Taker Of Skulls (Book 5)
Read Taker Of Skulls (Book 5) Online
Authors: William King
Taker of Skulls
Copyright © William King
2014
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One
KORMAK RODE DOWN the steep trail into Varigston, ready to put spurs to his pony or hand to his blade. Here on the disputed border between Aquilea and Taurea his grey-flecked black hair and tall, rangy frame marked him as no Taurean. All it would take would be for one of the Sunlanders to decide he was the scout for a raiding party and he would be facing a lynch mob or summary execution. The closer you got to Aquilean territory, the more suspicious the gold-hair colonists became. And they had reason—the Aquilean hill men deserved their reputation as savage slayers of all who invaded what they considered as their land.
A cold wind blew off the peaks and there was a trace of sleet even though it was early autumn in the lowlands. In the mountains, winter extended its talons early. The chill breeze brought back half-buried memories of Kormak’s childhood in Aquilea. He had lived in that bleak land until he was eight years old.
He was still in Taurean-controlled territory—he could tell by the league-posts that counted the distance to the capital and the occasional patrols of knights and their men-at-arms he had met on his way. Those hard-bitten men had told tales of goblins in the hills and other stranger things; of giant vampire bats swarming through the night and monsters stalking the hillsides.
He was glad of that. Their reports gave him an excuse for being in the area that no one would question. His instructions had come under the red seal direct from the Grandmaster of the Order of the Dawn, coded most urgent and most secret.
He was curious about that. Normally, such dispatches concerned the clandestine assassination of some powerful nobleman or influential cleric. This time the terse message had told him only to get to Varigston as quickly as possible. He was to remain at the sign of the Axe and Hammer until he received further instructions. That, too, told him something about the mission. The Grandmaster feared to put down anything more.
His pony carried him down the rocky path into the edge of the town. It was a mixture of thatched drystane-built cottages and newer wooden structures. All of the timber buildings had a shabby, gaudy look. Even on the newest structures the bright paint was peeling as the mountain weather ate away at the tawdry finery. Varigston had not looked like this the last time he had passed this way but that had been two decades ago. Then it had been a drab place of sheep farmers and a few would-be miners prospecting for silver in the nearby mountains.
None of the hedge-knights he had met en route had a good word to say about the town. They claimed that anyone who lived there was beyond the pale, and looking at the place Kormak could understand why. In the past few years the business of looting a long dead and supposedly haunted ancient city had turned a sleepy village on the north-eastern border of Taurea into a desperate boom-town. The finding of Khazduroth had brought a new prosperity and a ferocious energy to Varigston. Kormak was not sure this was an improvement.
If he had not known better he would have sworn the place was a bandits’ lair. There were too many armed men for a community of its size and not enough farmers, shepherds or peasants. On his way up, he had encountered some of the merchants who shipped grain and ale and dried meat in, and took away all sorts of stuff in return. There were people down in less wild lands that would pay good money for the dwarf artefacts found in Khazduroth.
The main street ran through the lowest part of a long valley and was lined with taverns and brothels and shops selling everything that prospectors could need, and lots of things they did not.
Priests of the Holy Sun offered blessings. Some of them were mendicant holy men. Some of them were imposters. Beggars stretched out their hands and implored a copper piece. Shady characters tried to sell him maps guaranteed to lead to a lode of treasure amid the ruins of the lost city, and cursed his departing back when he showed no interest. Rough looking bravoes studied him carefully, took note of his size and manner and well-worn gear and came to the conclusion it was not worth trying to intimidate him or rob him. Women studied him through the open windows of bawdy houses. They wore no tops and in the cold their nipples stood erect, which he supposed was the point.
Despite his earlier fears, no one paid him too much attention and he understood why. There were Aquilean hill men here aplenty, come to trade and drink, looking around with barely concealed wonder at what was, no doubt, the biggest town they had ever entered without their swords in their hands and blue war-paint on their faces.
The streets were filled with horses and ponies and mules and wagons and a bustle of people. For a town at the far end of nowhere Varigston was a busy place. Kormak drew his steed to a halt as a drunk was ejected through the doors of a tavern by a massive bouncer. He picked himself up, shook his fist and then limped away.
Overhead the massive peaks loomed, mocking all the human activity into insignificance. Grey clouds obscured their snow-clad tops and swirled in the sky in a way that he remembered well from his childhood.
His destination was the best looking tavern in town. Over the door hung a signboard depicting two crossed dwarvish weapons, an axe and a hammer. There was an inscription in what was meant to look like dwarven script but it was gibberish. Kormak doubted than many of the customers would be able to tell though. Very few people indeed could read that ancient tongue. Kormak knew dwarvish was really just a variant of the Old Tongue with its own runic script but whoever had made the sign had not. The lettering meant nothing.
He tied his mount to the rail then walked through the swinging doors. The smell of beer and tobacco and dreamsmoke assaulted his nostrils. The clamour of men drunk in the late afternoon fell upon his ears and then ceased.
The silence lengthened as everyone turned to stare at him. He stood in the doorway and glanced around, meeting the gaze of anyone who looked at him, taking in the full details of the common room as he did so.
The walls were old, and built of mountain stone and the bar looked heavy and ancient, but there were tapestries from Vermstadt and the trading cities of western Belaria hung over them. Some gaudy murals were on the ceiling, showing fanciful portraits of dwarves and heroic prospectors. The new stuff spoke of a lot of wealth gained quickly and splashed onto the walls to attract a certain clientele.
A massive man with a scarred, skeletal face stared at him. A good-looking woman sat with him. She adjusted the round glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and the fingers of her left hand flickered through a complex gesture of greeting.
He felt a shock of recognition. He had last seen this woman more than twenty years ago and she did not appear to have aged a day. Given what Kormak knew her to be, that was hardly surprising, but some of the ways that she could have achieved that ageless look would stain her soul black.
As he strode over towards them, a drunk stumbled against him. Kormak grabbed the drunk’s hand and snapped the fingers that fumbled for his purse. The man screamed and ran for the door, suddenly no longer quite so drunk but in considerably more pain. No one else tried to stop Kormak before he reached the booth.
“Mind if I join you?” he said. The man looked at the woman as if for instructions. He was big as Kormak. His head was shaved and a nasty scar marked his right cheek, cut all the way down to the jaw. She gestured at the table. “Be my guest.”
“You’re a long way from home, Lady Karnea” Kormak said. “The last I heard you were dwelling in Belaria.”
The woman had rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. Her nose was small. Her honey-blonde hair was tied in a single braid bound by a clip of blue stone worked with what looked like an authentic dwarvish rune.
“At the Forlorn Tower, in the Silver Mountains,” she said.
“I see you retain your interest in dwarves.” Kormak spoke quietly. He glanced around. No one seemed to be paying them much attention, but you never knew.
The woman smiled. It transformed her face. Where before she had been merely pretty, now she was lovely. “I do indeed. It is good to see you again, Kormak,” she said. “I was told we would meet you here, if all went well.”
“Who told you that?”
“A mutual acquaintance.”
“You carry an interesting blade,” said the man, much more quietly. His voice had a hoarseness to it, as if he had spent too much time shouting orders on a battlefield. “Dwarf-forged, by the look of it.”
“Indeed, Boreas,” said the woman. “Look at the hilt. It is quite clearly Khazduri workmanship. A Stentarian era original, overlaid with late-Gromani fretwork unless I am much mistaken.”
The lovely smile widened. “As you surmised, I am still a scholar of the Khazduri,” the woman said. “That is why I am here.”
“Go on,” Kormak said. He doubted that this meeting was a coincidence. He had last seen this woman at Mount Aethelas. It seemed likely she was his contact. If she wasn’t, he still wanted to find out why someone like her was here.
Karnea removed her glasses, breathed on the lenses, polished them, held them up to the light and inspected them and then put them back on her nose. “There are things we need to talk about and Boreas tells me this is not the right place to do so.”
Kormak stared at her. She seemed unworldly but there was something about her, a sense of concealed power that made him edgy, that he had only been vaguely aware of when he was younger. Since then he had encountered many people like Karnea, usually when he had been sent to kill them.
“This looks like a tough place,” Kormak said. He kept his voice neutral.
“Does it? Boreas keeps telling me so but so far the people all have seemed friendly enough to me.”
“Maybe because Boreas has been with you,” Kormak said.
“We have a private chamber above,” said Boreas. “It is in the corner of the house, the walls are thick and there is little chance we will be overheard. Perhaps we should retire there before we discuss anything further?”
“After you,” Kormak said. Boreas did not look like a man he wanted behind him in a dark corner of an inn. It did not matter to Kormak whether these were the people who the Grandmaster had sent him to meet. He had not lived as long as he had by taking unnecessary chances.
The skull-faced man gave him a sour grin as if he understood exactly what Kormak was thinking. He lifted a heavy warhammer from beside the table and led the way up the stairs, Karnea trailing behind him.
