Healer's Ruin (7 page)

No arrow, however exquisite, could fly so straight and true as to cover that distance. Chalos was no archer, but he was also no fool. He had seen enough arrows leave enough bows to know how the projectiles travelled.

In vicious volley and cold wind rent.

Again,
he asked himself,
where had that archer been?

'Are you listening, Rovann?'

Chalos started. The corporal was leaning over him, examining him through slitted eyes.

'Sorry, sir,' the healer said, shaking his head as if to clear it and closing his fingers around the arrowhead. 'I was dozing off. It's been a hard ride, what with the broken night.'

'Well, my advice is to sharpen those senses, slinger,' the Krune said. 'The lieutenant sends me here with questions.'

'Oh?' Chalos was puzzled. He had been getting used to his audiences with Jolm but now it seemed that the corporal was being used as an intermediary, restricting the healer's access to the lieutenant.
I appear to have fallen out of
favour, he thought, realising with amusement that his pride was dented. 'How can I help?'

'You are wise in lore and myth, slinger. More so than anyone in the detachment. This you have proven, on various occasions. Now, you must again display your learning.'

Chalos felt Mysa stir beside him. He laid a protective hand over her small, quivering form.

'I'm listening, corporal.'

'Have you heard tell of the Wielder of Aphazail?'

The term was familiar. Chalos clicked his tongue as he struggled to recollected when and where he had heard it. But the memory seemed mired in thick fog. He could not even be sure that a memory existed at all. And yet, it seemed somehow familiar.

'The girl, slinger,' the Krune growled, impatiently. 'The words were uttered by that she-whelp you healed. Do you remember?'

Oh, that's it. I was deep in the trance of the mirror, or on the hard road out of it. The memory was faint because my soul was buried in magic, my mind chained to it, dragged wildly through a haze of light.

'Yes, I remember now. The Wielder of Aphazail. Well, Aphazail is the Riln capital, far to the north-west, and is the ultimate prize coveted by the Ten Plains King. But gods and bones, corporal, I have no idea who or what the Wielder is. It's not something from ancient lore. I'd imagine that it's something new.'

The Krune grumbled under his breath.

'I'm sorry, corporal,' Chalos shrugged. 'Maybe it's the ramblings of a traumatised girl. She was quite shaken.'

'Nonsense! She was healed!'

Chalos shook his head.

'Healing fixes tissue, corporal. It can't heal the soul. Such magic as that does not exist.' He sighed. 'There are always the echoes of pain.'

'Hers was not a fantasy born of madness,' the Krune said with finality.

'How do you know?'

The corporal's wide lips curled.

'We have heard it too many times.'

'Really? From who?'

'The prisoners. The dead and the dying. On the wind, in the dead of night in dreams.' The eyes looked away and the huge man scratched the back of his maned head. 'The word haunts us. The Riln, they say it with such conviction. As if they are talking about the god of death himself, or some divine assassin.' He looked back at the healer, his gaze now stark in its blankness. 'They spit it at us as they die under our blades and bolts, slinger. They curse us with it.
'The Wielder will crush you, southern bastards,'
they say. But what is this Wielder?'

'I honestly don't know.'

'The lieutenant thinks it may have something to do with the golems.'

'If there is a connection, it is an obscure one. The tale of the golems is well-known to the Rovann. There is no mention of anything or anyone called the Wielder. As I say, perhaps it is not something from the past, but from the present. A new ally of theirs, or a new invention?'

The corporal shook his head slowly.

'I fear this Wielder,' he admitted, softly, his voice thick with shame. 'I fear nothing living, Rovann. But I fear this Wielder.'

With that, he spurred his shadamar and left without looking back. Chalos stared at the man's back until he vanished in the ranks of Black Talon warriors, shaken himself by the Krune's admission. He had never heard a Krune talk of fear, let alone an officer of the fabled Black Talon.

Oh Mysa,
he thought.
Awaken. Won't you please awaken. I need counsel. I need wisdom. I need... a friend I can trust.

The column was passing through an arch-shaped growth of two particularly large and twisted trees whose roots spread as far as the eye could see. Like two hunched giants leaning in for a kiss before death petrified their flesh, they loomed over the Black Talon, casting warped shadows upon their Baldaw helms.

Chalos heard mutterings from the men around him. The sherdlings were spooked. What was left of the pavarine herd was skittish, baleful sounds escaping their long throats as they were urged on with the blunt spears of their stunted masters. Even the Krune were unsettled. Every one of them seemed to have a hand on a hilt, or halfway reaching for a crossbow. There was something about the place that made it impossible to relax.

Huge mossy boulders lay strewn all about as though some enormous edifice had been blown apart. As they passed one, Chalos rode out to the edge of the column and brushed a hand against the surface. The moss came away, mixed with some sort of mud or guano. He inspected his fingers with distaste and looked back at the surface. His touch had revealed an underlayer of golden sheen.

'Gold...' said the healer, in wonderment. Then he turned to a couple of Black Talon warriors who had left the line and and were watching him nervously. 'It's gold!'

The boulder moved. With the groan of heavy armoured plate it raised itself off the ground on two thick-set legs. Arms unfurled, raising a curved shield and sword, both dripping with the camouflage mixture of moss and sludge. A face, smeared with black warpaint, leered out from beneath an enormous helm.

Chalos wailed and fell from his shadamar, flinging his arms around Mysa. Behind him Krune were shouting and sherdlings shrieking. This was soon drowned out by the sound of hooves drumming as mounts circled in a panic to face the giant form. All around the column the great beings were emerging as if from slumber, lifting their twelve-foot blades. Some had buried their weapons to the hilt in the earth to hide them, others had lain them down parallel to the trail and covered them with layers of earth. But in moments these prodigious weapons were hanging over the Black Talon, gripped in fists that could have squashed even Jolm's demon helm flat without trouble.

A figure in black robes moved in the corner of the healer's eye. Samine appeared over him, her clothing suddenly blazing with bright glyphs of destruction. Her hands twisted into claws as she beheld the monster in gold and Chalos could feel the wild energies of the magic realm in the air around him, fizzing and popping as Samine prepared to shape and direct them. In a moment, all would be in flames.

'Hold!' came a voice, booming as if from inside a casket. 'All of you, hold, or die by my blade!'

It was the lieutenant. He was riding the length of the column, calling his warriors to order. After barking at the corporal to rally the scattered sherdlings and their panicked pavarine, he trotted casually over to where Chalos lay in the protective shadow of the Dread Spear.

'Ah, slingers,' he said to Chalos and Samine. 'You must consider yourselves honoured, for here is Dolga of the Gilt Plates!'

The huge gold-clad form squealed and clanked as it swung the sword, pressing the tip into the earth and leaning its monumental vambraces on the broad hilt. The face twisted into a smile, the movement reminding Chalos of a clod of earth turned by a hoe.

'Jolm of the Twisted Root! Then it is indeed the Black Talon!'

'How are you, my friend?' the Krune asked.

'Battered and bloodied, Tarukataru. We clashed with the Wielder himself, out on the plains. He drove us back with a third of our number crushed and lifeless.'

'And Tankanis?'

The huge head lowered a fraction.

'The Flint Wizard is no more, slain by the same foe.'

A groan sounded amongst the audience of Black Talon warriors. Chalos and Samine exchanged a glance. The Dread Spear had now relaxed her posture, drawing her slender hands into her sleeves, the glyphs on her dark robes dimming.

'So the Wielder is real, then,' Jolm muttered. 'Not some figment of the Rilm imagination.'

'Indeed.'

'You must accompany us onward, Captain,' said Jolm. 'We ride for the Ruin, under the orders of the Ten Plains King. Behind us comes Duke Elas, and in his wake the army entire. This land will be ours, however doughty this Riln hero may be.'

'Oh-ho, Jolm, he is doughty enough!' the huge creature said. 'But we know his capabilities now. He will not catch us unawares again.' Two creased reptilian eyes settled on the slingers. 'Ah, you have mages? That is good. We are in need of firepower.'

'A mage, and a healer,' said Jolm.

The eyes widened.

'Excellent news! I have many injured men!'

'Where are they?'

One of Dolga's huge arms lifted and pointed into the trees.

'We found some sort of fortress, ancient and half in rubble. Come, we will rest there tonight. Your healer can treat my men, and then we can march north together in the morning.' His mouth warped into a grin, metal-tipped teeth shining. 'Though I warn you, if the Wielder still stalks this land, last night's storm will seem as the song of a lovebird compared to the chaos he will unleash upon our bones.'

'Together, we will deal him a blow he won't forget,' Jolm said.

'Ha!' Dolga replied. 'Let us make an oath of that!'

The Gilt Plates had indeed found a fortress. The place was made of huge megaliths of dark granite streamed with purple quartz. Chalos felt his mind reel as he wondered where the massive blocks had come from, and how they had been transported in such incalculable number. The place was sunken into a ravine but seemed to almost climb out, spilling onto ground level. Jagged battlements and tumbled-down towers were everywhere.

As were the Gilt Plates.

So these are Dauwarks,
Chalos thought, having never glimpsed their kind before. They were beings of mass and power, their true forms invisible beneath their peculiar armour. Only those flat, grey reptilian faces peeped out, eyes black and glassy.
How on earth did someone actually defeat them?

Now he could understand the corporal's fear. Had ten thousand men fallen upon Dorga's host and bested them, those ten thousand would have been praised for their courage and skill. But Dolga claimed that just one man had routed them. It could not be possible.

The healer was separated from Samine and sent to a dome-like structure that might once have served as an amphitheatre. Inside, some forty Dauwarks crouched or lay, their breathing laboured. Some were naked beneath shroud-like coverings, others wore the remnants of armour, the plates dented and buckled. He saw broken hands, broken arms. The place stank of sweat, blood and excrement.

Closing the satchel at his hip to protect the still-sleeping Mysa from the worst of the stench, he strode purposefully into the dome. Several sets of black eyes tracked him. A Dauwark, helmless and wearing a bloody rag wrapped about his scaly pate, came bowling over.

'Rovann! You are the healer, yes?'

'I am. My name is Chalos.'

'Good for you, spindling. These men need your attention.'

'Very well.'

He went about his business gravely. Some of the men were in delirium, their wounds festering. He treated them first. Two were dead on their bedrolls. The rest waited patiently for his administrations. It was dark by the time the healing was done, and as soon Chalos shut off his link to the world of magic he slumped to one knee, wincing. He had gone beyond exhaustion, which was dangerous not only in terms of his sanity, but his own physical health.

By the time he rejoined the Black Talon camp had been set up in the wide corridors of the fortress. He asked after Samine and received a few winks and crude remarks from the Krune but the sherdlings – perhaps afraid of him – pointed him in the right direction. He found her on a battlement by a cavernous hole, the broken stone around the edge flecked with ash. She was sitting on her bedroll by a small fire, Sixt curled in her lap. Her hands stroked his head. A tongue darted appreciatively from Sixt's mouth.

'A nice spot,' Chalos said, wearily.

She smiled when she saw him.

'Chalos! You look worn out.'

'A hard evening of magery,' he said. 'Such wounds, Samine. The Wielder really hammered them.'

She nodded and looked about.

'What do you think this place was, Chalos? Sixt thinks it predates even the Dallian Woodland. That it was here hundreds of thousands of years ago. But he has no idea what lived here.' She tickled the lizard under the chin. It blinked slowly in an obvious show of pleasure. 'He did call it a monastery, though.'