Herald of the Storm (41 page)

He managed to let out a sigh of pain before she planted her free hand firmly in the middle of his chest, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling to the floor.

There were shouts of laughter, along with cheers of approval, from several of the alehouse’s other patrons, but Kaira ignored them as she turned and marched out of the door.

She rushed through streets still busy in the gathering dusk. As she made her way from the alehouse, the freshness of the air seemed to make her head spin. She stumbled into a man, who cursed her. Rather than admonish him for his rudeness Kaira broke into a run, straining for breath, feeling trapped in these oppressive streets, the buildings on either side bearing down as if they might fall in on her at any moment.

How long she ran for she couldn’t tell, but when she eventually reached the harbour she stopped. The air was no sweeter here, the smell of horse dung and urine replaced with fish and the salt sea.

Suddenly her stomach began roiling like the sea before her and she bent over and retched. Her vomit was the colour of the wine she’d consumed, only it tasted even worse on the way out.

She had been stupid to allow herself to get drunk, to allow herself to listen to that man, but she had been drawn in by his sorry tale, by the past that haunted him. Despite all his protestation to the contrary, he was still a loathsome maggot. Any potential he might have had for living a virtuous life was gone now. She knew it.

He was nothing to her.

With one sleeve she wiped tears from her eyes and a stream of bile from her lips then looked out to the sea, to the endless dark ocean, and wished as she’d never wished before that she could simply sail off and leave all this behind her.

A group of sailors were loading the last of their cargo down on the dock, and Kaira was suddenly envious of them. They would be setting sail soon, as free as the wind at their backs. How they must feel, with nothing to confine them but the waves and the distant horizon.

The temptation to join them was almost overwhelming, until her eyes fell on a child, sitting in the shadows some feet away. Kaira couldn’t tell whether it was boy or girl, the face was so filthy and hair so unkempt.

This made her check her fanciful thoughts of flight; made her remember her duty.

This was why she had to stay. This was why she had to fight, to protect children like this, the vulnerable, who could not protect themselves.

Kaira stood to her full height, feeling renewed vigour in her limbs, and a strengthening of her will. She would carry out her mission and destroy the power behind the Guild, even if it meant Merrick’s death.

Even if it meant her own death.

Nothing would stop her.

T
he floor was covered with chequered tiles of dark mahogany and light oak. They were waxed and polished to such a sheen that Waylian’s sandals squeaked as he walked across them. Adorning the walls were thick woven tapestries depicting scenes from history – the Windhammer’s crafting of the nine swords, King Darnaith’s victory over the Golgarthans, the Argent Fleet setting sail on its Fourth Glorious Crusade.

These tapestries rose up twenty feet high to meet a ceiling intricately painted with depictions of gods from all over the known world: Jarl the Healer and the Hollow Man, worshipped by druids and hedge witches across the Free States; Helion and the Moonsyr, observed by the Elharim of the far-off Riverlands; Ancient Gorm and Kaga the Creator from the grasslands of Equ’un; Tzargor Ungoth and Skargan Bonestrife from the snowy wastes of Golgartha; all spinning around one another as though part of the same divine constellation.

Simply looking at it made Waylian dizzy, and this was just the antechamber. Beyond the massive brass doors that stood opposite, vigilantly guarded by four Raven Knights, was the Crucible Chamber. The prospect of stepping over that hallowed threshold filled him with dread, even with Magistra Gelredida at his side. It was the seat of power within the Tower of Magisters, where sat the ruling council, the five most powerful casters in the Free States, and by definition the world. Waylian had never felt so small and unworthy in his life.

Two of the Raven Knights marched forward to where the pair of them stood. Waylian almost took a step back as they approached; so imposing were they in their armour of black, their beaked greathelms peering down from atop their massive frames.

Gelredida casually held out her hands and one of the knights slid an iron bracelet over each of her wrists. Waylian watched agog as the bracelets suddenly tightened of their own accord, the intricate gilding on each manacle suddenly moving and twisting as they shrank to fit her delicate wrists. Without a word the Raven Knights returned to their positions at the door.

‘They are to counteract my powers,’ Gelredida said, answering Waylian’s unspoken question. ‘Magick may not be used within the Crucible Chamber. All those who enter must wear these so that, whatever their allegiance, they may not use their talent on others.’

‘The council do not trust one another?’ It seemed madness that such a measure should be enforced.

‘The Crucible of Magisters has not always had such a civilised and unified membership. We have not always lived in such an enlightened age, and there was a time when these bonds would have saved lives. It is an antiquated convention, but some traditions are hard to break.’

She spoke the words in such a way that Waylian wondered if she meant there was still a thick seam of discord running through the council after so many centuries of strife and misrule. He guessed he would just have to wait and see.

‘As an apprentice will I be allowed in the chamber?’

‘Now that I am … helpless, I am permitted someone to accompany me. A bodyguard, if you will.’ She didn’t even try to disguise the irony in her words. ‘Besides, this experience will be good for you.’

‘And I don’t have to wear any manacles? What if I—’

‘If you what? Suddenly manifest a modicum of talent with one of the Arts? Please, Grimm, try not to make me laugh. This is an occasion that requires solemnity, not hilarity.’ Gelredida didn’t look as if she was going to laugh any time soon. ‘If any apprentice was strong enough in the Arts to be a danger, it would be the first time in a thousand years.’

Two of the Raven Knights grabbed the thick brass rings bolted to the centre of the huge doors and pulled. There had been no fanfare, no banging of gongs, but on some kind of silent signal, the knights were given their orders and Gelredida granted her audience.

Waylian felt his heart pounding in his chest as the Crucible Chamber was revealed. The Magistra walked forward and Waylian followed, marvelling at the vast chamber that sat almost at the summit of the Tower of Magisters.

It was a wide semicircle surrounded by a gallery carved from solid stone, as though the tower itself was a kind of vast, solid monolith hewn from a natural rock formation. Waylian had seen the lower levels. He knew they were crafted from wood and stone, so how this solid room had been built so high up, he could only guess at.

Friezes and intricate sigils were carved into the rock. Everywhere he looked Waylian could only wonder at the craftsmanship. Gargoyles leered at him from every shadowy corner, seemingly trying to tear themselves from the solid rock, but as he entered, his attention was inextricably drawn to the five pulpits that stood at the centre of the room.

The five Archmasters sat behind their pulpits with expressions of haughty indifference. When he had first been inducted into the Tower as an apprentice over a year ago Waylian had seen them at the inaugural ceremony and listened to them give speeches on the differing Arts. Their names were legend – indelibly etched on his consciousness. Each of them represented a different discipline of magick – one of the five Primary Arts – and they were unrivalled masters: casters with no peer in all the far-off continents of the world.

To the far left sat Hoylen Crabbe, Master Invoker and Keeper of the Books. He was a thin man with black hair set in a severe widow’s peak, his dark robes studded with ancient sigils, which naturally Waylian didn’t recognise. Though he only looked in his mid-forties, Waylian knew that a man of such power had to be much older.

Next to him was Crannock Marghil, Master Channeller and Keeper of the Keys. Unlike Crabbe, Crannock looked every one of his eighty-odd years, his hair thin and wispy, his liver-spotted flesh almost translucent. He wore thick eyeglasses and his shoulders barely supported the red and blue robe that hung from them. It was said the Channeller’s Art was the most dangerous of the five, and it was clear Crannock had paid dearly for his talent.

In the centre sat Drennan Folds, Master Summoner and Keeper of the Scrolls. He was a heavy-set man, with grey hair still thick about his scalp and sideburns which ran all the way down his face to almost meet at his chin. His brow was creased in a perpetual furrow and his brown robes looked all but starched to his broad frame. He bore an ugly scar from forehead to cheek, which bisected his eye, the injury having turned it a milky colour in contrast to the other, which was ice blue. Clearly Drennan had paid his own price for his Art, and Waylian almost shuddered at the thought of what foul creature he must have summoned to give him such a mark.

At Drennan’s left hand was Nero Laius, Master Diviner and Keeper of the Ravens. He was short in comparison to his peers, with a curly mop of grey hair and an almost kindly look to him. Waylian knew it would not do to underestimate such a man though – none of the Archmasters had reached their position without dirtying their hands to some extent.

Finally, on the far right sat Lucen Kalvor, Master Alchemist and Keeper of the Instruments. He looked even younger than Hoylen Crabbe and was the newest of the Archmasters after his predecessor, and Lucen’s previous tutor, had been found dead in his chambers. No one had been able to discover the old man’s cause of death, and it was a seldom spoken rumour that Lucen had topped his tutor to usurp his position. If there were any truth to it, none accused the handsome young Archmaster and he was shown due deference, either out of fear or the respect that his position demanded.

These five watched as Gelredida and Waylian approached. Even though their eyes were focused on his mistress, Waylian couldn’t help but feel intimidated.

‘Magistra Gelredida,’ said Nero Laius with a smile. ‘A rare pleasure to see you in these chambers.’ Waylian couldn’t work out whether or not he was being genuine.

‘A pleasure? I am sure, Archmaster Laius,’ Gelredida replied. ‘My heart beats that much faster now that I stand before the Crucible.’

That, on the other hand, even Waylian knew, smacked of insincerity. Nevertheless, Archmaster Laius kept the smile on his lips.

‘Enough with the pleasantries.’ Drennan Folds’ scowl deepened, his milky-white eye seeming to darken slightly with his displeasure. ‘We have matters that require our attention. Why have you requested an audience?’

Gelredida offered Folds a wry look, her weathered features regarding him with barely shadowed amusement.

Folds seemed to recede a little, and it was clear there was much history between these two. Waylian dare not even speculate as to the nature of it.

‘I take it you are all aware of the murders taking place in the city? Mutilated corpses? Forbidden ciphers?’

‘We are.’ This was Crannock Marghil, his voice as thin and weak as the flesh that covered his ancient bones. ‘A terrible business, we all agree. But we are led to believe it is nothing but the work of a rogue caster. Certainly nothing that should concern the Crucible.’

‘I’m afraid, Archmaster Marghil, it is exactly the kind of thing that should concern you.’

‘Come, come, Magistra,’ said Archmaster Laius. ‘I’m sure someone of your boundless ability and vigilance can manage to track down one lone murderer.’

Gelredida smiled back. ‘I agree. But this is no ordinary murderer. This is a singularly cunning and dangerous killer, who could put us all in danger.’

Drennan Folds barked with laughter. ‘And what could be so dangerous about him that he could frighten our own Red Witch?’

Waylian felt the hairs on his neck prickle. He had heard Bram call her that several times, but only when he was sure she was out of earshot. For someone to call her that to her face …

Gelredida regarded Archmaster Folds, unruffled by his attempt to provoke her. ‘Because, Drennan, they are attempting to use the Ninth Art.’

The Archmasters fell silent.

The Ninth Art. Waylian had only heard about it in stories. He’d certainly never studied it in a book. It was said to be the one Art that was forbidden – five were known to the Caste, three were lost, leaving only one. And what a horror that last one was.

Legend told it was abuse of the Ninth Art that had unleashed the Hells on Earth; that had opened the gates to the underworld and released a daemonic horde onto the lands of men, and that only by Arlor’s might was total destruction averted.

If someone was dabbling in the Ninth Art, they were either insane or drenched in more evil than Waylian could ever comprehend. Whichever it was, they had to be stopped.

Until now he hadn’t appreciated just how important it had been to catch their quarry. Before, he had just thought the culprit a rogue caster, a sadist … a killer.

Now it was clear the one they were after was much, much more.

‘What proof do you have?’ asked Crannock Marghil, once Gelredida’s words had sunk in.

‘I have studied the sigils daubed at the site of each murder. Whoever the killer is, they have learned well their ancient lore and the path of the Gate Walker.’

‘But the closest Waystone is …’

‘Yes, the Chapel of Ghouls.’

Drennan Folds sat forward, peering at Gelredida with his one good eye. ‘So why hasn’t the gate been opened? If this is the Maleficar Necrus returned, why is the city not plagued by daemons?’

‘I am unsure. The caster might not be proficient enough with their wards. Perhaps they might not have managed to find a sacrifice strong enough to complete the ritual. They might just be biding their time.’