By Blood Betrayed (The Kingsblood Chronicles) Page 4

  There had been a profusion of necromancers in the Theocracy, and the residual effects of their handiwork remained to haunt and torment the villagefolk. He’d ridden out innumerable times to assist his brothers and his father in the dispatching of such entities. Most of the “rural” Undead he’d dealt with were more recently living than these examples, however, and had therefore been far more disgusting.

  The dry air of the Tower had desiccated the zombies, converting their bodily fluids to powder and therefore preventing the fetidness from becoming overpowering. The villager’s dead who had risen from their graves had dripped with black, decayed fluids, and the stench was so bad that Lian had wished he could cut off his own nose.

  As a preventative measure, Evan and Alec had wanted to institute cremation as the routine method for disposing of the dead, but the local priests hadn’t allowed it. Instead, they’d settled on reconsecration of all of the graveyards in afflicted areas, along with semi-annual visits from the court priests to ensure that the dead still rested.

  Adrienne disliked her youngest child taking part in these “zombie hunts,” but Evan’s decision had stood. “It’s the responsibility of the royal house to handle emergencies that arise for their people,” he’d admonished her, in one of their rare arguments in Lian’s presence. “In this land, a frequent crisis is the restless dead.”

  Now, Lian was rather glad that he’d encountered this sort of Undead previously. He wasn’t sure he could have passed them by, or even stepped through them where they blocked the passageway, if he hadn’t already experienced worse.

  Animated corpses like these weren’t, strictly speaking, true Undead. He wasn’t exactly clear on the distinction, but knew it had something to do with how much of the soul remained. Animated dead generally didn’t interact with their surroundings except as an obstacle, though they could be compelled to strike at the living. They were simply corpses whose remaining spark of life had been strengthened to the point of motion by magical means.

  Nearly every “zombie plague” he’d ridden out to fight had turned out to be the work of a local witch or lesser Undead who was gathering and deploying the mindless but animate corpses to do their bidding.

  Lian didn’t quite understand how a spark of life could remain in a corpse, either. But according to Adrienne, that fragment of the soul that impels and moves the body, the animus, doesn’t depart until the remains are nothing but dust. He had been horrified to ponder the idea that part of his soul would be bound in a rotting grave with his body, but that fear had lessened over the years, mostly because he tried not to think about it very often.

  Lian was following a corridor that curved around the outer wall of the Tower and sloped gently upward. He knew that this ramp circled the tower thirteen times, reaching all but the highest levels of the mage-king’s fortress. Here on the lower levels of the Tower, the slain had been quite numerous, but the upper levels would contain fewer corpses. Gingerly picking his way over and around the animated dead, Lian quickened his pace. The cumulative effect from the proximity of so many moving corpses was making his hair stand on end, and the revulsion was becoming oppressive.

  From time to time as he climbed the gently sloping ramp, he caught sight of shadows that seemed to move of their own volition. Whether they were truly shades of the dead, guardian spirits, or merely illusions spun by his imagination, he gave them as wide a berth as he could. Despite the darksight granted by Gem’s enchantments, the Tower seemed gloomy and dusky, with unseen dangers lurking around every corner and behind every door.

  Distant sounds could be heard echoing through the halls and passageways of the massive edifice, including screams and shrieks, making the oppression even worse.

  After what seemed to be an eternity of terror, Lian reached his goal, the middle opening into the center of Firavon’s Tower. Gem informed him that it had taken her charge less than an hour to climb the mile-long ramp that represented half of the Tower’s height.

  At four places along the spiral incline, the outer ramp leveled off and branched inward to the center section of the Tower along four great, forty-foot-wide halls. Lian was already above two of these sets of hallways on his long ascent; one was at ground level and the second one he’d passed earlier a quarter up the height of the Tower. The arched ceiling of each of the great halls was carved with scenes from one of the four elemental planes. Lian advanced into the Earth Hall, which was the first hall he encountered at the mid-level, traveling clockwise up the incline. The earth element scenes were beautiful, frescos and mosaics of mountains, chasms, volcanoes, gemstones, and other wonders. There was no evidence of the dark and perverse artwork like that which had adorned the mage’s quarters where he’d entered the Tower.

  The center of the Tower was open from the ground to about forty yards from the top. At the upper levels, railings, and presumably one’s magical talents, were the only protection against a long fall to a very hard floor. There were numerous stairways, both circular and straight, which crisscrossed the inner chamber of the tower, interconnecting the levels in a complex manner. There was certainly a method to it, but Lian couldn’t discern it. However, he did know which stairwell held the passageway to the scrying chamber.

  At each of four specific levels in the Tower, the four “elemental” great halls intersected, bridging the span of the inner chamber. At the junction of each of the four interconnecting bridges was a fountain surrounded by a circular garden area, where the mages could meet and discuss things openly if it suited them.

  The center fountain, at the midpoint of the Tower’s height, was larger and more complex than the others, a great work of art in its own right. Legend held, according to Elowyn, that this fountain had been a gift to Firavon from a great earth elemental prince. Then Elowyn had proceeded to explain that nothing could be further from the truth. In actuality, the fountain was hollow, and concealed within it was the scrying chamber. Underneath the “Earthbridge,” contained within the span, was the passageway to reach the chamber.

  The enclosed stairwell that hid the access was thirty yards away from the inner opening of the water elemental hallway and appeared to lead up into one of the libraries, four levels above. There was, however, a hidden catch, made of kaiieilirinelda, or Red Truesteel, under a pearlescent stud. This material deadened or even blocked the use of magic near it, thereby effectively rendering discovery by sorcery impossible. Once the stud was depressed, the gateway would open exactly twenty seconds later on a different part of the stair. It would remain ajar for twenty more seconds only, and was protected by an illusion so that it never appeared to open.

  Lian wondered how Elowyn knew of the scrying chamber’s existence, and the method of accessing it, but the elf had never told him.

  As Lian approached the central chamber of the Tower, the air suddenly became icy. Lian felt it as a physical blow, chilling him through his clothing. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, tightening his grip on the sword. His arm was already weary from carrying the heavy blade for so long, training or no, but a sudden surge of adrenaline did much to counter his fatigue.

  Before him, rounding the corner from the inner Tower balcony, were two humanoid forms. They appeared to be clothed in hooded robes, though no faces were discernible within the shadow of their cloaks. They chuckled and one spoke to the other in a hissing tongue that Lian did not recognize.

  The Tongue of the Dead, Gem said, thrumming with sudden power. Blue flames licked along her length, flames which Lian knew were anathema to Undead. These wraiths are guardian spirits, lad.

  The two specters glanced at each other, as if conferring about the magical blade. Time seemed to stand still while Lian waited for their reaction. For a moment, they seemed to shrug, then without warning they rushed at Lian with blinding speed. Instinctively, Lian whirled the blade about him, spinning as fast as possible. He felt, rather than saw, the blade connect with one of the spirits, and it vanished, shrieking, in a flash of blue-white light.

  The other, more wary, hal
ted outside the silver weapon’s arc. Extending the empty arms of its robe before it, a scythe appeared, shimmering blackly with power. Greater wraith, this one. Be careful, Gem said, thrumming a higher note in an attempt to ward Lian’s body against the specter’s scythe.

  The wraith bowed mockingly to its intended victim, and Lian foolishly returned the gesture. In that bare instant of distraction afforded by the motion, the wraith rushed him. He raised Gem to parry the strike from the scythe and was surprised as the wraith released it. Feint, was Gem’s single, desperate utterance as the spirit reached out with the emptiness that would have been its fingertip to touch him on his shoulder.

  He watched the wraith rush back out of sword range as bitter, overwhelming coldness robbed him of his senses. The last sensation he perceived as he fell was the musical sound of Gem’s enraged power, weaving a new spell in an attempt to shield him and the clashing sound of her blade striking the stone. Then, there was only darkness.

  Chapter Three

  “The moons of Tieran are six in number. The first and most important is the mighty Lushran, whose 28-day cycle delineates the Tieran month. Thirteen times per year, Lushran circles his lover Tiera, who in turn circles him. Lushran is Lord of Power, yet shares power over the tides with Aliera, the second moon.”

  -- From Eililiu Aldiesu’s treatise, “Lunar Astrology”

  Gods and the Goddess! Gem cursed as she experienced the failure of Lian’s senses. The flames that danced along her length flickered and died as she tumbled from his grasp. Her awareness of her surroundings dulled, fading to the enchanted perceptions wrought into her steel.

  The wraith retreated, savoring the life force which it had drained from the boy, as the sword and prince both crashed to the floor. It had been decades since it last fed upon the living. It felt no urgency, as it no longer had to share its meal with its fellow wraith. There would be time enough to savor the unexpected feast.

  ***

  Lian’s eyes snapped open, but he could see nothing. He could barely feel his arms and legs, but he was glad that he could feel them. Gem? he asked as he groped for the blade. I don’t know how you stopped that wraith, but I’m sure glad you did.

  Gem’s reassuring mental presence was missing, however. His surroundings gradually brightened as his eyesight returned. The icy feeling in his extremities, particularly his left shoulder, wasn’t receding. It also dawned upon him that he had been temporarily deafened, for he now began to hear animals and voices and the hundred other sounds typical of a town.

  Where am I? he wondered, staggering to his feet. His balance was unsteady, but he could force his limbs to move, save his left arm. Standing required an effort similar to balancing in waist-deep moving water, but he managed it with the help of a nearby wall. He took in his surroundings.

  He was standing, or rather leaning, in an alleyway, apparently located just off of the main street of a small village. He was alone in the alley, and it was clear that he hadn’t been mugged, for all of his equipment, save Gem, was in evidence. He recalled fighting the wraiths in the Tower, but after the second touched him, his memories ended.

  A pair of armed men passed by on the main road. One glanced into the alley and seemed to look right through Lian; there was no sign that he’d seen the prince. They were armed with crossbows and light maces, and bore a convoluted insignia on their black leather armor that Lian didn’t recognize. Both men were dark-skinned, like the men of Azareh across the Eastern Sea, but their hair was reddish. Although emissaries from many lands had presented themselves at his father’s court, Lian had never seen their like before.

  Gathering his strength, he staggered to the end of the alley, where the sun shone brightly on the village street. Across from where he stood, he watched a blacksmith straightening the tines of a pitchfork. The smith was a massive man, apparently of the same race as the two armored men. His beard reached the small of his back, for it had been split, drawn around his neck, and tied behind him. His wares were exhibited beside him, many of which Lian recognized as farming tools. Some of them, though, he couldn’t identify. Near the forge was a huge double-bitted axe, set within easy reach of the smith.

  Adjacent to the smithy was an apothecary—at least that was Lian’s conjecture, since the sign displayed pictures of herbs as well as a mortar and pestle underneath unfamiliar words. The herbalist shop was apparently closed, as the sign hanging on the door contained more words along with the symbol of a closed eye. The characters were similar to those of the Southron tongue, but Lian could make no sense of the words. In Dunshor, most shopkeepers expressed both the written word and a pictographic ideogram to convey meaning to the literate as well as the more numerous illiterate. The same tradition, Lian presumed, held true here.

  Wherever here is, he thought.

  Beyond the apothecary was a stable, but the beasts tethered there were definitely not horses. They instead resembled some kind of deer-like creature. If they were kin to deer, they were very large, for each stood at least fifteen hands. One male stood a majestic nineteen hands, with a rack of antlers that extended a full four feet above his head. Both the male and the female creatures had antlers; however, those belonging to the male were larger and branched into many individual points. The female antlers were spikes, with the barest hint of branching at the end. The animals seemed to have a gentle temperament. Lian wondered if they were as simple-minded as deer. If so, they would be a poor choice for war mounts.

  Lian turned his attention to his own side of the street. Here, he noted four buildings. One appeared to be a garrison, for it was constructed of stout stone and bore a crenelated roof. Furthermore, it was there that the two armed men were headed. Next to the small keep was a store, which was just closing. Another dark-skinned, red-haired man was rolling barrels and other goods indoors from a display on the wooden slats of the sidewalk. He grunted a greeting to the two warriors, which they returned equally gutterally.

  The third building, which Lian was still using for support, appeared to be an inn. He could hear a few voices within, but it was mostly quiet. Across the alley from him, the last building that he could see on this street was a tavern. From there came the aromas of ales and brandies, as well as a spicy scent of sausage and roasting potatoes. Lian suddenly felt weak with hunger, so he cautiously made his way toward the tavern.

  As he stepped from the alley, he could see other buildings that seemed to be dwellings. Their roofs were constructed from rough thatch, and their walls from clay bricks. They had been buried into the ground somewhat, so only half their height was visible. Each entryway was a ramp dug into the soil. Must not rain here much, thought Lian, envisioning the flood season of his homeland. He looked down the main road, beyond the edge of town, and saw heat shimmers and desert.

  He realized that it must be very hot in this place, yet he was freezing. Shivering uncontrollably, he climbed onto the boards of the sidewalk, his boots sounding clear footfalls. He had earlier noted that the footwear of the guardsmen, if that was what they were, more closely resembled sandals than boots, and that neither the smith nor the storekeeper had been wearing any shoes at all.

  The tavern had a door which was propped open, and inside must have been most of the village population. There were about a dozen men and as many women, sitting at tables around the room. There didn’t appear to be an actual bar at all. All of the tavern patrons were of the dark-skinned stock he’d seen outside, but many of these had black hair, and a few were blonde. The men wore lengthy mustaches, and most of them sported beards as well. The women had long hair which generally fell to their midriff, though one had hers cropped short. That woman was armed with a quartet of axes.

  Affixed to the roof of the tavern were fans, which turned freely, though by what mechanism, he couldn’t determine. He decided that the rotation mechanism must lie inside of the fan shafts, hidden above the ceiling. The breeze they stirred felt icy to him, and he nearly swooned from the coldness that penetrated to his bones.

  Wra
ith must have hurt me worse than I thought, he mused, leaning heavily against the doorframe. The soul-draining effect of a wraith’s touch manifested as feeling of intense chill, though this was actually a symptom of something far worse.

  No one in the tavern noted his entry. Those patrons that were seated with their backs against the far walls looked up at the door and at the tavern’s two windows almost constantly, but none seemed to notice him.

  He stumbled to an empty table and nearly fell into the chair. The relief of taking the weight off his legs was tremendous. The waitress ignored his presence. He took advantage of this, though it annoyed him at first, to get a good look around the room.

  To a man, the denizens here were armed, though their weapons varied. Long daggers were prevalent, but there were a few swords and axes in evidence. Generally accompanying the latter group were long, powerful-looking bows, unstrung but leaning against tables, close to hand. The majority of the swords were long, thin, curved blades, though one man had a massive broadsword strapped across his back. The axes were of the small, one-handed variety, which seemed to be balanced for throwing. As a rule, the ax-wielders carried between four and six of the weapons, like the warrior woman he had noticed. Even the barmaid was armed, wearing a pair of short daggers.

  None of the patrons wore armor, and most of them were sweating heavily despite the fans. They were drinking from glasses, rather than mugs, and there was a fair amount of broken glass littering the floor. Everyone here was wearing thick-soled sandals, but Lian was glad for his boots.