Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (35 page)

Without, it was the depth of night. The sky was clear, the moon a few finger-breadths above the horizon. Torches on poles lit the encampment of circled tents, with the horses staked in the centre of the ring. For an instant the idea of placing the horses in the protected middle puzzled Silk. Then he realized, of course:
him
. The man-beast, Ryllandaras. As he walked, Silk sipped the hot herbal tea and was surprised by just how immediately restorative it was. The after-taste was a pleasant hint of caramel. ‘Where do you get this?’ he asked.

‘My personal recipe, I’m afraid,’ the mage answered with a smile. He led the way to the largest of the field tents. Here two sentries guarded the half-open tent flap. Cal-Brinn nodded to them and held aside the flap for Silk, who stood blinking in the relatively bright glare of candles and lamps set about the wide open tent. It was also quite noisy, as the tables that stood all about the circumference were crowded with mercenaries.

‘It is our guest!’ a great voice boomed out, thunderous and welcoming, and Silk knew who the speaker must be. He started forward, Cal-Brinn at his side. The gathered soldiers, male and female, many of whom Silk knew by reputation, turned in their seats to watch.

The two mages passed a crackling fire-pit and stopped before a table of thick planks behind which sat the Crimson Guard commander, flanked by two youths.

The contrast between the older man and the two youngsters could not have been more complete. Courian D’Avore was a burly giant in a laced leather jerkin, his hair and beard a mass of tangled black curls going to grey, his hands and face burnished by wind and sun to the consistency of worn leather, one eye a dead white orb from a sword cut that left a scar from brow to cheek. He was digging at the dinner before him, a rack of fire-charred ribs, and waving Silk forward with one greasy paw. ‘Come, come.’

The youth on the man’s right Silk knew to be his son, K’azz D’Avore, whom some called the Red Prince, more because of his regal manner and bearing than a claim to any title. K’azz nodded him a greeting: thin, ascetic, he had the look of a scholar rather than a warrior. But Silk found the pale eyes, greyish in this light, calculating, their gaze piercing.

The other youth was pale, slim, all in black, his features long and somehow conveying a moroseness of character. He wore a thin gold band, like a circlet, over his straight sandy-brown hair, and with a start Silk realized that he was looking at Malkir Herengar, heir designate to the Grisian throne. He gave Malkir a bow that the youth answered with the faintest of nods.

‘You are Silk, city mage of Li Heng, and one of its rulers, yes?’ Courian said as he gnawed on a rib.

Silk grasped the mug behind his back in both hands and smiled modestly. ‘Shalmanat is the ruler of Li Heng.’

Courian’s gaze – the living eye and the dead – narrowed. He held the bone in his teeth and growled, ‘Do not dissemble with me, mage. You five are her voice, her hands. You rule the city as nothing more than a damned cabal of mages.’

Silk hadn’t thought of it in such a way before but couldn’t, on the spur of the moment, dispute the characterization. The youth K’azz spoke up, ‘Perhaps we should offer our guest a seat, Father. He has had a trying experience.’

Courian snorted harshly. ‘Listen to my son, mage. No doubt after a hot meal we’ll all be best of friends, hey? Perhaps we could all sing songs together.’

The youth’s features were strained as he lowered his voice. ‘I merely—’

‘That is your problem, son. You
merely
.’ Courian pointed the stripped rib at Silk as if it were a spear. ‘It is strange, the beast Ryllandaras malingering about Heng, yes?’

Silk brought the stoneware cup out from behind his back and blew upon it, sipping. ‘The beast does as it will.’

‘Indeed it does – to the Kanese mainly, these days. But they are gone now from these northern plains, yet it lingers.’ The one good eye examined Silk, gauging him up and down. ‘It is almost as if it were waiting for something.’

Silk sipped again, loudly. ‘The walls to fall, no doubt. You ought to try hunting it.’

The mercenary commander scowled, his jaws bunching in anger. He tapped the rib to the plank table. ‘It is fast, deadly, and cunning. A difficult quarry.’ He cocked his head, the dead eye now on Silk. ‘Some say the Protectress possesses some sort of hold over the beast. What say you to that, mage?’

Silk sipped the reviving tea, remembered Ryllandaras’s pledge of love and devotion to Shalmanat given in his own inhuman growling voice. He was sorely tempted, but could not bring himself to leap into that abyss. He said, ‘Is it so surprising that her beauty should conquer all?’

Courian snorted once more. Now he held the rib in both hands before his chin, his elbows on the table, and, almost smiling, asked, ‘What is going on in your fair city, mage?’

Uncertain of the man’s tack, Silk found that all he could do was banter, stalling: ‘We’re readying a victory banquet.’

The grizzled mercenary affected mock surprise. ‘Really? I find that difficult to believe.’ He pointed the rib to Cal-Brinn at Silk’s side. ‘My mages have been yowling like cats in a bag on fire. They say something very unusual is going on in Heng right now. We hear rumours of some sort of daemon stalking its streets.’

Silk glanced to Cal-Brinn, who raised his brows in a silent question. Now he understood. ‘Citizens hear a barking dog and this becomes the roar of Ryllandaras next door. Stories always grow in the telling. That is all.’

Courian’s answering smile was thin. ‘Of course.’ He flicked the rib aside. ‘Since you are done talking, have a seat. Eat. Tomorrow we will escort you back to Heng.’

Silk bowed. ‘You are most generous, m’lord Courian.’ Cal-Brinn guided him to a seat where he could eat without having to answer any further questions, and sat down next to him. He peered about, naturally curious about the Guard, but wary as well. He spotted the hulking Petra who fought with a two-handed mace, and scanning the crowd of mercenaries found the man he wanted: the tall, lean figure of Oberl, black-haired, his long legs stretched out before him. Champions all were these men and women, drawn from across the face of the continent and beyond, yet reigning over all was Oberl of Purge, champion of champions.

Perhaps the man felt Silk’s gaze upon him, for he rose and crossed to their table. He sat opposite and regarded Silk, his gaze lazy. Cal-Brinn waved a hand in introduction. ‘Oberl of Purge . . . Silk of Heng.’

Silk offered a nod. ‘I have heard much of you, of course.’

The man’s answering nod seemed to say
Of course you have
. He leaned forward over the table and said, his voice soft, ‘
I’ve
heard that the Sword of Hood is in Heng. Do you know of this?’

Silk nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve met the man. Young. Seemed . . . competent.’

A drawing down of the man’s lips expressed what he thought of Silk’s evaluation of any fighter’s competence. But he did nod in thanks for the intelligence, and pushed away from the table. ‘I would break into your damned city just to test the fellow’s claim . . . but I am sworn to my duke.’

Silk resisted commenting and nodded instead, in farewell. ‘Perhaps sometime . . .’ he offered, to be diplomatic.

The man gave a tight hungry grin and walked away.

Silk found Cal-Brinn eyeing him and raised an eyebrow in question. The older mage cleared his throat. ‘You’ve met him? Is he really— that is, what do you think of his claim?’

Silk gnawed on the rib of roasted pig that had been set down before him and considered that dawn visit. In truth, he thought the claim wildly unrealistic. Mortal swords of the gods were few and far between. Those of Fener and Togg and such – the beast gods and war gods – were the most common. But for the hoary Elder hoarder of souls to grant such a dispensation . . . well, that was another thing entirely.

And yet. That morning, within that old neglected mausoleum, he’d felt
some
thing. They hadn’t been alone. He was no priest, but he’d heard talk that the Elder Realms such as those of the Andii and others were no more than older versions of the Warrens, and that even Hood’s own path was one such. It was quite esoteric research. Yet he’d felt something.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I consider it unlikely but not impossible.’

Cal-Brinn nodded at that. ‘Fair enough.’ He turned his attention to his meal.

Silk sipped his watered wine and tried to relax as the evening lengthened. His exhaustion and the lingering ache in his arm pulled at him. He understood now that the older mage was here beside him less as his minder than for companionship. For the broad tent was crammed with martial figures – among them some of the most storied in the lands – and Cal-Brinn was very much the odd man out. Yet the Guard possessed a cadre of mages second to none. He knew of Gwyn of Lammath, Petal and Red just to name a few. Even – and he searched the tent to find that skinny spotty youth – Fingers, Auralas had called him. The lad was sitting at a table laughing and joking, surrounded by armoured mercenaries yet wearing no more than a leather jerkin and buff trousers.

The Guard welcomed mages, he knew. And he felt the pull of it; of belonging, of the respect of one’s companions. But, somehow, he couldn’t imagine himself joining for the pursuit of money, or fame, or honour. No, it would take something more than that to win him over. Something larger. He couldn’t quite put a name to it, but it was there. In this company he felt it pulling at him.

He shook his head again, blinking, and set down his wine. He felt a hand on his shoulder – Cal-Brinn.

‘You should sleep,’ the mage was saying, and Silk nodded.
Yes, it has been quite the eventful journey
.

In the morning the Guard was good to its word. They supplied drivers and an escort of twenty cavalry. Cal-Brinn sat with Silk in the lead wagon, while a surviving Hengan muleteer handled the team. The elder mage was quiet, clearly willing to allow Silk all the time he needed to think.

As the wagon rocked and bucked along a track that was nothing more than twin overgrown depressions across the rolling hillsides and shallow valleys, Silk considered the mercenary company’s interest in the ongoing siege. They were here for the beast, of course, but clearly their formidable mage cadre was also aware of the strange happenings within the walls. Were they angling for some sort of advantage?

In time, he cleared his throat and shot a sidelong glance to the man beside him who sat at ease, a hand resting on the thick iron pommel of one of his swords. ‘You intervened because you think there is something going on in Heng, and you are curious.’

The mage turned to regard him. His age was hard to tell. Older, yes, but by how much was impossible to know. The scars and roughened features told of a long hard life. And he was, after all, an adept of Rashan, and had perhaps followed – or been allowed to follow – one of the rituals of High Denul that rejuvenated the body and forestalled its ageing. ‘You may avoid the subject with Courian,’ he said, ‘but you cannot hide the truth from me. Four Guard mages are here, and we all felt the shudder in our Warrens. It was as plain as an earthquake. Yes?’

Silk nodded, uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’

‘I am most interested in the thoughts of Hothalar on the matter. What is his opinion?’

Silk was quite surprised. ‘Ho? You know of him? Why would you care what he thinks?’

Now Cal-Brinn’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Hothalar is one of the foremost scholars of thaumaturgy and the manipulation of the Warrens. His experimentation is unequalled.’

Silk’s astonishment must have shown on his face, for the mage of Rashan went on, ‘But I see that that is not your area of interest.’

Silk looked away, his face heating. Damn Ho for leaving him in the dark! He must look like an utter fool. ‘No,’ he managed, holding his voice flat, ‘it is not.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Indeed, I am no scholar of the arts. I am more practical.’

‘From what was reported of the engagement, indeed so,’ Cal-Brinn said, and Silk chose to take that as an offering of peace.

They rode in silence for a time. Silk was now thinking of the other issue Courian raised, the matter of Ryllandaras; here was something he could address. The beast had done its job. The north was clear and winter was now with them. Any further Kanese incursion was unlikely. Surely Shalmanat had no further need for the vicious creature.

He turned to the wagon driver and motioned for the reins. ‘I’ll take over – get some rest.’ The man nodded and clambered over to the rear. Cal-Brinn cocked an eyebrow in silent question. Lowering his voice, Silk began, ‘As to Ryllandaras . . . if there
were
a way to trap him, how might I reach you?’

Cal-Brinn nodded long and slowly in consideration. At last: ‘If that were found to be so . . . I could leave myself open to contact from the Warren of Thyr . . .’

* * *

On the wall of a choked-off, dust-filled subterranean chamber ice crystals came into being in a latticework of diamond glimmer. They met, coalesced into a solid layer that crackled and hissed, sending wisps of mist into the dusty air. Sister Night emerged from the wall of latticed ice. Frost limned her short dark hair. Her flat features held her usual severe frown, and she wore her customary old worn travelling leathers. She raised a hand and a glowing ball of illumination materialized to float in the air.

She turned about, examining the chamber. It was squat; a mass of fallen earth choked off its one exit. From this heap, close to its leading edge, a pale hand could just be seen, reaching, nails broken where it had clutched desperately at the stone flags. Fat brick pillars cluttered the room; evidently these restrained the arched roof from total collapse.

She turned to the nearest wall and her breath caught. She approached, one hand outstretched, reaching out to crude sketches that cluttered the dressed stone walls. As her hand brushed close to one drawing she yanked it away, her breath hissing. She brought the globe of cold white light nearer.

It was a landscape done in charcoal, flat and desolate, bearing one central figure: the crudely traced outline of a structure, a brooding squat thing, almost a tomb, perhaps built of stone monoliths.