Sword of Wrath (Kormak Book Eight) (3 page)

Kormak gave a sour grimace. “Then I suppose I had better read it.”

He made no move to do so immediately. In his experience, such messages rarely brought good news. The scroll was made of heavy paper which spoke of the order’s considerable wealth. The red wax bore the imprint of a dragon surrounded by an elder sign. On it showed a number of smaller stars, which marked it as the seal of the abbot of the Trefal chapter house. Kormak recognised it at once, for he had taken it off the finger of his dead friend Gerd only the day before.

“Who is using the seal?” Kormak asked.

“Frater Gregor, Guardian,” the messenger said. “He is the acting abbot until Grand Master Darius appoints a successor to Abbot Gerd.”

Kormak broke the seal with his fingernail and slowly unrolled the scroll. He did not know why he was tormenting the messenger. He suspected it was because he was resentful of the intrusion of order business, so soon after he had finished one of the greatest fights of his life. Or perhaps it was the interruption of conversation with Rhiana. He smoothed the paper flat on the battlement, after glancing around to make sure that no one but himself and the messenger could see what it said.

Guardian Kormak, report to the chapter house in Trefal immediately. Take this to be written under the seal of Grand Master Darius. Messages of importance await you with the Farspeaker.

“I will visit your Farspeaker within the hour,” Kormak said.

The messenger gave him another salute, and then turned and raced back along the battlements. Kormak stood there brooding. He knew that he should act. The scroll implied that he should do so with the utmost haste, but he could not bring himself to do it. He told himself it was the after-effects of the elixir. He told himself he was tired because of it. He knew in his heart of hearts that was not the real reason; he did not want to face the warriors of the chapter house so soon after getting their abbot killed.

“You look like you just bit into a maggot-filled apple,” Rhiana said.

“I suspect I am about to.” Kormak also suspected that he was not going to like whatever communication he was about to receive from the Grand Master. He wondered what it could be. Gerd must have reported his presence using the speaking stones before they went down into the labyrinth beneath the palace. It had been his duty to do so.

“You always seem to get messages at the most awkward times.”

“I need to go,” he said. He rolled up the scroll, folded it, folded it again and placed it within his tunic. He would destroy it later when he got the chance. He leant down and kissed her. “Duty calls.”

K
ormak crossed
the square and entered the cloisters of his order. Armed men wearing the black tabard and red dragon symbol greeted him. Was it his imagination, or were they looking at him with disapproval? They must know that he was responsible for the death of the abbot in the labyrinth beneath the Palace Imperial. If only he had been a bit faster and a bit smarter, the abbot might still be alive.

Nonetheless, they saluted him. Kormak told himself it was not him that they were saluting, but the blade on his back. He returned the fist-over-heart greeting and walked on, passing through a tiled courtyard in which a sea dragon spouted water into a small artificial pool. Arched doorways provided entrance into the inner sanctum of the chapter house. An elderly man in the robes of a lay brother limped towards him.

“How may I help you, Guardian?” he asked. The man’s hair was pure white. His face was deeply lined and burned brown by the sun. The veins protruded from the backs of his hands as he pressed them together, as if in prayer.

“I seek your Farspeaker,” Kormak said.

“I will take you to his sanctum,” the old man said. He led the way towards an arched doorway studded with metallic elder signs. The whole place bristled with them. The chapter house was a fortress designed to resist supernatural incursion.

Beyond the door, two stone statues stood guard. They depicted armoured men with empty scabbards on their back and rune-inscribed blades clutched in their fists. They were guardians like himself, possibly two of the heroes who had helped free Siderea from the rule of the Old Ones.

Kormak and the old man walked down a long dark corridor. Kormak heard the sounds of men practising with swords. He felt a flash of nostalgia for the long-gone days of his youth. Memories of training in the fighter’s court at Mount Aethelas flooded back into his mind.

Those brought back recollections of the abbot he had trained alongside, back when they were both boys. Like Kormak, the abbot had been a guardian. Unlike him, Gerd had retired from active service to take over the running of this chapter house. Now he was gone, and it was Kormak’s fault.

Two youths ran down the corridor. They wore the robes of novices, and still had wooden practice swords in their hands. They stopped chattering when they saw Kormak. A look of awe flickered across their faces, and they made the sign of the Sun over their hearts. He did not return the greeting. He was not who they thought he was. He was not a hero; he was a middle-aged man who had spent too long in the field and should have retired years ago.

The old man brought him to a flight of stairs. They curved upwards through the inside of the tower. Another elder sign had been carved above the entrance to the stairwell.

“You will find the Farspeaker at the top of this tower,” the old man said. “May the Holy Sun watch over you.”

“And you,” Kormak said. He strode up the stairs, all the way to the top. He passed a number of landings, and looked out through a number of slit windows which give a view of the Cathedral and the rooftops of the city all around.

At the top of the stairs was another door. He knocked upon it and a high voice from within called, “Enter and be welcome, Guardian.”

Kormak pushed the door open and looked into a darkened room. Inside was a tall old man, stooped with age. He was so ancient that he might have been the father of the man who had led Kormak to this tower. His face was scarred. A claw mark had torn great lines out of his cheek. His eyes were half shut, and the milky white of cataracts shone in them.

Kormak was not surprised the old man had known he was there. He was, after all, a seer. He had a gift that was invaluable to the order and rare among men.

“You have a message for me. I am here to receive it.”

“Very good, Guardian Kormak. I shall repeat the words as they were revealed to me through the eye of the sun.”

There was a formal quality to the man’s speech. He was taking part in a ritual just as much as Kormak was. “Guardian Kormak, Grand Master Darius greets you. You are to be commended on your slaying of the fiend Vorkhul. It is another great victory for the Light.”

Kormak wondered at how quickly this message had come. He had not yet made his report, and Gerd could not have sent the message. They were the only two people who should have been able to send such a message to the Grand Master. In theory.

“Now you must bring further glory to the order, by finding out who was responsible for unleashing this demon on the folk of Siderea. You must track this blight to its source. In this, all aid will be provided to you by King Aemon, who is a great friend and prop to our order. This is a direct command from your Grand Master. Hear and obey.”

Kormak felt a surge of anger, which he swiftly quashed. It would do him no good to take out his annoyance on the old man in front of him. He took three deep breaths and said, “Who sent word of the death of Vorkhul to the Grand Master?”

“I did, Guardian.”

“Of course. On whose behalf?”

“I am not at liberty to say, Guardian.”

“Even at my direct command? I bear a dwarf-forged blade.”

“I am under orders from one whose authority exceeds even your own Guardian.”

“Only the authority of the Grand Master does that.”

“Or his direct representative.”

Kormak considered that for a moment. The Grand Master did have agents who could speak with his voice when the need arose, and it made sense that one of those would be in Trefal. Siderea was the richest kingdom in the Sunlands, and its king a great patron of the order. If he were not dead, the most likely candidate for such a position would have been Gerd himself.

News of the death of an Old One and an abbot certainly counted as important in the order’s view, as did an attempt on the life of King Aemon. He could not dispute that the sending on of such tidings was justified. What angered him was that someone had gone behind his back and passed on King Aemon’s request to Grand Master Darius. No doubt he had added word of the king’s generous offering as well. It smacked of corruption.

“And you will not tell me who sent this message, even if I show you the runes on my blade.” It was the strongest compulsion he could use. Members of the order were supposed to obey a guardian in the field quickly and without argument. It was often a matter of life and death.

“Not in this matter, Guardian. I am under orders from one whose authority exceeds even yours.” Kormak knew he could not push the matter. He had been defeated before he even began. King Aemon’s gold trumped any objections he might have to obey the man’s will, at least as far as Grand Master Darius was concerned.

He would have to do what the king wanted. Anything else he did here would just be a formality. Still, formalities needed to be observed. He must make his report while he was able.

“I must send a message to Mount Aethelas,” Kormak said.

“Of course.”

The Farspeaker turned and opened a wooden case. Inside lay a yellowish crystal inscribed with mystical runes. With great gentleness, the old man lifted it from its velvet setting, placed it against his forehead, then against his lips and then set it down upon the table. He intoned a prayer to the Holy Sun, and then looked up at Kormak and said, “What word would you send to Mount Aethelas?”

Kormak knew how things would go now. He would tell the old man what needed to be said, and the Farspeaker would memorise it.

“The message is in two parts,” Kormak said. “The first part of the message is that Abbot Gerd is dead. I witnessed his passing into the Light with my own eyes.”

The fact that someone had already told the Grand Master this was irrelevant. The death must be confirmed by a reliable witness.

The Farspeaker nodded, as if Kormak was not telling him anything he did not already know. Kormak continued, “He was killed doing his duty by an Old One, who is now also dead. Vorkhul was its name. It may now be erased from the scrolls of record. It was slain by the Guardian Kormak.”

He paused to make sure that the old man had comprehended what he said. The Farspeaker sat there with his eyes closed, and a frown of concentration on his brow. He repeated the words silently to himself, and then nodded.

“Continue, Guardian Kormak.”

“The Lunar Ambassador in Trefal is a sorceress of the highest order. Her name is Marketa. Her ostensible purpose here is negotiations with the king about the return of a still-functioning moongate. Guardian Kormak suspects she may be here for other reasons.”

The old man repeated the words then asked, “Is there anything more?”

Kormak shook his head.

“I will send your messages at once, Guardian Kormak. Do you wish to await a reply?”

“Any reply can be sent to me at the palace.”

“If I may, I would like to say something, Guardian.”

“Speak whatever you have in your mind.”

“The presence of Lady Marketa is known here and on Aethelas. As is the presence of the moongate.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Then why repeat this in your message?” Sending messages through the eyes of the sun was enormously taxing. Kormak wondered whether the old man was simply trying to avoid the strain.

“I am leaving tracks in the sand for any guardian who comes after me,” Kormak said. As he spoke, he heard the thoughts of his death implicit in his words. “It is possible I am going on a journey from which there will be no return.”

* * *

“
Y
ou are
certain he did not see you?” Lady Marketa hid her uneasy expression with a flick of her fan, as she stared at the changeling’s nondescript face. It had entered her luxurious apartments through the secret passage, wearing the robes of a monk. Even as she talked, it was donning the formal tunic of one of her retinue. None of her servants would dare to behave in such a disrespectful fashion, but the changeling ranked at least her equal in the service of Alena Mercurion, True Born Daughter of the Lady, Mistress of Magic at the Courts of the Moon.

It pulled the linen shirt over its muscular torso. In the light of the magically glowing moonstones, it looked so normal—attractive even, if you did not know what lay beneath. Its features started to blur, becoming darker and more aquiline in the way of an easterner. The eye colour became brown. The fair-skinned, fair-haired blue-eyed monk had disappeared as if he had never been.

“I am certain, mistress,” it said in a light, pleasant voice. “After Kormak left the chapter house, I followed him through the market and the noble quarter and up to the palace. At first, I took the form of a beggar, and then a merchant, and finally a monk.”

Marketa sank down on the thick pillows of her divan and took a pull on the hookah of swiftweed as she tried to gather her thoughts. The message from the Courts of the Moon had been a strange and disturbing one, but she was obliged to pass it along.

The soothing smoke from the water-pipe entered her lungs and began to calm her frayed nerves. She needed it; it had been a long night, full of terrible news. This whole day, messages had flickered through her magical mirror from her patron Eldrim in the realms far to the east. She felt the strain of that sorcerous contact almost as much as she had felt it from Vorhkul’s terrible blighted presence within the palace. A corrupted Old One, a servant of Shadow—it did not seem possible in this day and age, but now she knew it was. No wonder the Mistress of Magic was so upset.

“He did not notice, and he was never out of your sight?”

“He did not see me.” The changeling pursed its lips. Were they thinner now than they had been a few moments ago? It looked very striking and aristocratic now, almost like her first husband. Did the changeling know that? Most likely. It would have been briefed very thoroughly at the Courts of the Moon. Useful as it was, she would not be sorry to see the back of it. Its presence made her deeply uneasy. If the king or his damned brother found out that her retinue contained a changeling, the consequences would be awful.

Of course, they could not find out. Changelings were impossible to detect by any known sorcery. The things that let a changeling alter its form were not magical; they were a product of the way its body had been altered by the fleshsculptors.

She recalled a class long ago. A corpse laid out on a dissection slab, and a scalpel going in. The body had belonged to a changeling, one that had displeased its master. The Old Ones had no trouble spotting a changeling, even if everyone else had.

She recalled the flesh being peeled away from the face, and the strange webs of muscle and tendon beneath. She recalled the pouches containing odd fluids that had burst under the instructor’s knife, and the vein-like channels writhing like living things away from the blade. Those cords and cables could tighten, alter the shape of the face. The sacs could pump liquids into sub-dermal reservoirs, making the owner look fatter or thinner at will. The same arrangements could be found all over the changeling’s body.

Tiny dye pouches near the tear ducts enabled the changeling to alter the colour of its eyes. Its bones could telescope and its spine lengthen, allowing the creature to become taller or shorter. Changelings’ voice boxes were altered to allow them to imitate almost any speaker. They could even change their scents so that guard beasts could not spot them.