Authors: David Gemmell
Antikas entered and bowed. Malikada was standing at the balcony, his back to him. The swordsman was momentarily confused. How had Malikada known he was outside?
“Speak,” Malikada said without turning.
“I am sorry to report that the queen has gone, my lord. But I will find her tomorrow.”
Antikas expected an angry outburst, for Malikada was a volatile man. He was surprised, therefore, when his cousin merely shrugged.
“She is on the old Lem road,” said Malikada. “She is traveling with four men, her midwife, and three youngsters. One of the men is the officer Dagorian. I will send men after her tomorrow. You need not concern yourself further.”
“Yes, lord. And what of the other matters?”
“Other matters?” Malikada asked dreamily.
“Getting messages to our garrisons on the coast, dealing with the White Wolf, rooting out Drenai sympathizers. All of the plans we have been discussing for months.”
“They can wait. The queen is all-important.”
“With respect, Cousin, I disagree. When the Drenai learn of Skanda’s death, they could mount a second invasion. And if the White Wolf is allowed to escape …”
But Malikada was not listening. He stood on the balcony, staring out over the city. “Go to your room and rest, Antikas. Go to your room.”
“Yes, lord.”
Antikas left the room. Once more there was no salute from the guards, but he was too preoccupied now to take issue with them. He needed a change of clothing, a meal, and then rest. His own apartment was small, a tiny bedroom and a modest sitting room with two couches and no balcony. He lit two lanterns and then stripped off his armor and the dust-stained tunic beneath, filled a bowl with water from a tall jug, and washed his upper body. He would have preferred a hot, perfumed bath, but without servants, it was unlikely that the bathhouse boilers were working.
Where had the servants gone? And why had Malikada not gathered more?
Clothing himself in a fresh tunic and leggings, he sat down and, out of habit, polished his breastplate, helm, and greaves, which he then hung on a wooden frame. The room began to grow cold. Antikas strode to the window, but it was tightly shut. He thought of lighting a fire, but hunger was gnawing at him. The temperature dropped even further. Antikas swung his sword belt around his waist and left the room. The corridor was infinitely warmer. How curious, he thought.
Behind him, within the room, the water in his washing bowl froze, and ice patterns formed on the windows.
Leaving the palace, he crossed the Avenue of Kings. Canta’s tavern was but a short walk, and the food there was always good.
When he arrived, he found the doors locked, but he could hear signs of movement within. Angry now, he hammered his fist on the wood. All movement inside ceased. “Open up, Canta! There is a hungry man out here,” he called.
He heard the bolts being drawn back. The door swung open. Within were two men. One, the owner, Canta, a short, fat, balding man with a heavy black mustache, had a kitchen knife in his hand; the other man was holding a hatchet. “Come
in quickly,” said Canta. Antikas stepped inside. They slammed shut the door and bolted it.
“What are you afraid of?” asked Antikas. The men looked at one another.
“How long have you been back in the city?” asked Canta.
“I just rode in.”
“There have been riots,” said the tavern keeper, dropping his knife to a table and slumping down. “Riots like you’ve never seen. People hacking and stabbing their neighbors. Last night the baker murdered his wife and ran along the street with her head in his hands. I saw it with my own eyes, Antikas, through the window slats. There is madness everywhere. Tomorrow I’m getting out.”
“And what of the militia?” asked Antikas.
“They’re out there with them, burning and looting. I tell you, Antikas, it beggars belief. By day everything is quiet, but when the sun goes down, the nightmare begins again. There is a great evil at work here. I feel it in my bones.”
Antikas rubbed his weary eyes. “The army is back now. They will restore order.”
“The army is camped a mile from the city,” said the other man, a stocky figure with a graying beard. “The city is defenseless.”
The tavern was gloomy and dark, lit only by a fading log fire in the hearth. “Do you have any food?” asked Antikas. “I have not eaten since yesterday.”
Canta nodded and moved away to the kitchen. The other man sat opposite the swordsman. “There is sorcery here,” he said. “I think the city is dying.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Antikas.
“You haven’t seen it, man. Outside. After dark. I have. I’ll not forget it. The mob becomes possessed. You can see it in their eyes.”
“That is the way with mobs,” said Antikas.
“Maybe it is, soldier. But yesterday …” His voice trailed away. The man rose and walked away to the fire, slumping down beside it and staring into the flames. Canta returned with a plate of cold beef and cheese and a jug of watered wine.
“It is the best I can offer,” said Canta. Antikas reached for his money pouch. “Don’t concern yourself with that,” said Canta. “Take it as a gift.”
The sound of sobbing came from the hearth. Antikas looked at the weeping man with distaste. Canta leaned in close. “Last night he killed his wife and daughters,” whispered the innkeeper. “And he loved them dearly. He came to me this morning, covered in blood. He could not believe what he had done.”
“He will be arrested and hanged,” Antikas said coldly.
“Wait until you’ve lived through the night before making judgments,” advised Canta.
Antikas did not reply. Slowly he ate the meal, savoring the taste of the cold beef and the texture of the smoked cheese. At last replete, he sat back. A stair board creaked. Antikas glanced up and saw a tall, thin priest in robes of white moving down the stairs. “He has been here two days,” said Canta. “He says little, but he is mightily afraid.”
The priest acknowledged Antikas with a curt nod and moved past him to sit at a table at the far wall.
“What is he doing at a tavern?” asked Antikas.
“He says that this place was built on the ruins of a shrine and that demons will avoid it. He is leaving with us tomorrow.”
Antikas rose and moved across the room. The priest glanced up. He had a thin, ascetic face with a prominent nose and a receding chin. His eyes were pale and watery. “Good evening to you, Father,” said Antikas.
“And to you, my son,” answered the priest.
“What is it you fear?”
“The end of the world,” said the priest, his voice dull and toneless.
Antikas leaned forward on the table, forcing the man to meet his gaze. “Explain,” he ordered him.
“Words are useless now,” said the priest, once more averting his gaze. “It has begun. It will not be stopped. The demons are everywhere and growing stronger each night.” He lapsed into silence. Antikas found it hard to suppress his irritation.
“Tell me anyway,” he said, sitting down on the bench seat opposite the man.
The priest sighed. “Some weeks ago Father Aminias, the oldest of our order, told the abbot he had seen demons over the city. He maintained that the city was in great danger. Then he was murdered. A few days ago a woman came to me in the temple. She was a priestess and midwife to the queen. She had been blessed with a
kiraz
—a threefold vision. I spoke with her and tried to interpret it. After she had gone, I began to study the ancient scrolls and grimoires in the temple library. There I came upon a prophecy. That prophecy is being fulfilled now.”
“What are you saying?” persisted Antikas. “You think the sun will fall from the sky, that the oceans will rise up and destroy us?”
“Nothing so natural, my son. Both the old emperor and Skanda were, I believe, descended from the line of three ancient kings. These kings and a wizard fought a war long ago. It was not a war against men. There are few details of it now, and those that remain are hopelessly distorted and full of bizarre imagery. What is clear, however, is that it was a war against nonhumans—demons, if you like. All the ancient tomes tell of a period when such creatures walked among us. The three kings ended that period, banishing all demons to another world. There are no details now of the spell that was wrought, but one of the tomes tells of the patterns of planets in the sky that awesome night. A similar pattern is in the heavens now. And I believe—with utter certainty—that the demons are returning.”
“Tomes, stars, demons—I understand none of this, priest,” snapped Antikas. “Offer me proofs!”
“Proofs?” The priest laughed aloud. “What proofs would be sufficient? We are in a city being torn apart every night by those possessed. The prophecy talks of the sacrifice of kings. The priestess told me her vision showed the old emperor was killed in such a manner. Now Skanda is dead. You are a soldier. Were you there when his army was destroyed?” Antikas
nodded. “Was he slain on the battlefield or taken to a secret place and then killed?”
“It is not my place to discuss these things,” said Antikas. “But for the sake of argument, let us assume he was. What do you take it to mean?”
“It means the fulfillment of prophecy. Two of three kings sacrificed. When the third dies, the gateways will open, and the demons will be back among us. In the flesh.”
“Pah!” snorted Antikas. “And there your argument falters, for there is no third king.”
“Not so,” said the priest. “In the words of the prophecy the sacrifices will consist of an owl, a lion, and a lamb. The owl represents wisdom and learning. The old emperor was, as you will recall, a learned man who founded many universities. Skanda, may his soul burn, was a ravening lion, a destroyer. The third? A lamb is a newborn creature. A child, therefore, or a babe. I am not a seer. But I do not need to be, for I saw Queen Axiana recently, and her child is soon due. He will be the third king.”
Antikas leaned back in his chair and drew in a long breath. “You speak of spells and grimoires, but only one man had such power: Kalizkan. And he is dead. Killed in a rockfall.”
“I do not speak of men,” said the priest. “No
man
could summon such magick. I knew Kalizkan. He was a caring man, thoughtful and sensitive. Two years ago he came to the temple to be healed of a terrible cancer. We could not help him. He had but days to live. He spent two of those days studying ancient texts in our library. After the visit of the priestess I studied those same texts myself. One of the spells contained there was of a merging. If a sorcerer had enough power—so it maintained—he could draw a demon into himself for the purposes of prolonging his life. Shared immortality.” The priest fell silent, then sipped water from a pewter tankard. Antikas waited patiently. The priest spoke again. “We were all surprised when Kalizkan continued to survive. But he did not come to the temple again or visit any holy place. It is my belief—though I can offer you no further proofs—that Kalizkan, in a bid to heal himself, allowed his body to be possessed.
But either the promise of the spell was a lie or Kalizkan was not powerful enough to withstand the demon. Whatever, I think Kalizkan died long ago. And if I am right, no rockfall would have killed him.”
“And yet it did,” insisted Antikas.
The priest shook his head. “The demon lord would merely have found another host. You say he died in a rockfall. Was there one survivor who walked away unscathed?”
Antikas pushed back his chair and rose. “I have heard enough of this nonsense. Your brains are addled, priest.”
“It is my sincere hope that you are right,” the priest told him.
From outside came the sound of wailing. Scores of voices joined in. Antikas shivered, for the sound was unearthly.
“It begins again,” said the priest, closing his eyes in prayer.
Despite his apparent dismissal of the priest Antikas was deeply troubled. He had served Malikada for more than fifteen years and had shared his hatred of the Drenai invaders. And while he had never fully condoned the treachery that had led to the destruction of the Drenai army, he had seen it as the lesser of two great evils. However, the events of the past few days had concerned him, and now, with the added weight of the priest’s words, doubt began to gnaw at him.
Malikada had escaped the rockfall that had killed Kalizkan and from that moment had seemed changed. He was colder, more controlled. That in itself meant nothing. Yet he had also lost interest in strengthening his grip on the empire. Killing Skanda was but a step toward freeing Ventria from the grip of the Drenai. There were garrisons all over the land, many of them containing Drenai units. And the sea lanes were patrolled by Drenai ships. Both he and Malikada had planned this coup for months, and both had been acutely aware of the dangers of Drenai reprisals. Yet now Malikada showed a complete lack of interest in the grand design. All he seemed to want was Axiana.
Antikas crossed to the fire. The wife killer was sitting silently, staring at the flames through eyes red-rimmed from
weeping. Outside they could hear hundreds of people moving through the streets.
Canta crept across the room. “Stay silent,” he whispered. “Make no movement.”
Antikas moved to the shuttered window and listened. People were gathering together, and he could hear a babble of voices. There were no words to be understood, though they seemed to be speaking to one another in strange tongues. Antikas shivered.
Suddenly a spear smashed through the shutters, passing inches from Antikas’ face. He leapt back. An ax blade smashed the wood to shards, and he found himself staring at a sea of faces, all twisted into fearsome grimaces, their eyes wide and staring. At that moment Antikas knew the truth of the priest’s words. Those people were possessed.
Behind him Canta screamed and fled for the stairs. Antikas drew his saber and stood his ground. The axman grabbed the windowsill and began to haul himself across the threshold. His face changed, his expression softening. He blinked. “In the name of heaven, help me!” he shouted, dropping his ax to the floor. A knife was plunged through his back, and the body was dragged from the window. The mob did not advance but stood, staring with hatred at the lone swordsman standing inside. Then they drew back and moved away down the street.