Читать книгу Victor, Vanquished, Son - Морган Райс, Morgan Rice - Страница 10

Irrien ignored the pain of his wounds as he rode south along tracks already turned to mud by the passage of his army. He forced himself to stay tall in the saddle, not letting any of the agony he felt show. He didn’t slow or stop, in spite of the many cuts, the bandages and the stitches. The things that lay at the end of this journey were too important to delay.

His men journeyed with him, making the ride back to Delos even faster than they had pursued their assault on the North. Some of them were moving slower, shepherding lines of slaves or wagons of looted goods, but most rode with their lord, ready for the battles that were still to come.

“You had better be right about this,” Irrien snapped across to N’cho.

The assassin rode beside him with the seemingly infinite calm that he always projected, as if the rush of a horde of Irrien’s finest warriors behind him was nothing.

“When we reach Delos, you will see, First Stone.”

Reaching Delos did not take long, although by the time they did it, Irrien’s horse was breathing hard, its flanks lathered with sweat. He followed as N’cho led the way away from the road, into a space filled with ruins and gravestones. When he finally stopped, Irrien looked around, unimpressed.

“This is it?” he demanded.

“This is it,” N’cho assured him. “A space where the world is weak enough to summon… other things. Things that might kill an Ancient One.”

Irrien dismounted. He should have been able to do it with grace and ease, but the pain of his wounds meant that he hit the ground heavy-footed. It was a reminder of what the assassin and his colleagues had done to him, and one that N’cho would pay for if he couldn’t deliver on his promise.

“It looks like a simple graveyard,” Irrien snapped.

“It has been a place of death since the time of the Ancient Ones,” N’cho answered. “There has been so much death here that it has left the way on the cusp of opening. It merely requires the right words, the right symbols. And of course, the right sacrifices.”

Irrien should have guessed that part from a man who dressed like one of the death priests. Still, if this one could give him the means to kill the Ancient Ones’ child, it would be worth it.

“Slaves will be brought,” he promised. “But if you fail in this, you will join them in death.”

The scariest part of it was that the assassin didn’t react to that. He kept his equanimity while he paced to a spot that looked as though it had been the site of a mass grave, while he took out powders and potions from his robes, while he started to make markings on the ground.

Irrien waited and watched, sitting in the shade of one of the tombs there and trying to disguise how much his body hurt after the long ride. He would have liked to have ridden into Delos then, to bathe and dress his wounds, perhaps to rest a little. But then his men would ask questions about why he wasn’t here, watching all that happened. It wouldn’t look strong.

So he sent men instead to fetch sacrifices, and a list of other things that N’cho said he required. It took more than an hour for anything to come back from the city, and even then, it was a stranger collection than anything he’d demanded. A dozen death priests came along with the slaves and the unguents, the candles and the braziers.

Irrien saw N’cho smile at their presence, with a confidence that told Irrien that this was no trick.

“They want to see how this is done,” he said. “They want to see if it is even possible. They believe, but they don’t believe.”

“I will believe when I see some results,” Irrien said.

“Then you will have them, my lord,” the assassin replied.

He went back to the space he’d marked with the symbols of his craft, setting up candles and lighting them. He gestured for slaves to be brought forward, and one by one he tied them in place, affixing them to stakes around the rim of the circle he’d drawn, anointing them with oils that made them squirm and beg.

It was nothing compared to their screams as the assassin set them alight. Irrien could hear some of his men gasping at the casual brutality of it all, or complaining about the waste. Irrien just stood there. If this did not work, there would be more than enough time to kill N’cho later.

It did work, though, and in a way that Irrien couldn’t have predicted.

He saw N’cho step back from the circle, chanting. As he chanted, the ground within the circle seemed to crumble, giving way similar to how a sinkhole might have opened up in the dust wastes Irrien was used to. The screaming, flaming sacrifices tumbled into it, and still N’cho kept chanting.

Irrien heard the creaking and the cracks as the tombs started to break open. A grave near the spot where Irrien was standing tore apart with a sound of ripping earth, and Irrien saw bones being pulled from it as if by a whirlpool, sucked in toward the hole in the ground and disappearing without a trace.

More followed, pouring in as if drawn to the space, hammering toward it with the speed of thrown javelins. Irrien saw one man impaled by a thigh bone, then carried forward into the pit. He shrieked as he fell, and then it was quiet.

For several seconds, everything was still. N’cho gestured for the death priests to come forward. They came, joining him, obviously wanting to see whatever he was doing. Irrien thought they were fools for it, putting their desire for power in front of everything else, even their survival.

Irrien guessed what was coming, even before a great, clawed hand reached out of the cavern that had opened up and snatched at one of them. The claws punched through the priest, then started to drag him down into the hole while he begged for mercy.

N’cho was there while the creature clawed at the dying man, wrapping a light silver chain around the creature’s limb as easily as if he were hobbling a horse. He handed the chain to a group of soldiers, who held onto it gingerly, as if expecting to be the next victims.

“Pull,” he ordered. “Pull for your lives.”

The men looked over at Irrien, and Irrien nodded. If this cost a few lives, it would be worth it. He watched the men pull, straining the way they might while raising a heavy sail. They didn’t drag the beast from its cave, but they seemed to be able to persuade it to move.

The creature clambered from the hole on clawed legs. It was a thing with paper thin, leathery skin over bones that were longer than any man was tall. Some of those bones protruded through the skin in spikes and spines that were as long as spear heads. It stood as high as the side of a tall ship, looking powerful and impossible to stop. Its head was crocodilian and scaled, a single large eye looking out of the middle of its skull with a baleful yellow glare.

N’cho was there with more chains, running around it and handing them to more men, so that soon, an entire company of warriors held onto the beast for dear life. Even chained like that, the creature was terrifyingly dangerous. It seemed to exude a sense of death, the grass around it turning brown simply with its presence there.

Irrien stood. He didn’t draw his sword, but only because there was no point. How did you kill something that clearly wasn’t alive in any sense he understood? More to the point, why would he want to kill it, when it was exactly what he required to be able to deal with the defenders of Haylon, and the girl who was supposedly more dangerous than all of them?

“As promised, First Stone,” N’cho said, with a gesture like a slaver showing off a particularly expensive prize. “A creature more dangerous than any other.”

“Dangerous enough to kill an Ancient One?” Irrien demanded.

He saw the assassin nod like a bladesmith proud of his creation.

“This is a creature of pure death, First Stone,” he said. “It can kill anything that lives. I trust that is to your satisfaction?”

Irrien watched the men straining to contain it, trying to assess the sheer strength of the thing. He couldn’t imagine trying to fight it. He couldn’t imagine anyone surviving its assault. Briefly, that single eye met his, and the only impression Irrien had there was of hatred: a deep, abiding hatred of everything that lived.

“If you can put it back again afterwards,” Irrien said. “I have no wish to have that coming for me.”

N’cho nodded. “It is not a thing meant for this world, First Stone,” he said. “The power holding it together will burn out, given time.”

“Get it to the boats,” Irrien ordered.

N’cho nodded, gesturing to the men, issuing orders about where to pull and how hard. Irrien saw the moment when one of the men misstepped, and the beast lashed out, tearing him in half.

Irrien wasn’t scared of much, but this thing did it. That was a good thing though. It meant that it was powerful. Powerful enough to slaughter his enemies.

Powerful enough to finish this, once and for all.