Swordmistress of Chaos (18 page)

‘Remember,’ he paused, reaching out to clutch their hands in his, ‘we swore brotherhood. Should aught offend you here, send word to Kragg and the Altan’s kingdom will know a blood-letting such as the world has never seen. And should you, when your business here is done, seek a place of honour in the Holding, the doors of the hall are ever open to you.’

Spellbinder smiled, clasping Gondar’s great hand in both of his. Raven came forward, pressing her lips to the riever’s, her arms encircling him to strain her body taut against him. For a moment they remained thus, the three of them, then Gondar broke from the embrace and turned to the door.

He halted, lifting one hand in farewell, and then was gone. Side by side they watched him stride down to the harbour and jump from wharf to wolf-boat, bellowing orders as he landed on the familiar deck. The black sail rose up the tall mast and the oars dipped, churning the surface of the Lym as
Storm-runner
came round, setting the great snarling wolf’s head of her prow towards the sea. Gondar manned the steering oar, guiding the vessel ouf through the boom that closed with a lonely finality behind him, rushing on to join the waiting
Worldbane
and begin the long journey back to Kragg.

They quit the port of Lym next morning, the flag captain detailing a barge to take them up river. Word had spread of the gift they brought the Altan and they were treated as honoured guests, the deference accorded them mingled with a hint of fear and a great deal of curiosity. The activity along the river’s banks bore out Mistress Clara’s prophesies of war, for each riverside settlement was newly fortified, armed men observing their passing from the shelter of palisades and earthworks upon which were mounted onagers and fire-throwers that commanded the river passage. War barges and lean-flanked galleys rested at anchor alongside vaster war-boats, bustling lines of slaves stowing weapons and supplies in the holds.

They reached the town of Balim, where the barge captain passed them into the hands of the cavalry for the final leg of the inland journey. Horses were supplied and now they saw the gathering of the landward forces. Foot soldiers marched towards the ports, there to enship in preparation for coastal offensives; squadrons of cavalry drilled for battle in company with Xandian mercenaries mounted on the fleet, horned beasts from which they took their name.

It was as though some great ant hill were exposed to view, the inhabitants rushing hither and thither in a fury of activity.

They passed a night in walled Gath, followed the road on through Kyal to farm-girt Heldan, and at last came to Karhsaam itself.

The city lay athwart a broad river that flowed from the distant northern mountains across a plain of verdant green, scattered with orchards and denser, natural woodland. Farms were there, and tiny hamlets that clustered like toys beneath the impressive bulk of the Altan’s capital which dwarfed all around it.

In a great circle spread a moat where the river was diverted through wide channels to surround the city. Beyond that, a great wall intersected with watch-towers of pale stone, barracks to house the defenders of the wall. And within that gigantic, startling ring rose the walls of the city itself, containing warehouses and dwelling places, palaces and towers, barracks and taverns, and a myriad other buildings that rose up in tiers from the plain. Bridges of stone and wood and beaten metal arched from tier to tier, curving over broad avenues lined with trees, spanning green, open places where fountains played, spilling rivulets of bright-glinting water down the slopes of the great city. Gold and silver, coloured glass and platinum reflected the sun in a thousand colours from walls and windows and rooftops. Gay pennants fluttered from the houses, and citizens thronged the avenues and alleyways in a rainbow flood of brightly-coloured robes.

Abdan ka Irth, the leader of their escort, halted his column to permit them a view of the fabled city before leading the way down the wide, paved road that bore straight for the heart of Karhsaam.

They crossed a bridge spanning the moat, its latter section hinged and set with chains that it could be drawn up to present a gap too wide to leap, and announced their mission to the guards watching from behind a spike-topped gate. Beyond that they passed through an archway too narrow for more than one horse at a time and guarded by stone towers where archers peered from window slits, then down a walled ride that opened onto the inner ring. The city gate was opened, the massive wooden panels swung back to permit free passage to the avenue winding up through the tiers towards the peak of Karhsaam’s mighty hill.

Ka Irth heeled his mount to a brisk canter, the hooves clattering on multi-coloured cobblestones as pedestrians moved swiftly from his path. Higher up the hill, he took them into a large, open courtyard where slaves hurried to stable their animals.

The cavalry commander dismissed his men, escorting them himself to a large and airy room with tall windows looking out over the city.

‘By your leave.’ His voice was deep, slightly lisping in the accent of Karhsaam. ‘You will rest here a while. I shall take word immediately to the Altan, who will doubtless grant you audience once you have refreshed yourselves.’

He motioned towards an inner room, the gesture taking in a table set with wine and meats, the chairs flanking the tapestry-hung walls.

‘There is water within, and beds. Should you desire any further service there are slaves outside. May you find peace.’

He turned and was gone with an urgency that belied his smooth manners, and as the door closed behind him Raven heard a sound as of a lock clicking tight. When she tried the door she found it firm shut.

‘Trust’ smiled Spellbinder, ‘was ever in short supply here.’

‘So we wait?’ Raven asked. ‘Like flies in a spider’s web? Wait for the Altan to slay us and take the skull?’

‘I doubt he’ll chance that,’ said Spellbinder confidently. ‘For ka Irth will have taken word of our coming and word of the skull’s performance in my hands. It responds to few, and only those with the power may control it. Or destroy It. Thus it was I was able to use it against the Beastmen, thus it was the Beastmen took it for a god. Knowing that, M’yrstal will walk wary of risking its loss, for as yet he is unsure of his own ability to use it as did I. And for him the Skull of Quez has two great purposes: he prepares for war, and in battle the skull is a mighty weapon; it is also a banner, a legend out of Karhsaam’s past, to which warriors will flock like hungry wolves.

‘No. we are safe for the moment, though we had best walk gently for these followers of the Altan are suspicious folk for all their courtesy.’

‘And Donwayne? Shall the skull grant me him?’ asked Raven.

Spellbinder shrugged. ‘The Stone of Quell promised you that. Trust it.’

He turned, moving to the inner rooms where a deep crystal bowl was set into the floor, ornate faucets producing a gush of steaming water as he tested one of them. Smiling, he began to strip his torn armour from his body.

‘Forgive me, Raven, but it’s been long since I enjoyed such luxury. And spells go only so far in mending wounds that water and steam make welcome helpmates.’

Raven saw for the first time the results of his struggle with the wolf-headed Beastman. Whatever magic he had used to staunch those rents had drained much from his body, for his ribs stood stark beneath flesh scarred and welted with the marks of teeth and great bruises. His physique, naturally lean, now appeared drawn in upon itself as though some inner force drained it to move muscles, maintain activity. He sank beneath the steaming water with a sigh of sheer pleasure, eyes closed and lips smiling. Raven withdrew.

In the outer chamber she poured a goblet of cool, green-tinted wine, sipping slowly as thoughts pounded wild within her head.

Upon your actions depends the shaping of the future.

The silent voice that had echoed through the grotto in the Stone Temple had said that.

You stand astride a watershed in the stream of life...You, for good or ill, are one of the chosen. You cannot refuse the task...You are the axis of this world...You are the furnace...the catalyst...Find the Skull and you may have Donwayne.

And those voiceless words had sunk deep into her mind, so deep they were scarce remembered clearly, rather as some deep-seated impulse, an acceptance of inevitable fate that coincided with her own lust for vengeance upon her rapist, the boastful man who sought to bend her to his whim like some supine animal. Thus—in conscious thought—had she accepted the words of the Stone.

Yet Spellbinder had first dismissed it.

A chunk of star-spawned rock,
he had said,
foolish people worship the stone as a god.

But it does hold certain properties that may be used by those who understand.

That last was added, almost as an afterthought, so casually she had given it no mind till now. And now doubt rose black and brooding in her mind. The voice, the visions, they had been real enough; and when she had questioned Spellbinder, he had denied putting them in her head, claimed no knowledge of the Stone’s voice. Yet he had followed her into danger, risked his life to aid her.

Why?

The doubt rang bell-like through the very essence of her being. When men met Spellbinder they whispered of Kharwahn, of sorcerer-priests who bent men’s minds to their own impenetrable designs. Was he such a one? An agent of the Ghost Isle? An impassive shaper of human destiny, one of those fabled, near-omnipotent fashioners of creation so loathed—and feared—by the merchants of Lyand and Sara and Vartha’an? The objects of war-like ambition challenged by Kragg and Karhsaam? Certainly he employed sorcerous powers; yet was equally a warrior. He had known her when she stumbled lost over the desert sand, a victim of the slave-train; had brought the great black bird to her. Yet Argor had accepted him; Gondar veiled his curiosity in recognition of warrior skill. She herself had gone willing to his bed, knew his body; knew him as a staunch battle-companion, a firm friend.

Perhaps that, she decided, outweighed all else. Spellbinder had proved himself her friend. More than lover, more than sword-brother, more than helper: he was a true companion.

And for that—and, perhaps, some latent susurration of Stone-borne voice—she chose to accept his direction, to follow his plan.

So long as it gave her Karl ir Donwayne to destroy.

She drank the wine and stripped the clothing from her body, slipping into the great crystal tub alongside him, her eyes closing in luxuriant abandon, one final, fleeting thought skipping lazily across her consciousness.

Because he is my friend. And with him, I am safe.

It was a sexless sojourn, and when they awoke from their reveries they smiled at one another and climbed from the tub to dress and to eat. The food set out for them was good, the wine refreshing, and after the rigours of their journeying the unashamed opulence of their quarters was a welcomed relaxation.

The entrance of an emissary of the Altan disturbed their quiet pleasure and, soft-spoken as he was, his summons was none the less imperative. So they rose with considerable reluctance, girding their swords about their waists, the sleeve-shields to their wrists, and followed the perfumed courtier.

He led them not back to the courtyard, but in the opposite direction along a wide corridor set with alcoves bearing busts and portraits and finely worked frescoes depicting past Altans and Karhsaamian victories in long-forgotten wars. The corridor gave way to a bridge that rose at a slanted angle over a tree-lined avenue, joining the dormitory building to a smaller edifice on the edge of the next tier. This building was of pale, rose-coloured stone, the bridge entering it through a flat-arched doorway that gave way to a tall-windowed gallery running around the outer edge. The gallery, in turn, took them to another bridge, this time longer and built of gleaming, smooth-worked metal that dazzled their eyes. It soared above roofs and alleys, arcing down towards a roof set with mosaics of a thousand shimmering squares. Another doorway opened onto a gallery, beyond which stretched yet another bridgeway, and another, until they felt they marched across the sky.

Finally, men armoured in silver breastplates, bearing halberds of steel-edged platinum, barred their way. The courtier spoke to them and the halberds lifted in salute, great doors of silver-studded wood swinging open behind them. Beyond the doors there was a wide balcony covered with luxuriant grass, bisected by gravelled paths that shone purple in the sun. The courtier, silent still, took them through the sky-borne garden, slowing as they paused to stare up at the vaulting towers of the palace before them.

The palace was set atop the apex of the great hill on which Karhsaam was built, its levels rising yet higher than the natural set of the scarp. Black slabs of stone, into which were inlaid golden ornamentations, formed its base, supporting a second level of golden rock that overhung the garden with a solid balustrade both decorative and defensive. Above that was a level of precious metals, gold and silver and platinum worked together to catch the light and glare it back in eye-dazzling brilliance. Then a tier that seemed pure glass, iridescent as a dragonfly, the multi-coloured particles of its construction glancing colour like a rainbow from the sun’s rays. Beyond that, a tier of ruby red, then another of dark amber, one of brilliant sapphire. Above them all, like a shadow on the sky, a needle tower of blackest basalt.

Doors of beaten gold opened to reveal a hall of silver-squares, ringed round with men-at-arms clad in jet-black armour. Beyond that, a door of amethyst guarded by silver sword-bearers.

They passed through that last portal into a room that occupied the entire area of the lower palace. And staring at them from the glistening tiles of amber and platinum, gold and silver that were the floor, was a crowd of bright-clad people. Men in leggings of scarlet and black, robes of white, vermilion, and green, stared from beneath ornate ceremonial helmets. Women, their breasts bared in silken gowns of more colours than might be imagined, turned coiffured heads bound round with rings of pearls and gems, silver and platinum, and darker amethyst, to stare at them.