The Far Kingdoms, page 42
Mortacious frowned. He gave his scarf a hard tug; and once again I glimpsed the wound. “Then why is it when we pray to them, and make sacrifice, those prayers are sometimes answered?”
“Their image helps us focus,” Janos replied. “The sacrifice only sharpens that focus. The same with chanted spells. There is no feat of magick I have set my mind to that cannot be accomplished by thought alone. I do not need a god to make a plate a scorpion, or your chanted nonsense to lure it back to its natural state.”
Mortacious eyed Janos thoughtfully. “It would be interesting, indeed, to be a wizard such as yourself. No one taught you rules, so you questioned, then made your own. You smash through things that would make others hesitate... or turn back. All because you have no fear of gods and penalties; you see no task so difficult that it cannot be accomplished by force of will. Ah, yes, Janos Greycloak. I understand why you alone have come so far.”
Janos laughed. “It is a lovely speech, sir, but I detect you heartily disagree.”
Mortacious stirred, enjoying himself. “Yes. Yes, I do. I wish it were otherwise, for you do present a pretty view. I admit you have great talent, but it is not so great as you think. As any true sorcerer can attest: there are real limits; real fears. I know my Master, and He knows me. We made a bargain, which I keep, and he has granted me powers greater than even a man such as you could dream.”
“I assume you make reference to the practice of black sorcery,” Janos said. “And you are a servant of one of the gods whose name it is forbidden to speak.”
“Does that offend you?” Mortacious asked. He stroked the scarf, features pleasant.
“Not at all,” Janos said. “Black or white, it makes no difference in my philosophy. If there are no gods, no holy purpose, what does it matter?”
“Yes. I can see how it wouldn’t,” Mortacious said. “Marvelous. Simply marvelous. I like how your ideas, no matter how wrongheaded, lead down such a rosy path... where we both still meet.”
“My own view of the black arts,” Janos said, “is they must be practiced with caution. Our beliefs in such things as good and evil have become so deep grained that they present great resistance. I have a theory that when so called black magick is performed, this resistance causes gradual harm to the practitioner himself. Over time, the sorcerer is weakened, scarred. Possibly even transformed to something not to his liking. Do you find this the case, sir? Are you the same man now as the one who went in that door?”
“Oh, I am better than ever, if anything,” Mortacious chuckled. But the chuckle was forced, uneasy.
“Perhaps you take precautions?” Janos asked. “I have thought of a few of my own... if I should ever attempt such things.”
Mortacious gripped the scarf, but feigned lightness. “There are none needed,” he answered.
“How enlightening,” Janos murmured. His manner was pleasant, but I could see he thought our host a fool who had made a bad bargain. “You said I should speak freely, Lord Mortacious,” Janos finally said. “that I would give no offense. Yet, I hesitate to ask the question now uppermost in my mind.”
“Have no fear,” the wizard said. “Say what you will.”
“Your kingdom of Gomalalee lies in a realm of constant warfare. We have seen the wounds your people have suffered. So, I wonder: if your god is so great, so knowing, why has he not given you power over your enemies?”
Mortacious roared laughter. It made a ghastly sound; as if the winds of humor were blowing through that deep cavern where the Dark Seeker dwells. “Oh, but He has, my dear man... He has.” The neck scarf had come loose and I saw clear the wound it hid from view. It was a putrid, unhealed gash circling his throat. He did not notice my gaze, and returned the black scarf to its place. His face was mocking. “What is the greatest power you can imagine, my little wizard?” he asked. “Tell me quick and tell me true.”
Janos replied with no hesitation: “To know all things. To be able to lift my eyes from Nature’s stitching and see its grand design. I would give all I have — which, in the end, is only my life — if I could have but a single glimpse; one clear understanding.”
“Then you are a fool,” Mortacious said. “For the sum of all things is too large to know. The stitches too numerous for even the gods to count.”
Janos made his eyes widen, and stroked his beard as if he were in the presence of a great, knowing master. “Then what is the answer, my Lord? Tell me, please, where my error lies?”
“Why it is as simple as common bread,” the wizard said, his eyes aglow with self importance. “The greatest power a mortal can command... is the power over another man’s soul.”
“I do not understand,” Janos said. “Tell me more, pray, to further my education.”
But the wizard grew wary, fearing he had said too much. He shook his head, as if wearying of the buzz of little children. He smoothed the scarf, picked up his cup and drained it. He set the cup down firmly. “I think not,” he said at last.
He brushed crumbs from his robe and came to his feet. “I hope you gentlemen have supped well. Now, if you will forgive my rudeness... I shall ask you to retire. I pray you find your quarters pleasant, and you sleep an untroubled sleep.”
Before he could go, I made bold to say: “Thank you, Lord Mortacious, for your hospitality. I would not want us to overstay it. With your kind permission, we shall depart tomorrow — with deep regret.”
The wizard fixed me with those fierce, desert bird eyes. I did not flinch, but kept a mild look upon my face. “We shall see,” he finally said, then swept out. As soon as he was gone Janos scooped up the crumbs the wizard had discarded, and put them in his pocket. He gave me a wink just as the man who had led us to Mortacious appeared. “Come with me, if you please, sirs,” he said.
He put all twenty of us in a spacious chamber; it was windowless and its walls were barren stone. There were cots set up, with soft coverlets that seemed odd amid such barracks-like starkness. There was a large water vessel in the corner, with a dipper hanging from the mouth, and in another corner there was hole for wastes. As Mortacious’s man swung shut the heavy door, Janos signalled us to remain silent. We heard a strong bolt shoot into place; so much for the fiction that we were only guests. Janos crept to the door and ran his hands lightly over the surface. Whatever he learned from the examination pleased him, for he nodded in satisfaction. He turned back to us and made signs there was a listening spell in place. More hand signals sent the men to their cots to feign sleep, and brought Sergeant Maeen and myself to his side.
“It is as I feared,” he whispered. “There is no locking spell on the door. Only the mechanical bar.”
“Why is that troublesome, sir?” Maeen asked.
I puzzled with him, for if escape was necessary, or even possible, then the scanty security was in our favor. Then I felt a sudden awful weariness, and yearned for the sweet comfort of those soft coverlets. Sergeant Maeen gave an elaborate yawn; and as the uncontrollable urge to ape his actions came upon me, I heard more yawns all over the chamber as our men were similarly affected.
Janos gave Maeen a hard push to jolt him awake. “Fetch some water,” he hissed, “and quickly.”
As the sergeant stumbled to do his bidding, Janos knelt. I squatted beside him, fighting off sleep. There was no question what had happened: Mortacious had cast a sleeping spell on our food. Janos took the crumbs — the wizard’s leavings — from his pocket and spread them on the floor. He leaned close and breathed over them: once, twice, three times. When Maeen returned with the dipper Janos sprinkled water over the crumbs and made a paste. I saw him struggle with a yawn of his own, as he kneaded the paste into twenty bread pellets. Once more his hand dipped into his pocket, and when it appeared again I saw his fingers coated with the golden ash from the wizard’s plate. He whispered a chant as he sprinkled the ash over the dough pellets, and in dumb amazement I watched the pellets swiftly rise; in a moment they had the appearance and size of small biscuits. Hazy fear enveloped me as Sergeant Maeen sagged down and I felt sleep’s dark veil descending.
“Eat,” Janos hissed, shoving the biscuit at me. I took it, irritated at being ordered to do anything other than sleep. I bit off a small portion as he demanded and it seemed so delicious after that awful meal I had to have more. My mind sharpened with the pleasure of the taste, banishing sleep. Janos raced about, forcing a biscuit into every man’s gullet. Soon all were awake and Janos was back by my side. Once more he held a finger to his lips, but this time it was not directed at the sergeant and myself. With that same finger he drew a circle about our heads. He repeated the gesture and I saw the air begin to shimmer. “Silence,” Janos whispered. The shimmer became a swirl. “Silence,” he said louder still and the shimmer became a pale light. Then he bellowed: “SILENCE.” But though the shout hammered my ears, it became a dead thing at the barrier of pale light. No echo resounded from the walls, nor aroused the men, although they watched with anxious interest. Amalric’s much for Lord Mortacious and his silly spells,” Janos said in normal tones. “Now, we can plot escape in comfort.”
“What about the men, sir?” Maeen asked. “Shouldn’t they be able to listen as well?”
“The size of the counterspell would alert our host,” Janos said. “We must not underestimate this man. He has little wit, but much low cunning, and his powers are as great as any wizard I have encountered. Just because I let him win that little table game, and sniffed out the sleeping spell he cast on our food, it does not mean our continued existence is assured beyond this night.”
“It may be difficult, sir,” Maeen said, as he put his professional mind to work. “But not impossible. He’s got the terrain, and the numbers, I’ll admit. However, the demons of surprise are on our side, now. And as for his men — why, most of `em are walking wounded.” He sniffed. “I’ve never seen such a mangy lot in my life.”
But Janos wasn’t listening; his brow was furrowed in concentration. Then his skin pearled white. “Oh, what a fool I’ve been,” he groaned. “The bastard’s tricked me!”
We asked what was wrong. Janos shook his head in fury. “Only try and think of escape, and you’ll see for yourselves,” he said, voice shaking with emotion. “Think on it hard. Hard as you can. Imagine us fleeing this place. Take it step by step. First the door... then into the streets... then back down the road they marched us on.”
I closed my eyes and followed his directions. The door gave way with ease; soon we were all running along the road toward the harbor. I imagined a likely boat to steal; then just as I had us all aboard, and ready to sail, a terrible, unreasoning fear hurled out of some dark corridor in my soul and sank its teeth into my guts. I could not see the beast, but I could smell the mad reek of its presence, and feel the hot pain of its fangs burrowing into me. I knew I had only one hope of escape: I fled back down the avenue; back into the building that held us; back into the chamber that was our prison; and slammed that door shut with all my might. I opened my eyes, bile in my throat, panic in my breast, and saw the same terror on Maeen’s face.
“Do you see what he has done?” Janos gritted. “I said he had low cunning; but by all the gods I mock, I did not suspect the extent of that cunning.” Mortacious had placed more than one spell on the food. One was to make us sleep until he was ready. The other was to prevent us from fleeing once that moment came. We were trapped in this ghastly city; our own fear molded to make that trap.
“There is only one way to break the spell,” Janos said. “My own magick is useless. So we must steal some of his.”
We did not discuss the how and why of it, for we sensed any lingering discussion would arouse the worm from its lair. We would go at it simply: one step, then another; seizing opportunity as it came. The door gave no trouble, and there were no guards outside. Janos told the men to wait until we returned, then we crept softly away. I cannot speak for my two companions of that night; but if this account is to be as honest as I have sworn, I must admit how thoroughly Mortacious had unmanned me. I did not face the task ahead as a brave warrior; or as the hero of a stirring ode. All along the way I felt the wizard’s cold fingers needle my spine, and heard his scornful laughter. Despair was my constant enemy, every hulking shadow my final moment. We were only three furtive little creatures; kin to all the dark things that scuttle; cousins of shame.
We moved along bleak corridors, past dark empty rooms that reeked of pain; the doors to those rooms yawned open, eager to swallow us. Some rooms were barred, and we heard the low moans of their occupants. Near the entrance to the building, I smelled the sharpness of a familiar oil, and the scent of much-used leather. Sergeant Maeen, bless his old soldier’s senses, traced it quickly: it was the last room along the main corridor, just by the exit. The room was unlocked and Maeen cracked it open and disappeared inside. He returned a moment later, and managed a small grin through the web of fear. It was an armory, he whispered; and with that small hope to light our way, we moved out into the chill night.
There was no sign of anyone about, although that did not ease our fear. We circled the place, leaping from shadow to shadow until we came to the rear. Across a wide, barren field, the great building with its smoking furnace beckoned. We hugged every pebble for cover as we scurried to it. The smell of the place was overpowering, and far overhead fiery sparks showered into a moonless night. Why we hurried there, I dared not wonder, for any thought beyond the moment would be a black pit from which we would never escape. Perhaps it was a god, who pitied us; perhaps it was Janos’s lifetime lover, Holy Reason; perhaps it was only the small blind guide, that squeaks in the breast of all living things. All I know is, we saw the building... and went.
After an eternity of terror, the building loomed up us, a cliff face of polished stone that stretched deep into the night in either direction. The only feature was the immense black eye of the arched entrance, and the twin columns that supported the arch. We stumbled onto the cobblestone road that served the entrance and gasped to the iron gates barring the way. At that moment luck abandoned us with the drum of footsteps and the grind and shriek of heavily ladened wagons. As we stood there, helpless orphans of fate, torchlights flared at the curve of the road. Then a long procession ribboned out of the night in our direction. We ducked behind one of the columns and prayed luck would relent and shield us from our enemies’ probing eyes.
Our hiding place gave us a clear view of the procession’s approach. There were more than twenty large wagons, and instead of beasts to draw them, there were people laboring in chain and harness; men and women, barely covered in filthy rags. Large men with whips moved among them, lashing anyone who faltered. I jumped as the iron gates beside us suddenly rumbled into life, rolling open on oiled runners. We huddled back into the column’s slender shadow as whips cracked and the wagons moved through. A charnel smell wafted over us as they moved past and I saw with horror the wagons were heaped with bodies. There were some still living among them, for I saw movement and heard desperate pleas.
As the third wagon was dragged by us, one of the women faltered in her chains and fell to her knees. Her rags were clotted with dried blood. They came open as she fell, and I saw a gaping wound in her belly, and the glistening of entrails. She looked up, and for a moment our eyes met; but they were as blank as an oxen’s. A whip snaked out, cutting a bloody furrow in her cheek. She did not show pain or emotion, but only rose dumbly to her feet and gripped the chain to labor on.
As the last wagon moved through, Janos hissed for us to follow. We leaped on the back and clung there, struggling for a grip on gore-soaked wood. The gates rumbled shut and we were inside. I looked back and saw with numb acceptance there was no one to operate the gates. Moments before the wagon was jerked around a turn, I spotted an odd shadow near one of the gate’s huge hinges. The bars there were bowed and twisted from some accident. I risked my grip and nudged Janos and he saw it too: a gap just large enough for us to squeeze through. We jolted along a dark passageway. Somewhere in the wagon a man groaned ceaselessly; then I heard a child cry and almost wept. But the cry had stirred my anger and that anger pierced a hole in Mortacious’s black sorcery. It was only a small hole, a pinprick at best, but it was enough to allow a slender light of courage to peep through. I still feared Mortacious: my flesh still flinched under his spell’s cold net; but if he came upon us now, he would find a man — not a scuttling rodent. A big door boomed open and light flooded down the passage. As we leaped from the back of the wagon, a wave of intense heat followed the light. It seared the lungs and turned the roots of my hair into small, hot needles. But I still had sense enough to catch Janos’s signal: we ducked under the slow-moving wagon and used it as cover as we crawled the rest of the way on our hands and knees.
We were in a vast chamber of pain and death. The floor and walls were mirror-smooth and blazed with reflected light and heat. The most ghastly scenes and demonic creatures decorated that surface and were granted locomotion by black wizardry, so they swirled and flowed from place to place, making an obscene nightmare of fang and talon; rack and tong; cracked bone and severed muscle. One-third of that chamber was filled by a monstrous open furnace. An unholy fire raged, with blue flames taller than a man shooting up to arc and curl and writhe like serpents driven mad by intruders in their nest. The flames were stoked by huge bellows with great clanking chains that moved to an invisible will; with each stroke the bellows gathered in a torrent of shrieking air, with the other, it expelled the air as a howling wind. An endless belt, such as would turn a carpenter’s lathe, but as wide as a city lane and made of meshed metal, was suspended over the roaring fire, driven by thick-toothed gears commanded by sorcery. Far overhead, rising like a hollow mountain, was the great chimney. Its interior was a gaping red maw, with long, white fangs nestled about its entrance. It was a grotesque idol to a dark god, a demon Master. All we looked at — chamber, furnace, fire, belt and chimney — was the engine of Mortacious’s black powers. We hid behind the wagonload of gore for more minutes than I now care to ponder, and watched what fed that awful engine, and what it produced.
