Authors: Tom Lloyd
The Ragged Man (9 page)
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the scow turn again to avoid colliding with the bank, but now there was no time to waste. He jumped up and raced for the end of the bridge - until, in his haste Mihn misjudged the last footstep and slipped sideways, crashing to the ground at the steps of the silver pavilion. He lay on his back a moment, panting, staring up at the darkly boiling sky above before a bright flash of light prompted him to scramble up again.
In the centre of the pavilion stood the soul of Duchess Lomin, still laden with the massive chains of her sins, while beside her was the last of the Mercies, a tall, bearded man wearing a crown. His hammer was pitch-black, but no less ornate than those of the other Mercies Mihn had passed. With a solemn flourish the man brought the hammer on the ground behind the soul, not apparently caring that its sins were still held tightly to its chest.
That done, he reached out his right hand, but instead of a silver-chased horn, a twisted spiral of carnelian appeared in the Mercy’s hand and he sounded a deep, forbidding note. Mihn felt his breath catch as an answering note came from within the darkness beyond. He crouched at the foot of the stair to watch. This close to the pavilion he saw the roof and pillars were not pristine but scored and scratched: it was so close to Ghenna that even Death’s authority was not untouchable.
At first nothing happened, then a great hot wind began to whip up all around. Mihn screwed his eyes as tight as he could against the dusty whirlwind. With mounting dread he felt the swirling darkness being driven up and away, and he opened his eyes in time to see for the first time the entrance to Ghenna.
No more than fifty yards away stood several enormous barred gates, each apparently carved from a single piece of ivory, and set into bare rock. The entrance to Ghenna was a humped peak in the centre of the crater, curved around the level plain that stood between the gates and the Mercy’s pavilion. Each gate was hinged at the top and opened outwards, but they opened only for those who’d sold their soul to one of Ghenna’s inhabitants. The bars were slightly curved, the smooth flow to the design suggesting an organic creation rather than the rigid regularity of a human construction.
The journals of Malich Cordein had named the three main gates for him: Jaishen Gate, the smallest, was on the left; the largest of them all, Gheshen, was in the centre, with Coroshen on the right. There were three other gates, each around fifty feet tall - less than half the size of Jaishen’s - that Malich had called the borderland gates, opening to the parts of Ghenna where no master ruled and the daemons fought a never-ending war of attrition.
Mihn scanned each of the main gates in turn. He had no idea which would open to admit the soul. Malich himself had dealt with a prince of Coroshen, the domain that existed nearest to the surface, but Duchess Lomin was of the Certinse family and he guessed the Certinses would have sought help elsewhere - if ever there was a family to play two sides it was theirs.
‘Mihn, you must move,’ Mihn growled to himself as the soul walked out of the pavilion and stopped. He urged it on until at last the soul began to stumble towards the gates. ‘They are creatures of darkness; they turn away from the light. You need to go closer to them.’
Against every natural instinct, against the terror that was welling up in his gut, Mihn followed his own advice and forced himself forward. The ground was hot now, enough to scorch his feet, and the air was growing foetid and sulphurous, but he ignored the increasing discomfort, intent only on the gates ahead. One began to open, and Mihn threw himself forward, just in time to grab the bottom rung of the Jaishen Gate before it lifted away. He swung his leg over the smooth ivory and hauled himself up until he was sitting on the lower bar.
As he looked around he noted to his relief there were no sounds of alarm, no hungry calls of delight at the sight of an undamned soul. It looked like the old myths had once more come to his aid: the denizens of Ghenna did indeed turn their faces away from the light of the last pavilion. Mihn wasted no time as the gate continued to rise; he could see patrols of minion daemons, armed with harpoons or huge barbed fishing lines - the sort of weapons that had damaged the pavilion, he now realised. The daemons were only at ground level; a skilled climber like Mihn might be able to make his way up, and avoid the guards and hunters entirely - or so he hoped.
A condemned soul would stumble around in the darkness beyond the pavilion until it was snagged by one of those patrolling daemons and hauled through one of the gates into Ghenna, to the domain of whichever master the daemon served. There, the damned soul would have to face horrors unnumbered and untold, until the end of time or the fires of torment forged them into a new shape.
There were gaps in the gates easily large enough for souls to be dragged through, big enough even for daemons to step out from Ghenna - but they would not, not whilst the last of the Mercies stood, forever watchful, in his pavilion.
As the Jaishen Gate lifted, Mihn found it easy to climb the massive ivory bars. The biggest were easily twice as thick as his own body and bore his weight easily. When he reached the side he looked down and saw two massive, squat beasts standing below the gate, one end of a long iron bar strapped to their backs that lifted the bottom edge of the gate as they walked forward. From the way their heads swayed he guessed the beasts were blind - that was how they were able to face the light of the Mercy’s pavilion. They sniffed at the stinking air, snuffling their way towards the soul of Duchess Lomin, limping onwards to its eternal damnation. The beasts lunged at her, displaying rows of jagged teeth in huge mouths, but they could move no more than a foot before being stopped by the pivot mechanism they were harnessed to.
Excited howls emanated from deep within Jaishen as the gate began to close and darkness started to return. A pair of spindly figures quested out, advancing on the soul with hands covering their eyes. When they found her they ran exploratory hands all over the soul’s ghostly body before grasping it firmly and dragging it further within. Somewhere in the depths Mihn heard a heavy booming, a steady rhythm that prompted high-pitched squeals from the long dark tunnel below him. The horn sounded again and the beasts turned to pull the gate closed. It was only when the darkness had descended fully that Mihn heard the soul’s wailing renew.
Mihn clung tight to his perch, too focused on the task in hand to feel pity now. He had been studying the paintings of Elshaim, a necromancer-turned-prophet - the same painter whose works Malich Cordein himself had spent several years poring over - and it looked like he was right: the gate’s gigantic hinges
did
protrude, and as the gate closed, so a wide gap began to appear in between the ivory frame and the rock.
did
protrude, and as the gate closed, so a wide gap began to appear in between the ivory frame and the rock.
Mihn slipped quickly into the gap as it opened up before him. He felt a fleeting flush of relief as he reached towards the rock roof and found it jagged and uneven, providing plenty of hand-holds for him to pull himself inside. Moving carefully, he advanced inside the tunnel, and he was several yards from the gate when Jaishen ground shut once more. As it closed, a bone-numbing tremor rumbled through the rock.
Mihn braced himself on the unnatural honeycombed rock and rested for a moment, focusing all his strength into calming the fear now burning inside him. That great grinding closure hit him like the kick of a mule, driving the wind from his lungs, leaving him shaking and gasping for breath.
Mihn had made it to Ghenna, and here he was, all alone in the Dark Place. Not even the Gods could help him now.
CHAPTER 3
As he woke, Major Amber twitched his head, which was enough to send a spasm of pain racing down his neck. He whimpered, but a moment later panic overshadowed everything and wakefulness hit him like a deluge.
Cold fear enveloped his mind; all he could feel was searing agony, a rod of iron where his spine should be. Every other sense was numb. He tried to lift his arm and felt nothing, nothing at all. When he tried to open his eyes all he managed was a facial twitch, and another wrenching spasm. At last he edged them open, only to immediately close them against the searing light.
‘Hush now,’ said a woman’s voice beside him as Amber began to hyperventilate in terror, wincing at every gasp. ‘Hey, settle down - you’re injured, but you will recover.’
He felt a weight on his chest, a palm pressing down to hold him still, and he moaned in relief. For a while all he could remember was stars bursting in his head, the crunch of bones breaking and the death-cry of the man he’d killed. The details eluded him for the moment as his thoughts floundered, lost in a world of hurt.
‘That’s better,’ the woman continued, her voice soothing. Her fingers found his, and this he could feel, a comforting sensation. ‘You’re bound to the bed,’ she told him, ‘you broke a few bones and the surgeons wanted to keep you still.’
He tried to respond, but all that came out was a wheeze.
‘Don’t speak; you’re too weak. I’ll fetch a healer. We’ll talk later.’
Her hand moved away and Amber felt himself slide back into the cool arms of sleep. When he awoke a second time it was better; as he opened his eyes he felt the return of some part of him that before had been trapped in the darkness. He still hurt all over, but now he was aware enough to feel the bed underneath him, and he could tally the individual injuries. His neck was now a dull throb, and he found he could lift his left arm, although moving his right caused him to hiss in pain.
‘Ah, awake at last,’ came the same woman’s voice. ‘I was beginning to worry they’d given you too much there.’
He turned his head gingerly to the left and took a moment as Horsemistress Kirl came into focus. She smiled down at him from a campaign chair and leaned forward. Behind her he saw a white plastered wall and a shuttered window, the only light in the room provided by a small fire and two large pillar candles standing iron lamp-stands.
‘Don’t try to move. Our best healers have been working on you, but there’s only so much a mage can do.’
‘How long?’ Amber croaked.
‘Since the battle?’ She thought for a moment. ‘You woke the first time two weeks back. Another day and a half since then.’
Amber opened his mouth to say something else, but this time the effort defeated him. Instead he bathed in the warmth of the Horsemistress’ lopsided smile. She’d cut her dark hair shorter since he’d last seen her and it hung loose to the raised collar of her unbuttoned tunic.
Amber started: that wasn’t her uniform - he didn’t recognise it at all. Kirl was an auxiliary attached to Amber’s legion, the Cheme Third - so why was she wearing a fitted cavalryman’s tunic? The scarlet adorned with blue and white slashes and gold buttons was more along the lines of Amber’s formal Menin officer’s uniform than Kirl’s usual plain grey outfit.
‘You like it?’ Kirl asked with a coquettish smile. ‘I found it in the Farlan baggage. The Penitent Army left everything and ran; Hain reckons it was made for an officer of the Cardinal Paladins.’
Amber didn’t respond immediately, then he realised he was staring, his mouth open, and he looked away.
‘That good, eh?’ Kirl laughed, ‘I’m glad to hear it!’
He coughed. ‘Aye, not bad,’ he said hoarsely.
His throat was dry and sore, but he ignored the pain. Kirl’s lovely crooked smile was enough to make his breath catch when she wore drab riding leathers; dressed in a fine, narrow-waisted tunic . . . As she bent over him to help him lie back he breathed in her scent and prayed she wouldn’t notice any stirrings under the blanket.
‘You tending to me?’ he rasped. ‘What’s happened since the battle?’
She scowled. ‘Not much that needs my attention. I’ve got all my horses pastured for the moment and I’m just trying to keep my head low. It’s all . . .
tense
out there right now, but you’re a fucking hero and you’ve got a nice warm room, so I might possibly have stretched the truth a little so I could hide out in here till everyone calms down.’
tense
out there right now, but you’re a fucking hero and you’ve got a nice warm room, so I might possibly have stretched the truth a little so I could hide out in here till everyone calms down.’
She gestured around her and Amber realised for the first time that he was in a bedroom large and luxurious enough for a duke, even though it was mostly empty. A wooden partition was drawn up to one side of him to keep the fire’s heat close. He could see nothing around him to tell him who the room normally belonged to, but someone had dragged his kit in - and even managed to retrieve his scimitars from the battlefield! The career soldier in him prayed to Karkarn that same someone would have seen fit to clean the swords and hammer out the nicks before they got rusty.
‘Colonel Uresh knows where I am if he needs me, so do my men. I’m doing as much good tending to you as anywhere else - more, probably.’
‘“Stretched the truth”?’
The lovely smile returned. ‘You don’t need to worry about that right now,’ she said with a soft laugh, ‘but I think Hain’s reached a whole new level of admiration for you now.’
Amber couldn’t help but cough at the thought. He knew full-well what was pretty much always on Captain Hain’s mind when he wasn’t fighting. The sight of Kirl in that tunic really wouldn’t have helped.
‘Well, look at that,’ Kirl said with a purr of interest. ‘That thought’s put some colour in your cheeks! For now, Major Amber, you might want to hear what’s been happening since you fainted on the battlefield.’
‘Fainted!’ Amber gasped as the memory of the battle finally appeared in his mind: Lord Chalat, Chosen of the Fire God Tsatach, wading through the Menin ranks wreathed in flame; Amber fighting his way through the ranks to slam a spiked axe into Chalat’s chest —
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