Wrath of Kerberos (8 page)

Once the sun began to set, Emuel rested. He ate a strip of dried mool and watched the colour of the landscape change. The wind dropped and the song of the dunes died. Emuel had never experienced such silence. Without the soft glow of Kerberos to relieve the night, he could barely see his hand before his face. The temperature fell and he could hear things stirring in the sand. He dared not move, but when no strange creatures came for him, he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and settled back, staring into the heavens.

He wondered whether any of the points of light above him was a god, like Kerberos. Maybe
all
of them were gods, and the Final Faith – indeed, every religion on the peninsula – was wrong about humanity and its place in the universe. Emuel supposed he should have felt despair at this thought but, strangely, he didn’t.

Swift lines of light drew themselves across the heavens. Emuel had seen shooting stars before, but never in such multitude. He found their silent brilliance moving and sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever might be out there.

With a terrific roar, a flaming ball of rock arced over him and fell to the earth, not more than a mile from where he lay. Emuel sat up to see a glittering plume of sand raining back down to earth from the impact site. He looked up, nervously watching for any more burning rocks falling from the sky, but all was as it had been before.

His heart racing, Emuel gulped down a mouthful of water before looking towards the great hole that had been punched into the desert floor. The sand surrounding it glowed a pale rose, then a deep scarlet as it cooled. He could hear a gentle hissing, as of gas escaping, and a hollow creaking noise. Hitching his pack onto his back, he set off, all the while checking above him and gingerly shielding his head with his cloak.

When he reached the edge of the steaming pit, Emuel overbalanced and fell on his back, scrabbling with his arms for purchase, his feet momentarily kicking against nothing but air. Recovering himself, he stood and peered down into the crater.

The steam obscured whatever it was that sat at the heart of the pit. There was a stench of rotting eggs and Emuel gagged; he tore a strip of cloth from his robe and tied it over his nose and mouth. Eventually the clouds dispersed and he saw a perfectly spherical rock, nestling in the blackened sand.

Emuel cautiously picked his way down the side of the pit. At the bottom he looked up; the obsidian jewel rose before him to a height of just over seven feet. He put his hand to the stone, and it was flesh-warm. He rapped lightly upon it and it responded with a judder that made him stagger back. He watched it warily for a few moments, but the sphere remained still, and Emuel approached again.

This time he thought that he could hear a low rhythmic thudding and, putting his ear to the stone, he heard the unmistakable sound of a slow, steady heartbeat. The realisation that this wasn’t just a rock, and that there was something within the sphere, cut through Emuel’s curiosity to where raw fear lay. He began to scrabble his way back up the side of the pit, but before he could pull himself out, there was a loud
crack
and he looked down to see a jagged rent running from the top of the sphere, a clear fluid leaking from it. Another fissure appeared, then another; an entire section of stone dropping back to reveal part of what lay within.

And that was what really sent Emuel racing away from the hole and sprinting across the sand, for there, staring out at him from the heart of the broken black stone, was a huge, yellow eye.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

I
GNACIO SHUT THE
telescope and handed it back to Lieutenant Stefanelli.

“I can confirm that there is no sign of Emuel or Lieutenant Berling.”

“That’s seven members of the expedition we’ve lost,” Stefanelli said. “What is more, we appear to be nowhere near the remains of the
Llothriall
. I have absolutely no idea where we are, for that matter. I mean, where
is
Kerberos?”

Ignacio was perturbed by the note of panic that had entered the lieutenant’s voice. This man had been hand-picked by Katherine Makennon to lead the expedition, but he was already losing control. He looked back towards the camp, but nobody among the tents and equipment would meet his eye. A few were praying, while the remainder were polishing swords, although quite what they expected to meet in all this nothingness was beyond him.

“Brother Sebastian,” Ignacio said, waving over the priest. “Can you perhaps use magic to ascertain the location of the
Llothriall
? It could be that it’s close by and we just don’t realise it.”

“Ignacio!” Stefanelli snapped. “May I remind you that until a few days ago you were considered nothing less than a heretic by the Final Faith. Just who do you think is in charge of this expedition?”

“I don’t know, sir, but, with all due respect, it doesn’t appear to be you.”

“Sinner!” Stefanelli began to draw his sword.

“Please, Angelo,” Brother Sebastian said. “
Please
. Let us try what Ignacio suggested. I’m sure that he didn’t mean to undermine your authority. The Lord of All forgives, lieutenant. We must remember that.”

“The Lord of All also punishes the wicked.”

Nonetheless, having had the last word, Lieutenant Stefanelli backed down.

Brother Sebastian drew a circle in the sand, marking the circumference at three points with thick oil from a stoneware flask, which he re-sealed and handed it to Ignacio.

“If I may have your assistance, brother, I will be most grateful.”

Ignacio helped the priest lay out the elements required for the spell to work. He had never had the discipline for magic himself, and these days it was solely the preserve of the Final Faith. He could remember a time – during the last war between Vos and Pontaine – when every town or village had at least three mages amongst their citizens. Now any unlicensed use of magic was seen as blasphemy. Having witnessed the destruction that could be wrought through sorcery, Ignacio found himself in sympathy with this measure. After all, wasn’t the Church just trying to protect the common people?

Brother Sebastian sat in the centre of his circle and closed his eyes. Ignacio was aware of the rest of the camp watching them, urging the priest to locate the broken ship they had been sent here to find. After half an hour, there were impatient coughs and the shuffling of feet. Ignacio thought that perhaps the priest had nodded off – he could understand that, in this heat – but when a fly landed on his nose, Brother Sebastian swatted it away angrily before opening his eyes.

“They’re not there.”

“What are not there?” Lieutenant Stefanelli said, striding over.

“The threads. There is simply no magic to call upon.”

“I don’t understand,” Ignacio said. “How can there be no magic?”

“So, let me get this right, we’ve been sent to a place with no Kerberos and, more importantly, no magic!” the lieutenant cried, a note of hysteria entering his voice. “Well, isn’t that just great? That silly bitch Makennon and her ancient wreck of a sorcerer have gone and sent us God knows where on a mission we can’t possibly fulfill. We’re farked! Good and proper farked!”

“How dare you refer to the Anointed Lord as a silly bitch?” Brother Sebastian said, getting to his feet. “She is the Lord of All’s representative on Twilight.”

“Yes, but here her authority counts for shit.”

Ignacio knew blasphemy when he heard it and, as a member of the Swords of Dawn, he was supposed to punish blasphemy wherever he encountered it.

He drew his sword.

“Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli. You are relieved of your duties, by the authority vested in me by the Anointed Lord, Katherine Makennon.”

“What?”

“You have committed an act of blasphemy and are no longer fit to serve as a representative of the Order of the Swords of Dawn.”

“Brother Sebastian,” Stefanelli said. “Kill this man.”

But the priest wasn’t armed, and even if he had been it was clear he had no inclination to carry out the lieutenant’s order. Indeed, nobody in the camp had moved to interrupt the altercation. As the newest recruit to the Swords, Ignacio was taking an enormous risk, but ever since the light of the Lord had been revealed to him, he was determined to take his duties seriously.

Lieutenant Stefanelli used his own sword to bat away Ignacio’s blade.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ignacio. Has the sun got to you? Do you even know how to use that thing? Makennon only sent you on this expedition because of your affiliation with the rogue crew of the
Llothriall
. Don’t think for a moment that the Faith has any trust in you as a member of the Swords, or that it was ever the intention that you return from this expedition alive.”

Ignacio brought his sword to bear again. “Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli.”

The man standing before Ignacio was easily a head taller than he and broader across the shoulders, but he had killed bigger men before. The lieutenant’s anger would work against him.

When their blades met, Ignacio shifted his weight onto his back foot and circled Stefanelli’s sword around his wrist, before forcing it away. For a moment there seemed to be an opening, but the sunlight suddenly blazed from Stefanelli’s weapon, dazzling Ignacio and forcing him to swing blindly. Fortunately he connected with Stefanelli’s attack before it could pierce his belly and forced the tip of the weapon down into the sand.

Ignacio stepped back and circled around to his right, so that the sun was now on his left, and moved to attack.

Stefanelli was a fraction too late to turn Ignacio’s blade and he cried out as a deep cut appeared in his right bicep. Whatever zeal and righteous hatred drove him on enabled him to keep hold of his sword, but his forearm was now soaked with blood and he was visibly pained.

“Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli.” Ignacio said again, meeting the man’s gaze with his own, trying to match the look of righteous fury that he saw there.

“Angelo, this is insanity,” Brother Sebastian said. “Please, do what Ignacio says, just until we get this misunderstanding sorted out.”

Lieutenant Stefanelli didn’t respond to the priest’s pleas; instead he moved in on Ignacio again, swinging his sword in low, coming in close and stepping so that Ignacio had to turn to face the sun.

Momentarily blinded, Ignacio still managed to parry Stefanelli’s next few lunges. The lieutenant was weakening now, his face grey. He shifted his grip on his blade and fractionally changed his stance, and Ignacio saw his opportunity.

Ignacio feinted to the right and stepped in close on his left foot. Stefanelli fell for the bluff and Ignacio’s sword went low into his back, the tip emerging briefly from his side before withdrawing.

Ignacio flicked blood from his sword as Lieutenant Stefanelli fell to his knees.

Brother Sebastian came over and prepared to perform the last rites, until a hand on his shoulder stilled him.

“No, brother,” said a petite, dark-haired warrior of the Swords, whom Ignacio remembered was called Susannah. “This one does not deserve your mercy, or absolution.”

Susannah grabbed Stefanelli by the hair and, with one efficient strike from her blade, removed his head from his shoulders.

“Burn the remains, Brother Sebastian.”

Susannah threw the head to the ground and held her hand out to Ignacio; blood slicked her palm.