In the Earth Abides the Flame (61 page)

The Arkhos laughed then, a deep laugh that threatened to send him into a coughing fit. 'Dear me,' he chuckled, turning to his servants. 'Such entertainment, and as yet no steel has been set to their flesh!' Within, his black voice cried out for their blood. Give them to me! 'No right?

No right? I have the right conferred by might, if no other. And it is a right I am ready to exercise!'

His face changed then, and he opened his arms wide in a gesture of conciliation. Behind him his shadow widened, appearing like a monstrous embrace in the torchlight. 'Yet I can be merciful as well as just! Though your lives are forfeit for touching the Heirloom of Nemohaim, I might grant you pardon, if only you surrender the treasure freely to me. Just give me the Arrow, and you may all go your way.'

He speaks in lies, Leith realised. But why? Why beg for what he can take by force? Unless . . .

maybe he fears the Arrow; itself, wrested from us rather than given to him. A glance at Phemanderac told Leith that he, too, struggled to comprehend the Arkhos's motive.

He looked down at his hand: the Jugom Ark glimmered faintly in the dark.

Far above and behind him the power built towards a climax. Hold him just a moment longer!

Following his hunch, Leith took a step forward in the direction of the Arkhos, and held the Jugom Ark aloft, allowing it to glow a little brighter. 'Why weary yourself with words?' he said pointedly. 'Just come and get it! I am only a boy, and you have many guards at your command. What holds you back?'

For an instant the Arkhos's mask slipped, and the look he shot at Leith was a look of pure hatred. 'You vermin! How could you have been allowed to live? Why were you not drowned at birth?' he said vehemently. Then, though his inner voice cried out for more, the Arkhos wrestled back control of his mind. 'But here you are now,' he said quietly, 'and as my vision for a new Faltha is being questioned here, I will prove it is based on fairness beyond your wit to encompass. You may all go free, all of you, even those who have dared to raise their voice against the Arkhos of Nemohaim, if you but give me the Arrow. Give it to me!'

Leith nodded and walked forward. Belladonna let out a cry of anguish, clearly perceiving the youth was about to relinquish the Jugom Ark. For the same reason the philosopher struggled with his captor. But they could do nothing. Leith knelt before a rock, placed the Arrow there and withdrew.

'My hand is sore,' he said conversationally. 'I do not relinquish my claim to the Jugom Ark.'

He stepped away. Behind him the mountains yammered.

'Mine!' the Arkhos cried; and, rushing forward, he picked up the Arrow.

And held it aloft.

And screamed and screamed and screamed as the Jugom Ark roared out in flame, engulfed his hand and arm, and seared his skin to the bone. The horrible sound reverberated around the Joram, shaking it like an earthquake. And indeed the earth shook. As the Captain of the Guard rushed to his maimed master's side, a boulder came leaping, crashing down from the heights far above, hurtling past them and diving into the lake with a great splash.

The Arrow fell to the ground with a clatter.

The earth rocked again. Leith was thrown down, then clambered to his feet, searching for the Arrow in the dark. If only it still glowed, he might be able to find it! All around them smaller stones rained down. Splashes extended far out into the lake, the water made choppy by the shaking earth.

Still the Arkhos screamed, an unearthly sound coming from somewhere in the darkness, a cry most like the howling of a wounded animal; the very sound of tortured agony. The noise increased rather than diminished in intensity, amplified and reflected by the amphitheatre-like basin around them. Rubble continued to slide into the lake.

'What's happening?' cried the Haufuth. A guard motioned for him to remain silent, but the Instruians were also in confusion. Their master gave them no thought, and their captain was occupied tending him, leaving them alone and leaderless. They did not know what to do, stand fast or flee.

'The Sentinels have awakened,' said Belladonna.

'Sentinels?' Kurr inquired urgently amidst the confusion.

'Yes. For the two guardians there are two Sentinels. The two great mountains themselves, between whose arms Joram basin is set. The power is concentrated in them—'

'Be quiet!' yelled a guard, and cuffed her across the forehead. At that moment something dark and feral exploded at him. Achtal, the Bhrudwan, had made his way stealthily through the darkness and now drove his shoulder into the guard's midriff. Down the man went. His head smacked on the rough stony ground, and moved no more.

'Don't kill anyone! Don't shed blood here!' Belladonna warned them all, but her words were swallowed up in the rage of the land and the shrieking of the Arkhos of Nemohaim. Guard and Arkhimm moved through the night, trying to find and slay, or hide and escape. Torches bobbed here and there. Gravel crunched under feet. Dark figures - Leith one of them - tried to keep still as men (friend or foe, who could tell?) ran past in the fog.

Of them all Phemanderac was in the most perilous position. The Captain of the Guard had released Belladonna to aid his master, and she made good her escape, aided by Achtal. But the philosopher was held still by a guard, who now debated with himself whether to strike his captive down. There was none to guide him in the confusion: if only his captain was near!

Nevertheless he made his decision, drew out a long knife and made ready to thrust it into the breast of the man he held.

'Release the prisoner!' came his captain's voice from behind. 'He is of no importance. I need you to help me with the Arkhos.'

Grateful for the guidance, the guard let go his grip, thrust Phemanderac away and turned to his captain. But it was too dark to see clearly, and the voice came again: 'Come this way!

Quickly!' He stumbled forwards in his haste to obey; then he stumbled again, for his haste led him to the very edge of the great precipice. With no hope of arresting his momentum the guard pitched forwards into nothingness. For a moment his wail of terror mixed with the cries of his Arkhos, then the fog claimed him and he was heard from no more.

Belladonna came out of the darkness and pulled Phemanderac to his feet.

'Your voice?' he said admiringly.

She nodded. 'His blood was not spilled in the holy place,' she said.

'Quite.'

'It's all right, you don't have to thank me,' she said somewhat testily. 'If he'd seen through my ruse he would have chopped me to pieces, but I suppose it was worth the risk.' She turned and stalked away into the riotous night, her shoulders hunched together angrily.

'But - but I am thankful,' the philosopher stammered into the blackness, knowing she wouldn't hear him. She's as prickly as her father.

With a thunderous crash the basin shook again, writhing under his feet as though it was about to split asunder. Far above him Phemanderac could see a faint red glow. Perhaps the mountains themselves were on fire, responding to the peril of the Jugom Ark and the violence being done in the Joram below them. Where were the others? In a panic now, he flung himself forward; then remembered the precipice just in time. He struck out off to the right, seeking the others. In a moment he crashed into a dark figure, winding himself. A guard, who now lay unconscious beneath him. Where were the others? Down crashed a rock, shattering at his feet, showering him with splinters and shards. The mountain is coming apart: it is perilous to remain here. Where is Leith? Where is the Arrow?

By chance, or by nothing at all, would Leith be able to find the Jugom Ark now. Heedless of the commotion around him, of the fighting and struggling, of the sobbing and whimpering of the Arkhos, of the cataclysmic rage of the Sentinels, he scrabbled about in the blackness trying to find the Arrow by feel. It was slipping away. Moment by moment the feel of it in his hand slid away from his memory. Would he ever again be able to pick it up, should he find it? Maybe he had done wrong by laying it down, and now it hid from him, and would not have him back, and all was lost. An idea came to him, from the land itself perhaps, or from some other presence in this place. Fix your mind on it! Think of final victory, and the casting down of your foes! He did so, and in that moment a light flared a few yards away. There it was, down near the stream that drained the lake. He scrambled down towards it; then the earth heaved again, more violently this time, and he was pitched upon his face. In a moment his head cleared, and he raised it. The Arrow instantly flared in answer to his thought. But to his surprise it was further away, and he realised it was sliding down into the stream. In seconds it would be swallowed up, lost. Another explosion, a massive cracking sound like the ice on the Southern Run and, to his horror, the earth parted. A deeper blackness amid the pitch of night.

The stream was snared; the crack snaked back to the lake itself and began to empty Joram basin of water.

'No!' Leith cried, and hurtled down the slope. Another quake threw the Arrow into the air.

Surely this time it would fall into the raging torrent and the black crack, but no! It hung on the very edge. A sour-sweet smell came up from the riven rock. Praying the earth would be still for just a moment longer, Leith reached the little shelf on which the Arrow perched. Without hesitation, disregarding the fate of the Arkhos, he took the Jugom Ark up in his hand; and again it did not burn him.

Now he turned up the slope, but the indiscriminate earth was not about to part with any of its prey so easily. The ground shook, and shook again. Leith fought to keep his balance, to keep from pitching backwards into the roaring abyss. Down on hands and knees, now down on his belly, he clung to the rock, trying to crawl forwards, upwards. The earth shook again, this time jerking him sideways, rattling his jaw. Up, up to safety. Something pitched past him, crashing into the rocks below at the edge of the widening crack, emitting a groan as it landed, not resisting the slow pull of the blackness, slipping helplessly into the chasm while Leith watched, unable to lend any aid. Who was that? Enemy or friend?

The rumblings and shakings continued throughout the long night. As far as he could judge, Leith found himself on the eastern shore of the lake. Or, what had once been die lake, since now it had been drained away into the earth. For a time he wandered here and there, searching for his friends, but always walking with care lest he fall down some new-made chasm or stumble over the precipice that he knew was somewhere to his right. From time to time he called out, though he knew the risk he took. Should any of the Instruians remain alive in the basin and on his side of the earth-crack, he would be betraying his presence to them. For that reason he kept tight rein on his emotions, even though he felt close to panic; and the Arrow, comfortably warm in his hand, gave off nothing more than a faint red glow. But in that long, cold night filled with earth-anger and loneliness, Leith found none of his companions, and eventually, some time before dawn, he found a sheltered cavity near the chasm and, casting himself down carelessly, sought sleep.

Though the Captain of the Guard had some skill at setting bones and salving wounds, the horrific burns suffered by his master, the Arkhos of Nemohaim, were beyond him. They had some medical supplies, but these were down in the Vale of Neume with their horses, out of their reach until the morning. The Arkhos's arm had been severely scalded by the flame, and blisters overlaid melted skin up to the elbow. Those would heal in time, and gave the captain no great concern. Far more serious was the right hand, in which he had vainly clutched the Arrow for a brief moment. The golden shaft had burned through the flesh like a hot knife through lard, and the hand-bones were exposed in a line across what remained of his palm.

There was surprisingly little blood, the heat of the arrow-shaft having effectively cauterised the wound, but for a while it appeared the Arkhos might die of shock. The Captain of the Guard had seen it happen. A sword wound, the loss of a limb, not life-threatening in itself, yet killing the victim because his body reacted too violently. Once the screaming and bellowing had died away, the Arkhos had sat down and studied his hurt; and then shock set in. So the captain forced the Arkhos to his feet, making him walk about, keeping him awake, conscious, moving, until one of his men could tear up a shirt to form a makeshift bandage.

It was a fearsome struggle, but the Arkhos emerged from the far side of his pain with icy-calm emotions and a clear head. Clearer, indeed, than at any time since Deorc had come to Instruere. The deadly touch of the Arrow had brought him to his senses. He was not the kind of man who needed to rely on magic or devices of any kind. If he was to reclaim power he would do it on the strength of his personality, his ruthlessness and cunning. The Jugom Ark would have helped - still would help, if he could find some way to grasp it, or to control the one who was able to grasp it. But, he asked himself, had he really been so unsure of himself that he had been unwilling to match wits with Deorc unless he had the Arrow in his hand?

Give me Deorc. Give me them all! cried the black void within him. Surprisingly, even horribly, the Arkhos realised this inner part of him had enjoyed the pain, had wanted more, had sucked and sucked at him, as though trying to draw life from him. Death is the ultimate experience, he reminded himself. It is the only thing that satisfies. His own death, when it finally came, would be the most pleasurable experience of his life.

As the darkness gave way to the grey light of dawn, the Arkhos of Nemohaim felt strong enough to stand and look about him. Of the dozen Instruian guards and soldiers of Nemohaim that had made up his party, only four were left: himself, the Captain of the Guard, and two foot soldiers, one from Instruere and one from Bewray. The Archivist was lost to the great chasm that had opened up in their midst. Had he not fallen, the Arkhos would have ordered him thrown in, gold nugget and all.

And of the enemy there was no sign. The mist had thinned a little, so he could see maybe two hundred yards: none but the four of his party could be seen on this, the west side of the chasm; and on the far side, in a little hollow open in their direction, one body lay crumpled and still, hazy in the mist but obviously dead. Whether one of the northerners or one of his own men, he could not determine at this distance.