War of Power (The Trouble with Magic Book 3) (40 page)

Again he heard soft footfalls drawing closer. They stopped and Symon detected the heavy acrid odour of incense mingled with something stronger and more sickly sweet which he could not immediately place. Feeling warm breath against his face, he tensed. Surprisingly gently the malodorous gag was removed. Working his mouth he drew his teeth over numbed lips, attempting to moisten them with a tongue that was already thick and dry. The steely sigh of a knife being slipped from its sheath seemed ominously loud in the still air. Symon flinched at the momentary pressure as the bindings on his wrists were sliced through. Grateful for the release he murmured ‘‘Thank you.’’

There was no reply. Slowly he brought his arms round to his front and carefully massaged his wrists as he listened for any sounds he could associate with activity. Only a brief soft rustle reached his ears. With feeling restored to his fingers and the sharp bite of his bonds easing, Symon folded his arms inside his sleeves, stood still and waited.

Eventually, his patience wearing thin, he called out ‘‘Is anyone there?’’

His query met with silence. After waiting for a few more minutes he began to ease off the blindfold, expecting at any moment to be slapped, kicked or knocked to the ground for his efforts. His only punishment was the tear-inducing pulling of his hair, caught into the fabric’s tight knot.

With the blindfold removed and consigned to the floor, Symon looked about him. Set near the top of the high wall, two tiny barred windows admitted narrow shafts of murky yellow early evening light. He was alone in a small circular room no more than five paces across. This came as no real surprise. Causing him considerably more concern was the construction of the room itself. There was no door, nor any sign that one had ever been there. Just as he had completed his second circuit of the tiny cell, with a loud clang all light vanished. Keeping one hand pressed against the wall, Symon strained his eyes in an effort to see a vestige of something. The darkness was absolute.

He had already noticed there was nothing to sit on, no food or water, and no vessel to relieve himself in. Either someone would be bringing these most basic of essentials later, or it was a tactic designed to humiliate and ultimately break him. Symon suspected the latter. Not overly perturbed, he held out his hand palm upwards and proceeded to hum the series of notes which would result in the Light of Perimus. Nothing happened. The little magician smiled into the darkness. Changing disciplines he tried equivalent forms in Rhamnic and then Altic. Still nothing happened. Reluctant to use Vedric in case he was being observed, he pulled off the black Vedran robe, fumbled it into a thick pad, groped around to place it on the floor and sat down. Thankful for the meagre comfort, he leaned against the wall, stretched out his legs and tried to relax.

After a few moments, and against his better judgement, he began to utter the harsh tones of the Vedric spell for light. Several attempts later he was about to admit defeat when a sickly orange glow lurched into the air in front of him, gradually expanding until it was the size of his fist. It hovered unsteadily for a few moments, then tilted sideways, sank to the floor, and died. Symon’s hopes did not die with it. He now knew he could achieve at least a small amount of success with Vedric in this obviously shielded chamber. All he had to do was work out which spells would be most amenable and effective under such circumstances without totally draining his own power. Wriggling his behind into a more comfortable position on his makeshift cushion, he lapsed once more into deep thought

* * *

The temple interior blazed with light. Every wall-sconce held a flaming torch, banishing shadows and illuminating dark recesses. At each corner of the massive altar stood an ornately wrought gold candlestick holding a thick red votive candle. The sweet cloying aroma of incense and the metallic tang of newly spilled blood hung heavy on the air.

Fighting to control his increasing desperation, Ghian entered the temple. Even though the magicians had played into his hands, he still had to breach the Jadhrahin stronghold and recover the precious artefacts. The first squad had not returned, his queen grelfon’s behaviour telling him they were almost certainly lost. Miqhal had outsmarted him again. Not for much longer. The means to finally defeat him was in his grasp. With so little time left, there could be no mistakes. All must be ready. He beckoned to the priest who stood waiting just inside the temple’s massive iron-bound door.

The black-robed priest briefly but respectfully bowed his cowled and hooded head. ‘‘All has been done according to your wishes Lord Ghian. We caught them completely unawares.’’

His expression grim, Ghian nodded. ‘‘Good. What kind of men are they?’’

The priest gave a little shrug. ‘‘The Mage Prime is most unimpressive and seemed somewhat confused. It would seem that the role he has taken on has become too much for him. His assistant allowed himself to be bound and led away without a struggle. Both are now confined where their magic will have no effect.’’

Ghian’s ill-tempered shriek echoed through the temple. “Where? Tell me where!”

Inured by years of service to the Grelfine Lord’s frequent outbursts, the priest gave the location of each prisoner, their shielded dungeons under heavy armed guard and separated by a mile of dark and unfamiliar streets. Barely mollified, Ghian dismissed the priest and sank to his knees in front of the black and blood-fouled altar. Head bowed over tightly clasped hands, for over an hour he knelt there, praying fervently to a god who had not yet seen fit to answer. Candle flames jerked and flared in an errant breeze. Ghian’s skin prickled as his scalp tingled. It took mere seconds for him to realise this was not, at long last, a response from the god to whom he had dedicated himself and to whom he believed he owed his powers. Enraged, he leapt to his feet, his face a mask of incandescent fury. The frisson tormenting his skin held the sweet rich tang of Rhamnic magic, underpinned with something sharp and unrecognisable. In this city, constantly shielded and concealed under a shroud of intense Vedric, any other magic should have been nullified. Incensed by the possibility that his powers had been bettered, he moved himself in a perilously excessive surge to the narrow cul-de-sac which accommodated Symon’s prison. The iron shutters were still in place over the narrow street-level windows. There was no door.

Quelling his fury, Ghian steadied his heart-rate and calmed his racing mind. Hardly disturbing air, he entered the unrelieved darkness of Symon’s cell. To Ghian’s enhanced eyesight, Symon appeared as an unmoving featureless white shape huddled against the wall.

Ghian allowed himself a rare smile. He was not fooled for a moment by this Mage-Prime’s apparent acceptance of the situation. Despite his seemingly mild manner, Ghian knew the man was dangerous. He drew satisfaction from knowing he presented no threat while in this particular cell. Only a very limited amount of Vedric would have success within these walls, and nothing else. Ghian had no doubt of the Mage-Prime’s ability to work Vedric, but in the time it took him to establish which spells would be effective, his attempts would have been detected. The Grelfine Lord took a perverse pleasure from anticipating how he would deal with these two interlopers. That time was not yet. Now he had to discover who was responsible for the enhanced Rhamnic magic which had so blatantly trespassed in his Vedric field.

* * *

In an Ingali jungle clearing a small temple trembled and shook as a great howl of despair surged into the darkening sky. Powerless to respond to his supplicants, the entity roared with frustration. All someone had to do was get his name right. Then there would be a day of reckoning. With a loud crack, the temple wall split from floor to ceiling. Birds screeched and animals scattered; then all was quiet.

Jaknu stepped back. With a resounding crack a narrow vertical crevice opened in the wall. Sheared off by the impact of the Grelfon’s strike, a long shard of granite crashed down to litter the tunnel floor with chunks of shattered rock. Squeezing past Jaknu’s huge body, the Jadhrahin moved cautiously forward to examine the cleft fault. Tapered at top and bottom, it formed a black, vertical toothless grin, mocking them.

With a hint of a grudging smile on his mouth, Alek turned to look back at Buller. ‘‘Air comes through. This opening leads somewhere.’’

Abandoning his efforts to calm an increasingly excited Jaknu, Buller gave him a sharp slap on the snout before walking forward to join the others in their survey of the crevice. His torch held high, he played its narrow beam into the space behind the newly created opening.

He turned to look at Alek and the other Jadhrahin. ‘‘It goes a long way back and widens out a bit, but that’s all I
can
see. It needs one of us to squeeze in and see how far he can get.’’

Any further discussion was temporarily halted. Head lowered, neck out-stretched, Jaknu suddenly twisted himself around and faced back along the tunnel behind them. The soft sounds of rapidly approaching footfalls reached their ears. Backs to the fault-marred wall, weapons readied for combat, Buller and the Jadhrahin waited. Whoever it was would first have to get past the vicious claws, jaws, and huge body of Jaknu. From round a curve in the tunnel, blue torch-beams bobbed into view.

A call echoed along the dark walls. ‘‘Hold! We are Shaqim and Asalim!’’

Spears were lowered and the tension eased. Sidling past Jaknu as if he wasn’t there, the two new arrivals dropped spears, a large canvas bag and a coil of rope at Malek’s feet.

Not even breathing hard, Asalim grinned at Buller. ‘‘Your beast will have much to answer for if this all proves to be for nothing.’’

The Jadhra’s grin was not returned. Buller was looking hard at Asalim’s slight, wiry frame. He turned to Alek. ‘‘I think he’s just the right size to slip into that crevice, don’t you?’’

Asalim’s grin quickly faded. He pushed forward to stand facing the fissure in the rock, shining his torch into the darkness beyond. His mouth now set in a grim line, he turned and raised an eyebrow at Alek in query, jerking his head in Buller’s direction. Alek shook his head.

Seeing the brief exchange, Buller moved to confront the two Jadhrahin. ‘‘What was all that about?’’

Alek turned away, answering as he bent to pick up the coil of rope. ‘‘Better you did not know. Asalim will go in.’’

Before Buller could say anything further, Alek had handed the rope to Asalim. Hoisting it crosswise over his shoulder, the wiry Jadhra turned sideways and eased his head and shoulders over the lip of the crevice. Buller couldn’t see what happened next. Seemingly to help Asalim, the other Jadhrahin crowded forward, blocking Buller’s view. He heard some scrapes and rustles, a long groan and the slither of the rope. Moments later, the group moved back. Asalim was gone. Buller elbowed through and shone his torch into the narrow confines of the crevice. It was empty. He spun round to find Alek fixing him with a defiant glare.

Buller shrugged, wandered over to Jaknu and sat down to lean against his charge’s massive rear leg. ‘‘I suppose all we do now is wait?’’

Alek crouched opposite him. His tone was flat. ‘‘Now, we wait.’’

* * *

Something cold touched Miqhal’s bare back. He breathed slowly, unflinching as smooth skin glided wetly along the length of his outstretched arm. He heard a soft squelch and a slither, the splash of water, and sucking slapping sounds. A low drawn out gurgling groan reached his ears, then all was quiet. Without moving he opened his eyes and shifted smoothly to dark-sight. Further along the ledge knelt a naked figure, shoulders hunched, dripping wet head drooped over folded arms. Hampered by the harness bound around his broken leg, Miqhal crawled forward and touched the man’s shoulder. Asalim lifted his head, his grin shining whitely among the muted shades of dark-sight.

The Jadhra warrior grasped Miqhal’s arm. ‘‘You are injured. I will return to the others, and we will find a way to rescue you.’’

Miqhal shook his head. ‘‘It may not be necessary. Go back now. Tell the elders how you have found me and that I still live.’’

Pushing his wet hair back from his face, Asalim looked out over the slowly swirling water.

Miqhal followed his gaze. ‘‘Would I be unwise in thinking I could return with you, the way you came in?’’

His discomfort evident, Asalim squirmed then stretched each of his slender limbs before replying. ‘‘It would not be possible even if you were not injured. Your Grelfon located a fault and broke it open, but the cleft is very narrow. I was the only one able to crawl through.”

The Jadhra chieftain gripped the warrior’s shoulders. ‘‘You have done well Asalim. When you are safely back, see that Jaknu is returned to his stable. If I am not with you by moonrise then you must find a way to get me out and quickly. For now, time is our worst enemy.’’

With a nod of understanding, Asalim moved to the rim of the ledge. He eased himself onto his belly, letting his head and arms dangle over the water. Miqhal looked away, not turning until a long low moan echoed softly round the cavern. Hardly disturbing the surface, a long grey-green shape slid into the dark water. The tapering snout cut an arrowhead wave as the creature swam to a point further along the dark sheer wall. There, it leapt out and clung to the wall long enough to look back at Miqhal. Forked tongue flicking, its long, fleshy crested tail giving it balance, it scampered up the wall on suckered feet and was gone into the darkness.

Putting Asalim out of his mind, Miqhal drew on the power restored to him by the forces he had detected within the rock. The task immediately ahead would require every bit of his concentration. He had to mend his broken leg. Although the pain had subsided considerably, he knew he could not afford to be hasty or complacent. If he healed the leg and the bone was badly set, he would be crippled for life. He had only one chance. Leaning back against the wall, he relinquished dark-sight, stretched out his good leg and carefully moved the broken one to lie close against it. Breathing slowly and evenly, he centred his concentration.

The process was far from easy. Shafts of searing pain ran through his body as he brought his powers of healing to bear, manipulating the broken bone. Rivulets of cold perspiration trickled down his back and chest. Long minutes seemed like longer hours, surfaces slowly moving towards each other amongst flesh and muscle until they met and married. Wiping stinging sweat from his eyes, Miqhal took a few deep breaths and relaxed. The next stage would be a true test of his skills and patience. He would have to remove the water-stiffened leather straps, get cold cramped muscles working, and discover whether the newly mended leg would ultimately bear his weight. Wary of falling asleep, he shifted to dark-sight and studied the Grelfon harness which bound his leg. Flexing his fingers he reached forward and began to pick at the first of the knots.

* * *

Ushak switched off the torch and tucked it into his belt. Keeping one hand in contact with the tunnel wall he moved quickly but cautiously down the long shallow incline towards the main cavern. He felt in his bones that he had found the hiding place of the artefacts for which Lord Ghian had been searching. Urged on by the prospect of sharing in his master’s glory, he trusted to instinct and began to move faster through the tunnel.

His hand found only empty air and he staggered to a halt. Sensing he had reached the point where the two tunnels converged, he felt around until his hand was once more in contact with solid rock. Under his fingers it felt rough hewn, full of points and protrusions, a jarring contrast to the smoothly rippled surface behind him. Carefully he groped along it, alert for the moment when his hand would once again meet empty air or detect a change of surface.

He had gone no more than a quarter mile when he realised the tunnel was heading upwards. His thin black lips formed a grimace of satisfaction; upwards meant out. His determination renewed he settled into a steady jog up the long, gradual incline. After rounding a long curve to the left he slowed to a walk and stopped. A few yards ahead the tunnel he was following split into a dog-legged triple junction. He shone his torch into each one, seeing nothing to indicate which way he should go. Trusting once more to instinct, Ushak took the one to the left and settled into his even-paced jog, relieved to find the route he had chosen ran reasonably straight and level. His mind firmly fixed on reaching the surface, it took him a few minutes to realise that the air was getting cooler. Dropping back to a walk, he played his torch beam over the riven surface of the tunnel walls. From somewhere to his left a stream of cold air buffeted his face. It took him only seconds to locate the source of the tell-tale draught.

Its rim barely an arm’s length above floor level, a narrow smooth-sided shaft led back into the depths of the tunnel wall. The cool air blew steadily into Ushak’s face, drying his sweat and fanning the flame of success burning in his mind. At the end of this shaft lay freedom. He hesitated. The shaft would accommodate his body with a little room to spare, but Ushak had a fear of confined spaces. A stronger gust riffled his hair. He slid his torch into the shaft and crawled in after it. Using elbows and toes for traction, he snake-bellied along and prayed the shaft wouldn’t get any smaller. The light of the torch revealed nothing but smooth rock and infinite blackness. Ushak’s elbows were getting sore, and despite the continual flow of fresh air he felt trapped. There was no room to turn round and he had no way of knowing how much further he had to go.

He shone the torch beam around the shaft. About two body lengths ahead the walls abruptly ended. The Vedran blinked and stared, trying to find something on which to focus. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing, or why he could see nothing else. The narrow beam of blue light struck nothing beyond the smooth rim of the shaft, the dark void ahead extending far beyond the beam’s range. Ushak inched forward until his fingers detected what felt like an edge. Clenching his teeth, he reached out. His fingers touched nothing. He groped beside his upper body for the torch, held it out into the void and gave it a vigorous shake. As the beam strengthened he directed it downward, hoping to see the floor of a connecting tunnel. What he hadn’t expected to see was the glint of water, thirty feet below.

Intrigued and bewildered, he shone the torch into the darkness. Wide-eyed he stared around the immense cavern revealed by the intense blue light. On the far side Ushak could see a narrow ledge about three hand-spans above the water. Even in a light subdued by distance, he recognised what lay there. It was a Grelfon harness, and it was broken. Immediately fearing discovery he switched off the torch and wriggled back into the shaft, his mind whirling. Unseen, the creature clinging to the cavern wall a few feet above watched and waited. For a few more minutes it stayed there, motionless, listening. Moving lower, it hung head down and peered into the darkened shaft. Forked tongue flicking, it tasted the disturbed and tainted air. Its curiosity satisfied, the creature turned, scurried up the wall and skittered across the cavern ceiling. After one last lingering glance round, it slipped down the wall and into the dark narrow cleft, a few feet from the ledge where Miqhal had been only minutes earlier.