoundly thankful. He had no wish to discover how his master would react if he discovered Luerce submitting to temptation whilst playing the holy man - and Ruhen
would
find out, no matter how he tried to cover his tracks. He had no doubt of that.
‘Go and read the latest prayer,’ he said softly. She scrambled to obey, almost barging the bear-like man out of the way in her haste.
‘A prayer for salvation,’ she announced with what she clearly thought was grandeur, ‘salvation from the dragon that killed his family yesterday.’
The wordless prayers increased in volume at her words, and drained what was left of the man’s remaining strength. He huddled over his knees, doubled up by the pain inside.
Luerce smiled inwardly.
About bloody time. I was wondering if I was going to have to do it myself.
He looked around, searching for a picture of misery amidst a sea of it. The mercenary Grisat was difficult to pick out now that he’d shed his penitent’s uniform, but Bolla, Grisat’s brother-in-arms, was far easier to spot. The tall shaven-headed man sat bolt-upright, staring into nothing as he chewed numbroot day and night.
Ah, numbroot addicts, the most amenable of fools
. Luerce smiled inwardly, remember his former life of petty theft and fraud. Numbroot was as benign a drug as one could find, and it took real commitment to wind up an addict, as Bolla clearly was. Aracnan, the Demi-God who served Azaer, had used Grisat to engineer a campaign of resistance after the failure of the clerics’ rebellion. Bolla had played his part in that without questioning his orders, using numbroot to dull the pain of his injuries along with his ability to care about the rest of the Land.
‘Our brother asks for salvation,’ Luerce called out, causing a small commotion as the huddled mass turned to look at him. ‘Byora’s children cry out for salvation! Pray, pray with me for intercession!’
As he finished his eyes came to rest on Bolla and Grisat. More voices joined in the chant, the volume increased and Bolla began to sway in an unconscious response to the sound. Grisat, a solid-looking man, contrived to look even more miserable. Though he looked as if he had entirely gone to seed, the mercenary was still strong, well worth his pay - but Luerce only had one use for him. Finally, reluctantly, Grisat lifted his grey eyes to meet the Litse’s. The order was understood.
The mercenary flinched and tugged his filthy coat tighter around his body, but he wasted no time in using the magical link Aracnan had created between them to contact the Demi-God. In a few moments Luerce saw Grisat shudder and knew the mercenary had found Aracnan. The Demi-God had been wounded as he went to join the battle against the Farlan, shot with a poisoned crossbow bolt by a Narkang agent. It was taking all of Aracnan’s considerable skill just to stay alive, and the pain had left him unhinged. This would not be a comfortable experience for Grisat.
Satisfied the bond was active, Luerce bowed his head and added his own voice to the wordless anthem ringing out down the street. The beggars squatting in the street as though protesting the state of the Land were the broken and the lost; their mournful song was almost primal, and their many hurts the most basic a human could feel. Luerce felt himself enveloped in the building dirge. Swept up by the fervour, by the desperation of those around him who had lost everything, he found tears spilling down his cheek as his voice rose above the rest.