Into The Dark Flame (Book 4) (14 page)

   'Do you think I am not aware of your status? But I am sure, if you were to return, the way could be opened once more. You will have passwords, codes, to cover all contingencies?'

   Iklar gave a half-nod. He seemed puzzled.

   'The True Sept established contact with the Karai Prince Anzejarl,' Fectur said. 'Do not deny it. I caught one of your members virtually in the act. In fact he died, confessing his crimes, here in this very chamber. The question that remains is, Why? Anzejarl is not known for his love of bargaining or negotiation. What end does the True Sept seek in contacting the Karai? What do they have to offer?'

   'You are asking the wrong man,' Iklar replied, his eyes pained. 'I’m but a messenger.'

   'Yes, I know that!' Fectur snapped. 'But the apparatus for reaching the Sept's heart remains in place, does it not? Through you I might still make contact with whichever High Priest now stands in Grey Venger's stead.'

   'It might be possible. You could have done that without bringing me here first.'

   Fectur glared at him. 'What do you know of 'Orbelon'?'

   Iklar returned him a blank stare. 'What is this?'

   By the look in his eyes Fectur knew him to be telling the truth. 'The 'Soul of the Orb'?'

   Iklar shook his head, his gaze enquiring.

   'Well, let us see.' Fectur bent and picked up the fallen gag. He studied it ruminatively, then applied it to Iklar's bloody ear. Iklar flinched.

   'You really should have a doctor see to that wound.'

   Fectur tossed the shears onto the table and strode from the cell.

iv

   Shreds.

   They were all he had.

   Everything came in shreds. Even now, with all he had learned today, he seemed hardly to have advanced a step. When he strung the shreds together he stared only at gaping holes in between.

   For a man of Fectur's bent and temperament such a fragmented tapestry was an outrageous provocation. Moreover, it was a threat. He believed Iklar. He accepted that he might apply pain beyond imagining, take Iklar to and beyond the brink of death, and the man would yield nothing more than he had already given up. Yet the key, or a key, to resolving much of this intolerable mystery lay in discovering just what it
was that the True Sept had that could weigh significantly in Prince Anzejarl's mind. Of this Fectur had become convinced.

  
But how to get to the Sept's secret heart?

   He could send Iklar back, but would the Sept respond favourably?

   Fectur had a single ace to play; something he had for the last two days been pondering how best to use. He did not himself understand it, but recognized that it had to be of consequence. It was something that no one but he had knowledge of.

   He had not totally been truthful when reporting to King Leth the results of his interrogation of the captured agent sent by the True Sept to establish contact with the
Karai. The man had not died as Fectur had claimed. Not quite. He had lingered, until only two days past.

   For some time in the man's final hours Fectur had been on the point of dispatching him, yet something, an intuition, told him that the man had not quite given his all. Fectur was impressed by his resilience, by the Sept's capacity for instilling such extremes of loyalty into its members. But in the end his intuition had proved correct.

   It was in his dying breath that the prisoner had finally given up his secret. He had been a man no longer; no longer knew who or what he was. And Fectur, with infinite patience, had won his confidence and prised from him those final, fateful words.

   Those words, combined with everything else the Spectre had now learned, seemed laden with meaning. If he could just work out how best to use them, they must surely now provide him with his longed-for access to the True Sept's hidden heart. And if he could reach the heart of the Sept, then through it he could reach Prince Anzejarl as well. 

    And if he could reach Anzejarl . . . 

SIX

i

   The wolfhearts milled in a clearing bounded by a circle of obsidian standing stones below.

   'It is not a good time,' whispered Count Harg. 'They are assembling for a ritual of birthing.'

   Leth gazed down upon the scene. He had rarely set eyes on creatures as strange as these.

   They were twenty or so in number and had emerged from holes in the rock at the base of the cliff from which he and his dubious band of warriors looked down. Others were coming from rock formations beyond the stone circle. They came forward on all fours, approximately lupine in form, with long bodies clothed in sleek grey hair. They were far larger than wolves - perhaps as large as men - and their legs were accordingly large-boned and muscular. Their heads were wholly devoid of hair, bloody red in colour. The skulls were heavy and broad, crowned with thick folds of skin out of which rose short, thick cartilagenous stalks, three in number, at the tip of each of which was a bulbous eye set into a carapace of horny flesh. Their mouths were wide, gaping slits filled with a mass of fleshy tendrils which fell to a level somewhat below the wide jaw where they shivered and writhed ceaselessly, like beards of worms.

   'I think we will have to attack,' whispered Harg. 'We can charge in at the gallop, take out as many as possible without pausing, and be through them and away before they properly know what has hit them.'

   'Will they not permit us to pass unhindered?' queried Leth.

   Harg half-laughed and shook his head.

   'Can we not speak to them, negotiate a way through?'

   Harg gave him a look of forbearance.

   'I am reluctant to attack creatures who’ve done me no harm,' Leth said.

   ‘You are very soft, Swordbearer.’ Harg nodded over his shoulder. 'Move back. We will talk about it.'

   He signalled to Rasgul, the leader of the Abyss warriors. The three slid from their hiding-places and made their way back to the wayside where their horses were tethered, tended by the long-limbed youth, Juson.

   'The Swordbearer thinks we should engage the wolfhearts in friendly badinage, and ask them if they will allow us to pass,' said Harg to Rasgul. Rasgul's frozen, scornful expression left Leth in no doubt as to the esteem the warrior held this opinion in. Rasgul glanced away down the path and jettisoned a thin jet of saliva between his teeth into the dust.    

   'My point is that it seems a cowardly act to simply charge into them, swinging weapons, when they have done us no harm, nor even menaced us,' Leth said.

   'They have done us no harm for the simple reason that they are not aware of our presence,' Harg replied. 'Were they so, we would be fighting for our lives just now. The wolfhearts are not inclined to cosy chats.'

   'Then can’t we wait for them to disperse?'

   'Under different circumstances that is precisely what we would do. Unfortunately we have come upon them at the beginning of a birthing ritual. A new wolfheart cub is being brought into the tribe. It’s an event
that occurs rarely, perhaps once every three years. The rite and attendant celebrations could last for up to three days.'

   'Is there no other way past?'

   'You have seen for yourself that the road passes right alongside their circle. The one factor in our favour is that their attention will be focused wholly upon the centre of the circle. It’s the only way.'

   A weird, melancholic sound reached Leth's ears. Harg nodded to himself. 'The ritual has begun.'

   Rasgul stared at Leth as though expecting something, though he spoke no word.

   'Well, Swordbearer, you are our leader. What is your decision?' asked Harg, his sarcasm unconcealed.

    'I’m a stranger here. I can but follow your advice,' said Leth. 'But if it must be as you have said, then let it be with the minimum of bloodshed.'

   'Fear not for that. Not one of us will be lingering amongst these beasts for a moment longer than is necessary.' Harg turned to Rasgul. 'It’s preferable to wait for the moment of birthing, I think.'

   The pallid warrior nodded and muttered something in a guttural hiss that Leth did not catch. Harg nodded pensively, and turned back. 'Rasgul is in agreement. Come, you are about to witness a phenomenon rare and strange.'

   From the rocks they looked down again upon the bestial assembly. The wolfhearts had ceased milling; they sat now in orderly fashion upon their haunches around the ring of tall dark stones. Leth estimated there to be more than forty of them now. They were all focused upon the centre of the ring, and from their open mouths came the woeful howling, which rose and fell in pitch and seemed to cause the very air to vibrate in sympathy.

   Leth watched and waited. The sound troubled him, arousing contradictory feelings and tangled emotions. Over his head the roiling chill mist through which they had descended was a mass of low, dense dark cloud, scummy brownish in hue. It cut out much of the daylight from above, stealing any sight of the Orb of the Godworld or the World's Agony, and casting an umbrageous demi-light upon the vista below.

   The wolfhearts' tragic song dropped abruptly in pitch to become a near-drone. Leth felt Harg's touch upon his arm. Harg handed him a scimitar in a leather sheath. 'Use this when we attack. Do not under any circumstances draw the Orbsword. The Great Sow will sense it. She will know that you are near and will prepare
herself. We are beneath the mantle now, fully within the Death Abyss. This is Ascaria's domain. Do not draw the Orbsword until you stand within her fortress.'

   Leth buckled the scimitar beside the Orbsword. Below, the wolfhearts fell suddenly mute. The silence was uncanny, seeming to swell and take on an almost palpable form. The standing stones at the periphery of the circle had begun to glow softly. Their obsidian blackness was gradually being replaced by a dull greenish lambence. This strange light was directed into the centre of the circle, where it coalesced to form a slowly rotating globule which rested a little way above the earth. Leth stared, intrigued. Within the green globule he thought to see movement, as though something lived and struggled. As he watched, the wolfhearts nearest to the edge of the circle rose onto all fours and padded slowly and reverently towards the green ball. Close upon it they sat again and stretched wide their jaws. From within the beards of tendrils long tongues extended to penetrate the glowing form.

   Count Harg slapped Leth's arm. 'It’s time!'

   The seven warriors scrambled quickly back up the slope to their horses.

   'Don your helm, Swordbearer,' said Harg. 'We don't want you harmed. And remember, stay upon the road if you can. Ride straight through at your best speed, and do not stop until I say.'

   They set off at a canter. The road permitted them to ride in twin files. Two of the Abyss warriors, Huuri and Dembarl, took the head,
then came Rasgul and the remaining Abyss warrior, Fhurn. Next came Leth, alongside Count Harg. Harg's men, Juson and Trin, followed close behind.

   One hundred yards along, the way veered sharply right and broke out onto the plateau where the wolfhearts were gathered. The warriors fanned out to ride four abreast, and spurred their mounts to a gallop. Each man drew his blade as they bore down upon the unsuspecting creatures.

   They were almost upon the circle of obsidian stones before the wolfhearts grew aware of them. The first of the beasts turned as they detected the thunder of hooves, then scattered as best they could with shrieks and yowls of panic. The first rank of riders ploughed into them. Leth found his path almost clear. No wolfheart menaced him closely so he gripped his scimitar at the ready and steered his horse between them, concentrating on the roadway ahead. To his right the Abyss warriors were hacking at the sleek grey beasts, and beyond, Harg and his men were charging into the centre of the circle itself, whooping with bestial delight. Harg was leaning low in the saddle, charging directly at the green globule, his sword swinging. Leth glimpsed a wriggling form in the green.

   The wolfhearts hurled themselves at their attackers, but already Leth was through, speeding on past the circle, Rasgul close at his side. He turned to look back. Several wolfhearts were racing after him, but their speed could not match his
horse's, and they quickly gave up. Juson and Trin smashed into them from behind, cutting them to the ground. He heard the frantic wails of the pack behind them. A little way off to the side came Count Harg, grinning ferociously.

   The road led down through a wood of tall dark leafless trees. The riders slowed their pace but cantered on for several minutes until Harg raised his hand and brought them to a halt.