Stonewielder (65 page)

The man touched gingerly at his nose where a rolled-up bit of cloth blocked one nostril. ‘It’s there,’ he said, his voice pained.

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve spent a lifetime hunting and being hunted. I know.’

Kiska was only half convinced: more of the man’s bluster? He raised his chin to indicate Warran, who walked ahead carrying the spear jauntily over a shoulder. ‘That one. He’s up to something …’

‘Who isn’t?’ she answered, eyeing him sidelong, smiling to take the sting from it.

‘Yes. Well. I mean it. He’s playing his own game and at some time it may not include us. Just a warning.’

‘I will keep it in mind.’ Yet not so long ago the Seven Cities native had dismissed the old man as useless. In any case he was only affirming her own intuition; the priest was dangerous – but if he was
so dangerous then why travel with them? Safety in numbers would hardly be a concern of his.

They continued on under the unchanging sky, where sinuous writhing lights glowed both in the dimness of night and in the only slightly brighter diffuseness of day. Their bat guide flitted about them, apparently tireless. A band of bruising developed across Jheval’s face as black as tattooing; his dark eyes peered out of shiny swollen circles. The hound still followed, keeping its distance. Or so at least Kiska believed, as she caught occasional glimpses of snowy white on the edge of her vision. The two huge ravens, she noticed, went nowhere near the beast.

Ahead, the priest Warran suddenly stopped. He knelt to examine some long black shards lying on the scoured granite. Kiska and Jheval came abreast of him and halted as well. Jheval stooped to pick up a piece but the priest batted his hand aside. ‘Do not touch it.’ Jheval glared at the man’s hunched back. The priest held his hands over the shards as if sensing or testing for a time; then he gently lifted one of the longer shards and examined it closely.

To all appearances it might as well have been black glass. Kiska thought that if you were to reconstruct the pieces they would form a crystal-like length of about an arm’s span.

The priest let the shard fall. ‘This is very bad.’

Jheval snorted, straightening. Kiska asked, ‘What is it?’

‘A kind of prison. Very ancient. Perhaps from before the shattering of this Realm. It was forged to contain some
thing
for all eternity. But Chaos has eaten at it, weakened it, and the entity contained within has burst free.’

Jheval snorted again, scornfully.

Warran eased himself up. He peered about, squinting. ‘Shadow is something of the rubbish heap of time. Over the ages whatever others want hidden, or buried away, into Shadow it goes …’

‘Enough of your charlatan mumblings,’ Jheval growled. He waved to Kiska. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I believe him.’

Jheval gestured helplessly. ‘Fine. It matters not. We must keep going regardless.’

Nodding, Kiska tore her gaze from the seemingly infinite refraction of crystalline light and shadow. She forced herself to walk away; something deep within her shuddered at the fascination those broken slivers of night cast upon her.

After a time the priest sidled up next to her as they walked. He still
carried the spear over one shoulder. ‘You said you believed me,’ he said, peering up at her with his age-yellowed eyes.

‘Yes.’

He was glancing about; he’d been doing that a lot since they found the shards. Even suddenly darting looks behind – perhaps only because it so obviously drove Jheval to distraction. ‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Because it sounded a lot like something someone I met in Shadow would have said.’

The man’s greying brows rose as he walked along. The extraordinarily long spear bounced on his shoulder. ‘Oh? Shadow? Who?’

‘A strange being named Edgewalker.’

The priest stopped dead. Kiska walked for a time then stopped, peering back. The man was studying her narrowly, his eyes pinched almost shut. ‘Met him, have you?’ he asked, something tight, almost waspish, in his voice.

‘Yes. Once. Long ago.’

Now the priest snorted his disbelief. ‘An unlikely claim.’ He continued on past her. ‘He doesn’t talk to just anyone, you know.’

Kiska watched the man’s stiff back as he marched off. She had to stifle a laugh.
Was this jealousy? Is the man put out that I’ve met and spoken with this strange haunt of Shadow? A kind of … what? … rivalry?
She walked on, shaking her head.

Later she caught Warran watching her, only to quickly glance away.
Good. About time I gave someone something to think about. I’m tired of being the only one here without some kind of cloak of mystery. The old man has his past; Jheval has his. Even the ridiculous ravens are enigmas. Maybe now he – and Jheval! – will take me more seriously
.

Some time later all three suddenly stopped. Even the two ravens, exploring forward, came wheeling back squawking their alarm before flying off into the distance.

A figure stood ahead, midnight black from its rounded half-formed head to its feet. Sensing them, it turned. It held something in one hand close to its face, studying it. A tiny, frantic, flapping thing.

Oh, damn. As Warran said: this is bad
. Kiska felt her insides tighten at the aura she sensed surrounding the thing. Intensity. Incredible potential.
What use staff or morningstars against this foe? It would laugh at such toys
.

‘Let me play this one,’ Warran murmured beneath his breath. Then he rushed up to the figure and clapped his hands as if in pleasure.
‘Ah! There it is! We’ve been searching everywhere. My thanks, sir, for catching it.’

Kiska and Jheval arrived to flank Warran. Fear coursed through Kiska more strongly than it had in years. She decided that at any sign from the entity she’d drop the staff and try her two throwing knives first – for all the good that would do. Jheval, she noted, kept his hands on the grips of his morningstars. She glanced about for the hound but prudently the beast appeared to be keeping its distance.
No fool it
.

The disturbingly blank moulded head edged down to regard the short priest. Ripples crossed the night-black visage and Kiska was unnerved to see a mouth appear and eyes blink open. ‘This construct is yours?’ The words sounded unlike any language Kiska knew, but she understood them just the same.

Warran was rubbing his hands together. ‘Well … not
ours
, of course, so much as our master’s …’

‘Your master?’ The bat flier flittered in its hand like a trapped moth.

‘Yes. Shadowthrone … the ruler of Emurlahn.’

The matt-dark head cocked sideways. ‘An unlikely conceit. Emurlahn has no ruler. Not a true ruler. Not since the beginning.’

The priest jerked upright, intrigued. ‘Really? Fascinating. But as you can sense – it is linked to power.’

‘Yes. There is a surprising weight to it. I am … piqued.’ It held the flier close, examining it. ‘There is something hidden within. Tucked away.’ It reached with its other hand.

‘Perhaps I may be permitted … ?’ the priest asked quickly.

The entity regarded him for a time. ‘Very well.’ It held out the flier. ‘Do it.’

Warran bowed as he accepted the flier from the entity’s hand. He examined it. ‘Ah yes. All one need do is—’

The flier whipped from his hands and shot straight up into the air. Everyone watched it diminish to a dot among the flickering curtains of light. When Kiska looked back the entity’s gaze was fixed upon Warran in enraged disbelief, as if it could not comprehend that anyone would dare disobey it.

The priest covered his mouth with his hands. ‘Oh dear. It appears to have gotten away from me.’

‘
You
…’ the entity breathed.

Warran raised a finger. ‘Wait! To make up for that I have something that belongs to you.’

‘There is nothing you—’

From his sleeve Warran drew a length of black crystal. The entity flinched back a step, seeming to draw in upon itself. Kiska stared, amazed. She could’ve sworn the man hadn’t pocketed any of the shards.

‘That is of no use,’ the thing breathed. ‘You do not know the ritual.’

‘True.
But
, if you balance the symmetries …’ Warran broke off a section and threw it aside. He was left with a square facet about the size of a jewel which he held up for examination. ‘Then the remaining forces should be in equilibrium – don’t you think?’ And he tossed it to the entity.

The bright black jewel struck the being on its chest, like a drop of ink, and stuck there. It batted at it, turning in circles. ‘
No!
Impossible! How could you?
No!
’ It looked to Kiska as if it was now shorter than it had been, thinner. Yes, she was sure that as it flailed, staggering, it was diminishing in size. As if it was disappearing bit by bit.

Kiska winced, feeling ill at the sight. What an awful thing to witness. The entity was now no higher than her waist, the jewel an ugly growth on its chest. ‘Please!’ it begged in a squeaking voice. Kiska turned her face away. When she looked back the jewel lay alone on the bare stone ground.

Warran stooped to pick it up then tossed it high and snatched it from the air. ‘Ha-ha! Caught one!’

She glanced to Jheval, and though his face was ashen and sheathed in sweat, he rolled his eyes, letting out a long breath and rubbing his palms along his robes.
Yes, a close one. And yet, given what they had witnessed, were they now any safer alone with this increasingly unnerving priest of Shadow?

*    *    *

Bakune was the most nervous he could ever recall being in his entire life. He stood on the pier, awaiting the invader launch that would take him out to meet the de facto new ruler of Banith – at least until a counter-offensive drove these Moranth daemons from their shores. His two bodyguards, Hyuke and Puller, he ordered to remain on the pier; he simply could not bear the idea of having the two imbeciles with him while he negotiated with this foreign Admiral. The priest had gone his own way, saying that for the time being Bakune could always find him at Boneyman’s.

The launch bumped up against the stone steps below and the Blue marine escort beckoned him down. Stiff, his heart almost strangling him so uneven and powerful was its lurching, Bakune edged his way down the slippery, seaweed-slick stones. He seated himself dead centre athwart the launch and drew his robes about him, one arm bound tight, hand tucked into his sash. The Moranth marines rowed.

Glancing back, Bakune thought that the city was quiet this morning – perhaps it had exhausted itself in its panic through the night. A few tendrils of smoke rose where fires yet smouldered. The waterfront was empty; usually it would be bustling with fishermen and customers at this early morning hour. He drew his collar higher against a cutting wind that blew in from Sender’s Sea, and perhaps had its origins in the Ocean of Storms itself.

The Moranth expertly and swiftly negotiated their way through the harbour mouth and out to the gigantic Blue vessels anchored far beyond, where, not coincidentally, they effectively blockaded the town. Bakune took the opportunity to examine these invaders more closely. Though the Overlord commanded a detachment of Black Moranth infantry, Bakune himself had never seen any of them close up. Like their black brethren, these Blue Moranth were encased head to foot in an armour of the most alien manufacture. Scaled, articulating, almost insectile in its appearance. And Bakune could now understand the terror of his fellow citizens: for all anyone knew these could be the Stormriders themselves come to take possession of the surface. They were that shockingly foreign, especially to a historically closed land.

None spoke to him, and he addressed no one. The launch came up against a particular vessel where steps of wood and rope had been lowered over the side. As he extended a foot to take the stairs one Moranth Blue reached out a gauntleted hand to steady him and Bakune flinched away, almost dunking himself in the bay. Recovering, he gingerly set a foot on to the wet staircase, and, catching the ropes in his one good hand, hauled himself on to the contraption.

More Moranth Blue soldiers – sailors perhaps, or marines, he had no way of knowing – waited on the stairs to aid him. While he could not help but avoid their touch, he had to admit they were damned solicitous. On deck, he found the vessel clean and well ordered, but betraying obvious signs of battle damage: scorching from fires, savaged gunwales where grapnels might have taken hold, ragged sails. The Marese had obviously fought hard. A Blue sailor invited him aft
to the cabin. Up a narrow hall he came to a room that appeared to serve as reception chamber, office, and private bedroom all in one. Wide glassed windows let in sunlight and showed a rippling view of the open sea to the east.

A tall and very thin man stood from behind a table and offered a brief bow. Bakune responded, mystified. Who was this? A secretary of some sort? Where was the Blue commander?

‘You understand Quon Talian?’ the man asked, sitting, and inviting Bakune to do the same.

Bakune bowed again. ‘Yes. It is the language of the ruling class here.’

‘You are the local magistrate … “Assessor”, I understand?’

Bakune sat. He eyed the man more closely: quite old but well preserved. A shock of pale white hair, white moustache and goatee; face and arms sun- and wind-darkened to the hue of ironwood. Bright sharp eyes that appeared … amused. ‘I am Assessor Bakune.’