What Remains of Heroes (37 page)

Bale yelped, lurching forward and colliding headfirst into Lorra’s rump, sending them both to the ground.

“Fool!” Lorra cursed as she scurried to her feet. “You may be the—” She froze and sucked in a quick breath as she looked past Bale.

Horrified, Bale spun from his stomach to his back while kicking his legs. There, before him, was a pale-skinned creature, eyes bulging and dripping pus and yellow teeth snapping about a slithering, black tongue. The creature lunged toward Bale with hooked fingers, snatching greedily at him.

Bale pulled desperately away from the thing, swatting at its hands with his walking stick. His mud-covered feet slipped on the ground as he scrambled away but at last he was able to get to his feet. The garghul limped toward him, its sickly maw and bony hands snapping hungrily.

Bale’s mind wheeled, searching for the words. He knew them, of course, those ancient words of divine power, but his fear had rattled him.
I am too weak for this
task!

The garghul staggered forward, its tongue flailing madly about its wide mouth. Its protruding eyes swiveled wildly, looking at both Bale and Lorra from head to toe as though seeking the most succulent meat.

What are the words? Curse my
cowardice!

Lorra shrieked and jumped in front on Bale, a rock brandished in her hand. She reared her arm back and struck, bashing the garghul squarely in the face with a sharp crack.

The garghul stumbled back several steps, clutching at its face. With a gurgle it dropped its hands, revealing half of its jawbone detached and dangling and oozing green pus. It pressed its hands to its face once again, convulsed, then ripped the dangling piece clean from its skull to leave in its place its whipping tongue and wheezing throat. It lunged forward once again, seizing Lorra by the shoulders with its pointed fingers.

At last Bale remembered.
Illienne abralide y ganode allum! Illienne awaken and give me light!
He whispered the words and leveled his gaze at the beast. “No!” he commanded, his voice booming in the narrow corridor. Bale’s hands erupted with a white flame, bathing the entire tunnel in blinding, brilliant light.

The garghul faltered back, howling and shrinking from the light.

“Be gone!” Bale said, courage filling him.

“Dead gods,” Lorra hissed beside him, “there are more of them!”

Bale looked beyond the squirming garghul and saw at least a dozen of its brethren cowering behind it. “Run,” he breathed.

“Run!” Lorra screamed, snatching him by the forearm and yanking him down the passage toward the temple.

Bale’s concentration faltered and the light failed. He tumbled forward as fast as he could in the tight corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of chomping maws and shuffling steps and awful moans behind him.

At last they spilled into the waning daylight, into the mud-soaked street. Bale jerked his head about, trying to locate the gold dome of the temple.

There it was. Only a few dozen yards down the wide road was a foreboding façade showing no withering from age, with a gleaming dome defying the stormy skies above. They charged toward it, Bale’s clumsy legs nearly knotting themselves as he ran.
Sweet Illienne please spare your loyal
servant!

The moans followed them. Bale chanced a backward glance and saw the garghuls leering from the darkness of the tunnel, seemingly uncertain of whether to venture into the fading light.

After a mad dash through the sucking mud they reached the temple’s stairs, ascended them two at a time, and finally reached the temple’s massive doors. The entrance consisted of two giant slabs of granite, each at least twelve feet tall. They were carved with hundreds of intricate symbols, and each slab had in its center a great ring of blackened metal.

Bale looked back again. The garghuls were emerging from the tunnel. “Pull!” he shouted, grabbing the black ring before him. Lorra’s hands joined his upon the ring. Bale tugged with all his might, his spine snapping and popping with the effort.

Yet, the door did not move.

“Pull!” he demanded again.

“I
am
pulling!” Lorra snapped.

More moans. Closer this time.

Bale dropped his hands from the ring. It was no use. He searched feverishly about the surface of the doors, looking for some hinge or keyhole or trigger but there was nothing. Only carvings in the rock. Letters from languages long dead, languages even he had not encountered in spite of years sequestered in the Abbey’s library.

He swept his eyes across the lines of archaic text, and after a moment it struck him that each line was written in a different language. The text changed, from swirling script to angular runes to strange hieroglyphs. He focused on the last, hoping he’d be able to make some sense of it.

The hieroglyphs were a series of pictograms, first a robed man kneeling, then him with an open mouth and outstretched hands, then a sun shining upon him, then an open portcullis.
That’s it
.
But what words must be spoken to open the
door?

The shuffling steps of the garghuls, or hobblers as Lorra had called them, were dangerously loud. He peered over his shoulder and saw them—more than a dozen—spread across the street and less than fifty feet away.

“Sweet Illienne,” he pled, “please allow your servant to enter!”

He waited for a moment but there was nothing.

He studied the symbols again and thought once more of the temple’s origins. He remembered the tales of the builders dedicating the place to the Sentinels.
To the Sentinels.
He pressed a finger to his lips.
The words must be spoken to them. Some verse honoring them as our
protectors.

His mind whirled, sifting through all those many, many books he’d read, through countless poems and outlawed prayers. As he thought, one more than any other pressed upon him. It was the very oldest one he knew, a prayer said to have been uttered by the Sentinels themselves, with High King Deranthol about the Godswell, the very place where Illienne and Yrghul descended into oblivion. He could think of no verse more ancient or significant, so he dropped to a knee before the doors, breathed deeply, and spoke:

The Goddess paled from her great
divide,

And fell below, her dark twin
denied,

And in her place left eight
divine,

To serve her stead ‘til end of
time
.

Bale looked hopefully at the doors but nothing happened. He nervously tucked his hair behind his ears and wondered whether the prayer—which included the High King in the numbering of Illienne’s partition—would offend the Sentinels.
Some other prayer, perhaps?

But just then there came a clicking sound, as though a tumbler had shifted. Bale quickly stood and pulled again at the black ring. The door opened with ease.

“Inside!” he exclaimed. Once more he glanced over his shoulder and saw the hideous garghuls stumbling up the steps of the temple, not more than ten feet behind them.

Lorra darted within and then Bale spun inside and tugged the giant door shut. It closed with a harsh clanking sound, like a smith’s hammer upon an anvil, and shut out every last ray of light.

About them was nothing but a deep, silent blackness.

23

Enemies Everywhere

P
ref
ect Gamghast looked
at the massive wall of stone before him and tapped his fingers against his staff impatiently. He was a thousand feet from the Bastion, standing before an iron grate that served as the end point of the castle’s sewers. He huffed and rapped for a third time at the grate with the tip of his staff then looked about his dark surroundings for unwanted eyes. He’d grown suspicious of every stare, doubtful of the sincerity of every smile. He’d even found himself keeping odd hours, only leaving the Abbey in the late evening when the streets were less crowded, and then lying awake at night with his eyes fixed to his door. He pulled his robes close.
There are enemies everywhere
.

There came no answer. He tugged at the unruly wisps of his white beard, cleared his throat and rapped again. As he waited for a reply he looked at the sewage seeping from the grate and into a gutter between his feet, a flow of lumpy liquid lit by the nearly full moon above. Gamghast was a practical man who abhorred luxury, but all of this skulking about amidst shadows and filth was a bit much even for him.

He peered through the grate and into the shadows beyond. There was no sign of movement, and the only sound was that of the slopping sewage. It was bad enough having to enter the Bastion through such uncommon means, but having to wait so long near the sewers in the dead of night was even worse.

A few more moments passed, and Gamghast turned and began walking away.
To think, a prefect of the Sanctum treated with such disregard. How times have
changed
…

“Prefect,” came a deep voice behind him.

Gamghast turned, relieved but exasperated. Tannin, a thick-necked soldierly sort who served as one of the queen’s personal guards, stood on the other side of the grate holding a dimmed lantern. Tannin adjusted the veiled, rounded helmet atop his head and motioned Gamghast over.

“These are troubled times,” Gamghast said. “You should have been here precisely at nine o’clock, as agreed. It’s dangerous for someone to wait here so long after nightfall, considering the state of things.”

“Sorry, sir,” Tannin said, his big hands fumbling through the pockets of his red jerkin before pulling out a key. “It’s been an eventful evening.”

“Yes, yes, yes…” Gamghast grumbled, doing little to conceal his frustration.

“Indeed, sir. An argument between a few of Chamberlain Alamis’s men and some of the High King’s guard. I thought for a moment we’d be drawing arms inside the castle. Thank the dead gods for the queen’s level head. She calmed things before blood was spilled.” He turned the key in the lock and pulled the gate open.

“Oh,” Gamghast said, his annoyance suddenly forgotten. He stooped inside the open grate and into the tunnel. It was a wide corridor hollowed out of the rock, through which flowed a shallow but steady stream of waste, both human and otherwise. “An argument?”

“And not the only heated words since your last visit. Chamberlain Alamis and his attendants have been rather…
bold
of late. The lack of support from the more powerful nobles like Thane Brandiss hasn’t helped things. Indeed, only five of Rune’s eight thanes have committed their oath-bound to the war.” Tannin looked nervously about. “But I’ve said too much already. I’m certain the queen will tell you all you need to know.” He gestured with his lantern toward the upward incline of the dark tunnel ahead.

Gamghast knew Tannin to be a circumspect fellow who took his duties seriously. Pressing the man likely would be of no use, but this was ominous news. He decided upon a different tack. “And the queen? Has she been in good health, and in good spirits? Other than tonight, of course?”

“She’s been keeping to herself whenever possible.”

Gamghast gathered his robes in a fist to keep them from dragging through the muck as he walked. “But what of her emotional state? That can be as important as a woman’s physical health during a pregnancy. Is there anything I should know as her, ah, physician?”

Tannin was silent for a time before speaking. “It’s been difficult for her. I don’t know how she could keep from being upset with all that’s happened. I’ve seen her crying. And more than once.”

“The queen and I discuss a great many things during my visits,” Gamghast said as he braced himself against the tunnel’s moist wall and stepped around a pool of sewage. “Are there any topics I should avoid, to keep from upsetting her?”

Tannin eyed him for a moment and Gamghast sensed anger in the man’s gaze. “Avoid anything having to do with Chamberlain Alamis,” said Tannin, coldly.

“That’s an awfully large topic to avoid,” Gamghast said, ducking as they ascended into a more constricted part of the tunnel. “Anything more specific?”

Tannin rubbed at his chin for a time and then spat. “Dead gods. The queen trusts you, so I will as well. The war with the Arranese has been a disaster. Nearly all the lands south of Riverweave have been lost. Alamis has decided to seize advantage of the situation, challenging High King Deragol’s authority openly. He and those loyal to him mock the High King’s madness and talk of the spoils they’ll divide upon his death.”

“Those
loyal
to Alamis?”

“Aye. The chamberlain’s found support among some of the thanes, and some powerful commoners as well. They circle the throne like vultures about the dying.”

Gamghast felt his face flush with outrage. “How can this be? The queen is with child! The High King’s line remains intact!”

“The queen hasn’t made her pregnancy known, and eight miscarriages have left many doubtful, especially our enemies. Many refer to High King Deragol as ‘The Last King.’ They’re convinced he’ll die without an heir, and Alamis and his allies believe they’re poised to take the throne.”

Gamghast quickened his pace and gritted his teeth. “This is blasphemy!”

Tannin frowned as they trudged up the tunnel. “It seems few share your faith, Prefect.”

How times have changed, indeed
.

“Through there,” Tannin said, gesturing with the lantern toward the round door at the tunnel’s side.

Gamghast nodded, too winded from the climb to speak. He thrust his walking staff into the muck below and pressed himself along for the last few steps. Tannin pushed ahead and opened the door, and Gamghast gave him a grateful but weary smile as he pulled him through the door.

Beyond the door was a storeroom, full of hammers and saws and pliers and all the other sorts of instruments used to keep the mechanical parts of the Bastion in working order. Within the room also was a washbasin and a clean set of clothes, just as arranged.

Tannin excused himself, indicating to Gamghast he’d wait outside. Gamghast nodded and dipped his hands in the water, glad to find it cool. After letting his hands linger there for a moment before he pressed them to his face and rubbed off the mix of sweat, grime and water with a towel. He noticed his hands shaking.

The garments were the beige robes of a common servant, complete with a hood large enough to conceal one’s entire face in shadow. Such hoods were a tradition in the Bastion, intended as a symbol of humility before the throne.
A custom inspired by vanity, but in these times suited to my purpose
. He pulled the hood overhead and exited the room.

The opulence of the Bastion never ceased to astound Gamghast. Countless golden sconces lined the walls, illuminating the place with soft candlelight. Ornate tapestries told of the brave deeds of yesteryear and sculptures memorialized forgotten heroes long dead. Servants darted about in a rush to tend to the evening comforts of the Bastion’s more prominent residents and visiting dignitaries, carrying pots of spiced tea and trays laden with pastries. Gamghast shook his head in disgust.
Meanwhile, there is a war afoot
.

“It’s much quieter, now,” Tannin said, looking about the vast hallway. “Earlier this night these halls were booming with threats and curses.”

“Nevertheless,” Gamghast said as he looked about, “let’s move quickly. If Chamberlain Alamis has grown as brazen as you’ve described, then my visits must be as brief and discrete as possible.”

They navigated the haphazard passages of the Bastion, turning left and then right and then jogging straight ahead. Gamghast kept his head deep in the recesses of his hood, his eyes trained upon Tannin’s cuffed, sewage-caked boots. His ears, though, were open to all things, and he listened intently to the hushed chatter of the domestics. They spoke in tense whispers of the earlier discord Tannin had described.
“It was horrifying, I say!” “Chamberlain Alamis is an awful sort, of course, but is he right?” “Should we flee this
place?”

They moved into quieter areas of the vast castle, walking through lonely hallways lined with empty chambers. An occasional voice echoed through the vaulted corridors, but otherwise all seemed still.

Gamghast was just about to pull off his hood when Tannin halted and threw a hand back, pressing Gamghast against a wall.

“Be still and silent,” Tannin hissed. “This is dangerous.”

Gamghast did as told, doing his best to assume the meek demeanor of a castle underling. He receded against the wall. As he stood he heard the click-clack of many boots approaching. There were loud, boasting voices among them, and it sounded like a group of men inspired by too much drink.

“You, there!” came a sneering voice.

“Dead gods,” whispered Tannin.

“You’re the lout who dared threaten me! The very fool who told my men that if they drew their steel their heads would be rolling across this floor! Are you so courageous now? Now that you’re alone?”

Tannin squared himself to the group of men, and Gamghast saw his hand pressed upon the pommel of his sheathed sword.

“Well?” came the sneering voice again. “Still the hero? Still ready to apprehend us all?”

There was the sound of a few hard steps upon the marble tiles. Gamghast tilted his head slightly, chancing a look from the shadows of his hood. Tannin’s challenger had come to within a few yards of them. He was a full head or more shorter than Tannin, with a swollen face and jaundiced eyes. A half dozen men stood behind him, all of them armed and all of them bearing the flushed complexions of drunks. None wore coverings on their heads, in blatant defiance of tradition.

“Sir Edren of Pyrene,” Tannin said, his voice quiet but stern. “You stand in the High King’s castle, upon sacred ground. You stand in these halls and dishonor the High King and his ancestors. I would remind you the High King still sits upon the throne, and so long as he does Rune is ruled by him and him alone.”

Edren laughed nasally, the sound of it grating. “Such courage! Such ignorance! Why doesn’t the High King simply command you to cast us from these hallowed halls? Command you to put us all in chains? Order you to banish the chamberlain? But he does not. He does none of these things because he is weak, and weak-minded.”

Gamghast noticed Tannin’s hand tightening about the hilt of his sword.

“You speak treasonous words,” Tannin said.

“Treason? Against whom? Every man of substance has seen how power has shifted. You’ve heard of General Fane’s change of allegiance, haven’t you? No? General Thalius Fane himself has allied with Chamberlain Alamis, and he announced it in the cleverest of fashions. You see, the High King recently ordered him removed from his post. General Fane sent back the scroll, wrapped about the severed fingers of the messenger who’d delivered it.” He laughed again. “Your High King has no power, not even beneath his own roof.”

“The thanes will not stand for such treachery!”

“No? Why don’t they come, then? Why doesn’t Thane Brandiss ride down from Stormfall, or Thane Meledin sail from Farwatch to save the High King? Or any of the others? Why? Because they are powerless, just like the High King. Just like you.”

There came then the ring of many swords being drawn from their scabbards. Tannin drew his own, stepping back into a defensive crouch.

Edren chuckled. “I’ll enjoy seeing you skewered like a pig.”

“Gentlemen!” called a voice from down the hallway.