Born Of Darkness (Book 7) (15 page)

“Not exactly?” Aemon said. Unlike his brother the king had no trouble looking at the corpse. He inspected it the way he had looked at the book back in the Cathedral.

Kormak said, “Such desiccation is usually the sign that a certain sort of vampirism has taken place. It is typical of a lifestealer such as a Quan or a Barrow Wight. I’ve seen brains removed and eaten before too. I’ve never heard of the two things happening at once.”

“Why would someone remove a brain?” Duke Leone asked. Prince Taran stared at his brother with what looked like rapt attention but was really just a way of avoiding looking at the body.

“Some Shadow cult sorcerers believe you can devour a man’s soul by eating his brain, or gain his knowledge,” Jonas said “According to most experts thanatomancy involves the absorption of many of the victim’s memories.”

“A somatic component,” said King Aemon. “Sometimes to work a spell, a mage will use an object that is symbolic, that focuses his mind on the conceptual element of the spell.”

Kormak nodded.

“The corpse’s outer garments are missing,” King Aemon said. “And I believe I recognise the features of poor Brother Serbius, one of the Cathedral scribes.”

“Vorkhul must have killed him and taken his robe. It looks like the creature we hunt is disguised as a monk.”

Fang barked and raced off. He had found the trail again. They ran in pursuit.

***

Wrapped in his stolen robes, Vorkhul made his way through the palace. The thick cloth protected against the sunstone light leaking in through the windows. He kept his face downcast and his cowl pulled up and he ignored the servants around him. The distant hound had ceased to howl. It emitted a series of loud barks.

Vorkhul altered his shape once more, lengthening his snout, increasing his sense of smell. He altered his ears so he could hear more. He wanted all the warning he could get of pursuit. Nearby a woman gasped. Perhaps she had noticed something. He strode on.

The barking came closer. He did not doubt the dog sought him now. There was no need to maintain his disguise. He lengthened his stride and broke into a run. Ahead of him was a flight of stairs. He raced up them and into a corridor.

A servant girl emerged from one of the room, adjusting her dress. A serving man was with her. Vorkhul dived through the door and slammed it shut behind him. Ahead he could see a window. The light from the Cathedral blazed through it.

He needed to find the Museum and he needed to find it now. How was he going to manage that before the pursuit overtook him? Scents assaulted his nostrils—the mortal with the deadly blade and the wizard-king who had been in the vaults. There were others armed with truesilver-treated blades.

He felt like turning at bay and rending his pursuers but now was not the time. He checked the bar was in place then moved towards the window. He must risk the light of the sunstone or be destroyed.

It was time to fly.

***

Fang whimpered and scratched against the woodwork of the door the trail led them to.

“Break down the door,” Prince Taran said.

He and Duke Leone threw themselves against the heavy wooden door. It did not bend or creak or give way in the slightest.

“Someone bring an axe,” Prince Taran said. “Now, if you please!”

“No need,” King Aemon said. He concentrated for a moment, placed his hand against the door, and spoke a word of power.

Kormak felt a surge of magic. The timbers bent and creaked. The lock broke and the bar jumped out of its brackets. The King hit the door again with his open hands and it flew open. Over by the window stood a figure in monk’s robes.

Kormak sprang into the room, blade in his hand.

***

Vorkhul felt the surge of magical energy just before the door leapt from its hinges. Through the window, the baleful glow of the sunstone illuminated part of the sky. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the tall warrior striding forward. The runes on his dwarf-forged blade glowed with reflected light. Determination showed in the set of his jaw and fury in his eye.

Vorkhul did not like fleeing from these insects. He wanted to show the creature who was master. Yet the mortal was armed with a deadly weapon and armoured in an alloy that would burn Eldrim flesh. It was pointless to remain and fight. If he was successful he would soon have the means to teach these worms a lesson.

Vorkhul stretched his arms, transforming them. He extended his newly extruded wings and leapt through the window and into the sky. Behind him he heard the mortal curse.

***

Kormak raced across the room, blade in hand. The Old One’s form writhed and blurred. The sleeves of its robes ripped as its arms became enormous bat-like wings. It threw itself forward, smashing through the glass and rising out of sight.

***

Vorkhul banked away from the window. The giant sunstone atop the palace burned him. It was a bonfire of magic that sucked in the sun’s light through the day then released it into the darkness.

His skin blistered. Strength leeched from him. If he did not evade the killing light soon he was going to die.

Flying was painful. His wing-beats barely kept him in the air. He needed to find a way out of the light. He needed to find an escape route from his deadly pursuers. The agony made it difficult for him to think.

He must escape from the killing light.

***

Kormak reached the window and leapt. He caught a brief, vertiginous view of the courtyard far below him. His fingers closed on Vorkhul’s leg. The extra weight slowed the Old One. Its pinions beat furiously but it could not rise. It writhed and changed shape. Kormak swept his blade around, striking a glancing blow that caused flesh to blacken and sizzle.

The Old One screamed. Its legs flowed together. Its body became the trunk of a great serpent, a huge coil of muscle that lashed and flexed and sought to throw Kormak clear.

***

Vorkhul cursed the mortal. He was determined as a hound on a trail and no more likely to give up his prey once his jaws sunk into it. The light of the sunstone burned. The sight of elder signs blazing on the nearby buildings filled him with nausea.

The mortal’s truesilver armour seared Vorkhul’s flesh like poison. He ignored the pain and squeezed even as he altered his upper body, making it longer and stronger.

Elder signs. The mortals were protecting something. Stolen memories came to him. He knew that building. The things he sought were in it. Some of those elder signs were more decorative than practical, emblazoned in fragile glass. If only he could break them, he might yet reach his goal. There had to be a way. Yes. Yes. There was.

He pulled himself once more into the blinding sky, through the burning light. He did not have long but if he could endure a few more moments . . .

***

A coil of the serpentine body wrapped round Kormak’s torso, threatening to squeeze the life out of him. The smell of sizzling flesh filled his nostrils, mingling with the musty rot the Old Ones emitted when hurt.

Looking up he saw a face of nightmare and horror. Fangs filled its mouth, dripping with a black stuff that could only be poison. Mad eyes glared down at him. He struggled with all his strength to get his arm free, to strike at the Old One.

Wings beat louder in his ears. The ground reeled in his field of vision. The snake jaws came closer. He writhed an arm free and forced a mail-clad forearm into that gaping maw.

Vorkhul gained height, burning from the beams of the sunstone. Had the Old One gone mad with pain? It tilted sideways and swept downwards. Huge muscles coiled all around Kormak. He braced himself to resist constriction with all his strength. Instead he found himself catapulted free.

Kormak reached out, trying to regain his grip on the Old One but it was too late. Legs and arms flailing, he tumbled through the air, hurtling towards the wall of the Museum.

***

Vorkhul watched the mortal arc away from him. He hissed with pain, fighting to stay aloft and keep his vision on the falling man. Even hurtling through the air towards his doom, the mortal held on to his sword, as if only death would make him relinquish it.

Everything happened slowly. The man fell. The light burned. He needed to hold on. Just a little bit longer.

Just a little bit . . .

Impact.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

STAINED GLASS SHATTERED around Kormak. The splintering of the window slowed him.

He collided with something soft and rough that absorbed the impact. He dropped half a dozen feet and hit the floor hard. Face down on the cold paving stones, stars dancing in front of his eyes, he fought to understand what had happened.

Above him light filtered through the empty frame of the stained glass window. He was bleeding from a dozen small cuts. His whole body hurt. His leg hurt. His torso felt like a mass of bruises.

He looked back to see what had broken his fall. The gigantic figure of the stuffed mammoth loomed above him. He must have hit its side and bounced. Kormak reeled to his feet, dizzy from the impact. A hideous high-pitched screaming noise filled his ears. A monstrous bat-winged figure blocked out the light of the sunstone.

The Old One flapped through the broken window and veered right, into the shadows. His eyes focused on Kormak. His claws extended.

Kormak struggled to raise his blade and defend himself.

***

At least he was out of the killing light, Vorkhul thought. His whole body burned. The taste of truesilver in his mouth made him dizzy. But he had done it! He was inside the treasure house and he had killed his most deadly foe. The worst was over.

It took his eyes seconds to adjust to the gloom inside the Museum. To his astonishment he saw that the human was not dead. He was rising from the floor, brandishing his blade in defiance, making ready to fight.

What did it take to kill him?

No matter. Vorkhul had no wish to do battle now. He searched through his stolen memories and found what he was seeking. He knew the general direction in which he could find the chamber of the moongate and its collection of vital treasures. He flew over the massive form of a great wyrm, trying to keep out of the light, making for the exit of the chamber. He glanced backwards and saw the human lurch into motion. The sight drove a spike of fear deep into the Old One’s brain.

***

Kormak gritted his teeth, ready to sell his life dearly. Vorkhul turned and Kormak knew that the Old One was about to swoop down on him.

Swoop it did, but not at him. It fled deeper into the museum. Kormak clutched at his blade and limped forward. It was time to finish this. Ahead of him he heard a long wailing inhuman scream. A shadowy wolf-like figure, shape shimmering as its wings retracted, reeled ahead of him

As Kormak broke into a run, an awful suspicion entered his mind. The Old One had a purpose in mind. It sought the moongate. If it reached it, it might escape. Kormak could not pursue while bearing a dwarf-forged blade. The runes on the weapon would wreak havoc on the magic of the Lunar artefact. And without the blade he would have no chance of overcoming the monster. If he was going to kill Vorkhul, he was going to have to do so quickly.

***

Vorkhul closed his eyes to keep from looking upon the elder signs in the room. Despite the fact he could no longer see them he could still feel their presence. They leeched at his strength and life. He sprang forward and landed within a chamber filled with sarcophagi and masks.

Ahead of him a nervous human strapped on a shield. An alarm bell lay close at hand. Beyond him Vorkhul could see the moongate and knew he had almost reached his goal.

The guard looked up at Vorkhul, eyes wide with horror and reached for his sword. The human sounded his alarm bell.

Vorkhul slashed the man’s throat. A spray of blood fountained towards the ceiling. Then he was through, running around the columns of light descending from the skylights. He fought the effects of the elder signs inscribed on the windows above him.

Behind him he could hear the footfalls of his pursuer and the echoes of many alarm bells.

***

Kormak forced his beaten body through the chamber filled with sarcophagi. The silver masks of Lunar kings leered down at him. Their smiling metal faces mocked his desperate efforts.

An armoured man slumped against the wall at the entrance to the Lunar chamber, his throat slashed.

Inside the room Kormak saw the moongate. The silver teardrop reflected the light of the sunstone. The massive shadowy shape of Vorkhul stood before it.

For a moment, the Old One studied his own reflection then he noticed the mirror-image of Kormak in the doorway. He turned his head to look at the Guardian and gave a defiant howl that echoed through the Museum.

Kormak advanced into the chamber, blade held ready. This time Vorkhul would not escape. He was going to end the Old One’s life and take vengeance for Gerd.

***

Vorkhul studied the dormant moongate. Given time he could activate it. Unfortunately time was something that he no longer had. Fear filled him as the mortal closed the distance. He stepped off the plinth and stood before the Lunar armour. He recognised the workmanship. He saw the intact runestones. Potent wards and defensive magics were built into it. It looked like it ought to function. He altered his shape, becoming boneless and liquid as he flowed over the armour and in through the vents and gaps.

***

Kormak charged. The Old One flowed into the armour of Darkoth. The Guardian lengthened his stride and raised his sword. The last strands of Vorkhul’s liquid form disappeared inside the demon-masked metal suit.

***

Relief at being inside the armour filled Vorkhul. Was this ancient war-machine still functioning? Only one way to find out.

In the distance he heard the baying of hounds and the shouts of men. The alarm bells rang louder.

Vorkhul extended tendrils to touch the runestones. They felt dormant, but not dead. He fed life-force into them, activating the spells they bore, noting the way they responded to his touch.