undying legion 01 - unbound man (60 page)

Gods preserve me,
she had prayed, as the mangled corpses of friends and colleagues floated past.
Gods grant me the chance to make this right.

And unexpectedly, remarkably, they had.

When she returned to herself, the battle by the lake was over. At least three Oculus remained upright, though Eilwen could see no Quill still standing. Two of the Oculus stood in conversation, while the third picked through the fallen bodies, presumably checking for survivors. The man stooped over someone, and Eilwen tensed, waiting for the deathblow; but instead, he produced a length of rope and began to bind the Quill’s hands.
Odd. Why take prisoners?
A second survivor was found and dragged a short distance from the first. Eilwen shook her head, perplexed. Something still didn’t add up.

The Oculus disappeared back up the gorge, dragging their prisoners behind them on a rope leash. The first stars began to emerge in the darkening sky. Only when Eilwen was sure the Oculus weren’t coming back did she stand and begin to shuffle up the rocky shore, teeth set against the pain in her twisted knee.

In the dark, some of the bodies could almost have been taken for bundles of cloth, cast onto the rocky shore by a freak wave. Others were impossible to mistake for anything else, the multi-toned flesh of limp hands and ruined faces clear even in the fading light. Eilwen picked her way between the corpses, examining each in turn to determine which were Quill and deserved her sympathy, and which were Oculus and did not.

In death, all men are one.
The words came to her unbidden and she frowned, unsure where she had heard it before. A Mellespene philosopher, perhaps. She shivered, strangely discomfited by the thought.
At night, even the living look alike. That doesn’t mean they are.

She slipped her hand beneath her shirt, retrieving the black amber egg from the fold of lambskin into which it had settled. At once she felt it throb in an odd, staggered rhythm. A token-bearer lay at her feet, its beats strong enough for two. Another pulse called from nearby: a second token-bearer, probably one of the corpses at the water’s edge. Of the third fallen Oculus, she could sense nothing.
That one must have been a sorcerer.

Eilwen turned, allowing the egg to settle back into place against her skin. The gorge opened up before her, black against the shadowed walls of the cliff. She peered into the cleft, searching for a glimmer or spark, listening for voices or the scrape of boot against rock.

Her senses found nothing but empty, silent darkness.

The Oculus came out first, then the Quill. And the Quill didn’t seem to know anyone else was there.
The gorge was deep, then. Deep enough to conceal a group of half a dozen from others further in.
I should be able to stay out of sight easily enough.

Reaching into her bag, she retrieved a lamp, small and crafted for travel. She lit it with her sparker and closed the window to a slender crack, turning it experimentally to assess its brightness.
Good enough.
Lifting it before her, she shouldered her bag and made her way into the cleft.

She saw the boulder first, the huge, pale stone catching the light of her lamp as though made of chalk. A few steps later, the end of the gorge resolved before her, and with it, the hole in the cliff wall. She paused at the threshold, sniffing the air within. It was dry and smelt of something half-familiar: not quite sand, not quite leather, but something somewhere between the two. Unpleasant, but not likely to suffocate her. She turned her head, taking a final breath of cool, lakeside air, then stepped inside.

Blackness confronted her, a vast, impenetrable expanse, too deep for her thin light to pierce. She froze, filled with a sudden fear that she stood on the edge of a pit. Tilting the lamp downward, she swept the space in front of her with its light. Rough stone lay at her feet, solid and reassuring. She reached down, brushing the floor with her hand, and a fine puff of dust billowed to life around her questing fingertips.

All right. Big space. Big empty space.
She took a breath. Following the wall would keep her from getting turned around. And if she was spotted, it would give her something to put at her back.

She set off, one hand trailing along the wall, the other directing lamplight before her feet. The egg throbbed gently against her flesh. The sorcerers were here, somewhere, but not close enough to determine a specific direction. If she could find the prisoners first, they might be able to tell her what in the hells was going on.

She imagined Havilah beside her, nodding his approval.
You’re a soldier, Eilwen,
he said.
To defeat your enemy, you need to know what he’s planning. Find out.

The wall fell away beneath her fingers and she halted, turning the lamp into the breach. A stone stairway flickered into view, spiralling downward. A second level. How deep did the place go? Eilwen hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the vast, empty cavern. Even now, any number of eyes might be watching the slow, stumbling progress of her thin light. The thought sent a chill through her, strong enough to override the ache in her leg, and she turned back to the stairs.

Lower level first. Leave the cavern for when I’ve got a better sense of the place —

A deeper than expected step caused her to land heavily on her injured leg and she gasped, her knee almost buckling beneath her.
Gods preserve!
She clutched at the rough wall, fighting back a wave of nausea. Teetering, she thrust out her good leg, scrabbling for a toehold. Her heel caught the edge of the step, then slipped, and she landed with a jolt on the next step down, her teeth grazing her tongue as they clacked shut.

Breathing hard, she lifted her lamp. Level ground stretched before her into darkness: a corridor, shadowy and rough-hewn.
Enclosed space. Thank the gods.
Setting her lamp on the ground, she lowered herself awkwardly onto the last step and clasped her hands about her knee. Its throbbing seemed to inhabit her entire body.
I really, really need a bath.
She could see it now: a copper tub, long enough for her legs to lie flat, filled with water hot enough to sting; but then the heat would begin its work, drawing the ache from her leg and filling her with blissful lassitude. She sighed. When all this was over, she’d seek one out.
After all, a soldier deserves her reward.

Bobbing light in the corridor ahead broke her reverie. Her knee’s throb was a pounding in her gut, driving and insistent.
Gods, that’s not my knee. That’s the egg.
The light drew nearer and she scrambled painfully to her feet, scooping up the lamp. The nearest opening in the corridor was half a dozen paces away.
Too far. Back up the stairs, quickly.

Eilwen set her foot on the step, then collapsed with a cry as her knee gave way. Someone shouted behind her, and she twisted around to face her discoverer.

The man was one of the Oculus, big and thick-limbed, with a nose that had evidently been broken more than once. His face contorted in a scowl. “Weeper’s arse, what are you?” Something flickered behind his eyes, and his expression shifted. “You’re the one who killed Yuri, aren’t you? Yes, I think you are. And now you’re here to, what? Finish the rest of us?” He flexed his arms.

“Wait!” Eilwen lifted a shaking hand. “Please.”
Just give me this moment.
Slowly, she began to reach into her shirt.

The scowl returned. “You think I’m daft? Not a chance.”

“It’s not a weapon.” She slid her hand further in, closed her fingers around the bundle. “I’m taking it out now. Please, you’ll want to see this.”

The man glared at her ferociously, but said nothing.

Slowly, agonisingly, she drew out her hand and opened it before him. In her palm lay the black amber egg.

The man hissed, staring in obvious recognition. “Where did you get that?”

Eilwen considered him. “Are you in charge here?”

He looked her up and down. “If I bind your hands, will you resist?”

She shifted on the step, trying to find a more comfortable position; but her trouser caught on the rough wall, pulling her leg sideways, and she gasped through gritted teeth.
I’m sorry, Havilah,
she thought.
I tried.

“No,” she said. “I won’t resist.”

Chapter 24

Those who make their bed in darkness should not expect to wake in light.

— Herev Gis
First Sermons
Chapter 107, Verse 12
(as ordered by the Gislean Provin)

The golems were everything Clade had imagined, and more.

He walked up and down their lines like a general on parade, lamp held high, marvelling at their grandeur and the elegance of the sorcery that enfolded them. Azador ballooned about him, exultant, its presence so thick that Clade had to check the impulse to cover his nose and mouth with a cloth. Yet somehow, it hardly seemed to matter. Before the majesty of the figures filling the room, the god seemed small and insignificant, a triviality scarcely worth acknowledging.

No two were alike. They varied in size and form, in posture and expression, in the shapes of their hands and the casts of their heads. Clade walked the ranks, marvelling at their diversity and wondering at its meaning. Did the differences between golems indicate variation in function? Or were they purely cosmetic, something to help the wielder distinguish one from another? The sheer artistry of it was wonder enough; yet these were no mere statues, but constructs of earth, sorcery, and spirit. The Empire’s elite: warriors and commanders and monks, their spirits captured at death, shorn of personality and woven into the heart of a new being. By all accounts, the resulting creatures were practically indestructible, servants of an empire now dead for more than two millennia.

And they were already bound.

He sighed, leaving the golems behind and entering the adjoining chamber. The binder lay slumped against the wall, unconscious, an oversized manacle locked around his neck.
Tereisa’s husband. Arandras.
The man’s companion was at this moment being taken by Sinon to one of the cells on the lower level, where the surviving Quill had also been deposited. Clade could feel the faint lines of sorcery connecting the man to the golems: slender, delicate, like young shoots that had just emerged from the soil into the open air. They were things of beauty, rare and exquisite, and he longed more than anything else to destroy them.

Damn you, Arandras.
A straight unbinding on this scale would be impossible. And any thought of using the transfer spell with which he planned to rid himself of Azador was out of the question.
The man’s hatred would be enough to kill us both.

In a small pouch hanging from the man’s belt, Clade had at last found the pewter Valdori urn. It was smaller than he’d expected, with a rounded base that fit snugly into the palm of his hand. A tangle of conflicting emotions had filled him, pleasure and frustration and bitter amusement, and it took long moments for him to confine them. It was the lid, however, that caught his attention. Hope rising, he’d slotted it into the shallow hole atop the dais; yet no matter how he poked or twisted it, the connection between Arandras and the golems remained.

Which left only two options. He could find a way to persuade Arandras to relinquish the golems voluntarily, or he could kill him.

Killing him would be simpler, no question.
The man was a loose end, a by-blow of Clade’s former life. His presence here spoke of an unhealthy obsession with Clade, one which the man seemed unlikely to abandon any time soon. In other circumstances, Clade would have killed him without hesitation as a simple investment in the future.

But here, now, the situation was not so straightforward.
I could kill him now and release his hold over the golems. But then what?
The golems would be unbindable for days, perhaps weeks. What if the Oculus sent someone after him? Or the Quill? The journey from Anstice had taken four days. When the Quill failed to return, they might send more sorcerers out to investigate, and this time he would have no chance against them. He grimaced, rubbing the stubble on his chin. The risk was too great. Better for Arandras to hold the golems, at least for the time being, than allow them to fall to the Quill, or to Azador.

Persuasion, then.

Clade set down the lamp and considered the unconscious man. He’d forgotten — he had seen Arandras before, just once, a few days after Tereisa’s death. He’d been passing her residence on other business when the door opened and one of the city guard stepped out. Clade had paused beneath a lilac tree, catching his breath in the thin Chogon air, and watched as the guard took his leave. Arandras had stood unmoving for a dozen heartbeats or more, staring vacantly at the yard. He’d been clean-shaven then, his face scarred with the stark lines of unexpected grief.

The lines were still there, but they no longer seemed out of place. The man’s face had moulded around them, taking them into itself and giving them a home. Heavy creases marked his brow and eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. A close-cropped beard concealed his cheeks and chin, the dark hair salted with grey, giving him the appearance of one far older than Clade suspected him to be. Even in repose, the man looked tired.

How did Bannard describe him? Intractable.
There was little sign of it. Yet he had bound the golems.
Against the wishes of the Quill, one assumes. Perhaps even without their knowledge.
At the edge of the room a golem stood in silent contemplation, pinprick yellow eyes burning deep in its sockets. Clade frowned.
What am I to do with you?

Azador flitted about his head, pulling at his attention like a restless child tugging its mother’s skirts.
Oh, go away, already. Let me think.
The man had to be moved, that much was clear. Putting distance between him and his new army was imperative. And then… what?