storm (46 page)

            Kyrotates bowed his head at these words.  It was inconceivable that any har present could doubt Ponclast's sincerity, because he did indeed mean every word.

            However, once he had left his hara to their meagre meal, his body was swamped with weariness.  He stood in the shadows of a damp dark corridor and supported himself with one hand against the wall.  He missed Terzian badly.  If he was here now, he'd be the one cajoling the troops, kindling the fire of belief.  Ponclast remembered how he and Terzian had often fought, especially over the issue of alliance with the Kakkahaar.  Dimly, Ponclast turned this idea over in his head.  Where did the Kakkahaar stand now?  Was it possible that alliance could be reforged?  Diablo must be sent out to bring Abrimel to Fulminir.  The Aralisian would possess the information Ponclast needed in this respect, and it was time now for he and Ponclast to be together continually.

            Straightening up, Ponclast returned to the room he had found for himself.  His body ached, perhaps at last protesting about the premature delivery of the pearl.  Diablo was present in the room, and had dismissed the guards he had selected, having returned there as soon as he'd shown his hostling where the prisoners were confined.  He squatted in a corner, stroking the pearl.

            “Has the
teraph
returned?” Ponclast asked.

            Diablo looked up and shook his head, then resumed his careful caress of the pearl.

            Ponclast sighed.  The events of the day had taken their toll; he felt weak.  He must sleep.  But there was no soft bed to support his body, no deferential hara to attend to his needs.  Only the dank and the dark, and an imp of a being squatting in the shadows.  The enormity of how much he'd lost washed over Ponclast in a paralysing wave.  It was as if the strange air of Gebaddon had kept the past at bay.  He had existed in no-time.  Now, it came crashing back.

            “This was once a place of strength and power,” he said to Diablo, and sat down on the floor to lean against the wall.

            Diablo came to his side, his luminous eyes wide.

            “It will be so again,” Ponclast said, hoping he could believe it.  He patted Diablo's bony shoulder and closed his eyes.  He felt Diablo's sharp paws on his face.  His son was stroking away tears.  Perhaps he had never seen them before.  “
They
will give it to you,” he said.

            “Yes,” Ponclast murmured.  He was so tired, he could barely think.

            “They want to give it to you now.”

            Ponclast said nothing.  Sleep was coming for him like the approach of night.

            “
Now,
” said Diablo and shook his hostling roughly.

            Ponclast felt a chill cut through his entire being.  He opened his eyes.

            There were seven of them before him, standing in a V formation: figures eight feet tall, clad in silken shirts and trousers of cobalt blue.  Scarves were wound around their faces and they wore strange high headdresses of black and blue feathers.  Each carried a curved blade, carved with shining symbols.  The strangest thing was that their presence could not be felt.  Ponclast had sensed nothing of their arrival.  They were simply there.

            One of them stepped forward.  “We do not recognise a summons,” he said.  “We cannot be invoked.”

            “Yet you are here,” Ponclast said.  He pushed the tiredness away, concentrating every last shred of his energy into dealing with what he supposed were the emissaries of his mysterious allies.

            “It is time for it.  We are the Hashmallim, the Lights of the Faceless Ones.  I am Abraxis, Foremost of Lights.  I will assist you in certain matters.”

            “I thank your Masters for delivering us from Gebaddon,” Ponclast said.  “As you see, the experience has taxed me.  I ask for strength and health, for myself and my hara.  I ask that Fulminir be rebuilt and equipped.”

            “The hara here are leavings from beneath the table,” Abraxis said.  “They are weak; they are dogs full of parasites.”

            “They have suffered,” Ponclast said carefully.  “Their greatness has been sucked from them.”

            “We will do as you ask,” said Abraxis, “for the Faceless Ones desire it.”  He sheathed his sword and glanced over to where the pearl lay hidden in its nest of soiled drapes.  For a moment Ponclast was terrified for his developing son.  “You seek to make another like the one that was stolen,” Abraxis said.  “Your efforts are commendable, but you lack the composition required.  However, it is our will that the one who breaks from the pearl should match in strength the one who would oppose him.  In this, we shall assist also.”

            “Thank you,” Ponclast said.  He did not like to feel so powerless and ineffectual.  Before these beings, he could not swathe himself in the armour of belief he had built in order to survive.

            “Come to me,” Abraxis said.  “There are things that hara inherited from our kind, but they are a weak reflection of what is.  Learn now of the truth and of potential.”

            Ponclast got with difficulty to his feet.  He could not exercise any show of independence or authority.  He could merely obey.

            Abraxis pulled the scarf away from his lower face.  There was no monster hidden beneath the cloth: he looked har, like the best of hara.  Now he stooped and put his mouth against Ponclast's lips.  This was more than a sharing of breath.  There was no sharing.  Abraxis blew into Ponclast's body a white fire that threw him backward.  He hit the wall and collapsed on the floor, his flesh aflame.  It felt as if he had spontaneously combusted.  He would soon be nothing more than ash.  The Hashmallim stood silently and observed his writhings.  Diablo ran around his hostling, uttering squeaks of alarm.  Occasionally, he paused to hiss at the motionless giants standing before them.  But presently, the fire subsided and Ponclast lay quiet.  His own breath sounded very loud in his ears.

            “Rise,” said Abraxis.  “Go to a reflective surface and look upon yourself, for you are now equal to your greatest enemy, and will become more powerful than he.  I carried the fire with me from our Masters.  It is their gift to you.  You can be Tigron of Varrs, if such is your wish.”

            Ponclast sat up and held his hands out before him.  They were glowing.

            “It will fade,” said Abraxis.  “Savour this moment.  Look upon yourself.”  He indicated a far corner of the room and there Ponclast saw a cracked mirror leaning against the wall.  He went to it and bent down.  He looked into it, but uttered no words.  It was like the best of dreams, the hateful, spiteful dreams where all is perfect and then you wake to cold reality.  Only he knew that this time there would be no awakening, because he was not asleep.

            He stood up.  “Give some measure of this to Diablo also.”  He pointed at his son who was gazing at him stupefied.  “Wake him.”

            Diablo screeched like a terrified monkey as Abraxis lifted him in one hand.  He struggled and wriggled, spitting and clawing.  Abraxis put his free hand over Diablo's distorted face and a light came out of him.  After only a few seconds, the Hashmal dropped Diablo from his hold.  Diablo fell to the floor like a rag doll and lay motionless.  He looked dead.  Abraxis wiped his hands together.  “Your request is fulfilled.”

            “What of my hara.  Can you do this to all of them?”

            “Take me to a place where I might observe them without being seen,” Abraxis said.  “My brethren will remain here.”

            Ponclast led the Hashmallim leader to a window that overlooked the courtyard where his hara were gathered.  It took longer than he thought it would, because so many of the passageways were blocked by fallen masonry or destroyed.  Sometimes they had to leap over gaping dark abysses.  When they reached the window, night had fallen and the sky was occluded by cloud.  Only the flickering flames of the cooking fires gave any light.

            The Hashmal did not speak, but unsheathed his sword.  He held the weapon before him, and its bright surface reflected the flames from below.  “Watch,” said Abraxis.  “I will transform your hara with the soul of fire.”  His sword drank the light, condensed it, made it stronger.  Then Abraxis turned the blade slightly and a beam of intense red radiance spilled out of it.  It roared like an inferno over all who sat below the window.  At once, they were thrown into panic.  Many hid their eyes, others uttered cries.  Ponclast watched in horror as his hara writhed and screamed in agony, to all appearances being destroyed by the fire of the sword.  He knew how it felt, and although it tore at his heart to witness it, he remained silent.

            After some moments, Abraxis lowered his arm.  The fire in the blade ran like liquid through the markings upon it before shrinking to a point and disappearing completely.  Outside, Ponclast's hara were unconscious, piled upon each other like corpses on a battlefield.  “Come sunrise,” said Abraxis, “you will have what you desire.”

            “They wish to see you with their own eyes,” Ponclast said.  “They doubt.”

            “Tomorrow, they will be beyond doubt,” Abraxis said.  “I have given to them the ability that was given to your son Diablo before the walls of the Gebaddon were breached.  This is your army of shadows.  You will use them wisely.  We will not and cannot show ourselves to them.”

            “And will your Masters ever show themselves to me?”

            Abraxis smiled grimly.  “They are faceless,” he said.  “They cannot be seen.”

That night, Ponclast lay in his makeshift bed on the floor, with one arm around Diablo, the other around his pearl.  He slept fitfully, conscious of the smouldering presence of Golab in the corner of the chamber.  He replayed feverishly in his mind everything that had happened that day, until he was unsure whether he was dreaming or awake.  But then the dawn came and Diablo stretched against him, opened his eyes.

            Ponclast gazed upon this strange har, who in the early light appeared supernatural.  He would never look like a normal har, but the Hashmal had transformed him.  He no longer appeared pitiful or wretched.  He was alive in his own skin, unique and flawless, a new template of perfection.

            “How do you feel?” Ponclast asked him.

            Diablo sat up and examined his hands.  “They fed me.”

            “Yes,” Ponclast said, still lying on the floor.  “We have all been fed.”

            “We can't dress in rags.  Not any more.”

            “Indeed not.  We'll take what we need from elsewhere; clothes, supplies, weapons.  There is much to do.  Go to Imbrilim and bring Abrimel here.  Can you ride the
teraph
?”

            Diablo stared at the creature, which appeared to be dozing in the corner.  “It should be easier than what I'm used to.”

            “Then bring with you as much as you can carry from Imbrilim.  Bring food, blankets, whatever you can.”

            “I'll tell Abrimel to gather things for us.  I'll make as many trips as it takes.  Abrimel can come last.”

            “Those are good ideas,” Ponclast said.  He sat up and placed the pearl in his lap.  Already he could perceive huge differences in Diablo.  “Don't overtire yourself.  The spirit paths are very unstable at present, and although the
teraph
is better equipped than most to travel them in this state, it might still be hazardous.”