Sword of Wrath (Kormak Book Eight)

“
T
wenty-three good men dead
. The Imperial Museum burned to the ground. Countless priceless treasures destroyed. Am I missing anything?”

Prince Taran paced the length of the chamber. Rage twisted his sleek, handsome features. Ash smudged his glossy black hair, clipped beard and elaborate court clothes. He clutched the hilt of his sword as if he wanted to use it on someone.

Kormak slumped in the hard wooden chair. His whole body ached. His eyes felt full of grit. A faint residue of alchemical energy from Valen’s Elixir filled his veins and kept him wakeful. He shifted his position trying to ease his aching back. For all the imperial luxury of their surroundings deep within Trefal Cathedral, there were no comfortable chairs.

“Am I missing anything?” Prince Taran demanded.

Kormak suspected that fear had a lot to do with his anger. The prince was a man more used to causing terror than experiencing it. He kept the palace torture chambers full of his brother’s enemies.

Kormak rose from the chair to loom over the prince. “The Old One haunting your palace is dead. I killed it.”

“And we are grateful for that,” said King-Emperor Aemon, his voice mild. He placed his hands together as if in prayer. His bony face radiated piety. The king glanced at his brother to make sure he got the point. “Who knows what might have happened if you had not been here, Sir Kormak?”

Taran’s face darkened with rage. “Abbot Gerd might still be alive. Our priceless collection of mystical artefacts might not be a pool of melted slag. Tens of thousands of...”

“I think you have said enough, brother.” The king sounded like a monk saying grace over a bad refectory dinner, but Taran grimaced, then swallowed. A vein pulsed high in his forehead. His knuckles were white on his sword hilt. He looked at the painting on the wall; it portrayed his gross, overbearing father raising a goblet in a mocking toast.

Taran muttered “We still do not know who was responsible for the attack.”

Aemon reached over and patted the prince on the shoulder, a man petting a favoured hound once it had been brought to heel. “We will, brother. We will. You need not worry yourself on that score.”

The king glanced at Kormak. His stare was measuring, his expression bland. “I know you are weary, Sir Kormak, but I hope you will aid us.”

The gentleness of his voice sounded a warning note in Kormak’s ears. “I am not sure what more I can do, your majesty. I have killed the Old One. There is no way to make Vorkhul answer any questions.”

“You can track the sarcophagus the Eldrim came in to its source,” said the king. “You are the person best qualified to investigate this matter.”

“With all due respect, your majesty, you must have a hundred people in your service better qualified than I.” Kormak stressed the words
in your service.
He wanted to remind the king that he was not his sworn bondsman, not even a citizen of Siderea. “And I have duties to perform for my order.”

The king smiled in his usual beatific fashion. His stringy brown hair and beard made him looked like a particularly mild-mannered mouse. “On the contrary, Guardian, I have no one in my service who knows as much about Old Ones as you. I have no one capable of killing such devils single-handed.”

“I did not kill Vorkhul single-handed, your majesty. As your brother has pointed out, I had the aid of many folk, not least yourself, and for that help I am duly grateful.”

The king shook his head, a patient man showing forbearance at another’s intransigence. “My aid was freely given, Sir Kormak, as it always has been and always should be to members of your order.”

The words hung in the air. Aemon was a patron of great power and influence. He could make life difficult for members of the Order of the Dawn if he wanted to. And not just in Siderea. The threat was all the more effective for not being stated.

“The sarcophagus came from Terra Nova,” Kormak said. “More than a thousand leagues away across the World Ocean.”

“I am the owner of over a hundred galleons,” Aemon said. “Arranging transport is no great obstacle.”

Prince Taran’s predatory smile revealed his gleaming white teeth. He was enjoying Kormak’s discomfiture. Something twisted inside Kormak. He did not like being treated as Aemon’s lackey. He wanted out of this palace, out of this whole country. To have time to grieve for his old friend Gerd, dead at the hands of Vorkhul when he could have prevented it.

“It is a long voyage,” said Kormak. “Two months at least. Maybe three.”

“No more than two weeks at this time of the year, if an Imperial Windcaller is aboard to speed you on your way.”

“That is two weeks in which I will be unavailable for my duties.”

“You are saying that your duties are more important than the preservation of the king’s life,” Taran said.

“We do not know that there is any further danger to the king’s life.”

“We do not know anything,” said King Aemon. “And this is something I would rectify. I trust you, Sir Kormak. You have already been of great service to the crown. I wish to be certain that this matter is settled. Believe me—if I thought there was anyone else who could do this, I would appoint them. But there is no one with your knowledge, your prowess or your courage in the face of these undying monsters.”

He paused to give the flattery time to sink in. “I will, of course, recompense your order. For the services you have already rendered me, I feel bound to make an offering in gratitude. Let us say one thousand golden solars. I would double it, triple it even, if you did me this courtesy.”

“Your majesty, I am weary. I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but let me think upon this.”

His answer would be no, but there was no need to tell the king this. He did not want to talk about his fears and doubts with these two formidable men; it was bad enough having to face them on his own.

“Of course, Sir Kormak. I am thoughtless to press you so after such a mighty battle. Go to your rest with my blessing, but please consider all I have said.”

“I will, your majesty. Have I your leave to withdraw?”

Aemon made a gesture of benediction and dismissal. “Walk in the Holy Sun’s Light.”

* * *

K
ormak trudged
down the stairs and out into the nave of the Cathedral. He had won a great battle, yet he felt defeated. He had been forced to use Valen’s Elixir to give him the strength to defeat Vorkhul. The drug had many side-effects, none of them good. He was too old for this.

All around, servants and soldiers came and went. Most of them looked at him with a respect that he did not deserve. He reached the entrance chamber of the Cathedral and considered making his way to his sleeping chambers. Instead, he turned towards the Sanctum of the Angel.

Even at this hour, people were present. Some were priests and monks following the daily routine of any great religious institution. Others were servants or nobles who had crowded in for refuge when word of the Old One Vorkhul’s rampage spread through the palace.

People slept on the pews or sprawled in the corridors. Some prayed. A few looked at Kormak as he crossed the chamber. Noticing the sword on his back, they made the sign of the five-pointed star over their hearts. He paid little attention to them. His attention focused on the armour of the angel Zhamriel.

The armour was five times his height; it had been made for a being much broader than any mortal man. An elder sign, a pentacle within a circle, dominated the vast metallic chest-plate. The armour radiated a sense of antiquity. It was old, perhaps as old as this world. It had been worn by an Angel of the Sun in his battles with Old Ones in the Dawn Ages of the world.

The metal was scarred. Kormak had journeyed through the Graveyard of Angels in Umbrea. He had seen suits of armour like this. Most were not as large. All had been in far worse states of repair.

The memory swept over him, of a battlefield where angels had died and demons were defeated, where beings who lived as long as stars had perished to protect their mortal charges. It should have been a depressing thought but it was not. It reminded him that the faith he served had mighty allies, that he had a place in the great scheme of things. He was part of an ancient tradition, in the service of a much larger cause.

He looked up at the armour and contemplated the being who had once occupied it. It too had been a soldier of the Light. It too had fought against demons of the Shadow. It had sacrificed itself as Gerd had.

He thought about his friend. He had known the abbot since they were boys together on Mount Aethelas more than thirty years ago. They had trained together, fought together, taken their vows together. They had sworn to protect the innocent, uphold the Law and oppose the Shadow. Gerd had fallen doing that. There could be no better death. Surely he now walked in the Holy Sun’s Light.

And yet emptiness gnawed away at Kormak. Was there really any Light to walk into? He had met beings who questioned the basis of his faith, and they had been convincing. He had slain those said to be gods. He had seen no evidence that they would return as their worshippers claimed. Perhaps it was as some of the ancient philosophers said. There was nothing after death, just non-being.

Gerd had been brave and fought the good fight. He had tried to protect the innocent and oppose the Shadow. He had upheld the Law. Those were worthy things, even if there was no reward save a sense of satisfaction in the present world.

So where was it? Where was the satisfaction? He had no reward but his uncertainty, no judge but his dark thoughts. He could only stand in the shadow of a dead angel and wrestle with doubt, and come up with no answers.

He was just a man. Not a saint. Not a prophet. He could not be expected to answer eternal questions. He needed to find his own way out of his personal darkness and back into the Light. The angel could not help him. The kneeling priests could not help him.

He thought about Aemon and his brother. He disliked the way they expected to be obeyed. He disliked their arrogance and their sense of entitlement. Almost as much, he disliked the fact that they were right. The sarcophagus needed to be investigated, and he was the best man for that job.

Or perhaps he just needed to believe that he was. He wanted to have a purpose. He wanted to feel certain of anything again, as he had felt certain of everything when he was young.

He bowed his head to the angel, turned and left the Cathedral behind. He wished he could leave his doubts behind so easily.

* * *

T
he sunstone
atop the Cathedral spire lit the courtyard bright as day. The air reeked of destruction. The collapsed roof of the Imperial Museum loomed before him like the skeleton of some beached sea monster.

Lady Marketa, the Lunar Ambassador, strode across the courtyard, flanked by two of her massive bodyguards. Her silver dress shimmered like moonlit fish-scale, the long train somehow drifting over the soot-blackened cobblestones. Strange symbols glowed on her rings and tiara. Cowled monks scurried away from her. Armoured guards turned their heads to look away. For all her raven-haired beauty, fear radiated around her. All knew she was a sorceress sworn to the service of the traditional enemies of Siderea.

“Blessings of the Lady upon you, Sir Kormak.” She walked right up to him. He caught the spiced scent of her perfume. It was subtle and alien. She tugged at one strand of erotically-disarranged black hair. “I hear you have been busy.”

“News travels fast,” Kormak said.

Her bodyguards glared at him for his disrespectful tone. They were even bigger than he was, and their expression was stony. Kormak doubted they would try anything in such a public place, but he moved to put Lady Marketa within easy striking distance if he needed to grab her and use her as a shield.

She smiled as if she understood what he was doing, and made a small hand gesture. The two big men backed off.

“Word has it you killed an Old One. In what remains of the Museum. Next to the Moon Gate I have been tasked with returning to my people.”

“Does it?”