Icefalcon's Quest (Darwath) (38 page)

The Icefalcon saw again Blue Child’s eyes meeting his across the longhouse fire. Sometimes the Wise were too damned perceptive.

“And he has been here,” he said. “All this time.”

His mind returned to the eclipsed shadow, the wobbling fingernails, the vile glimmer of unseen eyes. He thought about the evil slow-growing plants that choked the corridors and chambers, about the spots of deadly cold. It was as if, he thought, they were locked in the body of a beast long dead, wandering in a vast, stilled, ebon heart.

“Was this Far-Walker, this
transporter
, ever used?”

Ingold shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “If it was, it fell out of general use long ago. Certainly no record of it survived, not even in the archives of the City of Wizards.”

He wrapped up the rest of the potato cakes and stowed them in his knapsack, which he shoved into a corner. He had always, thought the Icefalcon, looked more like a beggar than a wizard, except for the sword he belted at his hip. And indeed, within this chamber where the Runes of Silence were written he was not a wizard, only a very tough old man.

He settled now by the fire and extended his palms to the warmth. “I’ve never seen mention of it in any of the record crystals, either, and most of those were made well before the coming of the Dark Ones. Perhaps it was originated by the mages of that time but in the end considered too dangerous.
The Keeps depended for their safety on absolute impregnability. One set of Doors, and those locked and guarded with the most stringent of magical wards. And nothing else, as I knew to my sorrow, from those nights sleeping cold on the mountainside and stealing food from Vair’s troops to stay alive. Fairly good food, too, if you knew which mess to visit—though one produced meals that tasted excellent but made me truly ill afterward.”

“Ah, that’ll be me cousin Athkum.” Hethya nodded. “They took him on as a cook—as a slave, of course. Cousin Athkum was another of me mother’s pupils, though not to magic born. He was a dab hand at herbology and healing brews, though. I’d be surprised,” she added casually, “if any of them live much past the end of summer.”

“Good heavens,” Ingold murmured, alarmed.

“You probably didn’t take enough to hurt you.” Hethya shrugged. “By the time enough accumulates in their systems—he says brown-cap mushrooms are the best—he’ll be far away. It isn’t as if they didn’t ask for it.”

“I suppose not.” Ingold shuddered a little. “I shall take steps to invoke spells of healing on myself the moment I’m out of this room. As for the transporter, it may only have been an experiment and never used at all. In any case, all knowledge of it was lost at the Renweth end. This may have been deliberate, for the archways of crystal that seem to have demarcated its resonating chambers were bricked up and plastered over. Brycothis directed Ilae to it, of course, but she could make no sense of the images she placed in her mind. It was only when you, Icefalcon, came through the wall as I sat meditating there that I realized how the function and shape of the room had to have been changed.”

“Can we go back?”

“We can,” Ingold said slowly. “It would be best if we can do it without showing Vair where the transporter lies. I’m fairly good at covering my tracks, but magic won’t work in the chamber itself nor in several of the corridors round about it, and I’m not sure that four adults could pass
those corridors again without leaving traces that could be deciphered in the frost and the vines. That’s what he wanted you for, wasn’t it, Tir?”

The boy nodded. “I had to get away,” he said. “I couldn’t let him—I never will let him. He’s evil. He’s going to make more soldiers and take them to the Keep …”

“Out of what, pray?” demanded Hethya scornfully. “Mushrooms?”

“The Empty Lakes People,” said the Icefalcon.

The others looked at him, silent with shock.

“They’re on their way here, two hundred of them,” he said. “I’m sorry. I …” He shook his head, angry at himself for not speaking of it before. Like a single black comb on the table of crystal needles, like a dream about Bektis summoning light, the conversation had slipped away in clouds of demon-laughter and pain.

“Breaks Noses leads them. After four more chimes of the clock Bektis will lay a glamour upon Crested Egret—Prinyippos—so that he can lead them into a crevasse in the ice, where they will be killed by an avalanche. Vair will use their flesh as he used the flesh of the sheep, he says, to manufacture ten or twelve or twenty warriors, where before he could only call forth four from his iron vat.

“And with that many warriors to assist in the search,” he added reasonably, “stupid as they are, it can only be a matter of time before they locate the transporter without the help of our lad Scarface here.”

Hethya said, “T’cha!” in offense, and slapped at his foot, which was the nearest part of his body to her. But the Icefalcon saw Tir’s fleet shy grin and the duck of his head, as the deformity and shame transformed to something men envied, the mark of battle survived.

“And where,” Ingold asked gently, “does Vair keep this vat of his?”

Three corridors away from the dark triple cell beside the Aisle, Ingold paused and closed his eyes, dreaming or meditating or doing whatever it was that Wise Ones did.
When they turned the final corridor, it was to discover the door guards of the cell gone. By the muddy boot prints there had been two of them this time, Vair evidently having learned a lesson about single guards in that corridor. The Icefalcon felt a twinge of irritated envy toward people who didn’t have to step through a slashing fire-fall of pain in order to send the clones on some sort of wild-goose chase to the farthest latrine in the Keep, but he put it aside as illogical.

Ingold paid for his powers in other ways.

Neither the Icefalcon nor Loses His Way breathed a sound as they traversed the short stretch of corridor and Ingold slipped back the door bolt. The wizard paused on the threshold, like a cat balking at the entry to a haunted room. Then he stepped in, moving with a wariness that made the Icefalcon uneasy. Anything that scared Ingold Inglorion was indeed to be avoided at all costs.

Whatever it was, he noticed that Loses His Way didn’t seem to sense anything amiss. Saving, of course, the smell of old blood about the
dethken iares
, which was almost drowned in the overwhelming stink of the clones’ corpses. Creepers had already grown through the doorway, probing into the brown mess. The chieftain muttered, “Pfaugh! This is ugly hunting. He will make warriors of those?”

“Of their flesh, yes.” Ingold was clearly fascinated. “I’ve read very old accounts of this procedure, though its use was lost with the technology of this apparatus. These”—he lifted the crystal needles from their table, turning them to the dim feather of magelight that floated above his head, angled the glass beads on their heads to catch some gleam within them—“went into the nerve points of the body, the crystal into the head and shoulders, the iron into the limbs, the gold into the abdomen and organs.”

He moved from object to object, running his heavy-muscled hands along the twisted glass and iron of the arches surmounting the tub and the visceral-looking glass tubes. “The power was aligned through the canopy,
though they’ve got it sourced wrong. Those two crystals at the foot belong on either side of this sphere here, in an equilateral triangle. Once that was done the power was self-aligning, and a circle chalked round the whole would close the circuit and start the process working. I wonder where Bektis learned of it?”

“Wherever he found that gem he wears on his hand, belike,” said the Icefalcon. “He calls it the Hand of Harilómne. It grants him greater power than ever I saw him use.”

Ingold, leaning over the vat to touch the brownish film that seemed to emerge from the quicksilver lining itself, looked up swiftly, and his white brows pulled together. “Yes,” he said, and there was old knowledge, old anger in his voice. “Yes, I know what the Hand does. And it probably isn’t what Bektis thinks.”

The Icefalcon leaned his back against the doorpost. He found that even the walk down to the chamber had winded him. His calves ached and felt on the verge of cramping; annoying, he thought, and something he should be beyond. “I thought you said the Devices of the Times Before were beyond your ken.”

“Many of them are. But Harilómne was hardly a mage of the Times Before, and he left accounts of his Hand—and of this Device, as it happens, which he tried hard to duplicate before he was driven out of the West of the World by the Council of Wizards. I should imagine your girl Hethya’s mother encountered an incomplete copy of his work on what he called the Cauldron of Warriors, hidden away at Prandhays Keep.”

“She is not
my
girl,” said the Icefalcon indignantly, but Ingold had already turned back to the vat and was studying the pattern of tiny lights that gleamed starlike in its lining. The Icefalcon followed him and saw that the bottom was an inch or so deep in the brownish ooze that filmed the sides. He shrank from the thought of touching it, even should the salvation of his soul depend upon so doing.

There was evil here against which rivalries for love or
power, revenge, or the falsification of a sacrificial omen were the spites of a pettish child. A true evil, a monstrous and vile greed that disregarded all but itself.

“What does the old one do?” Loses His Way nodded toward Ingold, his voice low so that the mage would not hear. “What does he need to know, other than that this thing must be destroyed before Vair can make use of it again?”

Ingold moved on, fingering tubes and cylinders, and glanced calculatingly back at the chamber’s door. Knowing him, the Icefalcon realized that the old man was wondering if there were a way of stealing all or part of the apparatus, a way of carrying it intact back to the Keep of Dare, to be studied and preserved.

He came swiftly around the end of the vat and closed his hand on the heavy wrist. “Destroy it,” he said.

Later he realized that the fault lay in them both. Ingold for not simply destroying the thing at once—provided that such a thing were possible—and himself for distracting the mage and for a fatal second tying up Ingold’s sword-hand and his own.

“Fool, Inglorion!” thundered a voice from the direction of the door. “Ten times a …”

Had Ingold not needed to shake free of the Icefalcon’s grip he might have leveled his staff, fired off a spell of lightning and ruin, a moment faster. As it was, Bektis had time to duck, slipping back out of the doorway and slamming it shut. The blast of power Ingold hurled crashed the door open again, demolishing the heavy wood in the process; the Icefalcon stepped back from the wizard at the same moment Loses His Way stepped forward; Bektis’ return blast of lightning caught them both.

Loses His Way went flying over the pile of corpses and against the wall, gasping with shock. Ingold staggered, catching himself on his staff for balance, and Bektis, in the doorway once more, cried out words in a voice of power, words the Icefalcon had heard before. The Court Mage lifted his hand, and the Icefalcon could see it
encased in the gold-woven crystal Weapon of Harilómne, chilly light lancing, flashing through the matrices of power and showing up the bones within the flesh.

Ingold flinched, ducked, holding up his hand. Fire shattered around him, ripped long scars in the black stone of the floor. He hurled something—cloud, darkness, a smell of dust and blood—and dimly through blindness the Icefalcon saw Bektis’ free hand move, trailing light from its fingertips like an acrobat making patterns with ribbon.

The patterns traced and scattered, spreading out across the black walls of the room itself, engulfing Ingold like a reaching hand. Ingold rolled to his feet and tried to rush the older mage, sword held high, and the Icefalcon realized an instant before it happened what Bektis was doing and cried out, “NO!”

Bektis turned in a swirling extravaganza of cloak and beard and slapped his right hand, the Hand of Harilómne, outspread into the center of the rushing pattern of color drawn from the walls. Ingold had almost reached him when thin blue lightning fingered out from the ceiling, the walls, from every corner of the chamber, stitching into the old mage’s body like needles. Ingold stumbled, fell, got to his feet, and came on again, but shreds and shards of something that wasn’t light and wasn’t darkness seemed to peel from the very fabric of the Keep, ringing him in a nimbus of burning. He fell again, and Bektis removed Hand and Weapon from the wall and stretched forth his other hand, signing the flaring, chittering darkness to depart.

It did not.

Lightning flashed and wickered from the ceiling again, driving Ingold back along the floor. The old man rolled, tried to get to his feet, face set in shock and pain. Loses His Way charged Bektis with a roar of rage and was stabbed through with a finger of crimson fire from the crystal cap on the wizard’s finger, dropping him in his tracks—the Icefalcon edged along the wall, sword drawn, waiting for his chance to strike.

Ingold tried to stand again; it was as if he were being devoured by a half-seen holocaust of stars.

Bektis took a step toward Ingold and said, “Stop it.”

The lightning continued. Shadowy forms dipped and wavered around Ingold—he must have been using some kind of counterspell, for the Icefalcon could see his hands and lips move, even as he tried to get to his feet, gather his strength. Harsh half-seen flakes of light pushed him steadily back, toward the far wall, Bektis advancing …

But Bektis’ hands fluttered uncertainly. In the reflected glare the Icefalcon could see that the Hand of Harilómne had crazed, like glass heated and suddenly cooled, the crystal clouded and dead.

Bektis’ dark eyes were wide with terror and doubt. “Stop it,” he called out again, speaking to the walls, the ceiling, the whole malevolent Keep itself that seemed to be bending and bowing toward him, funneling into the room like the heart of a killer storm.
“Stop it! I command you!”

A darkness seemed to lift out of the rear wall of the cell, dry and ancient, covering it from the Court Mage’s witchlight and from the illumination of the lightning that played and struck and slashed around Ingold’s retreating form. The Icefalcon saw Ingold’s face, sweat standing on his forehead and eyes wide with desperation; saw his lips move in the words of counterspells, holding off the lightning as best he could. Sheets and threads and arrows of purplish quasi light whirled around him like blown leaves, leaving black burns where they touched; cold filled the room, rolling in waves from the dark at the far end.