Читать книгу Curse of the Mistwraith - Janny Wurts, Janny Wurts - Страница 15

Tumbled past semblance of design, the ruins of Mearth thrust walls like jagged teeth through dunes of rust coloured sand. Lysaer walked into the shadows cast by lowering sunlight and wondered what manner of folk would build a city in a wasteland. Arithon remained largely silent, except to say that heat probably posed less danger than Mearth in the hours after dark. Accordingly, the half-brothers had left the grove under the full glare of noon, and exchanged small conversation since.

Arithon broke the silence. ‘Lysaer, what do you know of your gift?’

Braced for mockery, the prince glanced at his half-brother. But the Master’s gaze rested uninformatively on a gap in the crumbled brick rubble which once had been Mearth’s west postern. ‘How well can you focus light? I ask because we may be needing a weapon.’

Though Lysaer preferred to leave the question unanswered, the perils ahead forced honesty. ‘I had none of your training. Except for the practice of healing, the king banned the elder lore from court after his marriage failed. I experimented. Eventually I learned to discharge an energy similar to a lightning bolt. The force would surely kill.’

Years of solitary practice lay behind the prince’s statement. Control of his inborn gift had come only through an agony of frustration. That Arithon should absorb the result without comment roused resentment.

Lysaer considered the man who walked at his side. Delicate as his hands appeared, they bore the calluses of a master mariner. Wherever ships sailed, Arithon could earn a place of respect. Lacking that, his quick mind and enchanter’s discipline could be turned to any purpose he chose. If a new world waited beyond the Red Desert’s gate, the Master would never lack employ.

Lysaer compared his own attributes. His entire upbringing had centred upon a crown he would never inherit. As exiled prince, he would be a man with a commander’s skills but no following, and neither birthright nor loyalty to bind one. In peace, he might seek a servant’s position as fencing tutor or guard captain; and in war, the honourless calling of mercenary. Hedged by the justice demanded by fair rule and sound statesmanship, Lysaer shrank in distaste at the thought of killing for a cause outside his beliefs. Anguished by a gnawing sense of worthlessness, the prince brooded, studied and silent.

The sun lowered and Mearth loomed nearer. Centuries of wind had chiselled the defences left behind, until bulwark, wall and archway lay like tumbled skeletons, half-choked with sand. The citadel was not large; but the size of the fallen blocks from the gate towers suggested builders mightier than man.

Arithon crested the final rise. ‘According to record, Mearth’s folk were gem-cutters, unequalled in their craft. The fall of a sorcerer is blamed for the curse that destroyed the inhabitants. Beggar, tradesman, and lord, all perished. But Rauven’s archives kept no particulars.’ He glanced with fleeting concern at Lysaer. ‘I don’t know what we’ll find.’

Lysaer waded down the steep face of the dune. ‘The place seems empty enough.’

Remarked only by the voice of the wind, the half-brothers reached the tumbled gap that once had framed the outer gateway. A broad avenue stretched beyond, bordered by a row of columns vaulted over by empty sky. Nothing moved. The air smelled harsh from hot stone. Their shadows flowed stilt-legged ahead of them as they entered the city, breezes sighed across a thousand deserted hearth stones.

Arithon skirted the torso of a fallen idol. ‘Empty, perhaps,’ he said finally. ‘But not dead. We had best move quickly.’

Lacking a sorcerer’s awareness, Lysaer could only wonder what inspired the precaution. He walked at his half-brother’s side through a chain of cracked courtyards, past defaced statuary and fallen porticoes. Stillness seemed to smother his ears, and the whisper of his steps between crumbled foundations became a harsh and alien intrusion.

Suddenly the Master’s fingers gripped his elbow. Startled, Lysaer looked up. Broken spires thrust against a purple sky, rinsed like blood by fading light. Beyond rose the scrolled silhouette of a World Gate; a silvery web of force shimmered between its portal, unmistakable even from a distance.

‘Daelion Fatemaster, you were right!’ Elated, Lysaer grinned at his companion. ‘Surely we’ll be free of the Red Desert by sundown.’

Arithon failed to respond. Nettled, Lysaer tugged to free his arm. But his half-brother’s grip tightened in warning. After a moment Lysaer saw what the Master had noticed ahead of him.

A blot of living darkness slipped across the sand, uncannily detached from the natural shade cast by a fallen corbel. Even as the prince watched, the thing moved, shadow-like, along the crumbling curve of a cistern; the phenomenon was partnered by no visible object.

Arithon drew a sharp breath. ‘The curse of Mearth. We’d better keep going.’ He hastened forward. The shadow changed direction and drifted abreast of him.

Chilled by apprehension, Lysaer touched his half-brother’s arm. ‘Will the thing not answer your gift?’

‘No.’ Arithon’s attention stayed fixed on the dark patch. ‘At least not directly. What you see is no true shadow, but an absorption of light.’

Lysaer did not question how his half-brother divined the nature of the darkness which traced their steps. His own gift could distinguish reflected light from a direct source, flamelight from sunlight and many another nuance. No doubt Rauven’s training expanded Arithon’s perception further.

The shadow changed course without warning. Like ink spilled on an incline, it curled across the sand and stretched greedily toward the first living men to walk Mearth’s streets in five centuries.

Arithon stopped and spoke a word in the old tongue. Lysaer recognized an oath. Then the Master extended his hand and bunched slim fingers into a fist. The shadow convulsed, boiling like liquid contained in glass.

‘I’ve pinned it.’ Arithon’s voice grated with effort. Sweat glistened in streaks at his temples. ‘Lysaer, try your light. Strike quickly and powerfully as you can manage.’

The prince raised clasped hands and opened his awareness to a second, inner perception which had permeated his being since birth. He felt the reddened sunlight lap against his back, tireless as tidal force and volatile as oil-soaked tinder to the spark his mind could supply. But Lysaer chose not to redirect the path of existing light. Against the shadow of Mearth, he created his own.

Power rose like current to his will. From an inner wellspring beyond his understanding, the force coursed outward, its passage marked by a thin tingle. Aware of deficiencies in his method, but unsure how to correct them, Lysaer grappled the energy with studied concentration, then opened his hands. A snap answered his motion. Light arced, brilliant, blinding, and struck sand with a gusty backlash of heat. When flash-marked vision cleared, no trace of the shadow remained.

Arithon released a pent-up breath. The face he turned toward his half-brother showed open admiration. ‘You did well. That shadow contained a sorcerer’s geas, compulsion bound by enchantment. Contact would have forced our minds to possession by whatever pattern its creator laid upon it. Dharkaron witness, that one meant us harm. There’s not much left of Mearth.’

Warmed by the praise, Lysaer moved ahead with more confidence. ‘What makes the spell susceptible to light?’

Arithon lengthened stride at the prince’s side. ‘Overload. The geas appears as shadow because it absorbs energy to maintain itself. But the balance which binds its existence isn’t indestructible. A sharp influx of force can sometimes burn one out.’

Lysaer had no chance to ask what might have resulted had his handling of his gift failed them in defence. A pool of darkness, twin to the first, seeped from beneath a jumbled heap of masonry. After a moment, the thing was joined by a second.

Arithon aligned mastery with will and raised a barrier against them. Green eyes intent, he watched the blots of blackness weave against his ward. Even as he strengthened his defences, another trio stole around an overturned pedestal.

‘Ath’s grace, the place is riddled with them.’ Lysaer glanced nervously to either side, fighting to hold the calm necessary to focus his gift. Arithon said nothing. Although the Gate lay no more than a stone’s throw away, the distance between seemed unreachable. Pressed by necessity, the prince plumbed the source of his talent and struck.

Light cracked outward. Unexpectedly blinded by a flat sheet of radiance, Arithon cried out. Sand, barrier and shadows roared up in a holocaust of sparks. Wind clapped the surrounding ruins like a fist as hot air speared skyward in updraft. Stunned for the span of a second, Lysaer swayed on his feet.

Hard hands caught his shoulder. ‘Keep moving.’ Arithon pushed him forward.

Lysaer managed a stumbling step. When his senses cleared from the explosion, his eyes beheld a vista of nightmare. Arithon’s ward extended like a bubble overhead; shadows battered the border, licking and wheeling and insatiably hungry to pry through to the victims inside. The prince glanced at his half-brother. Tense, sweat-streaked features flickered as shadows crossed the afterglow of sunset. Arithon looked whitely strained. If he became pressured past his limit, Lysaer feared they might never live to reach the Gate. Second by second, the shadows thickened. At each step, his half-brother’s defences became ever more taxing to maintain.

Lysaer gathered strength and lashed out. Light flared, blistering white, and seared the horde of shadows to oblivion. The prince trod over ground like heated metal. Determined to escape Mearth’s sorcerous threat he ran, narrowing the distance which separated him from the world portal. At his side, Arithon erected a fresh barrier. For still the shadows came. From cracks in stone and masonry, from chinks in the sand itself, the scraps of darkness poured forth. Forced back to a walk, the brothers moved within a vortex of flitting shapes.

Breath rasped in Lysaer’s throat. ‘I think the light energy draws them.’

‘Without it, we’re finished.’ Stripped to bleakness by fatigue, Arithon missed stride and almost stumbled. As if his loss of balance signalled weakness, the shadows closed and battered against his barrier with inexhaustible persistence.

Lysaer caught his brother’s wrist. He gathered himself, pressed forward, smashed back. Mearth shook with the blast. Stonework tumbled, glazed with slag. Desperation drove the prince to tap greater depths. Light hammered outwards. Sand fused into glass. Winds raised by the backlash gusted, howled, and flung Arithon like a puppet against his half-brother’s shoulder. Their next step was completed locked in mutual embrace.

‘Sithaer, will they never relent?’ Lysaer’s cry burst from him in an agony of exhausted hope. Though the Gate lay a scant pace ahead, his eyes discerned nothing beyond a horrible, flittering darkness. Pressed on by the awful conviction that his banishment rendered him powerless, Lysaer took a reckless step and channelled the whole of his awareness through his gift.

Arithon caught his half-brother at the moment of release. ‘Easy, Lysaer.’ He tempered the wild attack with shadow, but not fast enough to deflect its vicious backlash.

Light speared skyward with a report like thunder. Sand churned in the fists of a whirlwind and scoured the surrounding landscape with a shriek of tormented energy. Lysaer’s knees buckled. Arithon caught him as he fell. Barriers abandoned, he locked both arms around his half-brother and threw himself at the bright, mercurial shimmer of the Gate.

Darkness closed like a curtain between. Conscious still, Arithon felt icy chills pierce his flesh. Then the geas snared his mind. A shrill scream left his lips, clipped short as the white-hot blaze of the Gate’s transfer wrenched him into oblivion.