Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis) (46 page)

Since we have a moment to ourselves, may I offer you my help as well as my friendship, when we’re done with this particular business? I swear I haven’t sought to pry but it’s plain to see that you’re plagued by distressing dreams. Mentor Garewin says the same of your friend Hosh. There are enchantments to dull the sting of such recollection.

Corrain shifted uneasily on the bench. If anyone else had made him such an offer, if Micaran had spoken aloud rather than use his Artifice, he would have given them a warning glare at best and most likely the threat of a fist to shut their mouth, if not an actual blow.

‘Well, now, don’t you find that this conversation gives you a thirst?’ The Ensaimin man poured himself the last drops from the jug and looked hopefully at Corrain.

‘True enough.’ He was about to rise when Micaran’s hand on his forearm held him back.

The tavern door opened and the plump
zamorin
entered, as sumptuously dressed as before, though in red-shot blue silk today and escorted by two different swordsmen. He looked as out of place as an Archipelagan glory bird among moulting farmyard fowl.

Corrain feigned mild interest as the
zamorin
made his offer, word for word the same as his speech in The Goose Hounds’ taproom. Micaran still appeared to be asleep, though Corrain noted his hands were now clenched into white-knuckled fists.

‘—tested to first blood, to the first, trivial scratch, assuredly not to any wound that might prove mortal,’ the
zamorin
concluded in his curiously soft voice. ‘My lord has no wish to stain his new venture with ill omens of spilled lifeblood.’

The
zamorin
offered the silent taproom one last bow. As he turned to leave, one of his guards went ahead to open the door while the other walked backwards, keeping watch on everyone in the tavern until the door swung closed.

Now Corrain could tell the tavern’s regular drinkers from the men who’d followed the rumours of Archipelagan gold. The latter were on their feet, gathering cloaks and settling their debts with the slattern at the counter, doubtless before heading straight to the Spice Wharf.

We should go.

Micaran opened his eyes and rose to his feet.

Corrain would rather have waited for a count of a hundred to make sure the Archipelagans were long gone but he could hardly say that aloud. He dropped a silver penny in front of the Ensaimin as he stood up.

‘Buy yourself a pie to go with your ale.’ He didn’t hold out much hope though, not for a man living so deep in drink.

‘I will, Caladhrian,’ the vagabond assured him with a stained grin.

Corrain followed Micaran to the door, content to see that the only one watching them go was the sagging maidservant behind the counter. The regulars were amusing themselves by mocking anyone fool enough to take an Archipelagan’s coin. Anyone taking ship with the
zamorin
would doubtless find they’d sold themselves into chains and slavery, so the old men assured each other.

‘That was definitely a lie,’ Micaran said ruefully as they left the tavern. ‘Our smelly friend plans on buying himself a bottle of Forest berry liquor.’

‘He’s welcome to it.’ Corrain ushered the mentor further from the door. ‘What was our fat friend leaving unsaid?’

Micaran looked around the paved square, twisting his scholar’s ring around his middle finger. ‘We must hire a gig and get to my uncle’s house as quickly as we can.’

‘Master Olved?’ Corrain resisted the temptation to shake an answer out of the scholar. ‘Very well.’

But by the time they’d walked through three squares without seeing so much as a pile of dung on the paviours, the midday bells were ringing in the heart of the city. They crossed another two streets before Corrain was able to wave down a gig trotting briskly back towards the more lucrative central districts.

‘Where to, good sirs?’ The driver halted with a broad smile.

‘Tolekan Street,’ Micaran said curtly, climbing into the back seat with one long-limbed stride.

‘You want to send word to—’ Corrain looked at the back of the driver’s head. Could the man possibly turn a coin by selling what he might overhear?

—to Archmage Planir. Yes, at once. That
zamorin
is recruiting men for Jagai ships to deliver to Hadrumal, to tear down the wizard city.

‘What?’ Corrain didn’t care that he’d spoken aloud.

His next breath froze in his throat. He was no longer sitting in the gig. Micaran stood with him in the carillon square, with the tower’s shadow indicating early morning rather than midday. The sun shone from a cloudless spring sky and yet the square was entirely deserted. There were no people to be seen, no horses, no movement at any door or window in the surrounding buildings.

‘This isn’t real.’ Corrain turned in a slow circle. ‘Where am I?’

‘Still in the gig, and no, you won’t fall out.’ Micaran was apparently clothed in his scholarly tunic and mantle again. ‘We can talk privately here.’

Corrain wasn’t amused. The notion of riding senseless through the city appalled him. They had best deal with the matter in hand and be done with this Artifice as swiftly as possible.

‘What exactly did you pull out of the
zamorin
’s head?’

‘He knows how to find Hadrumal.’ Micaran couldn’t hide his own disbelief. ‘Him and Jagai Kalu’s most trusted shipmasters.’

‘No one can find Hadrumal.’ Corrain insisted,obstinate. ‘The whole island is hidden with magic. I’ve travelled there myself. Only the captains whom Planir trusts can find a way through the rocks and fogs and they have to follow magical guidance. No one can see the sun anywhere close to the island and no mariner can use a compass or take a bearing to find his way back.’

‘Nevertheless, Jagai’s shipmasters know exactly where to sail to find the wizard city.’

Somehow Micaran’s certainty resounded through Corrain’s thoughts.

‘How?’ he demanded.

‘Someone,’ Micaran said grimly, ‘has put that knowledge into their heads. More than that, this unknown adept has done it in so subtle a fashion that the Jagai mariners and this
zamorin
don’t think to question it, any more than Jagai Kalu himself does. This is something they have always known, as far as their memories tell them.’

‘Has this same Artifice somehow done away with their fear of wizards?’ Whether in reality or this waking dream, Corrain’s throat was dry as dust.

‘No, that would be a folly too far. Such a suggestion would surely fail when anyone of Jagai was challenged by an Aldabreshi from another domain reiterating the Archipelago’s reasons for detesting magic.’

Micaran shook his head before Corrain could express any relief.

‘This unknown adept need not attempt anything so risky. The Aldabreshi have always hated wizards but they’ve always known that even the most powerful mage can be overwhelmed,’ the mentor pointed out. ‘Jagai, Khusro and Miris were prepared to send hundreds of men to their deaths when they first attacked the Mandarkin, all for the sake of seeing one warrior live long enough to put a sword through Anskal’s head.’

Corrain gasped, floundering neck deep in salt water. The waves burned with magefire as the corsair island ripped itself apart underfoot. Bodies and broken lumber thumped him from all sides. His men’s terrified yells filled his ears. He felt the sinking ground beneath his feet shift, unseen fissures opening to swallow him as the waters closed over his head—

In the next instant, he was standing in the deserted carillon square, bone dry and unbruised.

‘That’s it!’ Micaran snapped his fingers like a gambler rolling the winning rune. ‘The Aldabreshi know that any wizard’s strength has its limits. They believe that the Archmage and his cohorts have exhausted themselves destroying the Mandarkin and his apprentices. So they’re confident that Hadrumal lies undefended against these mercenaries.’

Corrain shook his head. ‘Mainlanders will never attack the wizard isle.’

‘No?’ Micaran challenged him. ‘Not mercenaries from Col whose heads are full of tavern gossip insisting no mage can be trusted? When they’ve heard tell of the riches which the Relshazri found when the wizards fled their city? Why would they leave such wealth behind? Because they have no need of it in Hadrumal when the Archmage can pluck coin out of the air to fill his purse.’

The empty air of the paved square filled with the clamour of voices, echoing every sly criticism and sneer which Corrain had heard in the taverns through these past few days.

‘The Soluran’s done this.’ He was certain of it.

‘Complex enchantments are spreading through the city.’ Micaran couldn’t hide his reluctant admiration, ‘I’ve never encountered such Artifice before.’

‘Can it be undone?’ Corrain leaned back against the tree, grateful for its shade.

Micaran bit his lip. ‘I will ask—’

‘Not such a pair of lackwits, are you?’ the Soluran said ruefully.

‘What are you doing here?’ Corrain reached for his sword only to find himself stripped to the tattered breeches he’d worn as a corsair slave. Heavy fetters linked by a rusting chain hobbled his bare feet.

‘Where is this?’ Micaran looked around the dusky woodland apprehensively. He was also barefoot, wearing only threadbare breeches and a ragged shirt. He stared at the Soluran. ‘Who are you? This is no memory of mine.’

The Soluran smiled with malicious satisfaction. ‘You are lost, my friend.’

Corrain lunged for the man. Before he could lay a hand on him, the Soluran vanished. He swallowed a vile oath. ‘Take us back, Micaran.’

The mentor didn’t seem to hear him. He was pressing his hands to the side of his head, eyes tight closed as he muttered something under his breath.

Corrain recognised the lyrical flow of Artifice even if the words were meaningless to him. He waited for the carillon square to reappear. Meantime, he looked warily for any movement in the shadows beneath the oak trees. Somehow this unreal day had shifted from mid-morning to late evening.

Nothing changed.

‘Come on, Micaran!’ he demanded curtly.

With no sign that the scholarly adept had heard him, Corrain took a swift step towards him. The clanking chain between his feet pulled him up short, forcing him into the loathsome slave shuffle of the Archipelago. Anger rising to match his growing fear, Corrain shoved Micaran’s shoulder to compel his attention.

Corrain’s hand passed straight through the adept’s shirt and the flesh and bone beneath. Worse than that, as Micaran opened his eyes and looked fearfully around, his gaze swept straight past Corrain.

Had he somehow become a shade himself? Despite himself, Corrain tried to grab the scholar’s arm. Once more, his fingers found only empty air.

‘Micaran!’ He yelled so loudly that his throat burned.

The scholar backed away. Corrain’s instant of relief died as he realised Micaran wasn’t looking at him. The adept’s eyes were fixed on something behind him, white-rimmed with terror.

Corrain heard a footfall and whirled around. He took a startled step backwards, initially unable to believe what he was seeing.

A handful of Eldritch Kin, blue-skinned, wearing loin cloths and scanty wraps of black fabric as insubstantial as shadow. Man-shaped but subtly different. Subtly wrong, with their limbs too long and their bodies unnaturally thin. Their black hair was more like a cat’s pelt and their eyes were featureless pools of darkness without white, iris or pupil.

Eldritch Kin. As the thought formed in Corrain’s mind, the closest turned its inky gaze on him. Its smile widened to reveal teeth as wickedly pointed as the sharks which had followed the corsair slavers, ready to eat those thrown overboard, dead or alive.

Breaking off from its companions, it stalked towards him. As its form shifted eerily with every stride, Corrain couldn’t help thinking of a man’s shadow on a sunny day; rising and falling, now tall and thin, now short and squat as he passed by walls and alley ways.

Corrain clenched his fists. Eldritch Kin were children’s tales, phantoms born of grandmothers’ warnings to frighten children away from hot hearths and to curb any wish to stray from their skirts.

The creature’s smile widened and it shook its head as though chiding him. Corrain took a hasty step backwards, only to find himself hampered once again by that cursed chain. The Eldritch Kinsman matched him pace for pace while the others advanced, intent on Micaran.

The mentor had his back pressed hard against an oak tree but he was no longer standing tall. Micaran cowered like a child, hiding his face in his hands.

One of the Eldritch Kin lashed out with a talon-tipped hand. The filthy claws ripped five deep gouges in Micaran’s shoulder. Blood soaked torn, grubby linen as the adept screamed.

Corrain took a step towards him but the smiling Eldritch Kinsman swiftly blocked his path. Corrain snarled wordlessly and threw a brutal punch at its skinny midriff. His fist passed straight through its shadowy form and he sprawled headlong, to land flat on his belly.

He heard Micaran scream for a second time before choking on a sob of agony. The Eldritch Kin were laughing; a hateful, whispering cackle. Micaran screamed again.

Corrain planted his hands in the leaf litter, ready to spring up. Before he could move, the Eldritch Kinsman landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. The creature leaned forward, its face close to his ear, hissing with wordless malice. Corrain felt its cold breath on his cheek and terror threatened to unman him utterly.