Forge of the high mage, p.43
Forge of the High Mage, page 43
part #4 of Path to Ascendancy Series
She grasped at Brevin’s arm. ‘The moon … when …’
Torva threw a blanket over her. ‘Get some rest, lass.’
‘But the moon …’
‘Don’t worry,’ Brevin assured her. ‘You just lie down.’
She struggled, weakly, but the sailors guided her to the stern.
* * *
As they neared the artefact the heat radiating from the blackened naked rock they were walking upon intensified. Tayschrenn raised a hand for a halt and the party came together, eyeing all directions. Banners of mist and smoke coiled all about – cover for them, but equal cover for any approaching Che’Malle patrol.
He addressed them, ‘As before, I shall do my best to protect us from the heat. So stay close, yes?’
One of their guides, the mage Turnagin, spoke up, ‘Spare yourself for what lies ahead, High Mage. I will take on that burden.’
Tayschrenn eyed him, dubious. ‘You believe yourself capable?’
The man’s tangled greying mane of hair already hung lank with sweat. He inclined his head. ‘I will serve.’
‘Very well.’ Tayschrenn motioned to the man’s fellow guide, Hessa. ‘Proceed.’
The woman cast her friend a very long hard stare before nodding and starting off. Dassem followed next, then Tayschrenn and Turnagin. Dancer brought up the rear – sometimes walking backwards, constantly scanning the banks of mist.
The ground actually softened here. They skirted open pools of hissing, cooling molten rock crusted in black skeins. The immense bulk of the artefact loomed ahead as a sloped cliff. So far they had seen no hint of its inhabitants and guardians, the K’ell Hunters.
Tayschrenn became aware the two ahead had halted, crowded together. He shot a questioning glance to Dassem who motioned him to join them. He tentatively stepped up to find Hessa crouched, examining something. She directed his attention to it.
He looked closely at the blackened rock here and slowly, almost intuitively, a shape emerged: that of a huge skull, half eroded, scorched and ashy, frozen now in cooling, hardening rock.
‘One of their own,’ Tayschrenn murmured, surprised.
Hessa nodded, grim. ‘Wounded, or sickened; they simply ran right over it.’
‘As Nightchill said – this is wrong, utterly wrong.’
The ex-captain straightened. ‘Regardless, it must be stopped. Somehow.’
‘Can you do that?’ Tayschrenn asked.
Almost reluctantly, she allowed, ‘Turnagin has a chance.’
‘Then we shall see.’
They moved on, and reached the hovering slab of an edge without encountering any Che’Malle patrol or guardian. Tayschrenn found himself becoming more and more uneasy. In truth, he gave little for their chances. However, the attempt had to be made. He looked to Turnagin, a mage of Meanas apparently, now staggering, helped along by Hessa, spent by the task of shielding them from the deathly heat.
The Sword gestured ahead to the darkness of an open cave – one the size of a yawning city gate.
A stone wedge, broken and jagged, stretched out before it like a ramp. Dassem reached up to it, pulling himself off the ground. He reached back down for Tayschrenn, while Dancer somehow sprang up and darted within, covering them.
The Sword pulled Tayschrenn up and over, then reached down once more. He and Hessa struggled together to raise Turnagin. Half-stumbling, the ex-captain managed to lift the mage high enough for Dassem to clasp his arms and drag him up. He lay on the gritty stone threshold, panting.
Edging within, Tayschrenn came to where Dancer stood, motionless, daggers low at his sides, studying something. He stared as well. Eventually, all gathered together in silent regard.
A K’Chain Che’Malle warrior, a K’ell Hunter, guarded the entrance – and would perhaps eternally. It stood motionless, slumped against a wall, dead for some time.
‘Starved to death at its post,’ Turnagin opined, sounding awed – and horrified.
Tayschrenn shook his head almost in disbelief as he observed the sunken dark pits of the eyes, the hollow cavern of the chest where ribs arched the armoured flesh like tent poles.
‘Let us find a defensible position and rest for a time,’ Dancer said into the heavy silence.
Turnagin nodded his heartfelt thanks.
* * *
Glinith dressed herself slowly the morning of the ritual. Half of her dreaded what she was about to unleash: deaths on a terrifying scale, an island wiped clean! Yet such risk-taking was just what had raised her to the position she held today. From nameless street-child, to acolyte, to priestess. She had used many – and many had used her.
She drew on her best outer robes, thinking, yes, this could destroy her. But it could also make her. She … and Mallick … would be the unassailable authority among the isles. All would fall into line behind them – after this day.
She had hardly finished when an acolyte burst into her private chambers, breathless, pointing, ‘Abbess! The Sanctum – the Pool of Mael!’
‘What of it?’
The young priestess stammered, beyond words, could only urge her to come.
Her gaze hard, Glinith secured her robes and followed.
She found the halls empty and a crowd of attendants and lower Abbey functionaries filling the Inner Temple. As she pushed through, the constant low murmuring dwindled away. All stared as she passed. Glinith saw confusion, fear and some hope upon their strained faces as she passed. But mostly fear.
The doors to the Inner Sanctuary were closed. Her guide banged upon them, whispered fiercely. One leaf cracked open just wide enough for them to slip within.
Glinith saw Priestess Lias here, high among those who tended the Pool. ‘What is this?’ she demanded. The priestess would only mutely point up the narrow hall. Glinith’s anger was checked somewhat as she noted how pale the woman was.
She started up the hall. She found a file of priests all kneeling, hoods raised, hands clasped in devotion. She brushed past them to the vantage portal above the pool.
The highest-ranked of her assistants awaited her here, all of the Faith Militant. Two watched over the fettered line of kneeling black-haired children.
All stared down the deep and wide throat of the Inner Sanctum.
Glinith went forward to the edge and peered down – then had to slide forward even farther, and extend her neck even more, to see that the rock sides of the well continued onwards down and down into shadows and darkness, without a sign of any of the waters of Mael.
She raised her gaze in wonder to Hestasia, Keeper of the Pool. ‘What is this?’
‘It is gone,’ the priestess barely whispered, her voice hoarse.
Glinith mouthed the word, not understanding … ‘Gone?’
‘We are renounced,’ Hestasia fairly wailed. ‘Rejected by Mael!’
Glinith snapped up a hand. ‘We do not know that!’ She pulled the woman closer. ‘Has Mallick been summoned?’
Hestasia nodded.
‘Good. Then we wait. And no word of this to anyone! Yes?’
Hestasia continued to nod while wiping tears from her face.
Moments later a stirring and bustle among the gathered priests announced the arrival of Mallick. He, too, had been interrupted in his preparations: he came to her still adjusting his rich blue priestly robes.
‘What is this?’ he demanded of Glinith.
The Abbess now found herself also at a loss for words. She gestured mutely to the wide mouth of the well before them.
The squat fellow gave her a wary glance, then edged away to peer over. ‘The pool appears low.’
‘It is gone. All the water is gone.’
‘Why?’
‘Exactly – why?’ She motioned to the huddled priestesses. ‘Some already whisper it is because Mael has turned his face from us.’
Mallick stiffened, half-snarling, ‘Such dangerous talk must be crushed.’
‘Indeed. Question is – what do we do now?’
Nuraj Senull, Guardian of the Faith, arrived as they spoke. His hatchet face was even more severe than usual. He peered about, confused. ‘What is all this murmuring in the halls of the Abbey?’
‘The pool is empty. The Jhistal cannot be summoned,’ Glinith told him.
He gaped, stunned. ‘But … we have already announced it through the priesthood. Given warning.’
‘And have you tested this assumption?’ Mallick blandly enquired.
Glinith blinked at him. ‘I’m sorry …?’
He nodded to the manacled file of youths. ‘Have you tested it?’
‘Well … no.’
Mallick rolled his eyes and marched over to the closest youth, took her arm. Hestasia unbound the child. Mallick pulled her to the edge of the yawning well and the stone walkway.
‘But the Blade of Offering …’ Glinith objected.
‘Any blade would do the job, I imagine,’ Mallick answered, and he drew a short, curved knife from his belt.
Glinith didn’t think – something within her drove her forward to take the man’s arm. ‘It’s useless,’ she told him. ‘There’s no water to accept the blood. It will just fall on stone.’
Mallick paused, scowling, his lips working his mute frustration. He whipped the blade from the girl’s throat to Glinith’s. She felt the cold steel bite her neck. ‘If you are wrong,’ Mallick whispered to her, ‘then your blood will be the next to fall. Am I making myself clear?’
She nodded, wordless, not daring to speak.
The blade withdrew.
‘It’s this bickering that is useless,’ Nuraj cut in. ‘We’ve announced the summoning. The priests have warned Jook. What do we do?’
Mallick now turned his lazy, lizard gaze on Nuraj. He nodded then, allowing the point. ‘Yes. What to do.’ The blade disappeared among the folds of his robes. ‘I … that is we, will send word through the priesthood that everyone’s pleas have stayed our hand. For the moment. That we have determined to wait, for a time. Wait for the isles to come together and cooperate in driving these invaders out. That any isle that fails to commit to this effort – they will be the ones to feel the wrath of the Jhistal.’ He eyed each of them in turn. ‘Understood?’
Glinith inclined her head; Nuraj stroked his sharp chin, nodding. ‘That might work,’ he granted.
‘Make it work,’ Mallick growled. He turned to Glinith, lowered his gaze.
Startled, she saw that she still had hold of the cloth of his sleeve; she pulled her hand away.
‘No word of this must leave these halls,’ he told her. ‘If any hint of it escapes, I will hold you personally responsible. Understood?’
She nodded fiercely. ‘Yes, Mallick. Yes.’
‘Very well.’ He straightened his robes. ‘Let us salvage what we may from this … rather disappointing morning.’
* * *
Gianna woke with a start, gasping and jerking upright. A hand urged her back down.
‘There, there, lass. Don’t worry. You’re safe.’
‘I dreamed I was drowning.’
Torva nodded reassuringly. ‘Yes, that’s common among deep divers such as you.’
She started upright once more. ‘The chest!’
‘Awaiting you,’ Torva answered. ‘Wouldn’t open it without you o’ course.’
She struggled to rise. ‘Thank you.’
He helped her up, handed her a ceramic cup that steamed in the chill morning air. ‘Tea?’
‘My thanks.’ Straightening, she peered about, almost panicked. ‘We’ve left the shoals.’
Torva nodded. ‘Yes, overnight. The cap’n here trusted me to guide us.’
‘We’re headed south.’
The old man laughed and gestured to the straining sails. ‘Almost no choice. The wind came right up and took us. We’ve passed Flood already. Coming up on Belid.’
She eyed the canvas and felt a stirring of unease. Such winds here at this time of year … it wasn’t normal. She hobbled over to where the chest lay amid the debris of chiselled scale, shell and shattered barnacle.
Brevin nodded her a greeting. ‘We think we’re ready to have a go at the sealed lid. Just waiting for you.’
She sipped her tea. ‘Go ahead.’
Brevin gave a curt bob of agreement. ‘Right, lads and lasses. There you go. Start in.’
The three sailors who stood in for ship’s carpenters set to tapping.
‘What are they working on?’ Gianna asked.
‘A thick seal of lead all round the lid.’ Brevin shook her head in admiration. ‘Whoever did this had their eyes on the ages, I tell you.’
‘Good.’
They waited. Gianna broke fast with a crust of bread dipped in the tea. Then the sailors inspected the cut and gave Brevin a nod. She turned to Gianna. ‘Okay. Here we go, yes?’
Gianna gave her own nod.
The sailors tapped bars into the cut and levered. The lid grated and arched, the lead seam tore away. Brevin stepped in and lifted, straining against all remaining resistance. The lid ground open.
Gianna pressed forward to peer in.
Water filled it, of course. No seal could possibly prove impervious over so many years. She reached in and felt about. Tubes met her hand. Long and slim. She drew one out.
It was horn, sealed by a thick layer of what looked like beeswax.
What in the name of cursed Mael?
She studied the thing, frowning. Brevin made a snapping gesture with her hands. Gianna took hold of the wax seal and bent it. After some effort, the seal came away and she shook out a scroll.
A scroll of finest vellum. She opened it and read the first few lines.
‘What is it?’ Brevin asked.
She let it roll up and slid it back into its horn tube. She shook her head. ‘History. Ancient writings of the cult of Mael.’
‘And,’ the captain asked, ‘is that all? Nothing else?’
Gianna waved helplessly at the chest. ‘Have a look.’
Brevin nodded to the carpenters who then fished about the murky water. They drew out horn and bone tubes, one after the other.
Gianna walked to the ship’s side, peered at the churning waters. You damned bastard. You’ve had your jest, haven’t you? All at my expense.
She took hold of the railings with both hands and was frankly tempted to throw herself over.
‘Ship ho!’ a call sounded from above.
She blinked, peering about. ‘I see no – ah.’ A small vessel was bumping and wallowing among the waters, more or less in their path.
Brevin came to her side. ‘What in the name of Beru …’
The rowboat – for it was just that, a tiny one-man rowboat – struggling through the tall waves. Its occupant was waving his arms, hailing them.
‘Heave to!’ Brevin ordered. ‘Throw a line!’
The occupant of the rowboat – and Gianna groaned within, recognizing the half-naked potbellied fellow in a loincloth – watched while the Glimmer circled, slowing.
A line was thrown and he took hold and began heaving his tiny vessel closer.
Brevin simply stared, amazed. ‘How in the name of Beru did this fellow manage such a thing?’ She nodded to the crew. ‘Raise sails!’
‘He’s a priest of Mael. Well,’ Gianna corrected herself, ‘an ex-priest of Mael.’
Showing amazing agility, the lone sailor secured his boat then drew himself up the line to climb the side of the Glimmer and step down onto the deck.
‘Welcome!’ Brevin greeted him. ‘Any sailor such as yourself is most welcome on board my vessel.’
Gianna thrust a finger at the short, bandy-legged fellow. ‘You! You little shit! What in the name of – well, of – Fanderay, are you doing here? How – how did you find me?’
The ex-priest of Mael bowed. ‘Your example gave me the courage, High Priestess. And, I was gifted a vision.’
‘High Priestess?’ Brevin echoed, starting away from Gianna.
She waved that aside, pointed to the chest. ‘What in the name of the Abyss is this? Histories? What of—’ She caught herself in time, eyed Captain Brevin, then drew the ex-priest aside. ‘Jhistal’s Bane, you said!’ she hissed, her voice low.
He was nodding and raised his hands in reassurance. ‘Yes. I understand.’
‘And how in the name of – well – of Togg! – are you here just now?’
The fellow, shorter than she, bobbed his head in agreement. ‘Yes. How.’ He took a deep breath. ‘After you escaped, I was gifted with a vision from Mael. Like yours. Only mine was that I could …’ He struggled then, lowering his gaze. ‘… That I could redeem myself if I helped you discover the truth of the Jhistal.’
‘Truth?’ she snarled. ‘What in the name of—’ She bit down on her tongue. ‘What do these histories have to do with that?’
He straightened, eager. ‘These are the truth! They contain the true purpose of the Jhistal.’
Gianna threw herself from him. ‘What does this have to do with anything! How can this possibly help us now?’
She crossed to the ship’s side, pointed west. ‘They could be summoning one now!’ The truth of that struck then, as a knife to her stomach, and she gasped, ‘With blood …’
The ex-priest came to her, stood before her. ‘Do not worry. Please, do not torture yourself. In this vision I saw that the Jhistal has been taken from them. That it is theirs no longer.’ He wrung his hands, frowning. ‘That Mael … ah, yes, that Mael has withdrawn it.’
She stared at the pot-bellied fellow, shook her head, almost weeping. ‘How can I possibly believe that?’
‘Please do. You can. You must. Mael—’
She threw herself from him. ‘Speak not of him to me!’
He let his hands fall. ‘Yes. Why should you listen. After all this time.’ He sighed. ‘All I can do is give you my vision. I suppose that is all anyone can do.’
Facing away, arms crossed, she answered gruffly, ‘What of it?’
‘Yes, well. My vision is that the Jhistal has been given to you.’
Gianna choked back an almost manic laugh. She faced him. ‘Me? Given to me?’
‘Yes. It is yours. Yours to use—’
‘I would not touch such a disgusting thing!’
The ex-priest took a breath, nodding. ‘Yours to use in the manner in which it was given. To defend. To protect. To save lives.’
She laughed then, openly in the man’s face. ‘Hypocrisy. Spare me all those self-serving lies.’
