Swordmistress of Chaos (17 page)

Spellbinder turned towards his companions, lowering his arms to afford them their first clear glimpse of the thing he carried. Its strange light dimmed, as if the releasing of his tension robbed it of power, and its outlines grew visible to their eyes.

It was a skull of aged yellow bone, though where eye sockets gaped there were huge, blue-white gems. The lower jaw was missing, but around the upper shone smaller stones in place of teeth, white and green and red, blue and black and yellow, a rainbow colouration worth an emperor’s ransom. Other gems crusted cheeks and cranium like a circlet of cold fire, appearing to grow from the bone itself as though jewel spawned jewel, spreading one from the other to attempt a covering of the dull-polished remnant of Quez Z’yrfal.

Spellbinder set it down, and the light died. He went to the great body sprawled within its own moat of spreading blood and tugged his blade loose from the ribs, wiping it somewhat cleaner on the buttocks.

‘We must depart.’ He sheathed the sword, retrieving the skull that glowed again as he touched it. ‘There is little honour in Beastmen, and much treachery. Even now they will be discussing an attack, reasoning excuses for the breaking of the law. Let one stronger that his fellows make himself known and they’ll be on us like wolves in a bad winter.’

‘But you are wounded.’ Raven felt more concern than she had thought to as she watched the blood coursing from his rent mail. ‘At least let me dress your wounds.’

‘Aye,’ Gondar added his voice to the argument, ‘you’ll not be fit to march nor fight with those holes in you.’

‘We must leave now,’ answered Spellbinder firmly. ‘The wounds will heal as we go. There are ways I know to mend flesh, and none are serious. Leave me to myself, for we must each tread with caution if we’re to take the Skull of Quez from its tomb.’

Without awaiting a reply he settled the skull in the crook of his left arm and turned for the outward trail. Raven, knowing the obstinacy that could at time govern his actions, followed after him. Gondar rumbled a curse, calling for Toril to gather the men in battle column, and strode up to join the others.

A rasping sound echoed over the clearing, and from the summit of the lonely building’s highest pinnacle there came the beating of wings. Once the bird circled the clearing, its cry ringing like a victory shout through the moon-bright air. Then it was gone, soaring upwards, disappearing into the dark sky.

Their return to the great cliff was a nightmare of half-heard sounds and imagined danger. The cold, ethereal light of the bejewelled skull lit their way, shining like a supernatural beacon down the overhung path through the jungle. It dimmed as dawn came, though amongst the sepulchral trees there was no defining of passing time, and anxiety spurred them on with only the briefest of halts to rest wearied limbs and gulp the last of their stored food.

They reached the cliff without sight of the Beastmen, though the murmurous stirrings of the jungle presaged a hostile watchfulness. There it was necessary to rest, for the climb would take the better part of a day and men weakened by lack of food and sleep might easily tumble from the narrow upward path.

Gondar set half his depleted force to ring the others with shields while they slept, changing the watch when the sun was halfway across the noon sky. The waiting chafed upon Raven, necessary though it was. She was anxious to carry the skull back to Karhsaam and claim her blood-right of the Altan. Yet Spellbinder’s warning rang loud within her mind and she knew they lacked the strength to oppose the force of Beastmen they had seen massed around the clearing. Yet wait they did, through the day and then through the night, for to attempt the cliff in darkness would surety have been madness. Instead, they passed a fitful, hungry night, rising at dawn to begin the perilous ascent.

Toril led the way, followed by Raven, and Spellbinder, flanked by Gondar, insisted that he should be last. He held the Skull of Quez in clear view while the Lord of Kragg fashioned a carrying sling from his linen shirt. Some few of the rievers carried bows, and these men halted on the upper platforms to guard the retreat of those below.

One by one the sea-wolves edged upwards until only their King and Spellbinder remained at the foot of the chasm. Spellbinder draped the makeshift sling around his shoulders, nestling the skull firm against his back; then urging Gondar to mount before him, he set to climbing the precipitous cliff. The first section of the upward journey was a vertical ladder of carved stone rising high as three tall men from the jungle floor. It reached a ledge where they paused, glancing back at the ominous jungle. There was no sign of attack and they moved along the ledge to the next vertical ascent. From there, they edged warily across a rim little more than a hand’s breadth wide to the next expanded section and ladder-like ascent. Where the handholds gave onto a wider space, two archers crouched, and as Gondar and Spellbinder hauled themselves upwards, they heard Raven shout a warning and looked back, turning their eyes downwards. The bows thrummed, driving arrows down at the jungle.

Sweating, their chests heaving from the effort, the two men turned, looking back. From the verge of the putrescent forest came a great pack of Beastmen, more even than were seen in the moonlit clearing. Their yammering cries bellowed upwards, ringing from the cliff-face, and though many fell to the barbed shafts of the archers the others surged on, fighting to mount the first stone ladder.

‘It is as I thought,’ panted Spellbinder. ‘The law was forgotten in lust for the skull.’

‘Whatever the reason,’ grunted the giant sea-wolf, ‘they’re near to claiming it back, for they climb like flies and the arrows are near gone.’

He motioned for the bowmen to ascend past him as he spoke, unslinging his great axe in preparation for a stand.

‘Climb yourself, my friend,’ smiled Spellbinder, ‘for I think this bauble has uses other than lighting our way.’

Gondar shrugged and began to climb after his men. He bad seen too much evidence of the dark warrior’s strange skills to question his ability, and his first thoughts were, anyway, for Raven and his sea-wolves.

Waiting until the riever was on the level above him, Spellbinder tugged the skull around to his chest, drawing it from the protective wrapping. He began to chant, softly at first, then louder as the Skull of Quez glowed with a pale, blue light. Crouching upon the ledge, he raised the skull level with his own face so that from below he seemed a thing of black and blood-stained armour surmounted by the luminescent death’s head. His chant rose to a gutteral wail and from the jewels set in the sockets of the dead man’s eyes there sprang twin beams of blue flame. Like lances of pale light those beams clove the jungle facing the cliff. Vines writhed and smouldered, red fire sparking from green, the trees themselves became wreathed in flame and smoke wafted over the jumbled foliage.

Spellbinder bowed his head, directing the beams downwards to sear hair and flesh, burn skin from bone, and send great clusters of Beastmen down into screaming, agonised oblivion. Twice, thrice, and then again he swept the ground below with that awful light, driving all but the animal-men hidden beneath the ledge back into the burning undergrowth. The air was filled with the smell of burning as he set the skull back into the sling and began to climb again.

He moved upwards to a position three ledges higher before he stopped, his face drawn and his breath coming in great sobbing gasps. The Beastmen were withdrawn into the jungle and those mounting the cliff were too well protected by the overhang of the ledges to permit either the rievers’ arrows or the skull’s lightning bolts to dislodge them. Spellbinder drew the cloth tighter around his body and set to climbing again.

At the head of that vertical procession Raven and Toril were close to the rim. Behind them the sea-wolves struggled upwards, seeking the safety of the savannah.

Spellbinder came upwards as Toril dragged Raven across the edge and together they hauled the next man over. Below the Beastmen mounted the cliff with animal agility, claws finding holds where feet and fingers would slip uselessly. So swift was their ascent that Raven urged Toril to send the first archers to reach the rim out to either side where they might—with luck—direct their shafts slantwise at the climbing monsters.

The arrows glanced, wasted, from the face of the rock, deflected away by the wrinkles of stone protecting the Beastmen. Gondar surmounted the rim and ordered his men to begin the march back to the river basin, for if Spellbinder failed the climb it would take three swords to stem the Beastmen’s advance. Or none.

Hanging over the edge, Raven, Gondar, and Toril watched Spellbinder’s ascent. Whatever magic the dark warrior had used to stem his wounds clearly added no extra strength to his wasted condition, for his movements were those of a man in the last pacings of his power. He climbed like one in a dream: slowly, each upward step a painful forcing of muscles that protested the action of movement. Yet still he came on, edging crab-wise along the narrow ledge, dragging himself up along the rock-cut ladders.

And below, closing fast, the Beastmen rose with horrible speed.

Five had braved the climb and the skull-fire to pursue their lost trophy, and those five looked to overtake the man in the black, bloodied armour.

‘Opposition may not always be overcome by the most direct methods; there are times when the mind proves sharper than the sword.’

The Books of Kharwhan

Karhsaam was preparing for war.

The galleys that came scudding out from the mouth of the Lym river bristled onagers and archers like teeth in the mouth of a fire-dragon. Five there were, each one boasting fifty oars that drove their low-built shapes over the waves like hunting otters. And each one flew the burning skull pennant from the masthead, designating their bellicose intent.

On Gondar’s order the green pennants of friendship were hoisted on
Storm-runner
and
Worldbane,
though the sea-wolves would as lief fight as submit to the vastly superior odds.

The galleys circled the wolf-boats nervously, for the dread reputation of the Kragg rievers was wide-spread around the shores of Worldheart, and there were few who cared to risk battle with them. The flag captain of the Altan’s squadron opted for caution, lifting a bronze trumpet to shout across to Gondar.

‘What business have you here, man of Kragg?’ The onagers were loaded as he spoke. ‘Your wolf-boats are unwelcome on these shores.’

Gondar cupped hands to mouth and bellowed back: ‘I am Gondar Lifebane, High King of Kragg. My wolves roam where they will and few are foolish enough to oppose us. I come now in peace. I bear two travellers, carrying a gift for your Altan.’

‘What gift comes out of Kragg, riever,’ came the reply, ‘other than blood and destruction?’

Gondar’s eyes blazed and his teeth clamped tight. The men around the onager set at
Storm-runner’s
prow sighted on the galley, anticipating the order to loose their shot. Raven cast anxious eyes upon the blond riever, admiring his fearlessness even as she cursed him for jeopardising her mission. Spellbinder was more practical, leaping to the foredeck alongside the Lifebane.

‘Easy, my friend, easy.’ His voice was a soft persuasion, urging caution. ‘You gave your word to bring us safe to Karhsaam, not sink us again.’

Gondar chewed his beard, one hand caressing the hilt of his axe. Then: ‘Aye, Spellbinder, I gave my word. Though by all the gods of earth and sea, it sits heavy upon me.’

‘I await your answer, Lifebane.’ The flag captain grew bold as he saw the diminished ranks of the sea-wolves. ‘You fly the green, yet Kragg has been known to use trickery before now.’

‘The trickery I’ll show you is in axe-play,’ grunted Gondar, fortunately too low for the other to hear. Spellbinder nudged him then, and he shouted again. ‘Two travellers with a great gift for the Altan. They bring him a thing long lost and much desired: the Skull of Quez.’

The answer was a howl of laughter that set Gondar’s arm to lifting in order to the onager-men—until Spellbinder grabbed that arm and dragged it down.

Swift then, knowing short-fused tempers must soon spark into violence, the dark warrior lifted the leather sack he carried over one shoulder, tugging at the drawstrings to reach inside and raise up the jewelled skull. Again, as it had back in Ishkar, the thing glowed with a supernatural light. The Karhsaam flag captain gaped, only the chin straps of his battle-helm preventing his jaw from opening wide enough to swallow the object of his amazement. He fell to his knees, staring eyes fixed upon the shining skull, and on all the war-galleys his fellows made the same obeisance.

‘We bring the Skull of Quez home,’ shouted Spellbinder. ‘Will you give us passage?’

The seaman nodded his assent, too shocked to reply coherently, motioning for his sailors to turn the galley and escort the wolf-boats in to harbour.

The joindure of the Lym with the ocean was barred by a great boom of woven rope and chain, supported by a series of hulks plated with fire-proof leather and manned by archers. Two of these floating forts were winched upstream to afford the galleys passage, though before Gondar took
Storm-runner
through he shouted for Toril to drop sea anchor outside, holding
Worldbane
ready to run should a trap be set. It came to Raven that the presence of Gondar Lifebane in Karhsaam might too easily spoil her plans, for the riever was unable to keep his hands from his axe; nor were the sailors of Karhsaam easy in his presence. So she was glad when Spellbinder suggested the lord of Kragg might better serve them all if he returned to his island, using the threat of a massed sea-wolf raid to ensure their safety.

At first Gondar protested, but Spellbinder’s tongue had lost none of its guile, and when Raven lent her own voice to the persuasion Gondar acquiesced.

‘So be it.’ His sea-grey eyes fixed on Raven as he spoke, a smile tinged with sadness playing upon his lips. ‘Did I not know what this means to you, I should go with you. However, I doubt I could hold my temper in check in this land of little men and mealy-mouthed kinglets; and they bear scant love for me and my wolves, so perhaps it is better that I go. I’d not risk losing you your just vengeance, Raven; though I’m loath to lose you.