The Sunset Warrior - 01 (20 page)

Ronin, intent on his goal, had just passed a doorway, oversized and gaping blankly, when he simultaneously smelled a sickly wet stench and felt a wave of coldness at the back of his neck.

He drew his blade, spun, its tip catching the light, saw G’fand slammed against the doorframe as he was whipped into the interior of the building. A muffled scream brought him up short as he hurtled through the doorway.

G’fand had not even had time to withdraw his sword. His arms were pinioned at his side. A huge shape gripped him, its dimensions ill defined. Ronin rushed the shape. He had a flashing glimpse of hooded orange eyes, a protrusion, black and strange underneath, and then his sword swung into the thing.

He grimaced as needles of fire raced up his arms like vibrations. His fingers went numb and only by pulling with his free hand on the hilt was he able to disengage the blade. Immediately, the pain subsided.

He panted, wiping the sweat from his eyes, peered into the gloom. The hulk took on some form. It was at least three metres high, with muscled truncated legs terminating in some form of clawed paw or hoof. The light was too dim for Ronin to be sure. A thick and sinuous tail whipped from the rear of the body. The thing’s outline kept changing, pulsing like a heartbeat. Then its head swivelled and he saw its face. His breath was a sharp hiss through clenched teeth. His skin crawled.

It had long slitted eyes with narrow inhuman vertical pupils that pulsed with the creature’s outline. Two irregular gashes in the flesh served as nostrils. Underneath yawned a mottled hideous beak, wickedly curved and honed, a stunted rigid tongue throbbing grotesquely.

G’fand still struggled feebly in its terrible embrace. Ronin lunged, slashing with the sword. It sank into the scaly flesh and again he gasped as the agony raced through him. He pulled free, swung again and again. And sound came from that frightful maw, a swift ululation, and he knew that it had not been harmed by his attack. G’fand was limp now within the thing’s grasp, and cold sweat broke out on Ronin’s face as, heedless of the paralysis weakening his arms, he attacked once again.

Alien orange eyes blasting out of the darkness, and the air became thick with the fetid stench of the thing, clotting in Ronin’s throat so that his stomach heaved and his lungs laboured as he put all his strength into the arcing blade that clove the air again and again, ceaselessly, and he was a machine now, a machine of death and destruction, the adrenalin pumping through his veins holding against the pain. He ground his teeth, his muscles jumped as he pushed them to their limits. And still the creature stood before him, the shell of its beak working.

His vision began to blur and he was dimly aware that his reflexes had become slowed. Something thick and heavy was moving towards him; he felt the hot wind of its approach, but the connections refused to work and he could not move away, and it whipped into him, rough and scaly, along the side of his head, and his body was thrown violently forward. He fought desperately for balance, lost, reeled into a wall. Just before unconsciousness came, he thought the creature looked towards the recesses of the interior, then he dropped down an endless stairwell into pitch-blackness.

How beautiful it looked, so far above him. Freed by the distance, floating warm and safe. Watching the pale amber light striking obliquely so far away, his detachment was complete. The stippled patterns wavered in the uncertain light. How nice to be lying here at the bottom of the well, watching the world through the distant oval window, dreamily, drifting. He thought idly of rising up and climbing towards the smoky brightness, but he felt too tired. Alone, adrift.

And then he blinked and it broke apart like a bubble rising through water to the surface. He stared blankly at the circle of amber light thrown against the ceiling. He blinked again and full awareness swept over him.

He tried to sit up. Too fast. Made it halfway before his head pulsed with pain. He edged himself along the floor until he put his back against a wall. He sat like that with his head in his hands, relaxing his muscles through force of will, allowing the ache to flow out of them.

He looked for G’fand, found him stretched out on the floor two metres away, deathly pale. Dragging the body slowly over and it felt like two kilometres. Feeling faint breath still within the chest, unstrapping the waterpipe, feeding him water so that he choked a little and the lungs began working more fully. Only then did Ronin gulp thirstily at the pipe. He felt immediately refreshed and went to retrieve his sword.

When he returned, G’fand was sitting up. He rubbed his palms across his face. ‘Frost, I feel like I’ve been crushed,’ he whispered. ‘Is that thing gone?’

Ronin helped him to his feet. ‘Yes. Are you dizzy?’

G’fand waved away his support. ‘No. No.’ He walked slightly stiff-legged to the doorway, leaned against it. ‘The end of our journey. After all this, I trust that the scroll we seek lies within.’

The house of green-glazed brick beckoned in lazy quietude. It stood at the end of the street, a cul-de-sac, and it was unusual enough in this city of unusual architecture to command the entire area. For one thing, it appeared to be many-sided. For another, the sides sloped inward as they rose, so that the second storey was smaller than the first. The glossy bricks were of singular construction: they showed no age; the house looked as if it might have been built last Cycle for all the wear visible.

There were no windows on the sides that faced them. A giant wooden door banded in thick iron strips dominated the front side of the house. Broad steps of black stone with pink and gold veins running through it, polished to a high sheen, led up to the door, which, they saw now that they were close to it, was in fact a slab of red copper. Perhaps a trick of the oblique light had caused it to take on the appearance of wood.

A ring of black iron, twisting in an endless circle, formed the handle of the door. Ronin grasped it firmly and, putting his shoulder against the copper slab, pushed inward.

There came a soft dry click, as distinct and close as the sound of an insect in a field of high grass on a quiet summer’s day, and the door opened.

The odour of spices greeted them, pungent and ingrained in the air as if someone had lit a fragrant fire of aromatic leaves and green twigs and kept it burning for many Sign.

They were in a long high hallway, the ceiling an arch above them, the floor a narrow path of dark polished wood planks laid straight down the centre. Open spaces, deep and dark, between the floor and the walls on either side, gave them the feeling of being suspended in space.

The hallway terminated in three doors of a peculiar polished wood with deep-red grain, banded in beaten brass. Glyphs were carved into each door. Ronin turned to G’fand. ‘Can you make anything of these?’

G’fand studied each door. ‘I lack the knowledge to be sure. But—’ He peered again at the glyphs. ‘Try the third one.’

Turning the burnished brass handle, Ronin found that it opened easily enough.

The first level consisted of six rooms. Thin, exquisitely woven rugs covered the floors, small dark wooden cabinets stood against the walls, which were hung with tapestries of singular manufacture depicting the hunting of strange and grotesque creatures, the paying of tribute to ornately costumed men and women who appeared to be some kind of Saardin. Upon the carpets were numerous low tables of glass and brass within which resided myriad small treasures of cut jewels, ivory, and faience. There was no sign of age, not even a trace of dust.

Within the fourth room, Ronin found an ornate stairway to the second storey. G’fand was busily moving from glass table to glass table, plainly fascinated by the artefacts. Ronin looked about him. ‘Make certain you have seen everything down here,’ he called to G’fand. ‘Then come upstairs and join me.’ So saying, he ascended the stairs.

There were three rooms. One was obviously a sleeping chamber, and one, Ronin surmised, an alchemical chamber of some sort, judging by the equipment. The last room was the one he was searching for. Books lined two walls from floor to ceiling—he saw with some surprise that the room was hexagonal. Another wall contained only a six-sided mirror of beaten and polished silver rimmed in deep-green, black-veined onyx, lustrous, translucent. The adjacent wall was filled with racks of scrolls, some rolled on polished wooden dowels, and he crossed to them at once, searching for the glyph heading the Magic Man had written down.

A quicksilver flash caught the periphery of his vision. He turned his head. It seemed to have come from the mirror, but when he looked around he could find nothing in the room that was likely to cause a reflection.

He went over to the mirror and stared at his face. And the flash came again, like light on moving water, dazzling him momentarily.

He no longer stares at himself, but at a formlessness of light and colour, absorbing and infinite. Motion. Hurtling through the patterns, forward, headlong. He experiences a slight sensation of vertigo, the exhilaration of flying, and he hears a soft rustle, as of a forest of leaves blown on a quickening wind.

Abruptly he is in a cool place made all of richly veined marble, lit warmly but dimly. And vast, for he hears the echoes: perhaps voices, the quiet slap of sandals, the rustle of fabric against flesh, tones of discord and harmony.

From a height he drifts through columnated hallways and high-vaulted chambers and gradually he becomes aware of the molten throb of unfamiliar instruments, pounding skins, trip-rolled and muffled, lazy dark chords under gyring melody, hears the peregrine music unfurling, haunting, electric.

A great night-black bird swoops down upon him, wide wings beating the liquid air, and he tries to cover his face, a reflexive motion, and discovers he has no body. He floats, insubstantial, an essence. And still the bird, long feathers shining, stares at him with unblinking crimson and black eyes. Its talons are enormous. Gripped within one is a writhing lizard. The talons open and the creature drops into a fire burning far below. The bird opens its long beak and human laughter booms out.

He sees K’reen then. Her back is to him as she talks to a dark figure which towers over her, but he recognizes the soft bell of her hair, a forest of texture, the shape of her body, silken of skin, hard of muscle, the orbits of her gestures. The figure screams silently at her, slaps her across the face, again and again. Her head whips from side to side. She turns suddenly and looks up at him, and he starts in shock. She has his face, tearful and saddened.

He is in another place within the marble building. Or perhaps it is another building all of marble. A long hallway. Far away at the other end is a tall figure clothed in black lacquered armour ribbed and banded in sea-green jade and twilight-blue lapis lazuli. Perhaps he wears a helm, for his head is oddly shaped, at once chilling and familiar, although he is too distant and the light is too uncertain to say why. Two swords of unequal length hang from his sides in scabbards so long that they almost touch the marble floor. His hands glitter as the figure looks about as if searching for something. Then he strides from the hallway.

Something cold comes. The incense braziers shudder on their bronze chains. A wind is rising. He feels a presence, very close. A frigid wisp, a seeking tendril—
of what?—
writhes and touches his mind. He recoils, as if seared by a blade burning like ice. Below, in the hallway of eternal marble, frigid fires begin to rage, pale and insatiable. He cannot breathe. He gasps and chokes on the dread creeping into him, washing away all resolve. He feels weak and powerless, a child storm-tossed and alone.

Abruptly, within the chaos of his being, through the terror and desperation, he feels sparks of water against his face and body, and he lifts his head to the roiling of purple clouds. An electric clashing is in his ears, and the surface upon which he stands trembles. White light rings the opening sky. He reaches for the pale hand.

The flash comes again, like light on moving water, dazzling him momentarily.

‘—not downstairs,’ said G’fand from directly behind him.

He started.

‘Say, what are you doing? The scrolls are over here.’

Ronin blinked, licked his dry lips. ‘I thought—I saw something in the mirror,’ he said thickly.

G’fand stepped closer. ‘What mirror?’

Ronin focused and saw a six-sided plate of iron, perfectly plain and unreflective. The onyx border seemed to wink at him in the light. He shook his head. The house of a magus.

Then he shrugged and turned. ‘Come,’ he said.

They took them systematically, by rows. Once, as he worked, he glanced at the six-sided thing on the wall. And thought of what he had experienced, of what it meant. He was certain, now, that Borros spoke the truth: there was a habitable world on the surface. But why the Salamander should choose to lie to him, he had no idea. However, it was clear to him that he was amid a drama of enormous proportions. He understood its nature not at all, yet he would be a fool to ignore the hints at its scope. Up until now boredom and curiosity and a curious perversity, which he always recognized in himself yet was like quicksilver, his strength, and, he imagined, perhaps his ultimate downfall, had guided him to this strange place. Why else was he here? He gave a mental shrug and got on with the search.

The scroll was not there. It seemed inconceivable to them that they could have come so far, overcome all that they had, for naught. Returning empty-handed was not an eventuality Ronin had spent any time considering. To him it was not a matter of the value of the scroll.

He sent G’fand to search the other rooms on this storey while he looked around here. The floor was bare, the dark wood planks rubbed to a high gloss. Again no dust or wear was evident. Over by the walls of books were a pair of low stools unlike any he had seen before. They were constructed of buffed leather, stiff but worn beneath the polish. They were convex, two sides sloping down, the narrower ends curving up, and were attached to crossed wooden legs by a heavy leather strap with an adjustable brass buckle.

Along the wall most closely opposite the door, several glass cases gleamed dully in the light. He crossed to them, saw there were three. The first was empty, although two indentations on the green felt of the bottom indicated that at one time two objects about the size of a large man’s hand had lain there. The second case contained an oversized book, from all appearances quite old, opened midway through. A blue fabric marker ran down one page. Both pages were blank. Ronin moved to the third case, where he saw what seemed to be a replica of a hallway, roofless so that one could easily view the interior. It appeared to be constructed of marble. Twelve columns lined the hallway, tiny metal braziers hung at intervals. The model was extraordinarily detailed, the workmanship superb. Ronin leaned closer and the shock of recognition hit him at once. This was a replica of the hallway in the mirror that was not a mirror! He glanced over his shoulder at its blind face once again.