Swordmistress of Chaos (19 page)

The messenger faded into the jewelled crowd, and Raven followed Spellbinder over that brilliant floor.

Before them was a double throne, set round with a carpet of scarlet furs. From that carpet rose a twin-tier of ivory steps, at the head a great bench of carved bone set with gems. Two people sat upon the great bench, their dress stark silver, gleaming, devoid of ornamentation. Their hair was purest, silk-soft gold, and around each high, pale brow was a circlet of black metal. Those faces, each one as akin to its neighbour as might be twin babes, stared down with cold, imperious eyes green as the gems inlaid like memories around their heads.

Raven stared back at that icy gaze, though her flesh crept beneath the stare that was both appraising and admiring. One, she saw, was a man, soft of feature, his acquiline nose fading into a soft, slack mouth that wore a hint of woman’s carmine to emphasise the full and fleshy lips. The other was clearly a woman. A woman magnificent in her assurance, a woman whose looks were as definitely feminine as her companion’s were ambiguous. Hair like bee-waxed honey fell in soft folds over shoulders of purest pale ivory, framing a face that might have been weak but for those imperious green eyes framed in lashes of jet. Her breasts thrust against the silver of her dress, covered where her courtiers’ were bared, though that veiling served only to further emphasise the firm contours of her body. Her mouth, too, was strong, wide, and naturally red, the lips full, sensual. There was that in her face which spoke of strength where her companion’s was weak, a determination bordering on ruthlessness. The man, Raven felt, might be manipulated—the gaze he fixed upon her was frankly admiring—while the woman would demand tact and guileful handling.

Then it came to her that there was, in the woman’s eyes, the same appraising, lustful expression present in the man’s. Raven was, by now, accustomed to the looks of men: desiring, wondering, calculating. To sense the same emotions in a female, knowing that she was the object of that desirous wonder, set her nerves to tingling. Though she was unsure whether from distaste or anticipation.

The man rose languidly to his feet, extending a beringed hand towards the woman. She rose beside him, unsmiling, imperious, her eyes still fixed on Raven. The courtiers had formed a circle around the visitors, jostling for position, their voices rising in a low hum of speculative conversation. The murmur of sound died away as the two on the great jewelled throne rose and a long-bearded man dressed in flowing robes of green and black stood before them. He carried a staff of gem-worked silver in a hand so thinned by passing time that it appeared as a bird’s foot upon the weighty bulk of the rod. His strength, though, was that of a younger man for he raised the great staff high above his head, peering round at the waiting crowd. Twice, thrice, he tapped the staff upon the floor, then spoke.

‘Quez M’yrstal, Altan of Karhsaam; Lord Prot~tor of his people; Lord of the world; Son of the Skull, bids you welcome. So, too, does the Altana; the lady Krya M’yrstal.’

The staff thudded once more and he bowed low as the Altan and his sister-wife descended the stair. The court, in order of rank, bowed, or knelt, or prostrated themselves. Only Raven and Spellbinder stood, watching the imperial couple move gracefully towards them.

Softly, his voice sweet and lilting, the Altan spoke.

‘I bid you welcome, travellers. Welcome and my thanks. Long has Karhsaam sought the holy relic of our ancestor, Quez Z’yrfal. Those who have brought me the Skull of Quez may ask of me what they will: name your desire, and it shall be given you.’

‘Our thanks, Great One.’ Spellbinder’s tone was courteous, flattering. ‘It is an honour to serve you in returning the Skull of Quez to its due resting place.’

‘Resting place?’ The ‘Altan laughed. ‘There will be little rest for the Skull. Karhsaam girds for war against the upstart merchants of the south; the Skull of Quez shall be our banner, and once again lead the chosen people into battle.’

‘But our concerns need not worry you,’ murmured his sister, ‘for you must be weary after your long quest. Rooms have long been prepared for you. Rest here as honoured guests until you wish to depart, or claim your rightful reward.’

Raven was about to speak, to demand the life of Karl ir Donwayne, but Spellbinder motioned her to be silent, his face troubled.

‘How knew you of our coming, my lady? We ourselves scarcely knew we should find the Skull of Quez, and the journeying took us far from the places of men.’

His tone was one of mild curiosity, a humble enquiry borne of awe and admiration. Yet in it Raven sensed some forethought of danger that sent her hand close to the hilt of her sword.

‘Why,’ answered Krya M’yrstal, smiling, ‘it was foretold.’

‘Foretold?’ Spellbinder made an effort to keep his voice neutral. ‘You have such powers?’

‘Not us,’ said the Altan, ‘but our chief advisor. He told of your coming. He is eager to meet you.’

‘He must surely be a man of great talents,’ said Spellbinder cautiously. ‘Who is this teller of futures?’

‘A warlock of great talents, indeed,’ said M’yrstal softly. ‘He is the mage Belthis.’

‘Victory is never certain until the battle-field stands empty; be ever prepared for counter-attack.’

The Books of Kharwhan

As a bolt of sudden lightning seems to freeze an image upon the eye, suspending time until the vision clears, so did a silence reverberate throughout the great hall. M’yrstal, his sister, their adherents, all appeared as frozen, unspeaking statues around whom rang a peel of malevolent laughter. The old man who had announced the Altan came forward; his lined, patrician face shifting, dissolving, until it became that of Belthis.

Hate shone bright in the warlock’s yellow eyes, though a smile curved his thin lips in a grim parody of humour.

‘Aye, you Kharwhan scum.’ His voice was the dry whisper of falling, long-dead leaves. ‘I am Belthis. You thought me gone, eh? Defeated and fled? Not Belthis, you arrogant pup! Karhsaam is a rich playground for such as I, the Altan a useful puppet.’

Raven sought to draw her blade, but it seemed welded with the scabbard, and as her fingers closed around the hilt her arm grew numb, her legs devoid of power.

‘So,’ continued the mage, ‘I came here, waited for you to bring me that which I needed. The Altan was eager for the help of such as I, and his dreams of conquest coincide with my own designs. The Skull of Quez was necessary as a rallying point, equally—as you doubtless have guessed—as a weapon. With that in our hands we shall march south, take the riches of the Southern Cities for our own. Men will swell the ranks of the army that we may march on Xand, Sly, even Ishkar.

‘Then, with Worldheart ringed round by Karhsaam swords, we shall turn our eyes to those bearded savages of Kragg. Aye, it will be good to watch Gondar Lifebane go down in bloody ruin! And, after him, Kharwhan!’

His eyes were mad, sparkling with a wild, inner light that bore hints of insane intelligence behind their madness.

‘Aye, Spellbinder. Kharwahn! The Ghost Isle will fall to so great a host, and all its secrets shall be mine to control. I, Belthis, shall be ruler of the world!’

‘Not while I live.’ Spellbinder’s voice was a slurred groan, as though he fought for control of his own tongue. ‘For such a purpose was I sent into the world. For that cause I shall die if I must.’

‘You will,’ giggled Belthis, ‘you will. Of that, be sure. Though not as a martyred agent of Kharwahn. Oh no, Spellbinder. You will die in the Altan’s torture pits as a spy. Of that be sure.’

He motioned strangely with the staff he carried and two of the silver armoured guards entered the hall. They seized Spellbinder with hands that sprouted bristling hair, curved talons, and beneath the curved peaks of their helmets shone feral eyes set in broad, animal faces.

‘Aye,’ giggled Belthis, ‘the Beastmen join the army of Karhsaam. And joining, join my purpose, for they have little love of the one who slew their king.’

‘Your power is great,’ muttered Spellbinder reluctantly, and Raven was unsure whether he spoke from defeated resignation, or to woo Belthis into carelessness. ‘I did not know you could change shape so well.’

‘That and many other things,’ boasted the mage. ‘Though you’ll be dead before you see them all. Hold him!’ He wove a pattern in the air that glowed bright for an instant, and then the hall came alive again as though time continued from the instant of his interruption, without pause.

Raven tried to cry out a warning, but when she sought to speak against Belthis her tongue furred and a dazzlement filled her mind to lose the thought. Instead, she was caught in angry silence as the mage spoke of Kharwhan treachery, of spies and plans of conquest. She would have cut the Beastmen—now human-visaged soldiers again—into bloody tatters; but each one held a dagger to Spellbinder’s throat, and the merest movement would have resulted in his death. So she contained herself; listening, hating.

Whatever fear Belthis had of her companion, it did not extend to Raven. Rather, it seemed that the mage was so obsessed with his own ability to control others that he assumed his enemies must follow the same practice, for he wove words in tempting promise about the ears of the Altan to persuade M’yrstal that the promised reward for the Skull of Quez was due only to its honest bringer. Raven, he suggested, was a tool, her labours born of love and loyalty warped by the Kharwhan spy. It was obvious that he counted her of meagre interest, and for that she was grateful: it would give her a chance to free Spellbinder.

Quez M’yrstal listened to Belthis as a child listens to a respected and feared teacher, accepting the warlock’s suggestions with a meakness that suggested some kind of mental control.

When the mage was finished Spellbinder was dragged out, consigned to the dungeons, and the Altan turned back to Raven.

‘I am sorry that you were so duped. Give thanks to Belthis that the web this...sorcerer...wove about you is now broken. He shall suffer his due fate while you, in gratitude for what you brought me, shall enjoy my favour. Name your desire and I shall grant it.’

‘Free him,’ asked Raven.

‘It cannot be,’ answered the Altan. ‘You ask the one thing I cannot grant.’

Raven forced her confused mind to order, pondering the difficulties of her plight. Had M’yrstal offered a choice between saving Spellbinder and fighting Donwayne, she might have been caught in a quandary of difficult resolve. In a way she was grateful that such decision was taken from her—but how to save her companion? That was a problem demanding time for its solving. Would the bird return to bring an answer? Or could Spellbinder save himself? It appeared doubtful, for Belthis seemed to have him meshed round with both magic and might; swords and sorcery. She asked for time.

‘So be it,’ agreed M’yrstal. ‘As a guest shall you stay, until you are ready to ask your boon. Until then Karhsaam honours you.’

She was taken to rooms in the upper reaches of the palace where windows of crystal shone light upon furnishings softer than any she had seen and dresses were brought for her inspection by simpering maids. She set aside her armour for a gown of dark blue bound round with silver decorations that curved to emphasise her breasts, the long, clean lines of her hips and legs. Then she was summoned to review the gift she had brought to Karhsaam.

It was Krya M’yrstal herself who came to bring Raven from her quarters to the amphitheatre built into the hill behind the palace. There, in a scalloped shell of burnished gold, Raven, was seated directly beneath the Altan and his sister-wife as a curious engine was dragged out to the centre of the arena.

A carriage of beaten silver set round with amber and amethyst bore a suit of plate armour fashioned from the finest of jet. Designed for a man taller than most, the armour was set in a war-like stance, one empty glove bearing a great sword that pointed forwards, the other holding a double-headed battle-axe. Black upon black rose the grieves and waist-plates, linking in subtle contours to the cuirasse, the jointed sections of the sleeves. Only the helmet was missing, for from the high-standing neck-guard rose the Skull of Quez..The yellowed bone gleamed in the sunlight, a weird light playing over the jewels set into eye-sockets and jaw, around the temples and the cheeks. Belthis stood behind the armour-borne skull, his eyes bright, his lips working to shape incantations. He raised one withered hand and twenty slaves were ushered into the arena. Roped together, they were unable to move more than a few paces in any direction for soldiers held the ends of the cords.

The Altan let a silken handkerchief flutter to the sand and Belthis inclined his head, his incantation rising in pitch.

He set both hands upon the armoured shoulders and the suit began to move. There was a great gasp of breath from the audience, and a silence through which the creaking of empty armour could be heard. Slowly, the sword arm dropped and the jewelled skull turned as though surveying the watchers. Belthis’ chanting rose in pitch and the skull faced forwards again, lowering to bear upon the terrified, whimpering slaves. A sound eerily akin to a laugh seemed to come from the empty bone, then a blaze of blue light.

Raven had seen that light before, back in Ishkar, but not so brilliant as now, nor so terrifying. Then it had been necessary to escape, now it was pure sadistic experimentation; then the light had been paler, now it was blue incandescence.

It lanced towards the slaves, washed over them. And they were gone. Only dark, bubbling pools of stinking liquid remained. The sand itself was burned black, the stones of the arena charred and smoking. The soldiers holding the slaves in place rubbed hands over heated eyes, dropping the smouldering ends of the rope.

Belthis turned, smiling, and Raven now knew the reason why Spellbinder had thought it so important this weapon should not fall into the hands of one capable of using it for evil intent. Not fully aware of the reason, aware only of the need, she determined to prevent Belthis from using the Skull of Quez to further his mad dreams of conquest. But for that purpose, she felt, she would need the help of Spellbinder.