Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 32

Rothir would have much preferred to be on horseback. It wasn’t just because the silver tide of dizziness swept through him every now and then, making him uncertain of his footing, for that was, he judged and hoped, happening less and less; but he missed Narba. Every day he visited his great-hearted horse in the nearby stables, stroking Narba’s glossy head and telling him that soon they would be riding out to battle. His usually patient horse was restless: the one gallop that he and Rothir had taken outside the city walls had been all too brief.

And now Rothir was outside the walls again, but regrettably on foot. When he had asked Veron where they were going, he had received no answer. Veron had simply handed him the dark cloak and fur hood of a hunter, and told him to put them on. And to walk with him.

So here they were, tramping through the early evening warmth around the western wall, where all the sun’s late heat seemed to concentrate and gather; strolling amongst the grimy tradesmen and dusty farmhands, who appeared to be all glowing in the setting sun’s last rays until the final sliver of the sun was hidden and they fell abruptly from glory into gloom.

A disreputable foursome he and his companions must appear, no doubt, especially in the growing dusk. Veron and his two shaggy hunters had an air that made men steer out of their path. Rothir suspected that he himself looked little friendlier, even though the cloak hid his sword and leather armour. Veron had bid him put them on and keep them covered with his cloak. Rothir had no idea why.

Armour meant fighting. Yet as they paced around the walls towards the northern gate, Veron still said no word.

Why have I put myself at his command? thought Rothir. Because Huldarion is not around to tell me yea or nay. And because we two now seem to be – in Veron’s eyes at least – blood brothers. Perhaps in my eyes too. The huntress has laid her lethal claws upon us both… And we have both survived, if changed. At any rate, I do not wish to let him down.

But he wished Veron would tell him the nature of their errand. Once or twice Veron halted and glanced back sharply, as if to satisfy himself that they were not being followed. When at last he spoke, as they trudged along, it was only to say,

“All well in your lodgings?”

“Seems to be.” Rothir decided not to mention how he had walked into Theol’s room early that morning, hoping to borrow a razor, and had found his second-in-command in bed with Tiburé. The pair had been more amused than embarrassed. Rothir had been the most disconcerted of the three as he backed out of the room, apologising. Theol! But he had always had a reputation as a ladies’ man. And Tiburé! Well, Solon showed no affection for his wife these days…

“All well in the castle?” asked Veron.

“So far as I know. Parthenal said there seemed to be some sort of kerfuffle there today. Servants running round with anxious faces. He couldn’t gather what any of it was about, though.”

“Ah.”

“Some mystery or other,” mused Rothir. Parthenal had said that after enquiring in vain of one or two scared servants, he had seen the archivist Tamu scurrying down a corridor; so he had stopped him to ask if there was something going on. The archivist had blinked at him wordlessly for a moment before he said, “Only the usual.” Whatever that meant. Parthenal was none the wiser.

“Nerogun? What was his reaction to the excitement?” asked Veron now.

“How would I know? I’m not privy to the High Lords’ doings. And I’m not even sure that excitement was the right word. Some mishap or accident, Parthenal thought.”

“Something that’s bad enough to make Nerogun act,” said Veron.

“Act how?”

“Wait.”

“Wait?” repeated Rothir, mildly exasperated; for Veron certainly wasn’t waiting. He was striding on at a brisk pace. They were not far from the northern gate now – he recognised the stalls against the wall as if from some past dream or other life. Of course, he hadn’t been quite well when he last rode up here. He had been bizarrely cheerful that day, he recalled. But he was almost fully himself now. Just occasionally he would feel the slow echo of a silver ripple run across his skull like mercury.

And now at last, before they reached the gate, Veron slowed down.

“I know this place,” said Rothir. “It’s the blacksmith’s forge.” He remembered that contented other time, his pleasure on entering the low, dark building: the roaring comfort of the furnace, the impressive halberds on the wall. And good arrowheads. She had liked them. So he had got that right.

Yaret’s happiness seemed to be important to him. Having saved her life, he needed to know it would be an easy and secure one... Though that was hardly possible given the destruction of her town. Arrowheads could not make up for all her losses. Nothing could.

She put a brave face on it, thought Rothir, but in truth he knew he could not tell what she was thinking. She was more remote to him now than she had been in those first days of their acquaintance, on the Darkburn Loft. Her face, so open then, so easy to read, seemed to have closed somehow. Apart from that dreadful evening in the Fort beside the dying man, when all her grief and anger were made plain.

So much had happened since they first met on the Loft. Too much… He remembered riding through Farwithiel with her held up in the saddle in front of him, slumping against him, the bandage on her stump still oozing blood. A dreadful memory. Yet a dear one. Hard to say why. He ought not to want to remember anything so gruesome.

“This is where we wait,” said Veron. He cast one final sweeping glance around before he entered the smithy.

The hunters followed him in, and Rothir followed the hunters. The furnace was a sulky red, its embers already banked up and covered for the night. The smith was tidying away his tools. When they entered he looked up and nodded as if expecting them.

“Martun,” said Rothir, recalling the smith’s name. He didn’t recall that the man had only had one ear. However, the place itself seemed totally familiar to him, warm and welcoming; almost a home.

“Welcome, Rothir. Please be seated.” Martun gestured to a bench. When he sat it was uncomfortable: too low.

“I have no idea why I’m here,” he said, and the smith looked questioningly at Veron.

“I haven’t told him yet,” said Veron. “All right. Rothir. You are here because we need your skills.”

“My skills at what? Not blacksmithing, surely?” He looked around the place, wishing for a moment that this indeed was his profession. That he had this as his working home, a life to spend in making solid, useful things.

“Your skills at killing,” said Veron. “Specifically, at killing darkburns.” He over-rode Rothir’s shocked exclamation and went on, “I can kill well enough, when it’s stonemen. But not darkburns. I’d never met any loose ones until the battle of the Outland Forts. And none came near me then. I haven’t your experience. This one needs to be killed fast, and quietly.”

“Which darkburn?” demanded Rothir. He was aware he sounded fierce. “You mean the thing imprisoned underneath the city walls? Or have you got some other darkburn hidden up your sleeve?”

The two hunters with them grinned. One of them shook his sleeve and said something in his own language. Veron raised his hand slightly, at which they both immediately dropped the smiles from their faces and were still.

“The one trapped in the bath-house, underneath the walls,” Veron said curtly. “We’ve had word. Nerogun has put out his orders. That darkburn is to be let loose in the city, soon after midnight.”

“What?” Rothir sprang up from his hard seat. “They’ll free the darkburn? Is Nerogun mad? It’ll burn the place down! There’ll be havoc! Why on earth would he do such a thing?”

“He’s never met a darkburn,” one of the hunters commented. “Probably doesn’t know what it can do.”

“Oh, he knows,” said Veron. “He’s been practising on prisoners. Captive stonemen.”

“Then shame on him,” said Rothir roughly.

A darkburn in the city, with its closely-packed, overhanging buildings? In his imagination he saw the buds of yellow heat, the rapidly growing petals of red flame, the golden flower turning to a raging monster with choking tendrils made of smoke. Overwhelming buildings; destroying neighbourhoods.

Obandiro, but on a massive scale, he thought. She must not see it. “Why would he want to do that to the city?” he demanded.

“Oh, only the poor parts,” said Veron. “Nerogun doesn’t care about the northern quarter. But my guess is that he wants a distraction from whatever happened in the castle lately. He wants people to look the other way.”

“They’ll do that all right,” growled Rothir. “They’ll be distracted for about ten seconds, before they start burning up. How is he going to stop the fire from spreading?”

“The city’s mostly built of brick and stone,” Veron pointed out. “It’s only the northern quarter’s that’s chiefly made of wood. The other parts won’t burn so easily. And his soldiers have plenty of stones prised from the stonemen’s heads. Nerogun probably thinks that’s enough to control the darkburn when he needs to.”

“Those stones might control the darkburn. They won’t control the fire.”

“Nerogun may be badly advised,” said Veron.

“Shargun’s told him the darkburns were easily defeated on the battlefield,” the blacksmith put in. “The man’s a charlatan. Shargun, I mean.”

Rothir looked over at him in surprise.

“Martun is a relative of Arch-Lord Marshal Shargun,” said Veron, cocking his head at the blacksmith. “Doesn’t like him much. Doesn’t like the way things are going. That’s why he told us about this plan. And that’s why he’s helping us.”

“Is he? How does he know all this?” Rothir demanded.

“My cousin,” said Martun, with an edge to his voice. “My esteemed cousin has Shargun’s ear – and he likes to make sure that people know it. He told me this morning about the plan to free the darkburn.”

“Is it likely to be true?”

“As likely as not.”

“And how can you help us?” Rothir asked him.

“We can get to the darkburn from this side of the wall. There’s an outlet to the bathhouse between here and the North Gate. The way in is through a large grid – locked; but I’ve got a set of keys.” Picking up two long iron keys from his worktop, the blacksmith passed them over to Veron.

“Where did you get those?” asked Rothir in surprise.

“Long story,” said Veron, “but it means we can enter through the grid and destroy the darkburn before it can be let loose in the streets.”

Rothir considered this plan. “Maybe. It won’t be that easy, surely? There must be another barrier in there, or otherwise the darkburn would be constantly hurling itself against the grid,” he pointed out.

“There is a second gate. But it doesn’t require keys. I’ve been in there to check. Nearly burnt my hair off,” said Veron casually.

Rothir stared at him. “What about the guards? They’ll discover us, won’t they?”

“The guards are only on the inner side of the wall. They stay as far from the darkburn as they can. They use the stones to drive it down this end. And in a little while, when it’s almost dark, they’ll be changing over. That will be our best chance to get in.”

“But how will you know when the guards are changing?”

Veron grinned. “Got a spy on the other side of the wall. He’ll give the signal. Can you do it?”

“Kill the darkburn? Yes,” said Rothir soberly. Although he did not relish the prospect, he knew he could destroy one captive darkburn, especially with Veron as back-up. “If I have to.”

“You have to,” said Veron.

“No, Rothir. You don’t have to.”

That was not the smith’s voice. Nor did it come from any of the hunters. It was a lighter tone, and totally unexpected. When Rothir spun round, to his bewilderment he saw Yaret strolling into the smithy, as if she had arrived there by some casual chance.

Veron’s grin disappeared as he stared at her. “What in stars’ name are you doing here?” he snapped, echoing Rothir’s shock.

“I followed you,” said Yaret.

Veron frowned in disbelief. “What? How? I thought I felt somebody. But I didn’t see you!”

“Good. I’ve been following you for the last two days, while you stalk other people, just to work out how you did it. So congratulate yourself on your fine example.” Yaret looked over at the blacksmith. “Well, Martun; I suppose you must have found my impressions of the locks.”

“You what?” said Rothir. “You made impressions of the locks?” He was aware that his voice had become a surly growl. But I did not save Yaret for this, he thought, so that she could walk straight into danger.

He found he was upset and knew it was unreasonable; the saving of her life gave him no rights over her. All the same he felt deeply disturbed. He had hoped somehow that she could be free of the darkburns and their destructiveness. But here she was.

“It was Edrik who retrieved your impressions from their rather inadequate hiding-place, when he followed you that day,” said Veron. He was still frowning. “And don’t think that you can interfere with our plans to kill the darkburn. Would you rather see it set loose upon the city?”

“No,” said Yaret. “But you don’t have to kill it, surely? Just keep it safe.” She turned to address Martun. “Couldn’t you devise some sort of cage or iron shackle that would hold the darkburn somewhere else in safety?”

“Perhaps I could; but that would take too long,” the smith replied. “Why are you so concerned about the darkburn? It’s just a weapon, isn’t it? An artefact made out of burning coal, or some such fuel, by all accounts. It’s not alive.”

“Yaret, I don’t understand you,” said Rothir gravely. “Why would you try to cage the darkburn? Surely you don’t mean that we should use it as a weapon of war ourselves?”

She shook her head decisively. “No, stars forbid. But it’s not just an artefact made out of coal. It’s not made out of any ordinary matter. It is altogether an extraordinary creature.” She hesitated. “And I think – I think it’s trying to tell us something.”

Veron laughed.

“It’s telling us to die,” said Rothir forcefully. He could not comprehend her attitude. “Darkburns wiped out your whole town, Yaret!”

“Do you think I’m in any danger of forgetting that?”

“No, of course not; but–”

“I’ve felt that I was almost communicating with this particular darkburn on three occasions now. I’d like one more chance, at least.”

“Almost communicating,” said Veron drily.

“Yes. Nearly there.”

Veron shrugged. “Very well, then. If time allows, you can have a few minutes near it while we wait for our signal. But we can’t go near the grid until it’s getting dark.”

“It’s getting dark now.”

“Not dark enough. Sit down.”

She sat. Rothir stood in contemplation, gazing at the dimly glowing forge. Inwardly he was rehearsing how to tackle the darkburn; remembering the onslaught of its heat and horror, mentally going through the moves, the hazards. He nodded to himself.

“Do you have helmet linings?” he asked Martun.

“Woollen quilted.” The blacksmith pulled out a box from underneath the bench and held one up.

“Then I’ll borrow a helmet off you, if I may,” he said, and Martun picked three helmets off their hooks for him to choose from. As Rothir tried them on they made desultory conversation about the beating out of headgear, although he did not feel much like talking, even about blacksmithing.

Yaret was silent on the hard bench. After a few moments one of the hunters – not the grizzled Edrik, but the younger, shaggier Narduk – sat down next to her.

“You talked with it how?” he asked.

“I sang.”

Narduk nodded thoughtfully. He did not laugh or scoff as Rothir would have expected. Indeed, both hunters seemed to treat Yaret with some respect.

It’s because she met the huntress, said Rothir to himself. More than that: she petitioned her. Veron said they seemed to know each other. We are all five of us here beholden to the huntress...

The wave of mercury crossed through his head again in a slow surge from temple to temple, a liquid flow of moonlight. It made him dizzy for a moment.

He shook his head to dispel it. Veron announced that it was time to go. Bidding Rothir don his leather gauntlets, he took a second pair from Martun which he donned himself. Martun watched them leave, standing by his doorway as the five of them stepped silently out into the twilight.

Dusk lay heavy around the north wall, making strange shapes of the landscape, as unnerving as the presence of a band of concealed predators. All was quiet as the group approached the iron grid. Beyond it, the northern gate had been closed for the night: they heard the thump of the great stave being slung across its doors to latch it.

At the grid they stopped, all but invisible, Rothir hoped, in their dark cloaks. There was no-one near to challenge them. A chill wind blew across the empty fields, swirling underneath the walls. But the air that reached them from the grid was warm – even hot – and stinking. A familiar stink that brought back the noise and chaos of the battlefield in a hurtling rush.

“Now’s your chance,” said Veron to Yaret. “You communicate away.”

She leant back against the warm grid with her eyes closed. Rothir could feel the darkburn’s aura through the stone: the horror, grief, the hate and anger, dread. It could never be forgotten but familiarity and practice made it easier to bear. Telling himself the aura would not last once the thing was killed, he braced himself against it now.

Veron stood by him with the keys: the two huntsmen moved further away. He suspected they were glad to stand on guard at an easier distance from the darkburn aura.

Yaret’s lips were moving slightly and her shadowed face was tense, although she made no sound. If anything was happened between her and the captive darkburn he could discern no sign of it. Nothing happened for a few long minutes, until with a sudden scream a hawk flew up above the wall from the far side. Rothir assumed it was a hawk, at least: it was hard to tell as it flapped away and seemed to be swallowed by the dark.

“That’s our signal,” said Veron. He took the two long iron keys from his pocket and gave one to Rothir. “You stop now,” he told Yaret. Before she even had a chance to answer, he pulled her away roughly from the grid. Then he applied his key to the lower keyhole, indicating to Rothir that he should unlock the higher one.

Rothir inserted his key. It was well-oiled and slid round with only minimal resistance. As Veron pulled on the grid it swung slowly outward on its hinges. Those too must have been oiled for they were almost soundless.

Beyond the grid was only shadow. Veron entered and Rothir followed, feeling for the wall beside him, warm and damp. Although they moved stealthily he caught a breath of echo, as if they were inside a tunnel. A few steps further in, the darkness was complete, and the darkburn stink was strong – burnt flesh mingled with decay. It made his gorge rise.

Now Veron produced a small lamp which Rothir eyed suspiciously, for it burnt with no visible flame, but produced a mild orange glow. But it was just enough for him to see by. They were in a short passage, about four yards long, with another grid at its far end. Behind the grid was something indistinct in the thin orange lamplight.

As they approached, it became no more distinct. If anything, it grew more blurred. The heat became intense: and so did the terror and the rage.

The darkburn. The feelings it generated were monstrous in their power, out of all proportion to its size. It commanded death. It urged self-destruction. It filled his head with desolation. He beat the feelings down.

This new grid was fastened with a long iron bar. Before they lifted it, Veron drew his sword and motioned to Rothir to do the same. He could tell that Veron found even lifting the sword difficult. But he himself was used to the required effort now.

Each taking one end of the bar in gauntleted hands, they raised it from its latches. At once the heavy grid fell out towards them so that Rothir had to jump back quickly. The grid thudded onto the earthen floor: surely the soldiers on the other side might hear? But there was no time for him to worry about that, because the darkburn was already on him.

It was a whirl of burning blackness, of soot and charcoal, yet as hard as rock against the blade. It had almost got inside his guard before he slashed his sword at it. Immediately he had to jump back again, one sleeve smoking, his arms already burning, his shoulder hitting the side of the tunnel. There was little room to wield his sword: as he struck the darkburn a second and a third time, his blade clashed on the stone wall and set off a shower of sparks.

More noise. It was impossible to do this quietly. And although he held the darkburn off, it did not fall. He struck at it again, a lateral blow using all his strength, and then had to leap back from the heat. The darkburn halted only for an instant before it rushed at him once more.

He slashed in a down diagonal followed by a sidesweep; and then Veron joined in, stabbing the thing, although Rothir could have told him that stabbing did not work. It needed the lateral slash. He swept his sword at the dark mass, and this time a piece of it flew off.

“Draw it out,” said Veron breathlessly, himself backing away. Rothir followed him, slashing almost continuously at the darkburn now as he backed down the tunnel towards the outer side. He had never fought a darkburn in such a confined space and the heat was overwhelming him. Even with the visor down, his face was burning, and his upper arms and legs were too where the leather armour did not cover him.

Now bits of charcoal flew off the darkburn, hitting him like scorching hail; yet still it rushed at him. It was trying to leap on him and devour him in flame as it had struck down Gordal on the battlefield. Not the same darkburn, of course.

Yet as he smote again it seemed to him that they were all one darkburn, all one foe, all part of the same thing. The silver wave began to run from the back of his head to the front, filling up his vision. For a second he was blind, incapable. He did not know where to aim his sword. He was caught and helpless in that slow inexorable tide…

But someone else was suddenly there in front of him, slashing and hacking: when he blinked and strained to see, he realised that it was Yaret.

“Not too close,” he tried to say. She probably didn’t hear. In any case, she was managing to hold the darkburn off. Although she needed both hands on her hilt, she wielded her sword effectively enough to keep the thing at bay.

As the cool air reached Rothir he recovered both his senses and his strength. He could see the darkburn now: he swung his sword in a hefty cross-sweep, and at last the rushing force of heat and smoke seemed to lose its impetus. His blade hit a substance as brittle-hard as coal. But not coal. Nothing that he could identify. Never mind, the thing had fallen now. Time to finish the job off.

Standing on the grass in the near-dark, he and Yaret hacked in turns at the smoking remnants. Rothir was still chopping at it in disgust and fury – partly disgust at his own momentary weakness – when Veron caught at his arm.

“Enough,” he said. “It’s done.”

Rothir paused, panting. The charcoaled pieces lay motionless and scattered on the ground. The darkburn aura was already fading fast: that more than anything convinced him that the thing was dead.

And Yaret, having claimed to want to talk to it, had helped him to destroy it. He looked over at her.

“I take it your attempt at communication didn’t work,” he said roughly.

“It worked,” said Yaret in a low voice, staring at the remnants of the darkburn. “It worked, after a fashion.”

“So what did the thing say?”

“Nothing in words. Just impressions: feelings.”

“The darkburn dread. As always.”

“Yes. The dread and grief and horror, all of that. But one impression over-riding everything. Almost like a plea.”

“A plea? A plea for what?” said Rothir.

She bent to wipe her sword along the grass – unnecessarily, he thought, for darkburns shed no blood – and then sheathed it with slow care before she answered.

“It was: Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.”