The Ragged Man (34 page)
Authors: Tom Lloyd
Doranei didn’t have to agree with that. They all knew Aracnan would outmatch any single member of their company, and the fact that Doranei couldn’t smell rotting flesh any more made him fear for Telasin. They moved from floor to floor as fast as they could, the only opposition a pair of scared-looking guards running headlong towards them. Doranei killed one and knock the other off-balance for Shim to finish. The mage-killer was as quick as the rat the mercenaries called him.
‘He’s on the floor above us,’ Cetarn said in a low voice after a while.
‘Right, here’s how we go,’ Doranei said. He turned around to look both Shim and Cetarn in the face; the mage was careful to keep Doranei between them. ‘Shim, you first, when you see him, you break left. I’ll be going right, and Cetarn, you hit him with everything you’ve got. Your object is to keep him distracted. With luck he’ll still be deciding between you two when I reach him.’
Not giving them time to argue, Doranei shoved Shim ahead and on up the last flight of stairs, bodily pushing him towards the door Cetarn indicated. The mage was silent now, and pale, and a silver-encased shard of crystal glowed white in his hands as he prepared to fight a vastly more powerful and experienced mage.
Doranei kicked the door open and charged through, the pommel of his sword in the small of Shim’s back. The room was pitch-black and Shim yelped in fear as he stumbled blindly forward, then howled as two flashes of light illuminated the room. Doranei let him run and stepped right, dropping after a few steps into a forward roll across the rug-strewn floor. The lightning came again, deafening cracks of raw power lashing at Shim, who kept wailing even as he was thrown against the wall.
Cetarn replied and struck with a shimmering flood of light that hissed and crackled uselessly against a white shield Aracnan produced. Doranei caught his first glimpse of the immortal - he looked barrel-chested, until Doranei realised one arm was bound to his chest. Aracnan’s face was so emaciated it looked desiccated, and zigzags of red blisters spread up his exposed throat. As he attacked Doranei found his blows parried with ease, Aracnan’s sword spitting sparks each time metal caught it. With a contemptuous flick of the wrist Aracnan sheered through the haft of Doranei’s axe and kicked him square in the gut.
Doranei hit the bookcase behind hard enough to drive the wind from his lungs. For a moment all he could do was watch, gasping for breath, as Cetarn threw a spiralling coil of green magic that wrapped around Aracnan before melting into nothingness. Aracnan howled in pain as he struck back, his sword tracing arcs of light that raced forward to hit both Cetarn and Shim.
The mage-killer was unaffected, but Cetarn, defending himself desperately, fell in a way that told Doranei he was badly hurt. Aracnan himself reeled against a long table in the centre of the room as a gout of blood burst from his shoulder, but when Doranei forced himself to attack, the mercenary continued to turn his strokes with ease. He would have died there and then, had a roar not suddenly come from behind the Demi-God.
Aracnan rolled back over the corner of the table as an axe crashed down on the last spot where he’d been. Daken barrelled on and batted an armoured forearm into Aracnan’s throat, ripping his axe out of the table with his free hand and spinning into a second blow using all his Gods-granted speed. Aracnan caught the blow, but he couldn’t move fast enough to stop the butt of the axe being smashed into his bound arm. He staggered back, checking a moment to let Daken follow then chopping savagely upwards. The glittering black sword would have torn Daken in two - but instinct made the white-eye dodge.
Doranei could see the white-eye’s face contorted with rage as he attacked again, beating at the immortal with axe-head and butt as fast as he could — not looking for a killing blow, but striking faster than Aracnan could defend one-handed. Doranei ran to join in, but before he could reach Aracnan, Daken had pinned the immortal’s sword and head-butted the Demi-God hard enough to make them both to stagger backwards, stunned.
From the shadows behind Aracnan jumped Shim, axe abandoned, and grabbed Aracnan by the throat with one hand, wrapping the other arm around it as though meaning to strangle him.
Doranei was about to shout a warning to Shim when Aracnan shrieked like a soul at the ivory gates of Ghenna. A pulse of raw power exploded all around the pair, knocking even Daken from his feet. Doranei was thrown onto his back, and though he caught only jerky, confused glimpses of what was happening, he realised the mage-killer was true to his name: Shim was holding on tight while Aracnan bucked and wheeled around the room like a maddened bull.
The mercenary continued to bellow in pain, but now it was all-consuming and he flailed like a man on fire, unable even to try to pull Shim off his back. The Crystal Skull on his sword-hilt blazed brightly, filling the room with white light, even after Aracnan dropped it.
Then, shockingly, his screams came to an abrupt end, and a second later the Demi-God crashed to his knees. Shim continued to hug the mercenary’s head tight to his chest, his eyes screwed up tight, but when he found his feet on the ground again he risked a look up. His face was set in a rictus of terror.
Without warning Aracnan sagged and went limp and Shim toppled with the corpse. He fell with it as it flopped to the floor.
‘Bastard,’ Daken growled, his face still contorted with bloodlust, ‘he was mine!’
The white-eye had raised his axe and taken a step towards Shim before Doranei shouted for him to stop. ‘Daken, we don’t have time for this!’
The white-eye turned towards Doranei, who retreated before him. Daken’s teeth were bared, his breathing more like a rabid dog’s snarl, and Doranei kept well back; he knew how Coran was when the rage was upon him.
‘Ilumene’s still in the tower,’ Doranei shouted, trying to get through to the man behind the bloodlust. ‘He must have killed Telasin — you take him, and you’ll be a hero of Narkang!’
Daken peered forward, axe still raised. ‘Not a fucking immortal, though, is he?’ he roared. ‘Not a fucking Demi-God! You think I’m in for the money?’ The white-eye shuddered, the veins in his neck bulging as he fought to restrain the burning bloodlust coursing through him. With an effort of will Daken straightened up and lowered his weapon. Turning back the way he’d come he shot Shim a look of pure venom.
‘We’ll be havin’ words later,’ he snapped before disappearing through the open doorway on the far side of the room.
Shim didn’t reply. He was still panting, and shuddering with exhaustion as he stared down at the corpse.
‘You did good,’ Doranei said, hesitantly taking Shim by the shoulder. The battered little man flinched and shied away, but he gave a grim smile when he was out of reach.
Doranei pointed down at the black broadsword on the ground. ‘Spoils of war, if you want it.’
Shim gave a bitter, humourless laugh. ‘No good to me,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Just a lump of metal in my hands.’
Remembering Cetarn, Doranei left the mage-killer to his thoughts. The big mage was still alive, curled around his left arm. There was blood all over his robes and his normally cheerful face was contorted with pain.
‘Cetarn, how bad is it?’ Doranei had to repeat his question before the mage noticed him.
‘A fair scratch,’ Cetarn croaked, his face white.
The mage lifted his right arm to expose the bloody stump of his left arm. The mage was trembling, but shock hadn’t taken his senses yet. As Doranei watched Cetarn flexed his fingers and a red glow surrounded the wound, followed by a sizzling sound and a smell that made Doranei gag. The mage screamed, a sound that ended with a gasping sob. The King’s Man rose and retrieved Aracnan’s discarded sword.
‘Will this help?’ he asked, offering the weapon and pointing at the Crystal Skull fused to the hilt.
Cetarn gave Doranei a broken smile. He stroked his fingers over the Skull’s glassy surface before slipping it off the black metal as smoothly as ice over stone. A brief pulse of light was enough to give Cetarn the strength to sit up.
‘The pain is gone, we can continue,’ he whispered.
Doranei stared at the mage then down at the massive sword in his own hands. ‘No, you’ve gone far enough. Time for you to get out. We don’t have much more time before the Menin garrison works out what’s happening and our escape route’s closed.’
Cetarn got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I’ve still got some fight in me,’ he said in a strained voice, sounding as weak as his long-time colleague Endine, who’d been left back at the warehouse to prepare their retreat.
‘You’re out,’ Doranei said firmly. ‘Shim, see he gets back down safely.’
‘As long as he can walk,’ Shim said sourly, ‘no good in me helping him there.’
‘I can walk,’ Cetarn confirmed, taking a few wobbly steps before finding his balance. ‘Doranei, go.’
The King’s Man nodded and sheathed his usual sword, unwilling to abandon it. He hefted Aracnan’s ugly black blade. It was as ancient as any he’d ever encountered, Eolis included — but where Eolis was a cool silver, this could have been made of obsidian, its matt surface dull, but for the faint pinpricks of light bursting on the surface. It took him only a moment to realise just how light and fast the sword was — it cut the air quicker than Doranei could have with a switch of willow, let alone a steel blade.
‘Daken will find Ilumene first,’ he muttered as Cetarn headed towards the door with Shim watching him warily, ‘but if he doesn’t, this will give the traitor a surprise.’
He headed for the door Daken had left through, pausing only to spit on Aracnan’s corpse.
‘Enjoy your time in the Dark Place,’ he whispered. ‘Your master will be following soon.’
Unseen by the men leaving, the shadows began to lengthen and deepen. One Land continued as normal while another, unseen, changed and grew heavy. The sharp lines of the stone walls faded behind a curtain of darkness, the texture of night becoming more tangible than stone or wood. A distant tremble ran through the floor and faded as silence reclaimed the room. All was still for a while, then the shadows grew thicker still. The one cast by the corpse became a pool of liquid black. It twitched like a maggot-ridden corpse. For a moment it seemed to strain against the deadweight of the corpse, then it tore free and arose.
The lamps guttered before extinguishing as one. The air grew frosty and for a moment the darkness was absolute. Slowly a pale, sourceless silver light appeared, so weak it barely reached the walls on either side, but making the slow swirl of ice in the air sparkle. The shadow stood up straight and stared at the crystallising cold until a tall figure winked into being, hooded by absolute dark.
‘You come to claim me now?’ said the spirit with contempt. ‘Never once acknowledged, never offered the place rightfully mine. Now you have the gall to summon me to the fold, when my life is over?’
‘You were too weak,’ Death replied, His voice heavy, emotionless. ‘You were not strong enough to join the Pantheon.’
‘Strong enough to kill one of your kind!’ the spirit spat, its hatred undiminished.
The room grew instantly darker and more oppressive. ‘What you did was a crime,’ the cowled figure boomed, the very air shaking with His anger. ‘To murder the divine is almost beyond forgiveness — and you did so with a weapon forged by the great heretic himself.’
‘To the Dark Place with you and this feud with your creations; I want none of it — only what was due to me! I was the first of the Demi-Gods, and the greatest. You spurned me out of cowardice, not the infallible judgment your priests so cravenly claim as yours.’
Death stood silent for a while, regarding the soul of His unclaimed child as though the spirit had a face to see, an expression to scrutinise and fathom. All around them the darkness was suddenly filled with movement and life, as black shapes darted and fluttered just on the edge of sight.
‘You were the first and greatest of your kind,’ Death said without emotion. ‘For that reason I offer you a boon. You may take your place in the land of no time. You will be conveyed there with all honour due to — ’
‘Spare me,’ the spirit said furiously, ‘I want none of your honour and none of empty charity! If you mean to grant me a boon let it be this; spare me your empty words and cast me down into the Dark Place. Let the creatures of Ghenna welcome me and reforge me in their fires as Aryn Bwr did the Crystal Skulls. Let the daemons make me one of their own if you think me so weak, so flawed. Let me choose the path and the consequences, as you chose for me all those millennia ago.’
‘A boon I offered,’ Death said slowly, ‘a boon I shall give. If hatred is all you have left, so be it. There will be a place for you in Ghenna. The ivory gates will welcome you.’
The sparkle of cold vanished from the air. In its place came a deep red light and the stink of burning. The spirit turned its back on Death and spread its arms out wide as the floor trembled and shook. Distant voices came like shrieks on the wind, bloody light bursting from the cracks in the floor. The light intensified, flooding the room and shining like infernal rime on the edges of the shadows.
Death watched, unspeaking. The room around Him shook but His robes were unruffled, the mantle of night covering His head untouched by the red light. The shaking continued, but became no worse until He let go and vanished, leaving His son to his chosen fate.
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