Читать книгу Quicksilver Rising - Stan Nicholls - Страница 7

His people thought honour meant something. Until betrayal rode in on a thousand horses.

The raiders came under cover of a moonless night, with no aim but murder. They were welcomed by paltry fences and open gates. A sparse watch, taken off-guard. An alarm raised too late.

They set to slaughter, and savoured the task.

But his folk were warriors, first and last, and they met the traitors. There were inexhaustible numbers to unhorse and cut down, and still they made no impression on the tide. Victory was hopeless. Yet better to die with sword in hand.

He did his share of killing. In vain he tried to organise a defence in the face of chaos. Where he could, he protected the weak.

In the confusion of running, screaming, burning and dying he saw a woman and her child cowering before a raider. She pleaded as the youngster wept, balled fists to his eyes. He hacked his way to them and struck down their would-be assassin. The pair fled, the woman clutching the boy’s hand. Then he watched, powerless, as another rider swooped in to spear and trample them.

Dead and wounded littered the ground, most of them his own people. He walked, stumbled, ran over them as he dodged and slashed. The wave of attackers seemed endless. He looked to the central lodge, the communal hub of the camp and traditional sanctuary in times of strife. Some of the more vulnerable, the young, the old and the ailing, had been swiftly shepherded there. That might include his closest kin. Now he wanted only to be with them for the end.

The great round house’s thatch was already ablaze before he battled his way to its door. His arrival, gore encrusted, panting, found the building in full flame. Victims of the conflagration, staggering fireballs, groped shrieking from the burning lodge. Around its entrance lay evidence of a particular massacre within the general carnage. The corpses of family, comrades, and siblings by right of blood oath. His despairing thought was to get away, perhaps then to join with other survivors and strike back at their enemy.

A group of raiders lashed ropes to the camp’s corral and brought it crashing down. Scores of terrified horses galloped out to compound the anarchy. The stampede acted as a diversion for his flight. He sped to a cluster of huts, several of which were also on fire, and weaved through them. His goal was the perimeter fence, the pasture land beyond and then the forest.

He didn’t make it.

A pack of the distinctively garbed attackers appeared and blocked his path. More closed off his exit. He tore into them, fighting with the frenzy of hopelessness. Two he downed at once, ribboning the throat of one, skewering the heart of the next. Then he was at the centre of a storm of blades. He took his own wounds, many of them, but gave plenty in return. Another opponent fell, chest caved, and another, stomach slashed.

His reckless fury brought a small miracle. All but a pair of his opponents were dispatched, and one of them was injured. But his hurts were too many and put paid to hopes of escape. Near collapse from loss of blood, vision swimming, a blow across his shoulders brought him to his knees. His sword slipped from numbing fingers.

He thought he saw, just fleetingly, the figure of an old man cloaked in black smoke, standing at the door of a nearby hut.

His gaze went up to the face of his killer. An ocean of time flowed slowly between them.

Then he felt his ravaged body pierced by cold steel.

Cold water battered his face.

He came round in a spasm, fighting for breath, eyes wide. His arms and legs were held fast, and instinctively he jerked at the chains binding them.

‘Easy.’

Caldason blinked at the figure kneeling alongside.

‘I think it’s over now,’ Kutch told him.

Sitting up, painfully, Caldason took in his surroundings. They were in the cramped demon hole. The hard, irregular stone floor was uncomfortable and wet.

‘How long?’ he grated, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand.

Kutch put aside the bucket. ‘All day. It’s late evening now.’

‘Did I do any harm?’

‘Only to yourself.’ He surveyed the Qalochian’s bruised face and grazed arms, his dishevelled hair and the dark rings under his still slightly feral eyes. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Did I speak?’

‘You did little else, though rave might be a better word. But not in any tongue I recognised. You’ve no need to fear you gave away any secrets.’

‘I have few enough, but thank you for that, Kutch.’

‘I’ve never seen anybody the way you were, Reeth. Unless they were ramped or possessed of demons.’

‘Neither covers my situation.’

‘No, that was something else. Is that why you wanted to consult my master?’

‘Part of it.’

‘Part? You nearly uprooted those restraining rings! You frothed, for the gods’ sake! And you have other problems?’

‘Let’s say they are complicating factors.’

Kutch could see he wasn’t going to get any more on that subject. ‘I’d heard you were a savage fighter,’ he said. ‘Is that because of these … fits?’ It was an inadequate word.

‘Sometimes. You’ve seen I don’t control it.’

‘How did you –’

‘Kutch. I ache. I’m soaked and I could use food and something to drink.’ He thrust his manacled wrists at him. ‘Get me out of these.’

Kutch looked wary.

‘The seizure’s passed, you’re in no danger. I have some warning of an onset. If it’s going to happen again I’ll come back here.’

Still the boy hesitated.

‘It’s not as though I’m in a permanent state of derangement,’ Caldason persisted. ‘I’m no Melyobar.’

Despite his apprehension, Kutch had to smile as he reached for the keys.

The royal court of the sovereign state of Bhealfa hadn’t stood still in almost twenty years.

When he gained leadership, though technically not the throne itself, Prince Melyobar was eighteen. Some said he was eccentric even then. Given the unusual constitutional situation he found himself in, with his father, the King, neither dead nor properly living, there were doubts about the Prince’s legitimacy as a ruler. It took an interminable time to sort out the problem. Melyobar distracted himself by consulting seers and prophets, hoping to hear something of his coming, ersatz reign.

It was then that he learned the true nature of death.

Nobody knows which of the numerous mystics he received first put the idea into his head. But the result was that, for Melyobar, death became Death. An animate creature, walking the world as men do, dealing out oblivion. Worse, intent on stalking him.

Backed by the counsel of some of his more pliable soothsayers, the Prince reasoned that if Death walked like a man, he could be outrun. In eluding Death, death could be cheated.

At vast cost, Melyobar ordered the construction of a moveable dwelling, smaller than the present palace but as opulently furnished. It contained hundreds of apartments, including a ballroom and a chamber given over to meetings of his puppet Elders Council.

The new court resembled a ship without sails, its prow and stern squared off. Its motive power was fabulously expensive magic. Steered by hand-picked enchanters, it floated silently above the ground at about the height of a man with his arms raised. It travelled at the pace of a cantering horse, though this could be varied somewhat. The Prince had two lesser versions built to accompany him as escape vessels.

Dozens of courtiers spent fortunes on their own conveyances, vying with each other in size and ornamentation. The Prince’s personal guard, representatives of the sorcerer elite, scholars, lawmakers and servants occupied more land ships. Others carried victuals and provisions. For the lower orders and mere camp followers there was no magical impetus. Their wagons relied on teams of horses, hazardously changed on the move. Everything depended on a complex logistical system, and the administrators who ran it took up yet more vehicles.

As the vast cavalcade journeyed the length and breadth of Bhealfa its route was varied to confound Death. Sometimes that meant the flattening of harvest crops, the fording of swollen rivers, even the destruction of an occasional village if it couldn’t be avoided. The priority was to keep moving at any cost.

This night, the flotilla crossed a relatively unpopulated region of the Princedom. It blazed with light from swaying lanterns and flickering brands. Nor was it quiet. The caravan brought with it the sounds of thundering hooves, squeaking wheels, music, and lookouts hailing each other when collisions threatened.

A carriage arrived at the periphery of the cortege and matched its speed. It was met by outriders who checked the visitor’s credentials. Then they escorted it into the convoy, a chancy undertaking at the best of times. But they reached the gliding palace with a minimum of bumps.

The carriage door opened and an elegantly dressed passenger stepped across onto the rungs of a short ladder. Deck crew assisted him aboard and a uniformed welcoming party saluted.

He was taken to an antechamber and subjected to the indignity of a light search. Not for weapons, but to ascertain that he was who he appeared to be, rather than the entity so much was being done to evade. Familiar with the Prince’s obsession, he suffered it without protest.

At last he was ushered into a lavishly appointed state – room.

‘The Imperial Envoy of Gath Tampoor,’ a flunky announced before discreetly exiting.

The room’s only occupant sat at an exquisite desk, studying a parchment held flat by a pair of silver candlesticks, seemingly unaware of his visitor’s arrival. Containing his impatience, the emissary gave a polite cough.

Prince Melyobar straightened and regarded him. His manner seemed vague, if not actually confused, and recognition took a moment. ‘Ah, Talgorian.’

‘Your Highness.’ The Envoy delivered a small head bow.

They were roughly the same age, but the Gath Tampoorian had worn much better. He was lean and fit, where the Prince was stout and pasty-faced. Talgorian had a neatly trimmed beard; Melyobar’s rotund face was shaved, against the prevailing fashion, and his hair was prematurely white. The Envoy was possessed of diplomatic calm, at least outwardly; Melyobar’s disposition was jumpy.

‘To what do I owe …’ The Prince trailed off, preoccupied.

‘Our regular meeting, Highness,’ Talgorian reminded him firmly, though remaining on the right side of protocol.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And the matter of the provision of additional troops.’ He enunciated this more slowly, in the way a peasant might address an obstinate cow. ‘Bhealfan troops. For our new campaign against Rintarah, Highness, and their troublesome clients.’

The Prince didn’t seem to comprehend. ‘To what purpose?’

‘As I previously explained, my Lord, to protect your sover-eignty and the security of the empire.’ He was having to work to keep his composure, as usual. ‘It wouldn’t do to let Rintarah get the upper hand, would it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘We need your gracious assent to draw more soldiers from Bhealfa’s ranks to support the cause.’ He slipped a hand into his coat and brought out a rolled document tied with red ribbon. ‘I will trouble you only for your signature, Highness. The details you can leave to me.’

‘You want me to sign something?’

‘It’s all strictly in compliance with the accord that exists between your government and mine,’ Talgorian explained reasonably. ‘A trifling matter of legality.’

There was a hiatus, with the Prince wordless and self-absorbed. At length he said, ‘You may approach.’

The Envoy stepped forward, unfurling the paper. He placed it on the desk and watched as Melyobar added his trembling signature. When the sand shaker had been applied, the Prince dipped his seal ring in hot wax and clumsily impressed the document with it.

When it was done, Talgorian all but snatched away the edict. ‘Thank you, your Highness,’ he cooed smoothly. He was relieved that the Prince hadn’t been awkward about the request. It would be tiresome to have to remind him again where the real power lay.

‘Rintarah, you say?’ Melyobar made it sound as though he’d never heard of the rival empire.

Talgorian bit back exasperation. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, carefully rolling the document. ‘A great threat to us all. Your troops will help keep it in check. Not to mention the warlords in the north. We need defending from them too.’ It was like speaking to a baby.

‘There are always warlords. They come and go. What concern are the barbarous lands to us?’

It was almost an intelligent remark. Talgorian was impressed. ‘True, Highness. But there is some small disquiet about this new one we’ve had reports of. Zerreiss.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Except when I last mentioned him to you,’ the Envoy muttered.

‘What?’

‘I said I must have forgotten to mention him to you. Apologies.’

‘What’s so special about him?’

‘Only that he seems to have accrued some impressive conquests in rather a short time. It’s always as well to keep an eye on such things. We don’t want Rintarah making pacts with these savages and gaining undue influence in that area.’

‘They’ll be doing better than Gath Tampoor if they do,’ Melyobar responded bluntly. ‘What’s known about this …’

‘Zerreiss, Highness.’

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Very little at present. In fact he’s a bit of a mystery.’

For the first time during the audience, a spark of animation came into the Prince’s eyes. ‘Perhaps it’s … him,’ he whispered.

Talgorian was baffled. ‘Highness?’

‘Him. Him! The reaper. The gatherer of life essences.’ His voice dropped to an undertone. ‘Death.’

The Envoy should have guessed. ‘Of course. Tricky customer.’ He knew that sounded feeble.

Melyobar didn’t seem to notice the lack of empathy. He was warming to the subject. ‘It could be him. He’s a shape changer, you know.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And where better to snatch lives than in the barbarous lands?’

‘All the more reason to take precautions.’ Talgorian tried to steer the conversation into more placid waters. ‘Which is why your assignment of the troops will be so very useful in respect of maintaining order and stability.’

The Prince ignored the platitudes. Nodding at the papers on his desk, his tone became conspiratorial. ‘Just between ourselves?’

‘Naturally,’ the Envoy promised, wearing a look of hurt effrontery at the very notion of indiscretion.

‘These are a secret,’ Melyobar confided, laying his hand on the sheets of spidery scrawl. He leaned closer and hissed, ‘They’re part of my plan to kill Death.’

Unusually for a diplomat, Talgorian was lost for a coherent response.

He was spared. A gust of chill wind, somehow penetrating the quarters, rustled a drape. Several candles briefly guttered. The Prince shivered and pulled his ermine cape closer. His uneasy gaze darted about the chamber.

‘Then best that the scheme be kept a secret,’ Talgorian said, stroking Melyobar’s paranoia.

‘You’re probably right.’ The Prince hastily turned over the papers and anchored them with a regally engraved inkpot. Fresh anxiety etched his features.

‘There is just one more matter I would like to discuss, Highness,’ the Envoy continued. ‘A topic of some importance.’

The Prince paid heed to Talgorian’s graver countenance. ‘What is it?’

‘Your Royal Highness, have you ever heard of a man called Reeth Caldason?’