Masque of Death (Kormak Book Nine) (The Kormak Saga 9) (16 page)

“Quarried by the locals,” said Frater Ramon “They used the stone to build the walls of Maial and some of the towers. They broke it up to make dykes for their fields. It was just another resource as far as the Sunlanders were concerned. Some say the stone was accursed. That is why Maial is such a wicked city.”

It was less far-fetched than it sounded. It was possible that the residue of old evil magic had impregnated the stone, that the taint had spread to the city’s inhabitants. Kormak had seen stranger things.

“Why did the people not move away?” Rhiana asked.

“They were lazy.” Shahad did not bother to hide the contempt in his voice. “And the stone was there, and they believed the priests when they said the place was purified.”

There were some gasps at his tone. Such words would have been enough to have Shahad dragged up before the Inquisition back in Siderea.

“Perhaps the place was purified,” Zamara said. “Perhaps the curse is in your imagination.”

It was obvious from his tone of voice that the Admiral did not really believe that. In the gleaming moonlight amid the ruins of the ancient city of the moon worshippers, it would have been difficult to do so. There was a sense of palpable evil about the place. Kormak took out his wraithstone amulet. The shadowy threads in the centre did not seem any thicker than they had done before. If there was a taint in this place, it was slow and subtle.

Ahead the ziggurat loomed. Their path had taken them to it in a suspiciously straight line. Kormak wondered if the tunnel beneath the city had been aligned with it. Often such things had a geomantic significance to the builders. This was particularly true of the moon worshippers, who liked to weave potent spells into their structures.

Ahead of them the shadow of an arch loomed like the maw of a waiting beast. Through it came the echoes of thousands of voices, chanting, singing, talking drunkenly. Hundreds of lights flickered. Hundreds of drums thundered.

“Last night of the Masque of Death,” said Frater Ramon. “Everyone still capable of walking will be in the Temple Quarter to taunt the Lord of Skulls.”

Kormak looked at the ominous bulk of the ruins. A premonition of death flickered through his mind.

K
ormak
and his companions plunged into the crowds revelling in the Temple Quarter. More and more celebrants surrounded them. Some were naked except for body paint and the smallest of loincloths. Some of them wore elaborate costumes. Many were smeared with dye in deep reds or yellows or greens.

Something tumbled through the air towards Kormak, spilling a cargo of red as it did so. He ducked. It passed over his head and splattered against Zamara, turning the Admiral’s tunic as crimson as if he had taken a mortal wound. For a moment, Zamara looked outraged and then he grinned.

“Dye,” he said. “If this is the worst thing that hits me tonight. I’ll be happy.”

Frater Ramon shook his head. The glow in his eyes was dimming, and his shoulders had started to slump. He sniffed the air then said, “Too many people, too many scents, too much incense. This is going to be much more difficult than it was below ground. I’m going to have to concentrate harder, and I will burn out quicker.”

“Do what you can,” said Kormak. “Don’t give up now. We must be getting close.”

They pushed their way through the bodies of the revellers. Arms reached out from the crowd to try and draw them into embraces. Someone offered one of the marines a hookah and was rebuffed with a blow.

Skeletons danced around them. Men and women in skull masks, their bodies painted with white lines against black backgrounds frolicked around them and taunted them. Kormak considered striking out at them, but that would most likely only cause a riot. Instead, he stuck close to the sorcerer and shouldered his way through the crowd, stepping on feet when he had to, nudging people in the ribs with his elbow when it was needed.

Frater Ramon stiffened, rose up on his toes and took a deep breath through his nostrils. “We are getting very close. Not much further now.”

Kormak’s heart hammered at his ribs. Mostly it was excitement, but some of it came from the narcotic incense that filled the air and made his skin tingle.

* * *

T
he thunder
of drums sounded like a giant’s heartbeat in Anders’ ears. The night was a riot of colour and sound and smell. The scent of a dozen different narcotics reached his nostrils. People laughed and danced and threw paper bags full of dye at each other. The bags burst in an explosion of pigment, transforming their targets. Few were offended. Most laughed at the person who had assaulted them. More often than not they went off arm in arm into the night.

Grim-faced mercenaries surrounded Anders. Their glances flickered everywhere seeking potential threats. These men were keyed up to such a high pitch that any flash of motion drew their attention immediately.

Orson ploughed through the crowd like a bear, pushing aside anyone who made to embrace him. Somehow the bags of dye never made contact. For such a large man he moved with surprising grace.

With all the chaos surrounding them, the guards were distracted. Orson was not watching them either. Anders looked at Gregor to see how the little man was taking it. One bruised eye framed itself into a wink. Gregor spat on the ground near one of the guards’ feet, and the guard did not notice it. Anders chose to take this is a good omen.

Just as he was congratulating himself on spotting the opportunity, he saw something that made his heart sink. Shouldering through the crowd in their direction was the Guardian who had been with Orson earlier. Accompanying him was a man in the robes of a priest, and a large group of hard-looking soldiers garbed as Imperial marines.

Better not go that way if we make a run for it, Anders thought. It looked as if one escape route had been cut off. He turned, seeking another path. Orson stared back the way he had been looking. Something like fear showed on his face.

What was going on here, Anders wondered? Had there been a falling out between the Guardian and the merchant? If hostilities broke out, that would certainly increase his chances of getting away.

He balled his fists, took a deep breath and made ready to run.

* * *

T
he changeling cursed
. Of all the dreadful luck. The idiot revellers surrounding him had delayed him long enough for the Guardian to catch up.

It did not seem possible unless the man was aided by the gods or magic. Then the changeling noticed the faint glow in the eyes of the priest standing at Kormak’s side. Sorcery was indeed involved.

The wizard pointed a finger at him.

The changeling’s mind raced. How was a mage able to follow him? His aura was untraceable.

He told himself not to panic. He had been in tighter situations. First, he would kill the magician and then the Guardian if he could. If that was impossible, he would disappear into the crowd, altering his form so that he could not be followed. Whatever happened the wizard must die. Someone who could track him through this night and crowd could not be allowed to live.

The false Orson dived away from his mercenaries and into the crowd, letting his features flow into a new shape. The extra muscles in his torso collapsed altering the outline of his form.

He reached into his tunic and drew out his poisoned stiletto, the one certain way of ending this particular threat.

* * *

K
ormak followed the pointing finger
. It drew his attention directly to the massive form of Orson. Or rather the creature that had taken the merchant’s shape. He was surrounded by soldiers and loomed over a couple of battered looking men who might have been prisoners.

“That’s him,” said Frater Ramon. “That must be. We know the merchant is dead.”

The false Orson noticed them. He threw himself flat and vanished among the crowd. Screams started. People began to mill around in panic.

“The Old Ones have returned! The Old Ones have returned!” someone shouted.

“What is going on?” Zamara asked. Kormak guessed that the shapeshifter had changed forms once more and that someone had noticed and jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“Can you trace him?” Kormak asked the mage.

Frater Ramon nodded his head. “The trail is still here, but it’s getting harder to track by the heartbeat.”

Kormak scanned the crowd desperately. His prey was out there, but it looked like it had taken flight.

* * *

N
ot much further now
, the changeling thought. He moved through the crowd effortlessly, twisting and turning to avoid the panicked throng. Someone had seen him change and started to scream. It was all to the good. The chaos could only help him and hinder his enemies.

The form he now wore was as different from Orson’s as he could make it. He was smaller and thinner, and his face was sleek and bony. He retracted his beard into his jaw line. His hair became longer and richer and glossier. The dagger felt light in his hand.

Ahead of him, he could see the Guardian scanning the crowd. The changeling kept his head low, hoping the press of bodies would obscure him. All he needed was one good opening. If he could kill the magician and then the Guardian, there was no one here left who could stop him.

Not much further now.

* * *

K
ormak watched
the panicked crowd mill around like a herd of caribou surrounded by wolves. Where moments before there had been an enormous party, now there was only blind, screaming panic.

Perhaps his enemy had started it to gain an advantage in the struggle. The question was whether the shapeshifter was going to use this to fight or flee.

Where was it? A small figure approached. Its clothes hung loosely on its body. Its boots seemed too big, and there was a crust of glittering white upon their toes that reminded Kormak of something.

Of course! The mould beneath the merchant’s mansion. Was this ferret-faced man one of Orson’s former bodyguards or was he something else? The clothing was too large, and it reminded him of Orson. The creature had been wearing the shape of the merchant up until a few minutes ago. It might have had time to remove its shirt, but it had not the time to take off its britches or boots.

Kormak knew he had found his prey.