War of Power (The Trouble with Magic Book 3) (48 page)

Florian materialised on the top of the stickily encrusted altar. All around him, priests, acolytes, temple servants and guards instantly threw themselves down on the temple’s black floor. The Arinish prince allowed himself a mental shrug; they were as safe here as anywhere for the moment, but this wasn’t where he really wanted them to be. Turning slowly on the spot he extinguished the sputtering, flaring torches, plunging the interior of the abominable edifice into smoke-tainted darkness. The prostrate worshippers began a mournful low-pitched wail, interspersed with monotonous staccato chants and frantic prayers. Having no desire to terrify them into insanity, Florian gradually filled the interior with a softer unflickering light. His gaze travelled around the chamber and across the backs of the hundred or more worshippers who dotted the temple floor and clustered around the altar.

Feeling no emotion except perhaps a little twinge of regret that what he was about to do was necessary and unavoidable, he turned and faced the temple’s massive doors. Like a black fog descending, the soft light illuminating the vast space was slowly extinguished. The interior and its occupants were enshrouded in impenetrable darkness, unrelieved even by the blue-white aura in which Florian was now enveloped, and which rendered him essentially invisible. A long moment of tense and unbroken silence followed, then Florian uttered a single word, harshly commanding and sickeningly execrable, which echoed and re-echoed around the cold black walls.

From right to left, the first of the sinister glyphs engraved along the door’s lintel flared into life yet shed no light, its gold malevolence etched into the darkness as if it were hanging on nothing. The second and third quickly followed, and Florian began to intone the ancient language, keeping pace as each glyph awoke. Strong and unwavering, his voice evoked the dread poetry flowing through each abhorrent stanza until the last phrase rang in a great crescendo around the temple’s forbidding walls. The final echo had barely faded when Florian turned, re-ignited the torches and regarded the occupants of the temple who were now on their feet and showing the first tell-tale signs of panic.

Allowing his unearthly aura to subside to a narrow outline of pale light, he smiled down at them. “There is nothing to fear. Come and gather round, for there is little time.”

The Arinish prince waited as those who had cowered in the furthest corners moved hesitantly forward, until every priest, acolyte, guard and worshipper were all crowded in front of the foul altar and gazing expectantly up at him. He smiled again and inscribed a wide arc in the air above their heads.

* * *

Immersed in a sea of cogitations and memories, Symon gave a little start as Magnor reached down and prodded his shoulder. “It’s time.”

The little magician glanced up at the deep lintel above the cavern’s entrance. The first glyph at the right-hand side of the first row had begun to pulse, slowly and steadily. With a helping hand from Magnor, he scrambled to his feet and raised his hand, fingers spread apart above his head. Like someone blowing out candles, one by one the hovering Lights of Perimus winked out. The second glyph shimmered into life, hanging in the near tangible darkness alongside the first. Magnor’s deep commanding voice boomed around the cavern, unerringly uttering the ancient script glyph by glyph in a fluidly guttural language that left Symon feeling uncomfortable and on edge. Not allowing it to infiltrate his memory he followed as Magnor completed the second line and all but one glyph of the third. He felt his arm held in a firm but gentle grip as Magnor raised his voice to complete the utterance. The glow of the triple row of glyphs died away, and Magnor sent out a mind-call. The floor beneath their feet began to tremble and Symon began to sing up the Light of Perimus.

Magnor shook Symon’s arm. “It won’t work; not here, not now. Wait.”

Confused and a little alarmed, Symon stopped singing and stood perfectly still in the darkness, listening to the sounds of what seemed to be distant thunder as the floor continued to tremble. Using dark-sight, Magnor watched the entrance, gauging the depth of sand as it seemed to flow of its own volition along the adjoining tunnel. Suddenly the floor tilted, sending the two magicians staggering against each other and across the width of the cavern. With a resounding and mind-numbing detonation the ancient lintel cracked, the ends folding upwards, the middle snapping like a stick and opening a narrow jagged fissure which raced across the ceiling. Just a yard from where the two magicians huddled, a hand’s-width crack snaked across the shifting floor, swallowing chunks and pieces of the ancient and realistic carvings which had begun to burst away from the walls. As thin rivulets of sand began to trickle through the fractured ceiling, Magnor closed his eyes and Symon reached out with his hand.

Realising they were no longer restrained, the Vedrans scrambled to their feet. The customary arguments and vociferous grumblings had barely begun when the familiar rushing hiss of grelfon wings cut them abruptly short. Their eyes on the sky they surged forward. By now, not one of them would balk at the prospect of rescue by the arrogant Grelfi and their fractious beasts. They staggered in the powerful gust as the creature back-winged to land fifty yards in front of them.

Karge elbowed his way forward. “C’mon you lot. Let’s see who it is!”

A spear thudded into the sand a yard from his feet. “Hold your position soldier!”

Karg skidded to a halt, looking up and blinking as golden light flooded down from halfway up the mountain’s sheer face. He looked away, his lip curling as he caught sight of the black-clad rider standing high in the stirrups and glaring down at him from between the grelfon’s half-raised wings. An insult died in his throat, his impulse to make a grab for the still quivering spear thwarted as three figures, two of them impressively tall and one considerably shorter, strode towards him from his left. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The expressions on the faces of his fellow Vedrans told him that if he had ideas about taking on the new arrivals, he would be doing it alone. He stood his ground, burning hostility evident in his yellow eyes as a tall man in a charred and tattered robe stood in front of him.

With eyes that had lived too much, too quickly, the man studied Karg for a long moment before he spoke. “I am Karryl. Your fight is over. You have your freedom, for what it may mean to you.”

Karg’s black upper lip curled in derision as shale crunched behind him. “You’re wrong, magician, if that’s what you are. It’s never over. When Lord Ghian...”

“Lord Ghian is dead; swallowed by the same rift in the desert that you almost charged into.”

Karg’s whole demeanour seemed to crumple like a water-skin being emptied. “So, what happens to us now?” He peered round Karryl’s shoulder at bowman Buller perched high on Jaknu’s shoulder. “And where are the rest of the Jadhra dogs?”

“They’re gone too. Returned to their own world; an opportunity which was in your grasp but one which you scorned.”

Thunder rumbled, this time much closer. Under their feet the ground trembled, flakes of shale and small pebbles dancing and skittering across the hard-packed sand. Jaknu raised his wings and growled a truculent protest.

Karg looked nervous as he jerked his head towards the shuffling grumbling squad behind him. “Can we get back to Vedra?”

The second tall man, dressed in huntsman’s clothes, stepped forward and shook his head as he regarded Karg with steely blue eyes. “I wouldn’t advise it. I doubt there’ll be much of it left by morning.”

Karg’s belligerence rose. “What’re you talking about? Vedra will stand for another thousand years!”

His mood wasn’t helped when he found Magnor’s face thrust up close to his own. “That’s not a thunderstorm you can hear, no more than the movement under our feet is just a tremor. The words have been spoken, Vedran. The god has been called by his true name and now has no choice but to do what he was condemned to do before he exiled himself.”

Behind Karg, the squad had moved forward to hear what Magnor was saying. Not one of them looked anything other than horrified, but stayed quiet, content to let Karg handle things.

His belligerence was now forming a good head of rage. He almost screamed. “You lie, just like the other magician lied! If Zo’ad has awoken he will bring the power to make Vedra great again!”

Magnor shook his head as if despairing of making Karg see sense. “There is no Zo’ad, and Vedra is even now being destroyed.”

In the stunned silence one of the Vedrans leaned forward and murmured something in Karg’s ear. He nodded in response and took a small step backwards. Seconds later Karryl, Symon and Magnor found themselves confronted by an empty space. Surprised, the three magicians looked at each other, but the question was voiced by bowman Buller.

He had slipped from Jaknu’s back and was hurrying towards them. “Who did that then?”

The reply came from behind them. “I’m quite prepared to accept responsibility for that.” Florian stepped from the concealing shadow of Jaknu’s outstretched wings. “I thought it best to remove the danger before someone was hurt. The Vedrans were about to attack.”

Symon’s broad brow furrowed. “You haven’t killed them have you?”

The Arinish prince seemed genuinely appalled at the idea. “Absolutely not! He took a deep breath to compose himself. “They are quite safe, comparatively speaking, as are the ill-used and misguided creatures that once dwelled in that black and evil city.”

As if determined to protest Florian’s actions, another prolonged roll of thunder boomed and reverberated over the general direction of Vedra.

Karryl looked decidedly worried. “So where are they all?”

Florian clasped his hands behind his back and managed an almost impossible amalgamation of smug and relief. “About two miles beyond the outskirts of Nebir there is a small oasis which the nomads use as a wayfarer’s rest. I’ve...er...dropped them off nearby. There’s always at least one group spending a day or so there before they move on. The nomads will take anyone into their number, as long as they obey the rules. As to what happens to them if...”

He was given no chance to explain further. With a deafening roar, the gaping chasm which had swallowed Ghian began to widen, and at the pace of a slow walk, the desert floor slipped yard by hissing yard down into the hungry maw.

In a tone which made it clear that there was to be no argument, Florian called out “It’s time we departed, gentlemen.” He touched Magnor’s shoulder. “You take Symon and the Mage-Prime. I will be responsible for the grelfon and the Jadhra.”

Karryl leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. “He isn’t Jadhra; he’s one of Vailin’s bowmen. And the grelfon is called Jaknu. Between them, they saved my life.”

The Arinish prince nodded his understanding. Miles away, thunder rolled and jagged lightning harpooned the darkness. Florian turned and began to steer bowman Buller towards Jaknu as ten more yards of desert disappeared

The prince called over his shoulder. “Vailin’s palace, gentlemen. Quickly!”

Built on the half-buried ruins of a city even more ancient than itself, Vedra had crouched in the desert like a black and venomous spider for almost a thousand years. Even during the cataclysm of its final hours the resemblance would persist. Just as a cruel child would pull it limb from limb, so the spider that was Vedra lost its massive and repugnant limbs one by one.

As if aware of its own impending death, the city’s mighty groan reverberated through the surrounding desert and rose high up into the night sky. Broken and torn apart, the dark and damaged streets twisted further, to lie contorted and crushed beneath tons of grey and black stone. The tortured body quaked and trembled, the violence of its death throes unheard and unseen by the outside world until, with a final roar of despair and anguish the city collapsed in on itself. Its ruined bulk plunging irretrievably block by massive block into a smoking abyss of unfathomable proportions, it surrendered to the suffocating embrace of the unforgiving desert whose face it had scarred.

In a grim parody, a ragged web of fractures and crevices spun relentlessly through the desert’s substrata, bursting caverns, weakening and splitting rocks as old as time and collapsing miles of labyrinthine tunnel systems. Near the end of a low coastal mountain range a deep subterranean lake was sucked away, its thousands of gallons of icy water diverted, rolling and tumbling along riven tunnels and tubes where, aeons past, molten lava had flowed down to meet the slowly encroaching waters of a new ocean. Surging inexorably onwards along violently re-conformed routes, the seething torrent’s indomitable pressure forced it upwards, fracturing the protective walls of a vast circular chamber, empty but for a gleaming and quietly humming object set on a low plinth in the centre. Unseen and unheard, the swirling waters rose inch by inch.

* * *

High above an Ingalian jungle clearing, a furiously gyrating column of black light speared up into the cloudless sky, shutting out the sun. All around, pieces of the seemingly innocent but truly malignant temple lay scattered, some thrown for hundreds of yards in every direction. Warped out of alignment, another dimension quivered, its very existence threatened by the vast rent which now marred its once immutable and impenetrable fabric.

Released from the metaphysical bonds which had held him for almost two millennia, the disgraced and exiled god Huitzilochti burst like a meteor into the air above the city he had forced his worshippers to create. Enraged and embittered by the total annihilation of his sole domain, he surged into the upper atmosphere, evolving into an incandescent ball as he turned his pent-up rage and energy inwards in an irreversible cycle which would ultimately result in self-destruction.

Minutes later and half a world away, a massive fireball plummeted towards a heavily forested and uninhabited region of eastern Altanica. One mile above the ground the fireball exploded, vaporising a large freshwater lake, transforming the forest to a vast flattened circle of matchwood and creating what would be known by future generations as the Altanic steppe.