Stonehand, p.17
Stonehand, page 17
As horrific as the scene in front of them proved to be, the sense of wrongness that had drawn the two women to the room went further than some dead Priests. There was something else.
Daine turned to look at her companion. Did she trust this Priestess? She was obviously shaken by what was in this room, so she was comfortable that the woman was not part of whatever was happening here. That did not, of course, mean she could rely on her. Therefore, perhaps the more pertinent question was, did it matter if she was betrayed by her?
Daine did not think she had anything to fear from the Priestess as an opponent, but if Gant had driven one thing into her, it was to “hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”
She turned back to regard the group in the centre of the room. The flickering light of the runes cast grotesque shadows upon the chamber’s walls, accentuating the twisted features of the Priests.
Their hands, once raised in prayer and supplication, now hung limply by their sides, devoid of purpose or meaning. Voices raised in praise of the Lords of Misrule had been silenced, replaced by a silence that hung like a deathly pall.
“You roll the dice and take your chance” might be the creed by which this Order lived, but Daine did not think these Priests would appreciate how their Luck had run out.
Or maybe it hadn’t.
Again, there was that nagging feeling that there was something else going on here. In this chamber of souls laid bare, despair mingled with the faintest glimmer of hope. Though the Priests now stood as empty vessels, defiance lingered, a stubborn refusal to yield entirely to the darkness that had consumed them. In the depths of their vacant eyes, a flicker of their former selves persisted, a whisper of the souls that once burned bright with devotion. But now, trapped within this chamber of shadows, their prayers went unanswered, lost in the void that had become their existence.
Daine stepped forward to touch one of the runes. Again, the slightest pull to her health but nothing else. She did not recognise the script which appeared to have been painted with blood. “If I had to guess, I would say your Archbishop has begun feeding your Order to the mirror. What was it the guard said? No one in or out.”
“But that’s —”
“I know.” Daine turned away from the rune and moved through the chamber, trying to find any other evidence of how the transformation had taken place. The Runes had not drained these people, but they were clearly keeping the Priests in some sort of stasis. It must have been the mirror for which they had been hunting that had caused this — these men and women of the Inner Temple had been turned into Soulless.
But did the mirror need to have contact to pull out the soul? She did not think so; these Priests looked like they had all been taken unawares.
So, simple proximity.
Did the Archbishop have it placed in this room and then send these victims to their doom? Perhaps the mirror left its victims with just enough life force to be animated, which the runes constantly drained. A brutal but effective way to empower the mirror without having rampaging hordes of Soulless to contend with. That seemed most probable.
But, if that was the case, where was it now? And how much more powerful could it become? How many Priests would it need to consume before she needed to worry about her capacity to destroy it?
The prospect of needing to call for support did not appeal. Old Gant had been clear that while, in theory, she could call upon help if needed, there would be consequences. There were stories of those Knights on Tour who could not carry their own water.
They were not complimentary.
Daine Orban had plans for how her legend would develop, and they did not include running home for the big boys.
“Priestess, I know this is horrifying, and I am sorry for you to see your fellows in such a state, but I need to know more of this ‘conclave’ of which the guard spoke. Is there somewhere your Archbishop may seek to assemble large numbers of your Order? This was the only room we have passed that gave me such a sense of wrongness; I cannot believe there are too many chambers filled with similar horrors.”
Bayrun was pale as she considered the implications of what the Knight was saying. “There is — the Great Hall of Chance. At a push, the whole Order can be accommodated there. But he couldn’t possibly . . . To do such a thing!” She looked again at the Priests in their frozen, deathly state. “I cannot conceive the Archbishop would do such a thing.”
Daine moved towards the door. “I fear, Priestess, that when the prospect of power is involved, few lines remain uncrossed. Please, could you lead us to the Great Hall?”
And that would have been their next destination.
That is, should the green runes not have suddenly blazed into light and the Soulless Priests not have become animate and attacked them.
Chapter Thirty-One
“A Step Too Far”
Souit was the first person in the main army to recognise what was happening.
But even he, when a large force of enemy combatants suddenly reared up and attacked his men from behind, was momentarily lost for words. Had they been hiding somehow? Perhaps in tunnels that Degralk had missed when securing the walls? But, no, after that initial moment of shock, the true picture became clear.
“Necromancy,” he yelled, turning to any messenger he could find. “Get me my Mages here now!”
*
Though Souit was the quickest on the uptake on the command staff, it was Private Geerdon who had first contact with the army of the dead. Or rather, it was the fist of the corpse of Corporal Drall that made contact with him.
Lethally.
In many ways, Geerdon was quite unfortunate. The risen Soulless was not moving quickly, nor was there any great power behind the blow that was made. However, the element of surprise, followed by an unlucky, staggering step on uneven ground, meant the young man slipped and hit his head on an inconveniently placed stone.
The last thing he heard as he died was the sound of hundreds of pairs of dice rolling.
*
As the sickly green light leaking from the runes on the gatehouse ceiling intensified, more and more of the fallen of both sides rose to attack Degralk’s men. And a series of unfortunate and unlikely coincidences played out the length and breadth of the battle.
The Major watched, appalled, as the corpses of his men and those of the Swinford defenders began shambling about, swiping and lunging at anyone in range. Beyond the instinctive horror at what was occurring, he could not understand how such seemingly weak attacks were causing casualties far above their apparent threat level.
He drove his pike into a headless corpse drifting towards him, and was rather disconcerted as the body placed both hands on the shaft sticking through it and began dragging itself down the length towards him.
With a yell, he swung the Soulless off his weapon and was satisfied that when it crashed into the wall, it did not rise again.
Looking around, he could see that an enterprising group of soldiers had lit a bunch of torches and were using them to drive the animated corpses backwards.
Degralk took a breath to encourage others to do the same — everyone knew fire and the undead did not mix — when a horn sounded from the Keep, and, of course, at that moment, archers let loose upon his men. Those remaining defenders on the walls of the battlements — the ones he had thought he should ignore — likewise took the opportunity to add their voices to the mix.
Trapped between the horror of the attacking Soulless from behind and the rain of arrows from the front, Degralk felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
He did not know what to do to salvage this.
*
“I do not want to hear any excuses. We need to reduce the pressure on the men inside. I do not care how you do it, but I need those Soulless gone. Now!”
The remaining Mages attached to the army were not enjoying their life on the Road. Whilst they had been able to rationalise away the death of Haran on the day of the first attack — she’d been told repeatedly to tighten up her elemental control — the fate of Kulor was quite different. They had all felt the astonishing wave of power that had killed that arrogant young Mage, and not one of them still alive was interested in attracting the attention of its source.
As had become their custom, they all looked at Angharad, who sighed. “My Lord, we are not anxious to act until we understand more of the players involved here. There have been too many unusual uses of power during this siege for us to throw spells out and hope for the best. Consider what we have seen: The fire that took Haran. The growth of that cornfield. The illusions that were not. The never-ending flood. That word of power that killed Kulor. And now this. There is no Mage within Swinford, of that we are certain, yet we look at all that has happened and are sure of the involvement of a High Mage. We see an army of Soulless, which suggests the involvement of deep Necromancy, and yet know that is not the case. In short, my Lord, we do not know what to do.”
Souit drew his ornamental shortsword and levelled it on the Mage. “Did I stutter? I need those Soulless gone. And now. This is not a theoretical exercise; my men are dying down there.” He raised his voice above the sound of rattling dice, then realised he was the only one who could hear them.
“Whatever it takes, Mage, you must relieve the pressure on Degralk’s command. Immediately.”
Angharad glanced at her fellows, all sharing the same sentiment about the mental well-being of the Great General. There was precedent, of course, for removing an insane leader in the field, but she certainly had no wish to assume command and, since the death of the Spymistress, did not think there was anyone else with the experience to make a decent fist of it.
Knowing the King’s mood around the Western Rebellion, she doubted he would look kindly on frustrating the war effort. Indeed, removing a Great General in the middle of a siege could look rather like treason in the wrong light . . .
Ignoring the blade inches from her chest, she turned to consider the problem. The other Mages backed away, either giving her a respectful distance to work or ensuring they would not be caught up in any retribution from the Keep.
A little from Column A and a little from Column B, she assumed.
Thinking through her range of Skills, Angharad activated
Questing out towards the Soulless, she planned to lightly tug at whatever life force these beings still possessed. In theory, that should be that. However, when her power reached the outermost edge of the shambling, undead force, it passed straight through them.
There was nothing to drain.
Frowning, she tried again. She knew her level in
She tried several more times, ignoring the growl of frustration from Souit as the undead foe beset more and more of his men.
No. There was not a drop of life force to be found. So, not Necromancy. Which she knew anyway. So, what was animating these bodies? Switching from
It was chaos. Degralk had split his army in two. One half, with shields raised in a defensive turtle formation, faced the tower and tried to weather the hail of falling arrows. The second, in a square formation, was engaging the Soulless to the rear. The situation looked like it would get out of hand at any moment, especially with the appalling bad luck that she had seen curse the King’s men repeatedly.
But no time for that. There must be something in the gatehouse providing “life” to the undead. Some sort of artefact or . . .
Her Skill locked onto a complex rune carved into the gatehouse ceiling. It was emitting a pale green light that she instinctively recoiled from. Capturing the form of the rune in
*
The impact was immediate.
As soon as the rune was destroyed, all the Soulless collapsed and returned to their lifeless state.
Degralk did not need a second invitation. “Pull back. Everyone returns to the first staging position.”
It stuck in his craw to abandon this position, especially considering how hard-won the gatehouse had been, but he needed to take a beat to assess the damage. Besides, the door to the gatehouse lay open. It would be easy enough to return once order had been established.
As he forced soldiers past him, encouraging the speedy retreat, he shook his head to clear a strange rattling noise bothering him.
*
Donal felt the tentative questing of the young Mage.
Good on her, he thought. He had been singularly unimpressed by the quality of Magery from the other side, so was pleased there was finally someone showing a bit of moxie.
Such a shame to have to snuff out that sort of enterprise.
His eyes darkened as he focused on the core of her power. All he needed to do was pierce that, and the flood of unrestrained power would consume her and anyone within a few hundred feet.
He recognised it was distasteful to do so — he was pretty sure he had once written a scroll about how this was one of the most unforgivable misuses of power — but he couldn’t have her interfering again, could he? Needs must, and all that.
*
Angharad suddenly doubled over in pain.
It was like someone had stuck a needle into her heart. No, not into her heart. Her soul.
She activated every defensive Skill she had, but nothing seemed to make a difference. A white-hot sliver of pain was piercing the centre of her being again and again. She had never felt such a profound violation of everything she was and hoped to be. And, what was worse, she could do nothing as her power started to leak through the wounds.
Desperately, she looked around at the people crowded about her in concern. “Run!” she gasped.
*
“Nearly there,” he muttered happily, batting aside the girl’s pathetic attempts to deflect him. “All be over soon. No need to draw this out.”
“Master Secretary?”
Cursing, Donal broke his focus and turned to the voice. He was moments away from finishing. He had probably done enough damage as it was, but he did so like to make sure.
Nevertheless, it did not do to ignore the sudden appearance of a Knight of the Road, especially when they had their sword drawn.
“My dear, terrible timing as always!”
Daine rested the tip of her sword on the stone floor. “I am sorry for that, Master Secretary. Nevertheless, I fear there are matters we must urgently discuss.”
His black-filled eyes met hers, which, he realised with a sinking feeling, were glowing gold with the power of a summoned Goddess.
“Ah. Oh dear.”
And he struck out at her with everything he possessed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Friendly Fire”
A dark aura of shadow exploded out from Donal and filled the room. Momentarily startled by the change of light, Daine then focused on two orbs of glinting blue opposite her and advanced, sword raised.
“This is not what I want, Donal.”
“Well, I am afraid that is rather too bad, my dear. We so rarely get what we want in this life. And I should know.”
His voice was behind her.
Ignoring what she had thought were his eyes, she swung her greatsword, one-handed, in a wide overhead arc. Considering the oversized nature of the blade, it was a ridiculous movement to witness — even knowing the extraordinary Strength of the Knights of the Road — and the tactic took Donal by surprise.
Spinning with the weight of the strike, she saw the Dark Warlord fly back to the very corner of the room, black armour appearing around him that seemed to absorb what was left of the light, making him appear as a part of the shadows. Out of the darkness, a thin dagger formed in his hand. The length of the blade shimmered with runes of the same ugly, rotting glow from the gatehouse and, Daine recognised, from so many years before in Droughton.
Those long-forgotten memories pulled at her focus for a moment, but she stilled her mind and stepped forward to attack the man.
Do not kill him.
Daine paused to cock an ear, eager to see if the Goddess had any further words of wisdom . . .
But no. That appeared to be the extent of her vision.
Her mission was to somehow subdue a man with millennia of tricks up his sleeve and a somewhat worrying recent power-up. And, of course, there was no word of explanation as to why or, perhaps more pertinently, how.
Rolling her shoulders, ignoring the increasingly familiar pops and cracks of age, she stepped forward into the shadows.
I’ll do you a deal, my Lady: I’ll try to leave enough of him alive at the end of this for it to count as not killing him. Best I think I can do, in the circumstances . . .
The two combatants circled each other for a few moments. Donal was the first to move, his blade darting forward in a thrust aimed at Daine’s chest. She was prepared for such a move, stepping aside with a fluidity that belied her armour’s bulk, and crashed a heavy mailed fist down into the side of the Dark Warlord’s head.
In her long experience, that really should have been that. So it was disconcerting to watch her erstwhile friend merely shake his head a few times to clear his vision and grin back at her.
“Was that really the best you can do? I’m disappointed. If I didn’t know better, my dear, I’d say you were pulling your punches.” As he spoke, his knife darted out to quickly score a rough rune on her chestplate. “I do so hope you don’t regret that generosity.”
With that, his body became incorporeal and vanished back into the shadows at the edge of the room.
