The Fall to Power (5 page)

             
The Temple of the Ancestors lay just beyond the Market place, the tall, pagoda-like tower piercing the sky above the arena wall and the King strode, two-at-a-time, up the stone steps that led to the entrance.

             
The smell inside was dry, musty, the smell of stagnancy and mummification, the statues of long-dead Barbarian Kings and Warlords judging him from recessed alcoves in the walls as he strode down the echoing corridor that took him further into the building.

             
No sound could be heard in this resting place of the honoured dead, save his own heavy footsteps, but his sixth sense picked up the tell-tale emanations of spirit-craft at work from deep within the Temple and he knew he neared his quarry.

             
He reached a pair of heavy, brass doors, intricately wrought and painted with a fresco depicting a warrior-king of ancient times slaying a great serpent, his spiked armour tearing great gashes in the beast, even as it sought to entwine him in its coils.

             
He smiled to himself, before pushing the creaking door open and venturing into the chamber beyond.

             
The air was dimly lit and heavy with the scent of sweet incense.

             
This room was obviously used for worship, the central point being a raging fire with a stone altar set before it, four columns supporting the low-hanging ceiling, torches hanging in brass brackets from their outward facing sides, casting sinister flickering shadows that could have hidden any vengeful guardian, ready to strike down those who would defile this holy place.

The Steppes-Folk venerated their ancestors, burning offerings and seeking their guidance in times of strife, but the whiff of darker sorcery told him that times had changed, that the defilement had already taken place.

The girl was kneeling before the altar, her sleek form silhouetted in the firelight, the streaming glow rendering see-through the thin material of her airy robe. Before her, on the altar, a still-warm heart of unknown origin, sitting in a pool of its own spilled blood. Of the body, no sign.

“I knew you’d return.” She spoke without even turning to see who it was, her voice cold.

“And I knew that the new sorcerer would have to be you.”

She rose, turning, the bloodied dagger from her sacrifice still clutched in her hand, and, though the years had caused her to blossom into womanhood, he could tell that it was her; the long raven hair, the soft skin, the dazzling blue eyes that glistened with an urgent need to inflict pain on the giant who stood before her.

“Someone had to take over from my father,” Ceceline told him, her words melodious yet menacing, putting him in mind of a savage nymph from so long ago that he could barely remember where or when. “Just,” she added, with a smile, “as someone has to avenge him…”

With a force that belied her slender form, she threw the ceremonial dagger end over end, the sharp point aimed unerringly for his face.

He batted the weapon to one side with the flat of his palm, made to walk towards her, but before he could take a single step the world exploded in a cacophony of roaring noise and searing heat.

He opened his eyes, having screwed them shut in reflex, to see the sorceress standing, mouth open in a cry of rage, her outstretched hands before her emitting a cone of roiling black flame that blistered the stone of the ground, warping the columns behind him till they twisted and bubbled, incinerating the torches and their mountings, leaving nought but charred shadows to indicate their ever existing.

But the King simply stood, bearing the brunt of the storm, his garments merely steaming, the unnatural energies no threat to him, even licking him, caressing him, as though familiar with his scent and welcoming him.

             
He walked forwards, through the continuing torrent of nightmare flame, with no more effort than walking into a stiff autumn breeze, seeing the confusion growing in her eyes. He stopped less than an arm’s length from the sorceress, her outstretched palms touching his bare chest now, the fire raging out sideways like water splashing from a rock.

             
After long moments, she stopped her attack, the sudden silence deafening, the only noise the low crackling of the pyre behind her and the gentle cracking of superheated stone.

Lowering her hands she looked at him, surveying his awesome form and feeling with her own innate gifts the tremendous power that channelled through him, the same power that she herself served; her blue eyes, no longer full of hate, merely wonder, her thirst for power and knowledge surpassing her hunger for revenge.

              “What are you, Stone?” she whispered through longing lips.

             
“Stone?” The giant sniffed, as though in distaste of the word. “Stone was weak, a slave to the elements. But I am beyond them now.” His green eyes glowed, a luminosity that had nothing to do with the fire the burned behind Ceceline and everything to do with the raging furnace of power that lived within him. “I am… invincible.”

             
The girl smiled, warm, welcoming, evil.

             
“That you are. I feel it. My invincible King.” She looped her long, slender arms about his muscled neck and drew in, tantalisingly close, her sweet breath blowing warm and tempting on his lips. “Invictus…” She whispered the name.

             
He smiled.

             
During the long years in the Northern Fires, the whispers had wrought changes on him, forcing him closer toward the potential of his extraordinary physiology, teaching him to channel their seemingly unlimited power, till at last it had grown difficult to discern the whispers from his own thoughts, but through it all they had not deigned to give him a new name.

             
He had simply accepted that was no longer Stone, whoever that had been.

             
He was different. Changed. Invincible.

             
Invictus.

             
He rolled the name about his mouth, playing with it, trying it on for feel.

             
It felt right. It spoke of Kings and Gods. Of a leader of men who would change this world forever.

He looked down at the slender, sultry creature before him who looked up at him with mysterious yearning and knew that she would be by his side for the duration. He grabbed her with his strong arms, lifting her so her feet left the ground, kissing her soft lips, causing her to moan in pleasure as her hands roamed the hard muscles of his back.

He knew what was to happen next, that they were to fall to the altar and make love in the flickering warmth of the Temple Pyre, further defiling the Ancestors of the Barbarian Kings with their ecstasy.

But no.

Still wrapped in his arms, feet clear of the ground, Ceceline pulled away, looking at him with serious eyes, full of concern.

“Wake up!”

Her voice sounded hollow, distant, as though she were shouting at him down a long, stone tunnel.

“Wake up, my King!”

Something wasn’t right. The Temple shook and he dropped Ceceline, looking about.

This wasn’t how it went.

The burning pyre disappeared in a cloud of steam as a gushing wave of ice-cold water blasted through the temple, smashing him clean from his feet.

***

              “Wake up, my King!”

             
Invictus sat bolt upright, waking with a start, his face dripping from the decanter of ice-cold water poured over his head. He shook his long hair, droplets spraying the silken sheets, looking about, unable to discern for a moment where he was, what was happening.

             
He paused for a moment, allowed himself time to focus.

             
He was in his chamber, Ceceline by his side on the edge of the bed, her face full of concern.

             
Next to him, crumpled sheets where the serving girl had lain with him, only – he gazed out of the far window to the starry night that threatened to break into dawn – five hours ago?

             
He never slept that long.

             
As an immortal god-king, sleep was optional, allowing himself an hour here and there as a treat; for a wielder of absolute power, sometimes it was liberating to lose yourself for a time in the random vagaries of the dreamworld, where anything could happen and circumstance was beyond your control.

             
But five hours?

             
“Are you okay, my King? I found you asleep and couldn’t rouse you,” she gestured to the empty decanter, “so was forced to take action.”

             
Invictus nodded, before replying.

             
“I’m… I’m fine. Just puzzled, is all.” He frowned, adding, “I don’t even remember falling asleep. Normally it only happens when I will it. And the dreams… so real, so vivid. More like memories, brought to life.”

             
He thought for a moment, pondering things, casting his eyes over to the goblet of wine he’d drank as he’d made love a few hours ago, before dismissing it; drugs, poisons, these things didn’t affect him.

             
He reached out with his sixth sense, Ceceline following him into the ether, before they both turned as one to the thick, down pillow behind him. He reached out, moving it aside and Ceceline frowned as they unveiled an item hidden beneath him, that would have been mere inches from his head as he slumbered.

             
She grabbed the small, stone artefact, holding it high, so that it dangled, twisting and spinning on its cord.

             
“A shamanic runestone?” she mused. “The symbol of Water.”

             
Invictus sniffed at the discovery. Water; the element of erosion, pathfinding, seeking the truth. Why would someone place this beneath his head? What was in there that they wished to reveal and bring to light?

             
“Its power is drained,” she continued. “Whatever the spirits were trying to find, it was too exhausting for them to search through your memories. They couldn’t go back far enough.”

             
“They went back a hundred years, my dear. Further than I would like anyone, bar you, to venture into my mind. The question is, why? And possibly more importantly, how?”

             
The High Seeress nodded, her eyes distant, searching, as she pondered his questions.

             
The practice of spirit-craft was banned in the Kingdom, for knowledge is power and the King’s power was absolute; aside from Invictus, only the Seeress herself and her coven were allowed to use the gift.

Kurnos’ hounds were trained to seek out the scent of the craft as they roamed the land. Those males they found with the gift were captured for the Hunt, along with the rest of Kurnos’ victims; the females, however, brought to Ceceline, examined like a prize pony, before she decided whether to train them, or dispose of them.

              But somehow, somewhere, someone had slipped the net. A shaman, maybe more than one, had forged this artefact, desperate to evoke some memories in Invictus’, for what reasons they didn’t know.

             
They couldn’t have travelled far – Kurnos’ patrols were everywhere, and a rogue shaman would have been tracked down in short order. Which meant that someone in the Kingdom, either in the city or a town not too distant, was harbouring them, keeping them safe.

             
Someone who had a dislike for the Huntsman.

             
Invictus nodded his accord with Ceceline, a century together meaning their minds often ran as one, words seldom needed.

             
“Go to it, rouse your Seers and scry.”

             
“And the girl?”

             
“Memphias will find her and bring her to you.”

             
She nodded and made to go.

             
“Oh, and Cece?”

             
“Hmm?”

             
He grinned, thoughts of treachery cast aside for an instant.

             
“You look as hot today as you did a century ago.”

             
She flashed him a smouldering look before laughing and leaving his chamber, crossing the bridge to the Seers’ Tower to wake her girls.

Chapter Three:

Tulador: Fertile. Green. A land of wide fields and simple farming folk who had no cause to grumble at the aristocracy who governed, distant but fair, in their Pen of white stone. To the East of the Merethian Steppes, between the capital and the Merchant Coast, Tulador was the breadbasket of the kingdom.