Swordmistress of Chaos (8 page)

She say Lyand again, from the slavepens and the streets. Saw her mother’s face; that of Karl ir Donwayne; that of the slavemaster as he applied the brand. Argor’s bearded visage was there, and Spellbinder’s.

And then...

Then there were things she could not understand. Unknown faces of men and women, and things between; some human, some bestial. She saw creatures that flew through skies of ice, and beings that dug through fields of snow; great lizards spouted flame and creatures almost human devoured one another; warriors in metal clashed swords and axes in clamorous fight; and bright poisons dripped from ringed fingers while painted faces smiled. Jewels sparkled on smooth necks and silver-banded heads; blood shone darkly on pitted swords; entrails dangled from pike points, the bloody pulsing of their excrescence becoming amethyst and ruby, glistening amber and sheening gold.

Cities grew before her blind eyes. Towers of wood built skywards, were consumed in fire; rebuilt in stone. The stone crumbled. Was built up again, greater than before, only to fall again. Towers higher than any she had known—any she could imagine—argued with the heavens, and some roared flame and hurled themselves against the stars.

Chariots of metal and birds of steel wafted before her mind. She saw things that carried men as though horses invisible to the eye, dragged them forwards faster than any horse could run; strange caterpillars that spouted smoke running faster than the horseless vehicles, and still faster ones that made no sound, nor any disturbance of the air.

She saw men fly as a bird does; and men in a blackness pricked by a myriad lights, clad in strange armour, creating cities of shining steel that hung in nothingness.

She saw fountains of fire and mushrooms of smoke. Holes gaping into hell with skeletal faces grinning out. She saw swords that spat and killed, and stranger weapons that seemed to glow, their light withering flesh from bone, bone from marrow.

Strange machines traversed a landscape she had never seen, spitting things that killed. And she saw men give up their lives for others in many ways. A very old man turned on a bed and died in his age; another screamed in a jungle as the strange weapons plucked away his life; yet another hung from wooden poles with blood on his body; a fourth opened startled eyes as his brains spread down his face; one died with a smile as blood flecked his lips within a curious tent of some transparent material. And there were others; many others...

Her mind reeled beneath the impact, for she knew she saw a vision of things to come, things that might be, things that could be. And knew, at the same time, that she was a part of it. And then a voice came into her mind. It was a voice that was not human, yet more than human, terrifying as it was comforting; a voice that brooked no defying, but was accustomed to being defied.

‘Raven.’

The sound of her name, spoken by that voice was both commanding and comforting, the reassurance of a guardian spirit strong in her defence whilst still dependant upon her goodwill. It lulled her, it washed around her, wrapping her in tones of strength, resonances of subtle will.

‘Raven, there is a thing you must do.’

‘What?’ Her reaction was instinctive, born of the need inculcated by the sonorous voice. ‘Tell me.’

‘The world turns, Raven, though its spin may end at any point. A brake is required, a pivot point, a place, a being, at which things rest in readiness to be shaped. You, Raven, are that focus. You are the axis of this world. Upon you depends the world.’

She shook her head, the enormity of the words striking through the mesmerisation: ‘No!’

‘How say you: no?’

‘It is too much. How can I be the turner of a world? Slaveborn, I. Now what? An outlaw, no more. This thing you speak of is too great: I want it not.’

‘You have it.’

‘No! You—whatever you are—cannot force it upon me. No. No. Choose someone else.’

‘It is not a question of choosing, Raven. It is a question of being. There are those who seek such a mantle of destiny; and those upon whom the mantle falls because destiny wills it so. You, for good or for ill, are one of the chosen. You cannot refuse the task, for the task will force itself upon you. We seek only to ease the burden.’

‘We?’ Raven asked, her voice tremulous with a mixture of fear and curiosity. ‘How say you “we”?’

‘All existence intermingles. A man crushes a beetle and a fledgling bird starves; because the bird ceases to exist, a flower is not pollinated. Because there are thus fewer flowers, a certain kind of insect breeds less young; those young would have fed fishes: their absence results in fewer fishes. A man who lives upon those fishes cannot find sufficient food: his child dies, hungry. Life is a circle, all things joining together in the great chain of existence. Within that circle, death is as necessary as life. Thus it is that we are you, and you us, mingled forever, some to act, others to plan. You, Raven, are of the former.’

‘This focus,’ she said, ‘how is it that I am it?’

‘Each being is a part of it. Worlds are shaped by the actions of individuals. It so happens that you stand astride a watershed in the stream of life. You are both blessed and cursed, for upon your actions depends the shaping of the future, and that is something you cannot deny or escape.’

‘But if I do nothing?’ The enormity of the mission described by that soundless voice frightened her. ‘What then?’

‘How can you do nothing? Each step you take, each breath you draw, is an action. You are outlaw. You lust for revenge upon Karl ir Donwayne. Will you give that up? Will you forsake your outlawry? Find some desert cave and become hermit? No. You are what you are, and you will, by your very nature, act out your part. The how of the matter is for your deciding.’

‘Tell me,’ she asked. ‘What should I do?’

‘There is a balance in the affairs of the world that may be tipped to either side. This is a young world, like a growing child, it flexes its muscles, striving to define its destiny. It can grow great or petty, a good world or a thing of confusion: the destination results from its early shaping. A child, growing, must learn for itself what fire is; the munificence and the danger of water; that some things are painful, others good. It cannot be told, for experience of the elemental matters is the only way to know them. And only through knowing them and understanding them may a child grow straight and healthy. A child can be told that one thing is forbidden to the touch, another not; but until it understands that difference of its own volition, it cannot, truly, comprehend the difference.

‘Just so is this world. There are those who would shape it for their own ends, create an order that will bring them to dominance as they subjugate others to their will. That is wrong. As metals are melted, blended to forge the finest steel, so must this world be shaped. Order, for now, is wrong. There is a need for chaos, as the steel needs the furnace.

‘You, Raven, are that furnace; the catalyst of history. You are one of this world’s pivot points; and upon you rests the destiny of the future.’

‘What must I do?’ Her voice was quiet, humble.

‘Be yourself, act as you feel you must. Listen always to the advice of your greatest helpers: the man and the bird.’

‘And Donwayne,’ she asked. ‘What of him? Is he denied me?’

‘We cannot say. That you seek him is accepted, for only with the cooperation of the focus point may matters be properly guided. Therefore seek Donwayne, though the finding may be long.

‘Now he rests in Karhsaam, a favoured captain of the Altan’s growing army. To reach him, you must win equal favour with the Altan. That favour may be won through the bringing of the Skull of Quez.

‘Find the Skull and You may have Donwayne.’

The Voice that was not a voice died away, and slowly Raven grew conscious of the chamber. Spellbinder was poised on the far side of the floating stone, his hands still resting upon the pulsing surface. The concentration of light that had centred on her eyes faded away, until it was no more than another vein in the strange rock. And the rock itself faded, dulling, until it was no more than a chunk of stone large as two tall big men, poised at the centre of the egg-like chamber.

She shook her head as though clearing it of mind-mist, and faced Spellbinder.

‘Did you heat it?’

‘No.’ He moved away from the stone. ‘The message was for you; no other.’

‘How does a stone speak?’ She recalled his earlier comments upon the thing. ‘You said it was no more than a star thing, not a prophet.’

Spellbinder shrugged: ‘The words were not necessarily those of the rock itself. The stone may act as a linkage between minds, passing thoughts from one to the other.’

‘Whose minds?’ Raven was quick to see the flaw in his explanation. ‘Your hands were upon the stone. Were they your words that filled my mind?’

‘No.’ Spellbinder’s voice was definite. ‘I was, perhaps, the link with other minds, but I know not what was said.’

‘What other minds? Kharwhan? The sorcerer-priests?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Spellbinder carefully, ‘for those minds exert the greatest force upon this world. What were you told?’

Briefly—for she could not remember all of it, nor understand all of what she remembered—Raven told him.

Spellbinder nodded slowly. ‘The Skull of Quez. Aye that’s long been the ambition of the M’yrstal Altans though the finding of it has proved harder than most men think.’

‘Yet, if the stone spoke the truth,’ said Raven, ‘I must find It. But where? How?’

‘We must travel to Kharwhan.’ Spellbinder seemed almost to regret the prospect. ‘If the Skull is not there, at least they will know of its placement.’

‘Kharwhan!’ Raven’s voice was awed. ‘No man travels to the Isles of Ghosts. At least, not to return. Be you, as men say, ghost-born, then you may survive the journey, but how may I?’

A smile lifted the thoughtfulness from Spellbinder’s features, and he crossed the chamber to rest his hands upon her shoulders.

‘What is, must be. If the Skull of Quez rests in the ghost country, then we must go there to find it. And bring it to the Altan. If that is the only way you can reach Karl ir Donwayne, will you be thwarted by stories of fantasy?’

Reluctantly, Raven shook her head, the tumble of blonde tresses sparking light from the glowing air. ‘No,’ she said. ‘If it be on the Isle of Ghosts, then there we must go, even though I like it not.’

Spellbinder said nothing more, simply took her hand in his to lead her from the chamber. It was as though he knew his way around the Temple of the Stone, for he strode through the sightless passages as does a man familiar with his ground, who needs no guide, nor light, to traverse the paths to his objective.

They reached the great outer chamber without seeing another being, though Raven was curiously aware of activity all around her, and when they came into the chamber, there were priests waiting with their horses and fresh food.

Spellbinder mounted without a word, and Raven followed suit, swinging into her saddle with thoughtful, far-seeing eyes. A priest handed them both a skin of water, moving his hands in mystic symbols before preceding them to the mist-shrouded egress.

They rode away from the Temple of the Stone without a rearward look.

Three days later they were on the coast. The desert had given way to fertile sea-plain, and the grass their hungry horses cropped led down to a small port. Barst, it was called, a tiny, wood-walled enclave of fishermen and migrant sailors, its walls containing a cluster of houses and shops, sprinkled with taverns. One of the latter provided accommodation and information, both. It was a clean place, and the food was good after the sparse rations of the desert travelling. It held a bath-house in which they both spent long hours, soaking off the desert’s miasma, and when they emerged, they resumed their bed-companionship.

For two cheerful days they lingered there, enjoying the careless happiness of the place. Then Spellbinder found a boat and the faint-remembered words of the Stone message were brought back to Raven. She unwrapped her armour from its foldings and decked herself as though for war. Mail shirt covered the lissome contours of her body, sword and knife and throwing stars girded her slender waist. Spellbinder, too, wore his armour of black and silver, though the war-helm was slung from his shoulder.

When they boarded the little boat, the master looked askance at their dress, choking down his second thoughts as Spellbinder tossed him a sack of coin.

‘Sail west,’ said the warrior. ‘The Ghost Isle will show when it chooses.’

‘Forethought and careful planning allied to a knowledge of the protagonists will usually result in a clear pattern. But there are always pitfalls.’

The Books of Kharwhan

To most men on that world Kharwhan was an unknown—and therefore frightening—entity. What little knowledge of the place existed was mostly limited to vague rumours and expressed doubts. It was an island located roughly at the centre of the Worldheart Sea; few men had seen it, for the place was shrouded in near-impenetrable mist, and those few who had, refused to speak of it. Rumour told of man-like creatures possessed of unguessable powers: sorcerers, following some weird, inhuman religion. They could, it was said, see both past and future, even shape the destiny of mankind. And even though the islanders seldom ventured into the outer world, they were held in awe—and fear—and therefore hated by most lesser beings.

Such doubts afflicted the three sailors manning the little fishing boat that Spellbinder used powers Raven had not previously seen. When one began to grumble, speaking of turning back, the dark-haired man moved to face him. Raven loosened her blade, prepared to use force if necessary to goad them on. But Spellbinder spoke softly, staring deep into the sailor’s eyes, and the man relaxed, slowly at first, but then nodded as though agreeing with a wise teacher. Spellbinder moved his hands before the man’s face, and in moments, he was back at his post. The black and silver warrior then went to each seaman in tum, still murmuring too soft for Raven to hear the words, his darting fingers weaving strange patterns in the air, seeming to leave a faint trace of brightness where they moved. And the seamen set to manning the boat with a cheerfulness that belied their earlier reservations.