Illidan: World of Warcraft
Author: William King
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Warcraft; World Of Warcraft; Fiction; Video Games; Gaming; Games; High Fantasy; Media Tie In; Novels
Description: Behind the legend stands an individual hungry for justice and vengeance—as the adventure, intrigue, and heroism of World of Warcraft rise to a new level.You are not prepared. Illidan Stormrage is one of the most powerful beings ever to walk the lands of Azeroth. He is also one of the least understood. Behind his legend, beneath his enigmatic mission, lies a brilliant mind whose machinations are comprehended by few—and trusted by even fewer. Illidan’s righteous reign of justice and vengeance has begun. Long ago, the night elf sorcerer Illidan infiltrated the demonic Burning Legion to ward off i
Publisher: Del Rey

CHAPTER ONE

LIGHTNING CRACKLED ACROSS the storm-black sky. A gigantic wave broke against the bow of the Kraken’s Reach, smashing down on the ship with the force of a hammer blow.

Salt spray stung Kormak’s eyes. The howling wind lashed his tall lean form. It rippled his greying black hair as he braced himself against the wooden guard rails.

A few grim-faced marines huddled in the pools of light the storm-lanterns left on the deck. Kormak understood their thinking. If the ship foundered, anyone down below would drown in darkness as the shattered hulk plunged to the seabed.

Overhead sailors inched along rain-slick spars like human spiders. He did not envy the men atop the masts. The height amplified every roll of the ship, turning it into a monster that sought to shake seamen off like a dog ridding itself of fleas.

Rhiana strode over to his side, shielded her gaze with her long white hand and peered into the distance. The translucent second lids over the merwoman’s green eyes made her look cataract-blind but she could see better in this gloom than any of the crew.

“This is not good,” she shouted. She was a tall, powerful woman and her voice carried over the storm’s howl.

“Thank you. I needed your expert opinion to tell me that,” Kormak bellowed. He fought to keep his balance on the rain-slick deck as the ship heeled over. The motion threw them together. Her skin felt icy cold.

“Looking for a last kiss, Sir Kormak?” Her white teeth glistened in the gloom. Splashing seawater made the gills in her neck pulse. With her strange eyes and cropped silver hair she looked alien.

“Now hardly seems the time for romance,” Kormak said.

Rhiana’s eyes widened. Another huge wave broke. White foam surged over the forecastle, clawing at them. Rhiana held tight to the guard rail but the force of the flow lifted her free. Kormak’s hand clenched her wrist. His other arm held firm on the wooden barrier and kept them from being swept overboard.

“That was close,” she said. Her mouth was close enough to his ear so that he could hear her words without her shouting.

“It would not be so bad for you,” he said. “You could survive out there.”

“I would need to dive deep and far. The currents could still smash me against the ship. The Shadow-cursed waves could break every bone in my body if one hit me the wrong way.”

“At least you can get clear of the ship, if we go down.”

“Why so gloomy, Sir Kormak? We have not sunk yet. I have survived worse storms than this.”

“Really,” Kormak said.

“Well, perhaps not quite so bad. This is a real ship-killer. Damned if it had to happen to us so close to the Siderean coast. Maybe the sailors are right and this ship is cursed.”

“It was cursed by the Quan’s presence,” Kormak said. “But the Kraken’s demon allies are gone, along with their master. We killed them.”

Rhiana shook her head. “Their psychic stink clings to this craft. I do not like it here.”

“You could always have sailed on the Sea Dragon.”

“And missed your cheerful company? Why would I do that?”

She gazed out to sea, looking for the Sea Dragon’s running lights. They had vanished when the storm caught them in its clutches. Perhaps the other ship was already on the sea-bottom.

He smiled at her. She was a beautiful woman and a confident one, and she was not quite human. “Do you always flirt when death is close,” he asked.

“If this was my ship, I would be where Zamara is, up on the command deck shouting orders,” she said. “But since I have time on my hands, why not? How about you? Do you always play so hard to get?”

“I find struggling with terror takes away the magic of the moment.”

“I can see how it would do that,” she said. The boat rocked from another wave impact. Salt spray smashed into them. A man screamed as he plummeted from the mast and disappeared into the storm-tossed sea.

“I hate this,” Kormak said.

“That’s not very flattering,” Rhiana said.

“I hate feeling so powerless.”

“The sea makes everyone feel that way. It is always there to remind you that, whatever you think, you have no real control over your life. Everything can be taken away from you at any minute.”

The wind gusted. The storm-lanterns swung. Kormak thought he saw something on the horizon. He pointed. “What’s that?”

“Where?” Rhiana gazed into the distance.

“I saw a light.” Kormak squinted into the flying spray. Rhiana leaned against the guard rail and peered out into the darkness. Another lightning flash revealed that they were atop a towering wave. Cresting it, he looked down into the long dark valley between the huge rollers.

Over on the distant horizon, just for a moment, he thought he saw a point of light. “There!” he said.

“I see it,” Rhiana said.

“What is it?”

“I pray it the Beacon of Trefal.” At night, the sorcerous sunstone illuminated the capital of Siderea. Perhaps that was what he had seen .

The light disappeared into the gloom of the storm. He glanced up but saw no one in the crowsnest to confirm the sighting.

The light appeared again. He raced back along the slippery deck towards the sterncastle. Captain Zamara saw him coming and shouted, “What is it, Sir Kormak?”

“The lights of Trefal,” Kormak replied.

“You sure?” The rain plastered Zamara’s copper-blonde hair to his skin. His eyes held a wild look. The short lifeline tied to the ship’s railing made him seem like a mad dog on a leash.

Kormak wasn’t sure, but they were as good as lost anyway. “Yes.”

“You have keen eyes. It’s a pity you cannot guide me. I can see nothing from here.”

A thought struck Kormak. “Rhiana can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take off your elder sign.” The tall captain looked at him as if he was mad.

“I may go down to the Sea Queen’s dungeons this evening and I would have my soul protected if I go.”

“She is a mindspeaker. She can watch from the prow and guide you. She knows ships and she knows navigation.”

Still Zamara looked dubious.

“It is the life of your ship balanced against the risk to your eternal soul.” Zamara grinned. He was a Siderean sea captain and his ship was in peril. There was only one decision he could make. He removed the elaborate elder sign and tossed it to Kormak. “Hold on to it for me,” he said.

Kormak’s fist closed around the talisman. It was heavy and inlaid with gold. He turned and fought his way back up the deck towards Rhiana.

“Speak to Zamara as you spoke to me when we were below the waves,” Kormak said. “Guide him. Tell him what you see.”

Rhiana stared at him. Kormak raised the captain’s elder sign. “He is not warded.”

Rhiana nodded. A flicker of concentration passed across her face. A moment later, Zamara bellowed something and the ship heeled as her course corrected.

***

Another wave roared towards the ship, the largest yet. The bow of the Kraken’s Reach rose at a sickening angle as it began to climb. Kormak imagined the ship overturned as if by a giant’s hand.

Water flooded the deck. It hit Kormak like a hammer, knocking him off his feet, sending him flying. Salt water got into his mouth and his eyes, blinding him. He smashed into something and, dazed, grabbed it, wrapping his arms around what turned out to be the mast. He dreaded more than anything being thrown overboard into the storm-tossed sea. Here his chance of survival was slight. In the water, it was non-existent.

The decks were empty. He hoped that the marines were below. He looked up. The rear mast hung at a strange angle, half-cracked, bent like a broken limb. As he watched it tumbled and fell. He saw no sign of Zamara and the helmsman.

It did not matter. Without anyone to guide the ship it was already turning. If a wave caught them . . .

He raced up the stair and almost stumbled over Zamara’s body. Kormak did not have time to see whether he was dead or merely unconscious. He threw his enormous strength against the wheel. It was like wrestling with a giant. He could not budge the rudder.

He looked up as another monstrous breaker approached. He drew deep within himself and shouted a challenge to the wall of watery death looming over him. Slowly, painfully he forced the wheel to move. The prow of the ship turned. He prayed to the Holy Sun that he had done enough.

The Kraken’s Reach rode up the long swell, crested the wave and began to the long drop down. His eyes swept the deck looking for Rhiana. Was she there? He thought he could make her tall figure in the gloom. She moved towards him. Her face was pale and desperate. She knew how close they were to sinking.

She clambered onto the sterncastle and looked down at Zamara. She checked the pulse on his throat and shouted, “Still alive.”

“Get back up front and guide me towards the lights,” Kormak said. “Use mindspeech.” He pulled the elder sign from under his tunic and wrapped the chain around the pommel of his sword where it emerged from the scabbard.

I will do that, a flat voice whispered inside his head, so small as to almost make him think he was imagining things.

“Hurry,” he said. She raced back to the prow.

***

Left. Lost in a world of fatigue, soaked to the skin, Kormak responded to the voice in his head. His arms ached from forcing the great wheel into motion and from clinging to it when the giant waves swept over the ship. The cracked mast hovered over him, threatening death if it should topple.

Enough. Hold her steady. We’re heading into another wave.

He forced himself to grip the wheel, even as the ship fought him, the rudder trying to swing in the rip of the current.

The wind froze his flesh. The wheel fought his control. His hands were frozen into claws.

Hold her steady. The lights are closer.

Kormak opened his eyes just in time for more spray to set them stinging. He did not want to take his hands from the helm to wipe them so he squinted into the rain. Was Rhiana right? Was there a glow on the horizon? Or was it just a storm lantern swinging in the wind?

Where were the sailors? Why did Zamara not get up and help him? He felt as if he was sailing through some cold hell on a ship crewed by the dead with only the voice of madness in his head for company.

The wind howled and roared and gibbered like an insane god. Perhaps the ship was cursed. Perhaps some taint left over by the Quan had doomed them all.

Hard left!

Kormak swung the wheel. It fought him with the strength of a demon. The damn ship had a will of its own. It was determined to doom them all. He pushed as hard as he could, throwing his weight to one side. Inch by inch, the rudder moved, and the ship’s prow swung onto the new course.

Enough. Hold her there.

His fingers slipped. The wheel spun with irresistible force. The wooden handle hit him on the forehead, the force of the blow like a punch from an orc. His legs threatened to give way. Instead, he willed himself to reach out and grab the handles again.

What are you doing? Hard left! Hard left now or we will be swamped!

Throwing every remaining ounce of strength into the struggle, he fought the wheel around.

Look up!

Kormak saw a distant golden light breaking through the storm clouds.

It is the sunstone atop the Palace Imperial. We are on course.

Kormak tried to hold course for the distant light. How much longer could he keep this up?

CHAPTER TWO

KORMAK GRITTED HIS teeth and gripped the wheel. Salt spray stung his eyes. Cold water swirled around his feet, shifting Zamara’s body. The captain’s eyes opened. He gave a sick grin then felt at his head.

“You look as if you could use some help,” he said as he used the rail to pull himself to his feet.

Zamara shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted into the distance. “By the Holy Sun, man! What have you done?”

“What now?” Kormak managed to force the words out of his numbed mouth.

Zamara slapped his back. “You’ve taken us into Trefal Harbour. If we can just get past the Wizard’s Isle we are safe.”

The realisation hit Kormak. Over the past few minutes, the sea had become less rough and the ship ran much smoother.

Zamara bellowed orders. Men pulled themselves out from below decks. The captain strode over and put his shoulder to the wheel.

“Not much further now.”

***

The Wizard’s Isle jutted from the sea. Its thousand windows blazed with light as they scudded past.

Beyond the tower lay a wide bay where the sea was far less rough than beyond the jaws of the headlands. A massive rock, like a sawn off mountain, rose above the city. On it perched the Palace Imperial. Above its highest roofs loomed a mighty tower. At its tip a golden glow pierced the night, like the first light of the sun peeking over the horizon at dawn.

Rhiana raced up the stairs to the sterncastle without stopping to ask the captain’s permission. Ahead of them, the harbour was full of the masts of ships, clustered together like a herd of beasts in a snowstorm. Apart from the main body was another smaller group of much larger ships.

Kormak unclenched his fingers from around the wheel and staggered to the guardrail. Rhiana made to support him but he shrugged her off. He tried never to show any sign of weakness.

“We did it,” she said. “We brought her in out of the storm.”

She was smiling. The second eyelid had withdrawn leaving her eyes looking almost mortal. The iris was green as jade.

“We did, didn’t we?” Kormak said.

Zamara clapped him on the back. The blow almost overbalanced Kormak. “By the Holy Sun’s Light, I thought we were all dead when that last wave swept the helmsman away. I expected to be eaten by eels in the Sea Queen’s dungeon this night.”

“Well, we’re spared that a fate.”

Zamara bellowed a command. The helmsman moved the ship a couple of points. Their course no longer lay in the direction of the group of massive galleons.

“What are they?” Kormak asked.

“Treasure Fleet,” Zamara said. “Luckier than us. Must have made landfall before the storm could catch them. We daren’t get too close while they are showing those warning lights. They would sink us, on the off-chance of us being pirates.”

“It would not do to be sunk now that we’ve survived the storm.”

“Most assuredly it would not. Now, Sir Kormak. Go below. Take my cabin. Rest. You deserve it.”

Kormak allowed himself to be led down to the cabin.

***

Kormak woke up in a warm bed with a warm body beside him. He turned over and looked down at Rhiana. The sheet did little to hide the smooth curves of her body. He made sure his sword was within easy reach, unhooked the elder sign from its pommel and draped it in place around his neck.

She was looking up at him when he turned back. She gave him a sour smile. “Do I frighten you so much?”

“Hardly at all,” he said. Sunbeams leaked in through the curtains. It seemed like day had broken while he slept. He checked his surroundings. The door was barred. It did not look like anybody could come barging in on them.

“I do not worship your Holy Sun, but I am not your enemy,” she said. She seemed quite serious. He laughed.

“It’s not you. I have worn this amulet so long I feel naked without it.”

She pulled the sheet away. “That would seem to be the point,” she said.

He reached out for her and drew her into his arms.

***

A loud banging on the door woke them.

“I think our captain wants his cabin back,” said Rhiana.

“A pity,” Kormak said.

“Sir Kormak, Lady Rhiana, you must get up now! We have been summoned to the Palace and the King-Emperor of Siderea does not like to be kept waiting.”

“What do you think, Sir Kormak,” Rhiana asked. “Shall we keep the King-Emperor waiting?”

“He’s not my King-Emperor.”

“Nor mine.”

“If you do not open the door, I will have my men break it down,” Zamara said. He sounded desperate enough to carry out the threat. He was a Siderean nobleman and King Aemon was his liege lord.

Kormak sighed. “I suppose we had best get dressed.”

***

Kormak’s muscles ached. He could not remember when he had last felt this weary, but the sight of the harbour cheered him. The daylight was golden.

Steep hills surrounded the bay on three sides. Row upon row of white-painted blue-shuttered houses rose to their crests. Atop a flat mountain in the city centre the Palace Imperial loomed. In the daylight, its walls gleamed white and blue. Thousands of panes of glass caught the Holy Sun’s light and reflected them back like mirrors.

Scores of ocean-going ships lay anchored in the harbour. Hundreds of smaller boats moved between them, shifting crews and goods and officials. In the distance lay the huge galleons of the trans-oceanic treasure fleet. Tribute from Terra Nova, a thousand leagues away across the World Ocean, filled them.

Kormak clambered down the side-netting into the ship’s boat. Rhiana joined did the same and then Frater Jonas, who had finally emerged from his cabin below decks. The small priest showed no signs of being any the worse for last night’s horrors. He looked like he had slept through them. His face had its usual olive colour. His beard and hair were neatly clipped. His yellow robes looked immaculate. His elder sign glittered gold in the sun’s light.

“Sir Kormak, I heard what you and Captain Rhiana did and now I am doubly grateful to you,” he said.

“Think nothing of it,” Kormak said. “We would have gone down with the ship if we hadn’t.”

“Nonetheless, not many men could have done what you did. Not many ladies either.” The words were ambiguous. Jonas had been an inquisitor once and he must have his suspicions about how Rhiana had guided the ship into harbour.

Zamara looked uncomfortable, as if the words had been a direct criticism of him. “Let us be off. We have been summoned to the presence of the King-Emperor,” he said. The words rolled off his tongue as if he relished them.

***

In daylight the Wizard’s Isle looked even more like a castle rising out of the sea. Not a trace of beach or natural rock was visible. There were only walls and windows, doors and a single desolate pier, jutting out into the harbour. The small ships did their best to avoid it.

Ahead of them and to the right, a huge wall ran along a section of the harbour front. Soldiers watched them from towers at either end. Enormous gates led to large slipways that ran right down into the water.

“The Imperial Shipyards,” said Zamara. “Most of our warships are built there. They are the greatest and most advanced in the world. King Aemon’s father ensured that it was so.” He spoke as if he had some stake in the armament works. Perhaps as a distant cousin of the King, he did.

Huge warehouses lined the water’s edge near the piers.

“Impressive town,” said Rhiana.

Frater Jonas gave a small shrug. “All the more so when you consider that less than a hundred years ago this was just a fishing village and a collection of First Empire ruins. Then the King-Emperor’s great grandfather made this place his capital. “

Rhiana said, “Port Blood is a great harbour but this makes it look like a village.”

Frater Jonas nodded and then said, “I would not mention your knowledge of Port Blood too often in this city, milady. There are those here who think the only good citizen of that place is a dead one.”

“Understood,” Rhiana said.

Tenements rose up the hillsides around the warehouses. Those were where the labourers dwelled. Most of the wealthy lived in the palaces and mansions that surrounded the base of the Palace Rock.

A gold-trimmed carriage waited for them at the docks. It showed the star and sea dragon emblem of Siderea on its side. A troop of tall cavalrymen in steel breastplates lined up to the front and rear of it. Their captain saluted Frater Jonas, then threw a less respectful salute at Zamara. He eyed Rhiana with a frank sexual interest and then his eyes widened as they came to rest on Kormak and the blade hanging over his shoulder.

Servants ushered them into the carriage. Once inside Frater Jonas relaxed. “It’s good to be home,” he said.

“You missed your little creature comforts aboard ship, did you?” Zamara asked.

Jonas smiled. “I fear that, proud citizen of Siderea though I am, I am a landlubber at heart.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” said Kormak.

“Spoken like a true son of mountain-girt Aquilea,” said Zamara.

“I like mountains,” said Kormak. “They never try to drown me.”

The carriage splashed through puddles left behind by last night’s storm. It moved past buildings whose plasterwork was dark with rain-damp. Horses’ hooves clopped as their escort moved into position and hustled the crowd out of the way. The people had a nervous starved look. They eyed the carriage with a mixture of envy and resentment that made Kormak think that all might not be well in the city of Trefal.

***

The carriage carried them up the side of Palace Rock. The road ran through street after street of fine houses. The view of the harbour stretched out below them as they gained height.

They swerved around a convoy of wagons under escort by soldiers in the livery of the Imperial House. Huge treasure chests filled the carts. Porters carried smaller containers on their brawny backs. The spoils from the treasure fleet were still making their way up to the palace.

Then the houses were gone, leaving only bare black rock as they performed the last leg of their journey to the Palace gates. These stood tall as the masts of a sailing ship. A carved sea dragon rose on either side. Between them they held a massive five pointed elder sign inlaid with sungold.

With the escort the carriage passed through unchallenged. They emerged into a large courtyard flanked by handsome buildings. The Palace was more like a small city on top of the cliff rather than a single structure. Servants rushed to greet the passengers as they clambered down.

Messengers came and went. Grandees in court costume drifted by in their peacock finery. They wore cloaks of the finest silk, dyed red and purple. Ruffed collars framed their faces and covered their necks. Jewelled codpieces covered their groins. Long swords curved at the tip hung scabbarded on jewelled belts. Most of the men had neatly clipped beards. Most of the ladies wore revealing elaborately patterned gowns.

In separate groups other nobles stood, just as superbly tailored but this time garbed all in black with white ruffs. The women in this group wore black gowns that covered their breasts and wimples that hid their hair. The two groups glared at each other with barely concealed loathing.

Servants and messengers threaded through the nobles. They wore tabards showing the Star and Dragon. Kormak judged that the elaborateness of their garb showed the rank of the servant. Frater Jonas took in the scene at a glance and nodded to members of each of the groups.

“I have not missed the intrigues of our courtly factions,” he murmured so low that Kormak was the only one who heard it.

A servant in a more elaborate uniform than the others came forward. “His Imperial Majesty is at afternoon prayer in the Sanctum of the Angel. You may wait upon him there.”

He did not speak like a servant. He spoke with all the authority of his royal master. Jonas gave him a small bow and said, “Thank you, Hans. I will await His Majesty’s pleasure.”

He gave a small gesture for them to follow and led them across the courtyard. The stares of the nobility followed them.

***

They passed through two open-brass-bound oaken doors that looked thick enough to resist a siege engine. The cool, dark interior of the Cathedral smelled of incense and floor wax rather than storm-cleansed sea air.

The ceiling of the Sanctum arched twenty times the height of a man. Small armies could have fought within the nave. Paintings of scenes from the Testaments covered the walls. Statues of saints filled the alcoves. All of them gestured towards the holy relic that dominated the chamber.

Light falling through the stained glass window illuminated the armour of the Angel Zhamriel. It reached halfway to the ceiling. The proportions were wrong for anything human-shaped, too broad at the shoulder and too short in the leg, as if the Angel had been a monstrous dwarf. Kormak had no problem with that. Why should one of the Holy Sun’s greatest servants wear the form of a man unless it wished to do so?

A massive elder sign covered the breastplate. The faceplate bars of a helmet large enough for a man to stand inside formed another elder sign. Solar runes marked the huge shoulder-guards. Scars marred the metal. The armour looked as if it had been struck by some unimaginable force and survived.

The armour had stood here for thousands of years. Before the First Empire had smashed the falling kingdoms of the Old Ones it had occupied this spot. It was a reminder of the times when the Angels of the Holy Sun had walked with earth-shaking stride across the lands of men. This cathedral had been built around it.

Here was a relic of the time when angels had fought with the demons of Shadow to decide the fate of the world. It was a thought to stagger the mind.

“It looks like a Solari war-golem,” said Rhiana.

“Yes, it does,” Kormak said, impressed that she knew what a war-golem looked like. The armour of the Angel was much larger and the workmanship made even the intricate metal crafting of the First Empire look crude but the resemblance was obvious.

He inclined his head and offered up a prayer. Only after he had done so did he notice the man on his knees on the steps of the plinth upon which the armour stood. He wore plain brown robes. If it had it not been for the small gold circlet round his head Kormak would have taken him for one of the sanctum priests.

The figure brought his head to the floor for the last time and spoke some ritual words. The elder sign on Kormak’s breast warmed as it always did when eddy currents of magic swirled around it. Kormak peered around looking for a threat but nothing was visible. Zamara noticed Kormak’s sudden alertness and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Rhiana glanced around. Her narrowed eyes had the blind milky look once again.

The slender figure on the steps turned, rose, bowed to the relic and walked slowly and reverently away. As he came closer, Kormak could see he was a tall man with mousy brown hair and a stringy beard. His face was ascetic, his hands fine. The front of his circlet contained an ancient five-pointed star of protection.

He walked straight towards them and opened his hands wide. As he did so, the amulet on Kormak’s breast gave out faint flickers of heat.

“The Angel sometimes talks to me,” the man said in a soft pleasant voice that held not the slightest hint of madness. “It tells me what must be done.”

When he finished speaking Kormak’s amulet had cooled again. The stranger stood there for a moment then tilted his head to one side as he inspected Frater Jonas. “Jonas, my friend, it is good to see you once more.”

He opened his arms and Jonas walked forward to accept his embrace.

“And it is a pleasure to see you again, Your Majesty.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE KING-EMPEROR released Jonas from his embrace and turned his eyes on the rest of them.

“And it is good to see you too, cousin,” he said. Zamara was on one knee, head tilted forward in a respectful bow. As court protocol dictated Kormak had done the same. Rhiana made a curtsey.

“And who are these two stalwart strangers?” Aemon asked.

“This is Sir Kormak, of the Order of the Dawn,” said Frater Jonas. “And this is Captain Rhiana, a valued servant of my order who worked on our behalf in the benighted precincts of Port Blood.”

Aemon steepled his fingers as if at prayer then placed them against his lips. He looked as if he was trying to recollect something important, smiled and said, “Rise my friends. There is no need to stand on ceremony. Be welcome in my house.”

He strode past Jonas, moving with the confidence of a man who knows that others will follow and listen. “You have returned from a great distance, I see, on the wings of a storm, as the first Solari did. Can I take that as a good omen?”

“We have succeeded in the mission assigned us,” Frater Jonas said.

“That is most welcome news,” said King Aemon. His pleasant tone did not waver even though the news concerned the death of a long-lost half-brother. “Of course, I expected nothing less from you. There are those who have tried to cast doubts on my certainty but it has never wavered.”

The King was not looking at Jonas but towards the Cathedral doors where his guard waited.

“My brother and I have complete faith in you,” Aemon added.

“We have brought tokens of success,” said Jonas, an ingratiating note in his voice. The priest leaned forward as if straining to hear the slightest word of the king.

“Your word is enough for me, old friend,” said Aemon. “Of course, my brother will demand proofs. You know how he is.”

Jonas said nothing, not wishing to utter a criticism of Prince Taran, even if all he was doing was agreeing with the King.

As they reached the doorway Kormak understood why. Among the soldiers stood a man garbed all in black. He bore a family resemblance to the King-Emperor but his features were bolder. His hair and beard were night black. His eyes were dark and magnetic. He looked more like a king than the king.

“And there is my dear brother now,” said Aemon.

The black-bearded man smiled, a predator revealing its fangs. “Frater Jonas. It is good to see you once more. Your preliminary dispatch indicated your mission was a success. I am so glad to hear it.”

His tone implied that any other result would be unacceptable.

Aemon turned and looked at them. “I must retreat to my chambers and meditate on what the Angel has told me,” he said. “Until we meet again, consider yourselves my most honoured guests. My brother will see that suitable accommodations are provided for you.”

“Yes, indeed, your majesty,” Prince Taran said. “Most suitable.”

The king placed his hands together, bowed his head and disappeared through a small door. They were alone with the prince and the soldiers of the Household Guard.

Kormak was all too aware that he had come to this place entrusted with a secret that many royal houses would kill to keep.

“His majesty seems well,” Frater Jonas said. The little priest was sweating.

Prince Taran showed his gleaming white teeth again. “His Majesty is very well. And seeing you has only made him happier. I can tell.”

He gestured for them to follow him. “In any case, we have much to discuss and this is not the place to do so.”

***

Weapons covered the walls of Taran’s chamber along with paintings of famous battle scenes. Suits of armour stood at attention in alcoves. A massive desk dominated the centre of the room. On the far side was an open window showing a view of the treasure fleet at rest in the harbour.

Prince Taran dismissed the soldiers with a wave of his hand, strode across the room and took a seat behind his desk. He looked them over and then smiled. This time there was a little warmth on his face.

“It is good to have you back, Jonas. You have been badly missed. We are surrounded by heretics and traitors. Rebels swarm the cities. Cultists haunt the night. Your skills would have been useful.”

The smile vanished and his eyes turned to look at Kormak then Zamara and finally at Rhiana. He seemed to realise he had been on the verge of saying something indiscrete in the presence of strangers.

“You have something for me, I believe, Sir Kormak,” he said. He stretched out his hand. Kormak produced a ruby seal ring from within his tunic, stepped forward and dropped it into the Prince’s hand. Taran squinted down at it. “It matches the catalogue description,” he said.

The ring had come from the Kraken’s own hand and it had once belonged to Taran’s father. “Its wearer is dead, of course,” he said.

“Yes,” said Kormak. “Very dead.”

“Then we owe you a great debt. It will be paid in full.”

Kormak’s eyes narrowed. He did not like the way this man talked, as if he was just one more thing that money could buy.

“Please make an offering to the local chapter house of the Order of the Dawn. To the full value of what you believe your debt to be.”

Taran looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. He leaned forward on his fist and gazed up at Kormak. Small lines appeared on his forehead. His mouth thinned. He stared at the Guardian for a moment, then brought his fist up to cover his mouth. He gave a small laugh, as if Kormak had made a joke he appreciated and said, “It shall be as you desire.”

His glance flicked to Zamara. “And cousin, you have performed admirably. You seem to have lost three ships but at least you have replaced one of them.”

Zamara’s shoulders slumped. Having watched his victim squirm enough, Taran said, “We would have considered a dozen ships a small price to pay for the death of the Kraken. We are indebted to you too, cousin. His Majesty will show that gratitude soon enough.”

Zamara’s shoulders straightened. A smile came to his lips and he bowed.

Taran eyed Rhiana and licked his lips. “And you, milady. If I had known that Frater Jonas employed such beautiful agents, I would have paid more attention to his reports.”

He measured out his smile to let them know he was joking. Kormak imagined that Prince Taran paid minute attention to every report that crossed his desk.

Rhiana’s smile conveyed genuine amusement. “I was only a part-time agent. Now the Kraken is dead, I may be leaving service entirely.”

“We shall have to see what we can do to convince you otherwise.” Taran glanced out the window to check the position of the sun then picked up the small bell that sat on his desk and rang it. Liveried servants appeared moments later.

“You are all guests of His Majesty. Rooms have been prepared for you. You must remain with us until the King-Emperor can show his appreciation for your services.”

It was clear they were dismissed.

***

“Prince Taran is a shark,” said Rhiana, looking around the sitting room of her chambers. She fingered the rich brocade of the tapestry as if she were assessing its value as plunder. Then she threw the doors open to reveal a balcony covered in flowerpots filled with blossoms.

Frater Jonas gave a faint moue of disapproval then put his finger to his lips. He walked to the door, opened it, glanced out, closed it then moved over to the large couch and slumped down on it.

“What did he mean telling us we must remain until the King can show us his appreciation.”

“Exactly what he said, my dear.” Jonas’s voice was mild but contained a lecturing note. “Men like Prince Taran are used to getting their way. Never forget, you stand at the heart of the most powerful nation in the western world.”

“I have half a mind to go down to the harbour and find a ship,” Rhiana said. She glanced at Kormak.

“And doubtless you would find your way politely blocked until such a time as suits their highnesses.” Jonas picked up a decanter from the table and poured some wine. “I believe the Prince intends to do you a favour. And when a member of the House of Valasa shows his gratitude it is on an Imperial scale.”

Jonas looked at Kormak. “I do not think Prince Taran is used to being talked to as you talked to him.”

“I am not his subject or his servant,” Kormak said. “Nor am I his paid assassin.”

“That touched a nerve, did it?”

Kormak said nothing. Perhaps it did.

“Look, my friends, just remain here for a few days and try to be polite. It will make your lives much easier and by the Light of the Holy Sun you might even enjoy yourselves.”

Zamara nodded, albeit reluctantly. Kormak felt a little sorry for him. The captain did not like agreeing with the priest but he too did not want Kormak or Rhiana doing anything to embarrass him. He had risen far in the past hour.

“I’ll bid you farewell now,” Zamara said. “I must return to my ship and see that my crew are well. I will also make sure your goods are safely delivered to the Palace.”

Jonas bowed too and made for the door. “I recommend you try the wine. It’s really very good.”

***

“This is an odd place,” Rhiana said, once they were alone. She stood on the balcony looking down at the harbour. Kormak could see the treasure fleet at anchor down there. Other ships were came and went, leaving white wakes scrawled on the blue parchment of the sea.

“How so?” Kormak said.

“Come on! We have a king who talks to angels and a prince who looks like a shark. We’re confined to the palace. Everybody around us fawns and scrapes and bows to those two oh-so-important men.”

“We’re not in Port Blood anymore,” Kormak said.

“More’s the pity.”

“You don’t like it here?”

She shrugged and leaned forward to look down. Beneath them an elaborate rose-garden dominated the large courtyard. The scent drifted up. “It makes me uncomfortable. In Port Blood, the captains have power, but nothing like Aemon and his brother. You saw the way Zamara behaved and Jonas. They would have got down on the ground and licked Taran’s boots clean if he asked.”

Kormak said, “Those two have power. Real power. And they are not afraid to use it. The King’s favour could make Zamara rich. It could make Jonas the head of his order.”

“And what could it do for you? Aren’t you afraid that if you stay here, you’ll end up like all the others?”

“Are you?”

She gave him a sharp glance. “Maybe. This place makes me uneasy. It looks like a fortress. It looks like a palace. It’s full of rich, arrogant land dwellers.”

There was a thoughtful note in her voice. “And King Aemon frightens me,” she said. “He radiates power just like the Kraken did, only more so.”

Kormak thought about the way his elder sign had reacted in the presence of the King. “They say the Imperial Line has a gift for sorcery. The Blood of Emperors they call it. Aemon’s great grandfather Pelageus placed the sunstone back in the Tower of Light. When he ignited it with his own hands, all the world saw Siderea had been redeemed from the Old Ones and the Shadow. He was the greatest wizard of the age.”

Rhiana did not seem to be listening. “Aemon has more power than anyone I have ever met and the way he looked when he saw my eyes. He hated me.”

She turned and leaned into Kormak and he saw that she was frightened. If Aemon disliked her, she had every reason to be. Siderea was home of the Inquisition of the Eternal Sun and they did not like those humans whom the Old Ones had altered.

“But enough of this talk, Sir Kormak,” Rhiana said. “We are alone in our chambers. What are we to do?”

She moved close enough so that he could smell the faint salty tang of her skin.

“I am sure we shall think of something,” Kormak said.

***

A knock sounded on the door. Early evening light filtered in through the curtains. The chamber smelled of wine and incense and love-making.

“Yes,” Kormak said, sitting up in the bed. Rhiana lay naked beside him, reading a volume of sea lore she had found on the shelf and laughing at the inaccuracies.

An elderly retainer garbed all in black entered the chamber. He took one glance at them and looked away.

“Sir Kormak, Lady Rhiana. Tonight the King is giving a ball to celebrate the arrival of the First Treasure Fleet. He wishes you to be his guests. Prince Taran has asked me to ensure you are provided with suitable garb. If you wish I shall return once you have dressed.”

Rhiana glanced up at him and smiled. She was as unselfconscious about nakedness as all of her people. “If we are just going to get dressed again, why bother? Bring in this suitable garb!”

The old man clapped his hands and a line of servant girls entered, each of them carrying ball gowns of blue and green and crimson and white. A line of serving men brought in sets of court uniform suitable for a nobleman.

Rhiana eyed the ball gowns and smiled. “I suppose being stuck here does have some advantages.”

***

Kormak studied his reflection in the mirror. He was not sure he recognised this grey-eyed stranger. The royal barbers had trimmed his hair. The royal tailors had adjusted his garments until they fitted perfectly. He wore a black and red tunic, with a white ruff covering his neck. His dwarf-forged blade hung at a black belt around his waist. His elder sign was visible on his chest.

A sheer green gown clung to Rhiana’s full figure. A circlet bearing a gold elder sign wound round her forehead. Another one dangled from her neck. Two pearl earrings hung from her ears. A stole covered her right shoulder and obscured a gill slit. She had insisted on wearing a dress that revealed them despite the objections of the seamstresses.

She turned so he could observe.

“Go on, laugh,” she said. “Pirate girl dressed up.”

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“You look like an assassin.”

“Alas it is my fate.”

“A very good-looking assassin.”

“Thank the Sun for that.”

“Shall we go and give the local gentry something to gawk at.”

“Why not? I live to provide novelty to the lives of the nobility.”

A servant waited outside the chamber to lead them to the ballroom.

CHAPTER FOUR

THROUGH A WALL of glass, the light of the sunstone illuminated the enormous ballroom. It fell on the statues of ancient kings standing on alcove pedestals. It picked out the hundreds of nobles and the servants who brought them drinks and food. It shone down on the corner where musicians played courtly songs.

As the pair entered, all eyes turned to look at Kormak and Rhiana. For a moment there was silence then the buzz of conversation started. As they moved through the crowds, Kormak picked out the words guardian and merwoman.

Frater Jonas came to greet them, garbed in his plain robe. As the son of peasants, he should have looked as out of place as they did, but somehow he fitted right in.

He glanced around with the assurance of an inquisitor and advisor to Kings. Many of the nobles present would not meet his gaze. Others glared at him once he was no longer looking at them. A few transferred their resentment to Kormak when they saw he had noticed.

“I am pleased to see you in attendance,” said Jonas. He glided past a tall noblewoman in a black dress and took a drink from a tray carried by a serving girl. With a nod he indicated they should do the same. Rhiana did. Kormak did not. “Come! Keep me company and I will endeavour to keep you entertained.”

Rhiana looked grateful to see a familiar face. Kormak moved into position on the other side of her from Jonas as he guided them through the crowd.

“See those richly garbed men off to starboard, to use an appropriately nautical term? Those are our bold captains newly arrived bearing the treasures of Terra Nova. The huge bear of a man they are talking to is Orson Waters— a commoner and aside from His Majesty the richest man in the kingdom.”

His gesture took in a group of gaudily garbed bearded men standing apart from the others. They looked self-conscious, calculating and tough. Most had the same dark skin and dark hair as Jonas. They glanced around with cool arrogance, ignoring the disdain of the golden-haired patricians. “Their shares of those cargoes will make them rich for life.”

Jonas’s nod indicated another group, this time garbed in black, blonde-haired, clean-shaven. “See the lynch mob of angry young man there, the ones clustered around the Duke of Albare? He’s the tall good-looking one with the broken nose—those are members of our Patrician faction. They disapprove of those who have acquired in one lifetime the wealth it took their forefathers generations to steal.”

Seeing them looking at him, the Duke moved towards them. He had the natural grace of the born swordsman and the arrogance of old nobility. He walked up as if he owned the ballroom. He eyed Rhiana with cool insouciance, gave Kormak a clipped smile then looked down at Jonas.

“Frater Jonas, you have returned from whatever mission took you away from us. Has some other poor unfortunate died an unnatural death?”

His voice was a languid drawl, utterly confident. Jonas did not look in the slightest intimidated. He smiled and said, “Sir Kormak, allow me to introduce you to His Grace, Leone, Duke of Albare. The Duke is a notorious duellist and a well-known wit.”

Jonas made the word wit sound as if he had left out the word half before it.

“Ah you are the famous barbarian swordsman. I have heard you are quite good with that blade.”

His manner was provoking. Kormak wondered if this was a deliberate attempt to cause a duel. The Duke did not look stupid. “I had not heard the same about you until Frater Jonas mentioned it.”

Leone frowned. Jonas’s smile widened a fraction. “The Duke is said by many to be the best swordsman in Siderea.”

The Duke’s eyed narrowed. He did not like to have his praises sung by the priest. “He has killed many men and not a few boys. The Duke believes in quantity as well as quality.”

“Be careful, priest,” Duke Leone said. “You may not always enjoy the King-Emperor’s protection.”

He turned on his heel and strode back towards his associates.

Jonas gave an apologetic shrug. “I really shouldn’t irritate the Duke but somehow, no matter my good intentions, I always end up doing so.”

“It seems like he would be an easy man to irritate,” said Kormak.

“Do not underestimate him, my friend. He is a deadly swordsman and quite clever when he reins in his temper.”

“Which is why you needle him,” Rhiana said.

“My transparency embarrasses me.”

As Jonas spoke a stately young woman emerged from the crowd to stand over him. “You are anything but transparent, Frater Jonas,” she said. “It is what makes you so appetising.”

She looked about eighteen with raven-black hair and a slender figure. Her skin was pale and her eyes were a striking blue. The calculation in them was ageless. A silver circlet encircled her forehead. Inscribed on it was the symbol of the crescent moon. Around her waist was a silver belt made of interlinked versions of the same symbols. On her fingers were many rings, all inlaid with runes of mystical significance. Her nails were long and painted with more patterns. Kormak knew that looking at them too long would hurt the eye.

“Lady Marketa, I am surprised and delighted that you have chosen to join us this evening,” Jonas said. “May I introduce Captain Rhiana, late of Port Blood, and Sir Kormak . . .”

“I know who Sir Kormak is,” Marketa said.

Her voice was low and thrilling and held a note of invitation. She gazed into Kormak’s eyes with an unblinking stare. Her red lips curved upwards into a smile. Rhiana’s grip tightened on Kormak’s arm.

“Sir Kormak,” Jonas continued. “A Guardian of the Order of the Dawn. May I present Lady Marketa, Ambassador to the King-Emperor from the Courts of the Moon.”

“I do not believe we have met before,” Kormak said.

“Let us say your fame precedes you,” Lady Marketa said.

“I did not know I was famous.”

“Your name has come up at the Silver Court.”

“You seem anxious to let me know that,” Kormak said.

“I have wanted to meet you for many years,” she said. “You’ve killed a number of my acquaintances.”

“Lady Marketa, now hardly seems like the time to bring up such matters,” said Frater Jonas. “This is a celebration, given by the King-Emperor, to mark the safe arrival of his fleet from Terra Nova.”

“I am quite aware of the circumstances, Frater Jonas. Rest assured I would do nothing to embarrass either of our lords and masters.”

She gave her provocative smile to them all and swept away. She did not need the two large armed men at her side to clear a path through the Siderean nobility. They stepped out of her way as if her touch was poisonous.

***

A single horn sounded. Silence swept across the room. King Aemon entered, garbed still in his simple monk’s robe. He smiled upon his subjects, made the sign of blessing with his right hand and began to descend the stair. His brother moved one pace behind, studying the crowd as if it might contain a threat.

The crowd parted to allow the King to find his way to his throne. Aemon progressed through the people, pausing to nod, exchange words or blessings. He looked like an absent-minded scholar but every person he spoke to was gratified by his attention.

When he stepped upon the dais, he spread his arms wide and everyone fell silent. All eyes were upon him. He dropped his gaze to the floor as if surprised by the response.

He tilted his head to one side, made a slight wave of his hand and said, “My friends, welcome to this celebration. Tonight we are truly blessed. We celebrate the safe arrival of our captains. They have passed far over the sea, outrunning even the storms of the ocean, to bring to us the wealth of the New World. We are grateful to these men for braving the dangers of the ocean and for bringing to us the means to do good work. The treasures they have dared so much to bring us will be put to the best of uses in the service of the Holy Sun. On this you have our word. Now, eat, drink and be merry, in the sight of the Angel.”

He sat down without any further word. Silence fell. Kormak guessed few people were comfortable by the reminder of the nearness of Zhamriel’s armour. He wondered if the King knew this was the case and did not care.

Prince Taran took his place beside the King and gestured for the musicians to start playing. Soon, under the eyes of the King, the ball was under way.

***

“You dance surprisingly well for a barbarian swordsman,” said Rhiana.

“And you for a pirate girl,” Kormak said. Looking over her shoulder he could see that the burning gaze of the Lunar ambassador was fixed on him. Marketa raised her wine glass to him and returned to her conversation with Frater Jonas.

“Now there is an odd couple,” Rhiana said. “The Selenean witch and the King of Siderea’s spying priest.”

“If it makes them happy,” Kormak said.

“I do not think that woman means you well,” Rhiana said.

“What gave it away? Was it the fact she mentioned I had killed people she knew . . .”

“That was one clue. Best be wary. She has the power to do harm. She is a great sorceress. She radiates power like the King-Emperor.”

“All the high level servants of the Courts of the Moon are sorcerers,” Kormak said. “Their courtiers, their generals, their assassins.”

“You’ve had dealings with them?”

“I have opposed their will in many places.”

“Maybe that’s why you are famous.”

“Infamous more likely. She was just too polite to say so.”

“I think she is anything but polite. She reminds me of the King. She is powerful enough to say whatever she wants and get away with it.”

“Perhaps here but not at the Courts. There she is only a human.”

A messenger entered the room and made his way towards the throne. His face was pale. He was breathing hard. He threaded his way through the crowd. At Prince Taran’s side, he bowed and then leaned forward to whisper something in his overlord’s ear. The Prince’s face went pale and he turned his head to speak to the King.

Aemon had been sitting there, eyes closed, moving his head in time to the music. At first, he did not respond but then his eyes snapped open, he placed his hands together as if in prayer and then rose from his throne.

“Friends, an urgent matter of state demands our attention. Please remain and enjoy our hospitality. We shall return momentarily. Brother, Frater Jonas, if you would be so good as to accompany us.” He paused for a moment and looked upwards as if seeking guidance from above. He looked startled then nodded and said, “And Sir Kormak, if you would also be so kind . . .”

Rhiana looked at Kormak.

“I have no idea,” Kormak said. He saw that Lady Marketa was watching him. A look flickered across her face. Possibly it was one of satisfaction.

Kormak strode over to join the King and his brother. As they left the hall a company of soldiers fell into place around them. They were heavily armoured and they carried naked swords. Kormak wondered if someone had attempted a coup.

“May I ask why our services are required, sire?” Frater Jonas asked.

Aemon did not appear to hear. Prince Taran replied. “Murder in the royal treasure vaults. There seems to have been sorcery involved.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY MARCHED SWIFTLY through the palace. Soldiers guarded every door, looking around with the alert glances of warriors who expect an attack at any moment. A group of link-bearers, young men bearing torches, arrived to light their way. More soldiers joined the escort till nearly a hundred men were present.

A flight of stairs led down, curving into the bowels of the rock upon which the palace sat. Shadows danced as the torches drove back the darkness. It became colder and damper and Kormak found himself thinking of the many dungeons he had experienced during his career.

They emerged into a long corridor lined with heavy ironbound doors. One was open. Worried looking warriors stood outside it. King Aemon made to sweep past but before he could do so, his brother held out his arm to bar his way.

“Sir Kormak, if you would be so kind,” Taran said.

Kormak shrugged and stepped through the doorway. The air felt clammy and still. A robed man lay in a pool of blood. Kormak inspected the body without touching it and glanced around. The chamber was huge and filled with treasure chests. Some of them had broken open and gold and silver glittered in the torchlight. Kormak saw nothing immediately threatening but he sensed that something unfriendly watched. That sensation had saved his life in the past so he paid attention to it.

He bent over the body and checked for a pulse. He flipped the corpse over. He was looking at an old man with a shaven head and bland, pudgy face. A huge wound that looked like it had been made by rending claws gaped in his side.

Taran let the King enter then strode in himself gesturing for soldiers to form a cordon around them.

“What’s going on here?” Kormak asked Prince Taran.

“Chancellor Cetreo lies dead in this vault. He and I are the only men with the keys. The vault doors are watched by the men of the Household Guard. The soldiers heard the Chancellor scream but when they entered the vault to investigate they found nothing except his body. They felt as if something was watching them.”

“These are the treasure vaults, are they not?”

Taran nodded.

“Cargo from the fleet has been deposited here all day and for the past few days.”

“You think someone may have been hidden in the chests?”

“Something. That wound was not made by a blade.”

“No. It looks like the claw mark of a sabretooth. I think we would have noticed if one of those had been locked in a chest.”

“Cetreo served us loyally all his life,” Aemon said. His tone was mild but his expression was that of a man who did not expect contradiction. “Let us see if we can get to the bottom of what happened here.”

He gestured for the soldiers to part. Their captain looked at Taran who nodded and the soldiers let the king pass. Kormak moved to Aemon’s side, more than ever feeling as if he was under observation.

The trail of blood led deeper into the cavernous chamber.

***

Aemon strode forward, his hands clasped together as if he were praying. His face was weary and his shoulders slumped. Kormak knew how he felt. He still had not recovered from the previous night’s exertions aboard the Kraken’s Reach. He felt tired and slow.

Ahead of him a line of torch bearers drove back the darkness. Kormak kept his hand near the hilt of his sword.

They passed a towering statue made of gold. It depicted a jaguar-headed Old One. The style was unlike any Kormak had ever seen.

Mounds of coins high as a man’s shoulder loomed on either side of them, the gateway to a long passage between more chests. The red ribbon of blood flowed through it and led to a massive rune-encrusted sarcophagus. The lid had slid to the ground. It depicted a being that looked like a human with the head of a dire wolf.

“This does not bode well,” said King Aemon. Kormak inspected the coffin. It was moulded of orichalcum and inlaid with binding runes of truesilver. They were not of any type he had seen before but they contained patterns he recognised. The workmanship was old and hinted at the inhuman.

“Something was imprisoned in this casket,” Kormak said.

The king inspected the rune-work as if he had some idea of what it might be. A linkboy held the torch close.

Aemon traced the runes on the lid with his finger. “The script resembles pre-Solari ideograms from the Sunken Kingdoms. These curved symbols would seem to be binding signs. The large central rune around which they are organised looks like a name. If you spell it out phonetically it could be Vorkhul. It means Born of Darkness in the Old Tongue.”

“Perhaps the occupant was an Old One.”

“This chest was delivered today. It was part of the load from the First Fleet. Cetreo came down here to check on the contents.”

Prince Taran stepped closer. He spoke as if he did not want to be overheard. “You are saying that an Old One is loose in the palace.”

Kormak nodded, aware of the ache in his neck muscles. Guiding the Kraken’s Reach through the storm had drained him even more than he thought.

“It cannot have left this vault then,” Taran said. “The chancellor entered just over an hour ago. His escort remained outside while he performed his inventory. They only went in when they heard what sounded like a howl and then Chancellor Cetreo screaming.”

“Did they see anything?”

Taran shook his head.

“Then you are right, whatever did this is probably still in here?”

“How? This palace is warded by elder signs.”

“I do not know,” Kormak said.

“If it’s still in here, the King is in danger.”

“The Light will shield me, brother. And there are my soldiers and Sir Kormak and your own good self if the Light needs a little help.”

Taran looked at Kormak. “What do we do now?”

“We don’t know what we are looking for, so we sweep through the vault as if we were beating for game.”

“Split into parties and move down any avenues from opposite ends, closing off any ways of escape,” Taran said.

“Precisely so,” Kormak said.

“Very well. Remain with my brother. Frater Jonas, come with me.” He gave terse orders dividing the force and they moved off. Kormak had to admit the man was brave. Few would have responded that way in the presence of an Old One.

King Aemon moved to take the lead. Kormak restrained him with one hand. “If it please Your Majesty, it would be best if I went first. In case, we are attacked like the Chancellor was.”

“Of course, Sir Kormak. This is your business and you know best.”

As they moved along the aisles, the two parties shouted to let their fellows know roughly where they were. With every step Kormak’s sense of being watched increased. He felt certain there was something hostile out there in the darkness.

The soldiers shuffled behind the torch bearers. They had lost the swagger of the invincible Siderean infantrymen. Kormak could not hold that against them. Hunting monsters in darkened vaults was not what they had been trained for.

A scream rang out from the end of the line. Kormak looked back. Just for a moment he thought he saw something before the press of bodies obscured his view. He pushed through the crowd and found one of the soldiers was down, his throat torn from ear to ear by a huge claw.

The treasure was piled high here. The top of the stacks made a natural hiding place.

Kormak clambered up. He had been born in the hills of Aquilea. Climbing came easily to him. His main worry was how exposed he would be as he ascended. If something waited for him up there, it would strike him at the moment of maximum vulnerability.

He pulled himself onto the top of the stack.

A shadowy figure lurked at the far end. Kormak drew his sword. Runes blazed along the blade.

“There’s something up here,” he shouted.

The thing pounced, covering the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Weary as he was Kormak was too slow. Claws ripped through the flimsy cloth of the court tunic and pierced flesh. The burning line of pain only stopped when the talons encountered his elder sign. The thing hissed malevolently and drew back as if scalded.

Kormak lashed out with his blade. The creature shrank back, changing shape to avoid it. Its riposte clawed Kormak’s chest, drawing blood.

Kormak made two more strikes and the creature avoided both, as if toying with him. Its return strokes slashed red ribbons in his chest.

He leapt back. The thing came with him. Its shape shifted again. Two long serpents of flesh emerged from its shoulders and reached out like tentacles. Kormak shifted his weight so that the stack of crates overbalanced and sent them both toppling to the ground.

Kormak twisted to land on his feet. His attacker landed on a soldier, whose scream was cut off in an instant. Bones crunched. Flesh tore. Blood spurted.

The press of bodies around him, and the weight of the crates teetering on either side limited Kormak’s movements. His shapeshifting foe did not have to worry about hitting anyone friendly.

Another soldier screamed and fell. Then a torchbearer went down, landing on his torch. Flesh sizzled. Skin burned. It became darker.

His enemy tossed aside two men as it closed. Kormak stabbed. His foe writhed to one side, avoiding the blade’s point.

A blow of sickening force struck Kormak on the side of the head. All went black for a second and then stars flickered across his field of vision. As in a nightmare, he moved too slowly to counter attacks he could see coming. The thing struck him again. A spike of agony ripped through his chest.

A flare of light erupted all around him, bright as day. As he rolled clear of his foe, Kormak caught sight of King Aemon surrounded by an incandescent halo of power.

He turned his gaze back on the thing that had attacked him. Its form flowed as it sought to adapt to the light that pained it. Its limbs lengthened and shortened. Its skin became scaly and reflective. Its head always remained wolf-like. Glowing eyes glared around with malevolent hatred.

Gathering all his strength Kormak sprang forward, lashing out with his blade. It cut into the creature’s leg, drawing greenish blood. Flesh burned where the blade bit. The thing pulled its limb away and hurled itself into the air. It landed atop a pile of treasure chests and skittered away into the darkness. Its agonised shrieks receded into the distance. The soldiers pursued until Prince Taran pulled them back.

King Aemon looked down at Kormak’s bleeding form. “Are you all right, Sir Kormak?”

“I’ve felt better,” Kormak said. He tried to pull himself upright but the world spun and he fell forward into darkness.

CHAPTER SIX

KORMAK WOKE IN the chambers assigned to him. Morning sunlight filtered in through the drapes. A man in the crimson robes of a physician stood over him. When Kormak tried to sit up his chest burned. Red stained bandages covered his ribs. His sword and his amulets lay close to the bed.

Rhiana leaned over him. “What happened to you?” she said.

“I forgot to wear my armour.”

“It looks that way.” She smiled in the tight nervous way that people do when confronted by the sick.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Let’s hope.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, reached out and took his hand. “Seriously—what happened? I’ve seen you fight your way through a mansion full of armed men and barely take a scratch. You look as if you were tied in a sack full of starved ripper-fish.”

“An Old One,” Kormak said. “A powerful one. Somebody unleashed it in the Imperial Treasure Vaults.”

“What? How did it get in there? We are in a fortified citadel, ringed round with magical protections, under the light of a sunstone, near a Cathedral in which the armour of the Angel Zhamriel sits. I would have thought that if any place in the world was safe from Old Ones this would be it.”

Kormak shook his head. “The coffin itself might have protected whatever was in it. It was made of orichalcum. That shields against magical influences. The question is who put it there?”

“You think this was aimed at the King?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

“Why? The thing almost killed you.”

“That’s one of the reasons.”

“I am glad to hear you say that.” King Aemon’s soft voice carried across the room. Kormak wondered if he had just entered or whether he had always been there. The former seemed most likely. He doubted that even Rhiana would have spoken the way she had if the King had been present.

“Forgive the intrusion,” the King said. “I came to see how well you responded to my prayers.”

“You healed me, sire?”

“I prayed. The angel answered. Your wounds closed.”

“Thank you.”

The king reached down and patted Kormak gently on the shoulder. “It was nothing. The thing fled in fear of your blade after you wounded it. It was all I could do to hold it at bay. It was very strong.”

“It was, sire, and very fast too. Stronger and faster than almost any Old One I have ever encountered.”

“It is loose now in my palace. It slaughtered the men standing guard at the vault door and escaped into the dungeons below Palace Rock. Unless it has died of the wound you gave it, it is down there still.”

“It won’t have died.”

“That is unfortunate. As it fled, it killed a score of my best men, left almost as many crippled and it took only the one wound you gave it. Something needs to be done. I shall go to the Cathedral and pray for guidance. In the meantime, rest, recover your strength. I fear we shall have need of it before this matter is settled.”

He made a sign of benediction and left.

***

Kormak was not at all surprised when Prince Taran entered the room. He flashed Rhiana his brilliant smile then looked down at Kormak. “Well,” he said. “At least you’re alive.”

“There is that,” said Kormak.

“I thought Guardians were trained to kill such things, demons, Old Ones, whatever it was.”

“Sometimes we kill them. Sometimes they kill us.”

Taran nodded. “And sometimes they kill and maim almost two-score of men sworn to Imperial service.”

“Perhaps you should mention that to the creature. I am sure it will take into account the fact you find its behaviour objectionable when next it emerges.”

Taran sighed. “I shall take into account the fact you are wounded and in pain, Sir Kormak. I shall also take into account the fact you most likely saved my brother’s life. And the fact that we already owe you a considerable debt of gratitude. But if you speak to me in that disrespectful tone again . . .”

“Bad things happen to nobles who kill Guardians, Prince Taran. The Old Ones regard anyone not under the protection of my order as fair game. You have an Old One loose here in your palace. My order will not aid you if you kill me while I am helping you.”

“Is that what you are doing?”

“It’s what I will be doing once I get out of this bed.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. And I would not have you killed. I have other ways of showing my displeasure.” He glanced at Rhiana and smiled again. There was no warmth at all in his expression. “I have a long memory, Sir Kormak, and a longer reach. You would do well to remember that.”

“I will remember you said it,” Kormak said.

“Good. I do not mind admitting we need your help. There is a shape shifting monster loose in the royal palace and you are best qualified to deal with it.”

He made his way to the door and closed it behind him as he left.

“You don’t go out of your way to make friends, do you?” Rhiana said. She sounded almost admiring.

“His sort annoy me,” Kormak said. The physician looked as if he wanted to cover his ears. Kormak pulled himself out of the bed ignoring the pain in his chest. “Make me a draft of one part morphea to ten parts witchbane to one hundred parts water,” he said. “I want it within the hour.”

The physician’s jaws tightened. He did not like his patients telling him what to do. “You heard what Prince Taran said. He wants me on my feet as soon as possible.”

The physician decided not to argue.

“What do you intend to do,” Rhiana asked.

“There are questions I need to ask and the sooner I start the better.”

***

Kormak entered, the council chamber, a large room deep within the Palace. Guards in immaculate uniform stood at attention outside the doors. Around a massive table of polished oak huddled the most powerful men in the realm of Siderea.

King Aemon leaned over the head of the table, studying a map of the catacombs beneath the palace. On it sat polished rune inscribed stone markers. The map looked newly inked on fresh parchment, a copy of an older document too valuable to be pressed into service in such a way.

“It seems we have a number of reported sightings of the Beast,” Aemon said, touching first one of the stone markers then another. “How likely is it that they are all accurate?”

“Not at all,” Prince Taran said. “People are scared, brother. They jump at their own shadows. Rumours swirl around the palace like clouds around the peak of Mount Zahan.”

“We can hardly blame people for being scared. The creature killed a score of armed men and escaped from the most closely guarded vault in the realm. It nearly killed me and a Guardian of the Order of the Dawn.”

Aemon stood up and turned to gaze at the portrait of his father on the wall. King Varlan did not look much like his sons. He was a big, fleshy man with a red face. His hanging jowls and the pouches beneath his eyes spoke of grosser appetites. His eyes were the same though and something about the shape of the chin reminded Kormak of Aemon and his brother.

Duke Leone pushed his chair back and listened as if this was the first confirmation he had received from a reliable source about events in the vault. “What is the thing? And why is it here now?”

King Aemon looked at Kormak. The Guardian limped over to the table. His wounds pained him despite the healing the King had given him and the potions of the royal physician. He felt groggy from the after-effects. “It was an Old One,” Kormak said. “It was too strong and too fast and shifted shape too easily to be anything else.”

“Impossible,” Leone said. “We are beneath the light of a sunstone, within a palace warded against all such intrusions.”

Aemon’s expression was mild. He did not look at the Duke when he spoke. “The sunstone’s rays do not penetrate stone walls and every defence has a weak spot. It may be that someone has discovered ours.”

“I believe the creature entered in a sarcophagus delivered by the treasure fleet,” Kormak said.

“Are you sure?” asked Admiral Lorca. He was a brawny man with silver hair cut short and a well-trimmed silver beard. His voice had a rough note to it, as if hoarsened by years of bellowing orders across a ship’s deck.

“The coffin was disturbed when we entered the chamber. It seems the most likely source of the problem. It was open. It was the right size. It had been closed with binding runes. A trail of blood led from it to where we found the chancellor’s body.” He listed each point slowly and firmly.

“Accepted, Sir Kormak,” said Duke Leone. Admiral Lorca’s eyes narrowed. He clearly did not want to accept this. After all his fleet had delivered the sarcophagus and he was, ultimately, the individual who might have to take the blame.

“The question is why would anyone send such a beast to the Palace Imperial and unleash it here.” Duke Leone said.

“The fact that we are calling this council is answer enough,” said Prince Taran. “The business of government is disrupted. The counting of the latest revenues from the colonies is delayed. People are afraid. Royal prestige is undermined. Heretics and rebels are abroad in the realm. The cults of Shadow are at work everywhere trying to undermine my brother’s rule. Now we must deal with this thing rather than hunt them down.”

“All cogent arguments,” said Frater Jonas. “We need to find out who did this. Presumably there are records of when and where the cargo was put aboard, who authorised it, who collected it, who sent it.”

Admiral Lorca said, “There are manifests accounting for every item transported on my ships. The entire cargo was loaded at Port Montanea, delivered by Governor Kolkin’s men. I counter-signed for every piece.”

“Then you know the sarcophagus I am talking about,” Kormak said.

Lorca considered this. “Thousands upon thousands of treasure chests have to be loaded, Sir Kormak. I can’t be expected to remember all of them, but in this case I do. It was a striking piece of work. It had been discovered in some ancient temple complex far inland. Knowing the King-Emperor’s interest in such things, Governor Kolkin sent it on. He seemed quite proud of the thing.”

Prince Taran scratched a note on a piece of parchment. “Did he now?”

Aemon walked over to his brother and placed a bony hand on his shoulder. “Come, brother, let us not be too hasty to jump to conclusions. I have made my interest in such artefacts clear enough. I mention it to every governor of every colony before they take up their position. They all know about the Royal Museum. We already have a score of such sarcophagi. Who would guess this one was different?”

“Perhaps the contents could have been investigated more thoroughly.”

“It was magically sealed and opening it would have damaged it,” said Aemon. “I am interested in all such seals. Solareon used them. I will learn to use them too.”

Solareon had been the greatest wizard-king of the First Empire. He had bound demons and conquered entire kingdoms of the Old Ones. If Aemon intended to emulate him, his ambitions were vast indeed.

“The seals did not look like any used by the First Empire,” Kormak said.

Aemon smiled. “You have had experience of such things?”

“I have handled one set by Solareon himself.”

“Then we must talk about it some time.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty, but at the moment . . .”

“At the moment we have more pressing affairs, of course. It can wait.”

“What are we going to do?” Prince Taran asked. “An almost invulnerable demon is loose in our palace. It has killed our subjects and doubtless it will kill again. We need to find some way of dealing with it.”

“We shall, brother. Have faith. The Light will reveal the path to us.”

“I think your brother is troubled by concerns about your safety, sire,” said Jonas. “What if this creature was sent to slay you? What if it is a demon bound to pursue this ungodly task.”

“If it is my time to walk into the Light, it is my time, old friend. I am not afraid.”

“We have summoned Abbot Gerd of the Order of the Dawn’s Trefal Chapter House,” Prince Taran said. The familiar name startled Kormak. It could not be the same Gerd, could it? “I have brought the second and sixth regiments in from their barracks to reinforce the guards in the palace. It would perhaps be best, if we found you alternative accommodations.”

Kormak wondered if there had been some collusion between Jonas and the Prince in bringing this matter up.

“No,” Aemon said. “I will not be driven from my palace by the forces of Shadow. No demon can penetrate the sanctity of the Cathedral. I will spend my time there, praying for the creature’s defeat.”

Taran seemed so satisfied that Kormak wondered if this was what he had been seeking all along. “Very well. Sir Kormak what would you recommend we do?”

“Once Abbot Gerd arrives I will requisition the things that I need. He has men trained to deal with situations like this. Till then, seal the entrances to the catacombs, let no one in or out without approval. Keep torches burning. Flame hurts the Old Ones as much as sunlight. I will place elder signs of salt to reinforce the wards.”

“There are prisoners down there—heretics, traitors, all manner of scum.”

“They should be brought out.”

“I had not taken you for such a soft-hearted man,” said Taran. “Why be concerned about such scum? The catacombs are huge and not every prisoner is accounted for. We’d need to risk sending soldiers down as well.”

“If the creature feeds on the prisoners it may well grow stronger,” Kormak said.

All of the faces around the table looked horrified. Prince Taran said, “I shall see what can be done. Anything else?”

“Send the soldiers in large companies with every man carrying a torch and oil flasks. If they come across the creature they can keep it at bay with them. They should not engage unless they have to and they should withdraw as fast as they can.”

“As you say. What next?”

“Once I have spoken to the abbot I will go below and investigate the sarcophagus.”

“So until then we wait.”

“Better to do that than to send more men to their deaths seeking a monster they cannot kill.”

“Indeed,” said King Aemon. “If there is anything you require from us, Sir Kormak you have only to ask my brother and he will provide it. I shall return now to the Cathedral and pray for the confounding of our Shadow worshipping foes.

Kormak suspected it would take more than prayers to do that. He wondered where the creature was now and what it was doing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IN THE SHADOWS beneath the palace the Old One waited. It banged its head against the stonework and howled with frustration. Why could it not remember who it was or where it had come from? It could recall only an eternity of imprisonment in the metal coffin. It had endured a centuries-long nightmare of entrapment, far from the light of the Moon, far from the agony of prey.

When the coffin lid loosened and it sprang forth to strike, it had been near mindless. Instinct had taken over and it had shifted into new shapes to take advantage of its freedom and attack.

After its escape it remembered fighting and fear as light burned it and it fled from the mortals. Something told it that it should not have happened. Those squawling hairless apes were born to be its slaves.

Its leg hurt where the mortal’s poisonous blade had struck. The wound refused to heal despite all the instinctive magic it had brought to bear.

It had shrugged off the blows of the other apes. The cuts inflicted by their weapons had closed almost instantly. Only that accursed sword with its deadly runes had caused any lasting harm.

A rat scurried by. The Old One sprang, impaling the rodent on a dagger-like claw. It flicked the tiny corpse into its distended mouth and crunched down with sharp teeth. Bones broke. Blood trickled down its throat. Along with the taste of brain tissue came a surge of small, feral memories. Of hunger and hunting for food in the dark. Soon it would integrate the rat’s flesh into its own form. Perhaps that would help heal the wound.

It altered its shape as easily as a mortal breathed.

He was male now. He stood differently. His balance altered. Fur rippled and grew. Hound-like ears twitched. His wolf-like muzzle wrinkled as he snarled.

He changed. His snout shrank. His brainpan bulged. It was easier to focus his mind in this form.

He kept shifting, extending the range of his thoughts, decreasing the range of his senses. It was as if the more of his mind he freed from processing basic sensations, the greater his powers of reason, the more he could remember.

The Old One limped further down into the darkness. He needed refuge and time to think. In the distance, he smelled blood and warm living flesh. He caught the faint pheromonal traces of fear and hunger and hate. There were other sentient things down here.

Good. He had not fed in a long time but he would now and he would grow stronger and give his enemies cause to regret their temerity.

***

“I might have guessed I would find you lounging around in the lap of luxury,” said the abbot as he entered the room. Gerd had not changed much since their youth. He was medium height with shoulders so broad he looked squat. His hair was Sunlander gold and his beard was long and curly, not carefully trimmed like those of the Sidereans. He limped and that was new. “As always, you’ve landed on your feet.”

Kormak lay on the couch in his chambers, with his sword close at hand. He had rarely felt so weak and he did not like others seeing it. “You know what it’s like when you’re a Guardian. One day it’s a peasant’s hut, the next day a King’s palace.”

Gerd’s smile held a complex mix of envy, bitterness and agreement. “You look like you’ve seen better days, Kormak.”

“I have, Gerd. And many of them.”

“What in the name of the Angel Zhamriel happened to you?”

“I met an Old One in the King’s vaults last night. I neglected to wear my armour.”

“Rumour has it you did not kill it.”

Kormak did not want to say he had still been weak from guiding the ship through the storm. It sounded too much like an excuse “Rumour has the right of it.”

“I knew I was not summoned to the palace so they could look at my cheerful Taurean face. So there’s an Old One loose in the Palace Imperial, is there?”

“A very dangerous one.”

“It must be if you did not kill it.”

“I’m getting old, Gerd.”

“We all are.”

“I feel it.”

“You thinking of giving up the blade?”

“You did.”

Gerd looked down at his leg. “Tendon was slashed. Healed badly. Made it difficult to do the dance of blades.”

Kormak tapped his chest. “I took a few cuts myself last night.”

“Doesn’t look like anything that would slow you down in the long term. You’ll heal.”

“Yes,” Kormak said. “I’ll heal.”

Gerd gave a short barking laugh.

“What?” Kormak asked.

“You’re the last man I would have thought to hear talking about giving up the blade. I always thought they’d pull it from your cold dead hand.”

“How many are left from our oath year?”

“You. Me. Magritte. The rest are all gone.” Silence filled the room while they contemplated the deaths.

“And only you are still carrying a sword. Magritte went back to Aethelas last year. She’s teaching herbalism to acolytes, believe it or not.”

“Good for her.”

“What would you teach? How to climb a rock like an Aquilean ape?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“You did not ask me here so we could discuss your career choices, did you? Because if that’s what you want, let me give you some advice. Don’t become abbot of a chapter house. It’s all prayers, scrolls and bloody politics with barely time to steal beer from your own cellars.”

“I thought it was what you always planned on doing.”

“Yes, I am really living my dream,” he said. “Look what it got me. Fat, bored and forced to listen to your whining.”

He smiled to take away the sting of what he was saying then said, “You didn’t ask me here so we could wax nostalgic about the good old days. What do you need?”

“Truesilver armour if you have it.”

“The shirt will need adjusted to fit your heathen build but we have a good man for that.”

“Sunflares.”

“Every chapter house has those. Basic alchemy, man. Ask me for something difficult.”

“Valen’s Elixir.”

“There was no need to take me at my word. You know it is forbidden. You know why too.”

“It can cause apoplexy, heart failure and rupture of internal organs. None of which will bother me if this Old One is eating my heart.”

“I never knew you had one.”

“Can your apothecary do it or should I ask the King instead?”

“Don’t embarrass me. Of course, he can. It’s just I will have a hell of a job explaining what happened to Grandmaster Darius if you drink the stuff and keel over and die.”

“I am not planning on it.”

“No one ever does. You really want it? You remember how we used to laugh about the old men who used it. We’re older than them now.”

Kormak nodded. “We were never going to get old.”

Gerd looked out the window. “But we did. And we are the lucky ones.”

“I’ll need essence of truesilver.”

“I can see this is going to get expensive. It’ll be interesting when the Auditor pays me a visit.”

“What a thrilling life you lead.”

“We can’t all be bold monster hunters. Well, not anymore.” Gerd looked serious. “How many weapons will you need the truesilver essence for?”

“As much as you can get me.”

“You planning on starting your own mercenary company?”

“The King’s bodyguards will need it and there may be people with me.”

“Oh there will be people with you all right. Me and some of my lads.”

“Better make sure they come with all their gear.”

“They’ll have alchemical banefire and sunflares.”

“Trick your lads out with every ward and rune you’ve got. We have no idea what this thing is capable of.”

“Other than shredding you, you mean. That’s quite enough for me.”

“You have a Shadowhound?”

“I have a pack of them. Take your arm off quick as look at you. You think we’re going to need trackers?”

“It depends on how good the local Diviners are.”

Gerd glanced around. “You are in the Imperial Palace. The walls are an arm-span thick and covered in elder signs. There are wardstones built into the support pillars. Most of the household is scryer-shielded. I doubt the Archmage Eldarak himself could perform a halfway decent divination in this place. I’ll bring the hounds. To tell the truth it’ll do me good to see someone else foot the bill for feeding them for a bit. The bastards eat more than all the brothers put together and that’s saying something. Has to be prime beef as well. They’re picky as a bunch of Selenean epicures. You’ve no idea how much it costs . . .”

“You can expect quite a large donation from the Palace.”

“Good because this is going to cost plenty and all these alchemicals will need to be replaced.”

“When can you get the brothers here?”

“Half a dozen are already with me. The rest are down in the city making sure the locals don’t steal everything that isn’t nailed down.”

“Get everybody you can up here. Leave the minimum you need to keep the chapter house safe.”

“The servants and the lay brothers can do that if I shout at them enough. Anything else?”

“Tell your boys they’ll need to be careful. They’ll not have seen anything like this thing before.”

“You’re not reassuring me, Kormak.”

“Good. Scared men pay attention.”

“Scared men make mistakes too. We both know that.” The words hung in the air after he left.

***

Outside it was noon. The Holy Sun beamed down on his people, his light keeping them safe from monsters. Inside the cool of the palace, a small army was on the move.

Warriors in the uniforms of the Household Guard watched all the entrances to the catacombs.

Hard looking men in white surcoats bearing the red dragon of the Order of the Dawn waited among them. They wore belts containing flasks of strange alchemicals. Elder signs warded their helmets. Most of them wore other runes on armlets, necklaces or rings. All of them had burning torches at hand.

Groups of household servants gawked. Nobles in full court dress displayed just as much curiosity.

Kormak felt the unfamiliar armour of truesilver on his shoulders and chest. He had forgotten how light it seemed when worn. He ran his hands over the contents of the pouches and rings in the belt the abbot had given him, making sure everything was there.

He touched the stoppers of tubes containing truesilver essence. He ran his fingers over the rune-lines inscribed on the otherwise smooth surfaces of sunflares. He studied one. The faint glow showed it was ready to discharge a burst of the stored light of the Holy Sun.

He felt the flask containing Valen’s Elixir. Why had he asked Gerd for it? His own strength would be enough. It always had been in the past. He should return the potion and tell the abbot he had made a mistake in a moment of doubt.

“So what’s the plan?” Gerd asked. The abbot carried a mace marked with dwarven runes. Near him stood a big man who held the leads of three huge black dogs. The dogs were the size of wolfhounds with jaws like bulldogs. They looked at Kormak as if considering him for their next meal.

“We’re going down to the vault to take a look.”

“By we, you mean . . .”

“You, me and the dogs.”

“We might want to take some more.”

Kormak shook his head. “They’re needed up here to make sure nothing gets out.”

“I’m rather hoping we do.”

“I meant other than us.”

Gerd made a face. His hands went to his belt. He too carried sunflares and alchemical fire. He licked his lips.

“You sure you want to come?” Kormak asked. Gerd shot him an odd look. Kormak felt that his friend did not so much want to go with him as need to do it. Perhaps he wanted to show that he had been a Guardian himself once and to prove he still had it in him. He had always been competitive even when they were boys. “It might be best if you stayed here. You are the abbot after all.”

Gerd smiled as if he saw through Kormak’s attempt to discourage him. “What could possibly harm me? I have a famous Guardian to protect me. And if this Old One gets too close I’ll threaten to make him pay for feeding the dogs. That should scare him off. It bloody well scares me.”

“I’m starting to worry about this obsession with accounting.”

“Just you wait until you’re in my position. You’ll be obsessed with it too.”

“You were right. You’re going to have to pry this sword from my cold dead hand.”

“Let’s pray to the Holy Sun that I don’t have to do it today then. It’s been a while since I held a dwarf-forged blade.” He brandished the mace with one stubby hand. “And this will not be nearly as effective.”

The dogs started to growl as Rhiana pushed her way through the crowd. Gerd eyed her with a mixture of appreciation and suspicion. “Who is this?”

“Captain Rhiana, late of Port Blood and parts beyond.”

“She coming with us?” Gerd looked dubious. The gills marked Rhiana as a child of Saa-Aquor, not a follower of the Holy Sun. He was wondering what her relationship with Kormak was.

“Yes, she is,” Rhiana said. “I didn’t pull you out of the belly of Leviathan just to watch you get yourself killed here.”

“The belly of Leviathan? I hope you are not speaking literally,” Gerd said.

“She is,” Kormak said.

“You’ll need to tell me about that.”

“You can write up the report for the Grand Master if you want.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. You know how much I love paperwork.” Gerd’s sarcastic tone was not lost on Rhiana. She smiled.

“Rhiana, this is Abbot Gerd. He’s a master of the quill.”

Gerd gave a slight bow. “Mightier than the sword so they say. Though I can’t help but feel the man who first said that had not tried defending himself against a blood-mad orc with one.”

“Whatever you do, don’t ask him how much it costs to feed his dogs.”

“He’s right, captain. The cost would frighten you to death. Better let them get a sniff of you. They might be unfriendly otherwise.” He moved over to the dogs and said, “Balthus, Slasher, Fang. This pretty lady is a friend. Don’t bite!”

The dogs glared at Rhiana less fiercely.

She frowned. “You’ve shielded your dogs. The runes on the collars . . .”

“It’s not the only thing they protect them from,” said Gerd. “But perhaps we can discuss that on our way to view the Imperial Treasure Vaults.”

“You’d better take a lit torch and some spares,” Kormak said to Rhiana.

“You want me to be your linkboy? I have this!” She reached inside her pouch and produced a pearl that Kormak well-remembered. Even in daylight it gave out a faint green glow. In the darkness it would produce as much light as a torch.

“A torch will be a better weapon against an Old One than your spear. Fire burns the Eldrim.”

“You can bet your life I’m carrying a torch,” said Gerd. “Rodric too. Only this lazy Aquilean bastard won’t. He claims it takes all his strength to lift that dwarf-forged blade.”

Rhiana laughed and took a torch.

“Let’s get hunting,” said Kormak.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY MADE THEIR way down the stairwell into the catacombs. The green glow of Rhiana’s pearl gave as much light as the smoke-spluttering torches. The smell of oil and burning rag drifted through the close air. Shadows danced away from them. Moss clung to the walls and emerged from gaps between the paving stones.

The dogs snarled. The biggest, Balthus and Slasher, eyed the small one, Fang, as if considering him for a meal. Fang growled back at them, undaunted by their size.

“You sure you remember the way,” Gerd asked.

“Yes,” Kormak said.

“I recall how you got us lost in the night marches round Aethelas.”

“You were the one leading.”

“Still trying to shift the blame I see. You’d think that after all these years you would just admit it.”

“I take it you two have known each other for some time,” Rhiana said.

“Since he was dragged to Mount Aethelas as a snot-nosed pup by Master Malan. Although, come to think of it, that was before Malan became a Master,” said Gerd. “He was a troublemaker even then I can tell you. Started a fight the day he arrived. Would have got handed his sorry ass as well, if I had not pulled him out of it.”

Rhiana looked at Kormak. He shook his head.

“He can shake his head all he likes but he knows it’s true.”

“Gerd always talks when he’s nervous,” Kormak said.

“I am not nervous. I am scared shitless. I saw what that thing did to you and I am not carrying a dwarf-forged blade.”

The dog-handler looked at the abbot, appalled. Kormak wondered if he had ever heard Gerd express himself in quite this way before. Or perhaps it was just the confession of fear that had him worried.

The steps ended and they were on the level of the vaults now.

“I am surprised the King-Emperor trusts you to come down here,” Gerd said. “Aquileans are famous for their looting.”

“The King of Siderea obviously does not share your Taurean prejudices.”

“He has his own. He does not need any of mine.”

“I always heard that Aemon was a saint.”

“Cast your mind back to your scripture lessons and you will recall that not a few of the saints were vicious bastards. His hands were stained crimson and he bathed in the blood of heretics. That was written about Saint Aloysius, not coincidentally known as the Bloody-Handed.”

“The stories I have heard all say Aemon is a humble man and a great temple builder. He gives alms to the poor and he heals the sick. I’ve not seen anything yet that makes me disbelieve that.”

Gerd looked over his shoulder then at the dog-handler then at Rhiana. “You are just trying to get me into trouble, aren’t you, Kormak? Always the bloody same with you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It would not surprise me if, even down here, Aemon’s bloody brother had eavesdroppers.”

“So?”

“What do you want me to say? That the King builds temples and gives alms to the poor to ingratiate himself with the people? He does it because the nobles hate him for limiting their privileges and building a professional army. The preachers’ sermons praise the King’s virtues because he pays for their stipends as well as their temples.”

“I have met Aemon. He does not seem so cynical.”

“You have met Aemon so you think the same as me. King Aemon believes in the Light of the Holy Sun and in the Angel Zhamriel’s blessing. But most of all he believes in the righteousness of King Aemon. Not least of the believers in the sainthood of King Aemon is King Aemon.”

It surprised Kormak to hear his old friend speak so strongly on the subject. “I just hope that your lady friend here is not a spy in the pay of our saintly king,” said Gerd. “I know I can trust Rodric here. I owe him too much in gambling debts for him to want me dead.”

Rodric looked scandalised. Rhiana said, “Your secrets are safe with me.”

Kormak felt tempted to tell Gerd that she had been an agent of the King-Emperor back in Port Blood. Just for a moment, he wondered if she still considered herself such. Perhaps that was why she was here now.

As they approached the vault, the dogs began to whine. It was alarming hearing beaten-puppy noises coming from the throats of those fierce beasts. Shadowhounds had been bred for generations to hunt monsters through the stink of blights. Nothing was supposed to frighten them. Both the bigger dogs were reluctant to proceed. Fang bared his teeth and growled as he crept forward.

Rodric said, “Never seen them behave like this before, abbot. Not even when we were hunting those spider-demons in Bogwood.”

Gerd nodded. “Maybe they’ve been listening to me too much. Now, boys you know I was only joking. There’s nothing that bad down here. Ask Sir Kormak, he’ll tell you.”

“They’re dogs, Gerd. They can’t understand what I am saying.”

“With that Aquilean accent of yours, you’re probably right. I struggle with it myself.”

The smallest of the dogs continued to move forward. It crept along on its belly, as if it was stalking something. Kormak looked at Rhiana.

“I don’t sense anything in there. Doesn’t mean there is nothing there,” she said. “It could be masking itself. “

“If anything can do it, a bloody Old One can,” said Gerd. “They are masters of magic. Live and breathe it. Comes as easy to them as eating expensive meat and farting does to my dogs.”

Kormak moved beside Fang. The dog looked up at him and did not growl. Kormak went up to the vault door. It swung open easily on its hinges. Fang whimpered but kept moving forward. The other Shadowhounds kept their distance.

Kormak entered the vault.

He moved to the spot where the chancellor had fallen. The dog scampered along with him, as if desperate for the company. It sniffed the area where the body had been, alternately whimpering and growling.

Kormak strode deeper into the room, heading towards the sarcophagus. The others followed. Rodric had to drag the other dogs. Rhiana looked gloomy. Gerd looked worried as he limped along.

Kormak saw nothing except the mounds of treasure chests. He paid particular attention to the area on top of them. The monster might still be lurking there.

Gerd slapped the head of the mace against his palm. He squinted into the darkness then limped up behind Kormak. He was quiet now, giving his full attention to their surroundings. Kormak missed the man’s chatter. The silence was ominous.

He moved up to where the open sarcophagus lay. He checked the angles of attack from the aisles of treasure chests.

None of the dogs, not even Fang, wanted to get close to the coffin. Rodric glanced around fearfully. He had clearly never seen the hounds behave this way before.

Rhiana moved over to Kormak’s side. Shadows danced away from the flickering torch. He noticed how clean the edge of the pearl’s glow was compared to the constant shifting of the pool of torchlight’s boundaries.

“Well, it’s open, you were right about that much,” said Gerd, bending to inspect the coffin. He squinted at the runes.

“You’re probably right about them being binding signs although I have no idea what some of the other ones are for.” Gerd leaned closer and gestured for Rhiana to bring the light closer. “It looks like some of them have been damaged.”

“Deliberately?” Kormak asked.

“Take a look for yourself.”

Some of the runes were defaced. It was possible someone had done that with a chisel when they were attempting to open the coffin. He said as much.

“Maybe,” said Gerd. “But who would do that? All of the sailors know they would be skinned alive for tampering with the Treasure Fleet’s cargo. Why take the risk?”

“Because they were greedy,” Kormak said.

“Royal Marines guard those chests,” Gerd said. “No one is more loyal to the King-Emperor.”

“Still they can be tempted, like any other man.”

“Maybe but it does not make any sense. Why this particular thing, a coffin, why not a casket of jewellery?”

“Because they wanted the seals broken and whatever was in it to get out,” Kormak suggested.

Rhiana said, “Cargoes get tossed against each other, particularly when the seas are rough. You’ve seen what a storm on the World Ocean is like, Kormak. This might all have been an accident.”

“When it comes to Old Ones being unleashed I don’t believe in accidents,” Kormak said.

“It doesn’t mean they can’t happen,” said Rhiana.

Gerd shrugged. “Does not really matter. Someone tampered with the coffin or it was smashed open by accident. The main thing is that whatever was within it got out and we need to find it.”

“The coffin could have been tampered with here in the vault,” Kormak said.

“By who? The chancellor? That old man served the bloody King for twenty years and the king’s father before him for twenty-five more. He was no more likely to take anything from here than I am.”

“So it’s a fifty-fifty chance then,” said Kormak.

“I suppose you think that’s funny.”

“Well, I know you need the gold, Gerd. You’ve told me often enough since you got to the palace.”

“If the sarcophagus was damaged, it might be mentioned on the manifest,” Rhiana said. “The Admiral would have had to sign for it and he would have to certify that it arrived in the same condition as it set out. It’s his responsibility after all.

“More bloody paperwork,” muttered Gerd.

“Did I just hear you volunteering to check it,” said Kormak.

“Still looking for ways to skive off, I see.”

Fang had returned to where the chancellor’s body lay. He sniffed and growled. He seemed to have screwed up his courage. The other Shadowhounds clustered around him. Their tails were down but their teeth were bared.

“Looks like Fang has picked up a scent,” said Rodric. He looked at the abbot, then at the dogs, then at his feet.

Gerd glanced at Kormak. “I know what you’re going to say,” he said.

“We’d best see what we can find,” said Kormak.

***

Rodric moved slowly over to his hounds. “Now boy, seek,” he said. His voice was low and encouraging, like a man talking to a nervous child. “Seek!”

Fang sniffed. His nose wrinkled as if he did not like what he smelled. His ears pricked up and his lips drew back in a snarl and he began to move forward. “Balthus, Slasher, follow Fang! You’re not going to let yourself be shown up by the runt of the litter, are you?”

With visible reluctance, Balthus and Slasher slunk after Fang.

“Either those are the most cowardly Shadowhounds I have ever seen,” Kormak said. “Or there’s something about this Old One has them really troubled.”

Rodric wrinkled his nose and glared. The way his lips drew back to reveal his teeth reminded Kormak of his dogs. “There’s nothing cowardly about my hounds,” he said. He sounded personally affronted.

“That’s what’s worrying me,” Gerd said. “I’ve seen those dogs hamstring a Shadow-blighted mastodon and look cheerful while they were doing it.”

Rhiana glanced at the dogs. She looked pale in the torchlight. She was becoming more wan by the moment.

“What is it?” Kormak asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just don’t like being cooped up in these tunnels.”

Kormak remembered how he had felt in the ocean’s depths and wondered whether it was the same for her down here.

“You don’t have to come with us,” he said.

“Try and stop me.”

“I would not dream of it.” Kormak glanced over at Gerd. “You got the essence of truesilver?”

The abbot nodded.

“It’s time to treat your weapons with it.”

CHAPTER NINE

GERD DRIBBLED THE last of the liquid metal on to the head of his mace. He smeared it on the runes with the sleeve of his tunic. The air smelled faintly of polish and something more acrid that made the back of Kormak’s throat tighten.

“We’ve got about an hour,” Gerd said.

“An hour of what?” Rhiana asked. She sounded tetchy. Perhaps because the abbot had treated his own weapon and Rodric’s but not hers. It would be easy for her to take it as a sign that they did not trust her. Maybe Gerd didn’t.

Gerd said, “An hour during which our weapons will cause an ungodly amount of pain to any Old One. It will kill any of their blood too.”

He paused for a moment as if considering his next words. “You had best be careful not to get yourself hit.”

It was all the explanation or apology Rhiana was going to get. Kormak waited for her angry denial but it did not come.

“Poison,” she said.

“In a sense,” Gerd said. “It’s something that burns the Old Ones like poison ivy burns us.”

Rhiana said, “The armour Kormak’s wearing will have the same effect, won’t it? That’s not just essence of truesilver. It’s made from it.”

“It’ll certainly make an Old One or one of their bloody servants think twice about hitting the wearer a second time.”

“You ever consider making weapons from it?”

Gerd grinned. “What do you think the runes on this mace are made from? The truesilver alloys that men make are not much use for normal blades, too soft and won’t hold an edge long, but they have their uses. The mace will hurt an Old One.”

“Your order believes in being prepared, doesn’t it?”

Gerd sounded serious. “Sometimes it’s the only advantage we have. You take whatever you can get.”

“It was the Solari who came up with all this stuff though . . .”

“They used it but they had better weapons. Sunblades, lightspears, dayshields, armour made from sungold. They picked up the knowledge from the Angels of the Sun when they warred against the Old Ones in the Dawn Ages of the World.”

Kormak remembered the thoughtful scholar Gerd had been as a boy. The smell of the old classrooms, and the way the light fell through the stained glass windows came back to him. He shook his head. It was the pain-killing potion. It was making him dreamy even as it numbed his wounds.

Gerd tilted his head to one side and studied the Guardian. “You all right? You look a bit sickly.”

Kormak wondered about that. If he was not at all right, he was putting their lives at risk. The Old One had almost killed him last night and he had been in better shape then.

Still, there were four of them and the hounds. Gerd and Rodric were better prepared than any royal guardsman, and Rhiana had strange powers of her own. If he left things much longer the trail might vanish and they would lose this chance to find the creature from the sarcophagus.

He hesitated for a heartbeat. Was he afraid? He remembered what his teachers on Aethelas had taught him.

Fear was just his body’s way of telling him to be prepared for danger. There was something large and predatory waiting for him out there in the darkness, and he was not sure he could deal with it. He turned that thought over and over in his mind.

“Let’s go,” he said. The others followed him with hesitant steps, as if they sensed his reluctance to go on.

***

The Old One heard the cries of hunting beasts seeking prey. They echoed down the damp-walled tunnels of the catacombs like the calls of restless ghosts.

They were still a long way off. For a moment, he ignored them. What could those noises have to do with him? He was a hunter, not prey. Only the stupidest of animals would fail to recognise that truth, and hounds were far from the dullest of creatures.

He squatted on his haunches and tried to remember how he had got into that damned coffin. He shifted his form, expanding his cranial area, increasing the processing power of his brain. His limbs became weaker, his senses duller but his thoughts raced faster and his memory became keener.

Recollections danced through his mind and were gone too quickly to grasp. Beings of metal and glass and beings of light. Great towers of spun starlight. Cities buried deep beneath the mountains. The feel of the wind on his wings as he flew in the moonlight. He could not make any sense of the riot of images. He could put no names to any of it. These things might as well be the memories of dreams. Perhaps they were.

What had been done to him? He felt certain he had once owned a great deal of knowledge but all of it had somehow drained out of him.

The howling came closer. He smelled dogs and other things, things he did not like. One of those scents belonged to the mortal that had wounded him. The other scents were equally unpleasant. They made his nose twitch and brought tears to his eyes. His hackles rose.

How long had he been squatting in the dark before the noise of the dogs roused him? He did not know. He had lost track of time.

While he had been trapped in the coffin, time had not mattered. Its passage had been just another torture, like the hunger for flesh and for other things that had gnawed at his core.

Hounds. The human was leading a pack through the dungeons. The human who had wounded him was out there, with dogs and other mortals. It had brought weapons and allergens and sorcery.

Be calm. It was not certain that the human was hunting him. But who else could the human be looking for? Best be prepared.

He needed to adapt to meet the potential threat. This form, whilst excellent for cogitation, was not suitable for survival in the face of the threat represented by the human’s armaments.

It was however excellent for sifting through the memories of memories. It could, perhaps, grasp those butterfly ideas that had flickered through his mind earlier. He stood on the brink of a breakthrough, a realisation about why he was here, what he had done and what had been done to him. All it would take would be a little time and then . . .

The howls were much closer. How much time had he lost in examining his own thought processes in this mentally splendid but physically flabby form? Once he had possessed an intrinsic sense of time’s passage, of exactly where he was. But now . . .

He would have to find those answers and soon but right now, he had a more pressing problem. He threw himself forward. He balanced on all fours. His snout elongated. His fingers retracted and became stubby paws. His thinking became more feral as his body changed. His memories dwindled until all he could remember was what had happened a few minutes ago. The complex web of thoughts broke up. His senses became keener, his body stronger and more resilient.

His sight blurred and his sense of smell improved. Clouds of interesting aromas drifted around him. Dank stench of dungeon tunnels. Moistness of distant water. Faint tingling of fungal spores drifting through the dark. Reek of old blood and pain.

The slavering hounds so near, so near.

***

Fang’s nervousness evaporated once he had the scent of prey in his nostrils. His tongue lolled out. He panted. The other hounds took their cue from him. Their eyes were fierce. Their howls were full of hunger. The sound echoed down the corridors, a noise to inspire dread in any who heard it.

Rodric grinned even as he strained to hold the great beasts on the leash. This was more like it. This was what he had expected. This was a hunt and he was the Master of Hounds.

Gerd limped along, his bad leg dragging, an expression of exasperated determination on his face. He was going to keep up no matter what happened. Rhiana had a haunted look, as if she could hear something they could not and it troubled her.

This place was a maze of stairs and vaults. Corridors twisted and sloped until all sense of direction departed. Open doors led into cells containing chained skeletons, desiccated bodies and machines of torture.

Something like dread entered Kormak’s heart as they moved through the dungeon corridors. He recognised the flicker of fear passing through his mind. He had felt it before, in the night, in dark enclosed spaces, under the stars and under the earth. He had felt it while he hunted creatures he knew to be more dangerous than him, who might turn at bay and slay him out of hand. He had felt it when chased by men and beasts and monsters.

This situation might end in his death. He would survive only by being faster or stronger or more cunning than that which opposed him. Luck or brawn or quickness of sinew would decide his fate. The knowledge that each moment might be his last thrilled him. He walked the edge of the abyss of oblivion. At any moment he might tumble into it. The gates of the Kingdom of Dust yawned and Death looked out with glittering eyes.

It was what had kept him hunting monsters in the dark for decades. It was for this he lived and from this he would die and in his secret heart of hearts, he did not care. Gerd had been right. They would have to pry his dwarf-forged blade from his cold dead hands. There was no other way he was giving this up. He looked at the abbot and got an answering grin. Gerd too felt the thrill of the hunt.

He lengthened his stride and prepared to draw his blade. The howling became louder. The dogs had led them to what they sought.

***

The hounds were close now, the Old One thought. His form swirled in response, adding sub-dermal armour, spikes and claws. His teeth grew longer and sharper. He fought down the fury building within him. Now was not the time to give way to instinct. He was too close to the bestial as it was.

He could lose himself in rage and never come back, drown in a pool of animal instinct and thoughtless reaction. It had happened to others of his kind, a fate to be avoided at all costs.

He shifted form, enhancing the areas of his brain responsible for reasoning at the cost of his powers of perception.

He put his back to the wall and tried to force himself to think.

The human would be here soon, bearing that terrible sword.

He flexed his claws. He was no longer disoriented after escaping long confinement. He was confident that he could kill the ones who hunted him.

But he might take another wound. The one he had already was weakening him. Changing took more effort than it should have.

Khazduri. The word came out of nowhere bringing with it an image of a short humanoid, a being broader than a man, with longer arms and a beard of sensory bristles around its head. The poisoned weapon had been Khazduri-forged. It bore more than one of their forbidden runes.

The Old One tried to lower the bucket deeper into the well of memory but nothing came up. He could find no more knowledge to go with this. Khazduri. He savoured the taste of the word, and the images that went with it.

A rune-sign entered his mind, a symbol summing up the essence of the thing it described. It was a cosmic code that could manipulate that thing itself. A word from the language the Source had used during the Shaping of Creation. The sign was the essence of the Khazduri, of all they were and could be.

The Old One had once known thousands of such symbols. He had used them to rewrite the pages of reality in sentences of fire. Great holes gaped in his memory where those words had been torn out. Perhaps it would be possible to recreate them by studying the outlines of their absence. Perhaps he could deduce the nature of what was missing from the gaps it had left.

He would not be denied the power and knowledge that were his birthright. He would once again take his place on the pinnacle of creation. He would be himself once more. He would be Vorkhul.

At last, he had it. A name. His name. The rune burned in his mind. It was more than just his name. It was the core of his being, the basic web from which his existence had been woven, the seed from which he had grown.

The dogs were almost on top of him now. There was no time. No time. The interplay of memory and image had distracted him. His enemies had found him.

Vorkhul opened a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, transformed his saliva to poison, bellowed a challenge. Let them come. He would kill them. He would kill them all.

A muted glow announced the presence of his hunters. The Old One prepared to slay.

CHAPTER TEN

FANG ROUNDED THE corner and skidded to a halt. A monster hunched there, ape-like arms extended. Its head was wolf-like. Its fur was an odd desiccated green. Spikes of bone protruded from its flesh.

Unable to stop, Balthus tumbled by Fang. His momentum sent him bowling into the creature. It lashed out with one shovel-like hand. Huge talons bit into Balthus’s flesh drawing blood. The dog let out a high whimpering squeal. Its head lunged forward. It buried bear-trap teeth in the arm of the Old One.

“Sunflare! Watch your eyes!” Gerd bellowed as he tossed something. Kormak looked away.

A brilliant flash slashed the darkness. Kormak waited an instant and glanced at the Old One. Semi-translucent lids protected its eyes, turning them into glowing green orbs. The sunstone’s light had seared its fur and blistered its flesh.

Kormak moved forward. He drew his blade in one smooth motion. He aimed for the creature’s arm, intending to take it off at the wrist and then impale the thing while it reeled away wounded.

With terrifying speed the Old One swung the dog. Balthus would not let go. The dog’s huge form, heavy as a man’s, connected with Kormak.

It was like being hit with a sack of meat wielded by an ogre. The force of the blow tumbled Kormak to the ground.

Rhiana cast her spear. It caught the Old One in the chest. The creature’s howl was deafening. Gerd limped forward brandishing his runic mace. Rodric reached down into his belt to draw forth another sunflare.

There was a sickening crunch as the Old One smashed Balthus into the wall. Bones broke. The dog’s jaws came lose. The Old One’s wounds closed with a sickening, sucking sound.

Kormak rolled away from it and rose to his feet.

The Old One glared at him. Kormak saw inhuman rage and hatred in its eyes. It tore Rhiana’s spear free and tossed it on the ground. Its form flowed. Its limbs lengthened. It bounded away, moving with a speed even the hounds had difficulty keeping up with.

Rodric yelled, “Quick, lads! Seek! The bastards on the run now.”

***

Vorkhul fled with the hounds at his heels, passing open doors into cages where humans had once tortured other humans. If not for the accursed blinding light, he would have slaughtered his enemies while they were too surprised to respond.

The sunflare had forced him to protect his eyes even as his body burned. The front of his body felt scorched. Fire was a thing that could cause him pain. So was sunlight. It might even prove fatal. The Old One needed to put distance between himself and his foes. Given time his body would heal all the wounds except the one taken from the Khazduri blade.

He came to a fork in the passage and took a right, heading down a long flight of stairs. His rear limbs shortened as he did so, enabling him to maintain speed.

At the foot of the stairs, Vorkhul went left. He passed more cells, some of them occupied. He hoped to lose his pursuers in the maze of corridors. Not much chance of that while they had the hounds. He might be able to elude the humans but their pets would sniff him out.

There was only one answer. Kill the dogs. They were running with the humans, restrained by the leads. Move faster. So fast the humans would have to unleash the dogs to let them pursue. Then he could kill the beasts and disappear into the maze at his leisure.

The Old One lengthened his stride. The scorched flesh was regenerating. The irritation around the spear-wound faded. He would heal. His opponents would not be so fortunate.

***

Fang and Slasher dragged Rodric along, filled with confidence now that they had seen their prey turn and flee. The natural order of their world was restored. They pursued. What they hunted fled.

Kormak suspected it was not going to be that simple. He had never seen an Old One so mutable. Most of them modelled their forms on sentient beings or natural animals. This one had taken shapes like nothing Kormak had ever seen. It moved into unnatural anatomical configurations with ease. It had done so even after taking a wound from a dwarf-forged blade.

Gerd’s laboured breathing came from behind him. Kormak glanced back. The abbot’s face was red. His limp had become more pronounced. “Go on ahead,” he shouted. “I am just slowing you down.”

Kormak shook his head. “Not with this thing about. We stick together and we stay within the circle of light.”

“It will get away.”

“The dogs will track it down. They have its scent now.”

“You’re just determined to keep me running, aren’t you? You know my leg will ache for days after this.”

“Tell me about your accounting problems if it makes you feel better.”

“You were always a cruel bastard, Kormak. Did I ever tell you that?”

“More than once.”

“I could give the hounds their head,” Rodric said. “Let them run the prey down.”

“You saw what that thing did to Balthus,” Kormak said. “We stick together.”

“You scared of it, are you?” Gerd asked.

“I’ve drawn my blade on it twice and it’s still alive.”

“Point taken.”

Kormak glanced over at Rhiana. Her face looked haunted. She was getting less comfortable, the further they got from the surface. Or maybe it was the sight of the cells with their chains and bars and implements for causing pain that disturbed her.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. “I love being down here in the dark, hunting for a monster that could kill me with a swipe of its claw.

***

The hounds barked. Their tongues lolled as if they were trying to lick their prey’s trail from the ground.

“We’ve got the beast for sure,” said Rodric. “They have the scent. They’ll follow it to the bowels of hell.”

The green pearl’s light gave his face a sickly, half-rotted look as if he were already in hell.

“Let’s hope we find him soon. I am not sure I could find my way back to the surface,” the abbot said.

“I can,” Kormak said.

“You want us to rely on your infallible Aquilean sense of direction. Maybe it would be better if someone who won’t get lost led us back to the surface.”

“Would that be you?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’ll do it.”

“Still recklessly overconfident, I see.”

“You can stop gabbling now. There’s nothing here to be frightened of.”

“Still ready to cast aspersions on other men’s courage.”

“Only yours.”

“That’s all right then,” said Gerd. His breathing came out in a rasp. He fell silent and a look of total concentration came over his face, as if he were focusing all his resources on keeping up.

Kormak wondered at the wisdom of the abbot being here at all.

***

The hounds led them further down into the darkness beneath the palace. To Kormak, the contrast between the glorious architecture on the surface and these dank caverns was stark.

The torches were more than half gone. The green glow of the pearl in Rhiana’s hand seemed a little dimmer. Light was their weak point. If the creature managed to dowse their torches they were in trouble. In the darkness they would be easy prey.

“How far down do these things go?” Rhiana asked. “All the way to the Kingdoms of Dust?”

“Not quite that far, I hope,” Gerd said.

Rhiana said, “They stink of age.”

“The catacombs were here before the palace was,” Gerd said. “A long time before. The Solari built a fortress on this spot long before the Sunken Kingdoms vanished beneath the waves. It was their first outpost in the Old Kingdoms. Legend has it that they found the armour of the angel waiting for them in an abandoned temple complex.”

The image of the great citadel of Khazduroth filled Kormak’s mind. In some ways these catacombs reminded him of the dwarven city. They were not built on the same epic scale but they seemed to go almost as deep and cover a similar area.

Rhiana said, “My people’s legends say that the angel was always here. They thought it was a sentinel guarding against something.”

“I wonder if it was meant to guard against things like the Old One we’re hunting,” Gerd said. “A bloody hand would be nice.”

“We’re on our own,” said Kormak. “No angel is going to help us here.”

***

Vorkhul moved deeper into the darkness, eyes adjusting. He had no sense of colour anymore. All he could see were shades of grey. No matter. He could rely on his enhanced senses of smell and hearing.

The hunters would never give up as long as there was life left in them. So far they had not been tempted to unleash their hounds.

It came to him that he knew this section of the labyrinth. He had been here before in his wanderings. These corridors and cells were laid out in a skewed grid. He could circle back and come upon his pursuers from behind.

He bared his fangs in a snarl. If he moved fast enough he could be upon them while the hounds still led them on his trail. He could pick off their rearguard, take them all one by one.

A growl of satisfaction rumbled deep in his chest. He would be the hunter. The humans would be his prey.

***

“By the Holy Sun, I’ve never seen an Old One change shape so quick,” said Gerd. “And I’ve fought almost as many as Kormak here. This one was different.”

“They’re all different,” Kormak said. “Every last one of them. They all have strange powers. They all have different shapes. They all do different things. It’s what makes them what they are.”

“Why the hell would anyone sent one to the King of Siderea,” Gerd said. “Couldn’t they just have sent normal assassins like anybody else?”

“I don’t know but I intend to find out.”

“And I’ll help you but first I think I’ll need to have a little lie down. My bloody leg is killing me.”

Gerd’s limp was more pronounced. He brought up the rear. Kormak gave his attention back to the hounds. Fang had slowed a little and was sniffing the air in a puzzled manner. The torches flickered as if the flow of air within the catacombs had changed.

Fang gave a faint whimper, as if he sensed something was wrong.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

VORKHUL PADDED CLOSER through the gloom. A green glow marked the presence of the hunters. The odours of their weapons irritated his nose and made his eyes water. His heightened hearing picked out the bickering of the humans and the whimpering of the smallest hound. It sensed his presence somehow. No matter.

He extended his claws and sprang. Ahead of him stood the squat human who had thrown the sunflare. Vorkhul’s claw took him through the chest. Long sharp talons pierced the links of the armour, penetrated flesh and slid through the gaps between ribs.

Razor edges ripped through human meat. They sliced vertebrae and nerve cord, slashed internal organs. The Old One howled with pure pleasure as his prey screamed. He licked the metallic tasting blood that splashed his lips. He closed his jaws on the man’s neck, rending flesh, tearing arteries.

The human with the deadly sword turned his head. His eyes narrowed and he took a step forward, blade bared. The sea-woman with the odd scent whirled her torch to make it blaze brighter. The big man unleashed the dogs.

The largest of the beasts coiled to spring. The smaller bared its fangs and growled. Vorkhul threw the spasming body of his victim towards the humans then sprang back into the darkness. He raced away, daring the mortals to follow.

***

Kormak watched Slasher bound off into the darkness, howling. Gerd fell, blood fountaining from his throat. Kormak stepped over the mess of his friend’s back. The spine was snapped. Gerd’s slashed lung was visible through a rent in the flesh. A horrible sick wheezing filled the air. The abbot was already dead. His body had not quite accepted the fact yet.

There was nothing Kormak could do for the man except avenge him. He raced forward, trailing the dog, determined that this time, he would get the Old One.

***

Vorkhul bounded along on all fours, stretching his limbs, getting as much speed out of this form as he could. Behind him the largest of the dogs bellowed its stupid rage. Its hunger for blood outweighed its fear and made it careless. It saw an animal fleeing before it. Instinct told it to pull the prey down.

Behind the dog was something far more formidable; the man with the sword. He intended for the hound to slow Vorkhul so he could close and strike the killing blow.

In the confusion, the human was leaving the light behind him, moving into the darkness which was Vorkhul’s realm. It was simple. First kill the dog and then in the dark take the man.

Soon. Soon it would be time to turn on his pursuers once more.

***

From up ahead came a sudden agonised yelp. Kormak almost tripped over the corpse of Slasher. The big dog lay torn in two. A huge chunk of meat was gone from his chest. Blood pooled on the floor all around him.

The light of the torches and Rhiana’s pearl was a long way behind. From up ahead he could hear the sound of water and smell sewage. It overpowered even the stink of the dead dog’s innards.

Tension twisted his stomach. His heart raced. Out there in the darkness something watched, waiting for him to make a mistake. Following it into the dark would be suicidal. Worse—he had left Rhiana and Rodric behind him. The Old One had already doubled back once. It could do so again.

As the cold air swirled around him like the fetid breath of a great beast, it came to him that he was not the hunter here. The Old One was at home in the dark in a way he would never be. It could move faster and choose its time to strike. Already it had killed three of its pursuers. Perhaps even now it was moving to slay another.

He had been overconfident, too certain of his ability to kill it. He had led Gerd to his death. He considered the elixir in the flask on his belt. It would grant him super-human speed and strength for a few minutes, provide him with what he needed to slay his foe. If it did not kill him. If the Old One did not attack while he drank it and waited for it to take effect.

He pushed all such thoughts aside as needless distractions, as the voice of his fear. He did not need the drug. He took a deep breath to clear his mind as he had been taught to long ago on Mount Aethelas.

“Rhiana! Rodric! Leave the abbot! Get over here now!” he shouted. There was no answer. He dared not glance back to see if they were coming. In that moment of vulnerability the Old One might strike.

Long tense heartbeats passed before the lights grew brighter around him. He heard the snuffling of Fang and the footsteps of Rhiana and Rodric. He kept his gaze locked in front of him. The light drove the shadows back. He stepped forward, blade held ready, senses wound to a pitch of almost unbearable keenness.

***

Vorkhul watched the man with the sword move forward. The runes on the blade glittered darkly. The Old One saw death written in them. He could tell the man was nervous, perhaps afraid, but that his will over-rode his fear.

The human’s whole body was taut. His muscles were coiled, ready to strike. The scent of his armour made Vorkhul feel ill. Its touch would burn.

Perhaps Vorkhul could reach the human before he struck. Perhaps he could get in a fatal blow despite the mail shirt. Perhaps.

Perhaps the human was not the only one here who was afraid. A fatal promise was inscribed on that terrible weapon, spelled out in words of unbinding written in the primal language of creation. The human had struck him only a glancing blow and still the wound had not healed. Perhaps it never would. Another strike might end him.

There was a terrible asymmetry to this conflict. His pursuer wagered an insect-brief life against an existence intended to be eternal. Vorkhul could win this struggle by walking away. The human would die of disease or mischance or old age.

His soul screamed a protest against giving ground to this two-legged worm. He wanted to make it grovel and beg. He wanted to make it suffer. Nonetheless with every step the man took, Vorkhul took a step back. He kept to the shadows, watching the sword as if hypnotised.

Behind him he heard the sound of running water, smelled the stink of human excrement. He backed through a doorway and realised he had made a mistake. He was inside a cell. Massive chains dangled from one wall. An open metal sarcophagus, its inside lined with spikes, stood in one corner. It was a crude instrument of torture. The victim was placed inside and the coffin lid closed. Spikes would pierce flesh. It made him think about the way he had been entrapped and for a moment rage threatened to drown his mind. A plan formed. He could lurk within the metal case and spring out to take his foe by surprise.

The greenish light was close. The humans were almost upon him and there was little he could do but make a stand.

He felt something cold beneath his paws. He looked down and saw a metal grill. Beneath it he saw running water, a means of escape. He did not want to use it. He wanted to slay his pursuers. His pride demanded it.

Fight or stay? Wager eternity for a moment of revenge? He began to change.

***

Fang slunk forward on his belly, sniffing the ground and whimpering. The trail led into a cell. The sound of running water and the sewer stink became more intense. Rodric and Rhiana were right behind Kormak. He gestured for them to step back, to give him room to move and he was relieved when they did so.

The chamber looked empty except for the massive metal shape of an iron maiden standing in one corner. The lid was half-open. Perhaps the Old One lurked within, waiting in ambush.

Kormak stalked closer, blade held ready. He slid his swordpoint into the gap between the walls of the iron maiden and the lid. It creaked open. Nothing was there.

Fang stopped and gave a puzzled whimper. He sniffed the air and bared his fangs and began to move in circles around something metallic in the floor.

“What is it, boy?” Rodric asked. The Shadowhound stopped and started pawing at the grill. The dog growled in frustration.

“It has gone down there,” Rhiana said.

Kormak looked at the grill. The narrow grating lay at the end of a groove in the floor leading to the instrument of torture. Its purpose was to let blood or the water used to clean it away flow out. It was far too small for anything human-sized to have passed through it, but that meant nothing to an Old One. It could change into a long thin serpent or an aquatic worm.

There was no other way out of this cell and he felt sure the monster had not passed him in the darkness.

He strained all his senses, trying to find any trace of his vanished foe but he could not. It might as well have melted into thin air.

He let out a long breath and gave his heart rate time to slow. He was keyed up tight, ready to strike in any direction, ready to kill. It was hard to pull back from the edge of that precipice.

“What now?” Rodric said.

Kormak considered his options. They could wait here until their torches ran out but no doubt the Old One would find another way out of the water-channels. They would end up hungry and vulnerable and sitting in the dark waiting for the Old One to return.

“We go back,” Kormak said. Failure tasted bitter in his mouth.

***

They trudged back to where Gerd had fallen. The abbot lay there, a thing of flesh that had once been alive and was no more. Kormak closed the abbot’s eyes.

Just this morning, they had joked and bickered and remembered old comrades. Now Gerd had gone to join the others in the grave.

No. He had gone to join them in the Light. Looking at the torn meat at his feet, Kormak found that difficult to believe.

He felt at once bereft and angry. Another face from the past was gone. Another voice had been silenced by an Old One Kormak had failed to kill. This was his fault. He had let Gerd down.

Rhiana’s face was a mask in the light of the green pearl. Rodric looked as if he was trying not to cry. Kormak indicated that the big man should take Gerd’s mace. He removed the abbot’s chain of office and elder signs. The question was what to do with the body. They could not leave it down here. Gerd was a member of the Order of the Dawn and deserved to be sent into the Light.

Dragging the body up would only slow them and make them vulnerable. There was only one thing to do. He reached down to the belt at Gerd’s waist and pulled out the thick stone flask of alchemical banefire.

Rodric’s eyes went wide for a moment as he watched. Kormak broke the wax seal that held the stone stopper in place. The sulphurous stink of banefire assaulted his nostrils. He poured the liquid over Gerd’s body. It ignited as it fell and it clung to the flesh and blackened it.

As the flames rose Kormak spoke, “Oh Holy Sun, accept this our brother Gerd into your light. Take his soul as it rises from his flame-cleansed flesh. For he was a man who did his duty and was true to his oaths. Hear these words, we pray you.”

***

Ahead of them, up the slope, the first barrier appeared. They could see the pale faces of nervous sentries looking at them.

Prince Taran stood behind the barrier, fingers drumming on the wood. “Did you kill it?” he asked.

Kormak shook his head. He walked on by the Prince, ignoring him. Right now, he just wanted to rest. He knew he shouldn’t. With each moment of freedom the Old One would grow stronger and more dangerous.

CHAPTER TWELVE

VORKHUL EASED HIMSELF out of the well, altering his form once more to humanoid. He had come a long way through chill water.

It took him minutes squatting on the flagstones of the dungeon to grow warm. His ability to think coherently returned as he altered his shape to one more suitable.

He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at having outwitted his pursuers. Now it was time to work out what had happened to him.

His mind had been damaged in some way. The rightness of that thought tolled within him like a vast bell.

Who could have done this?

Perhaps he had done it himself. Perhaps he had willed forgetfulness. Perhaps he had committed some heinous deed that he could not live with. Perhaps he been imprisoned so long within that awful coffin he could no longer bear the memories of what it had been like outside.

He did not feel that immediate ringing sense of rightness. Nor had he expected to. His instincts told him that his kind were not prone to self-harm.

His kind? Yes. His kind. There were others like him, just as there were many different personalities among the cattle who pursued him.

Perhaps his own people had imprisoned him. They were his most likely rivals and he knew somehow that those rivalries were among the most intense sensations his folk ever felt.

He stored that knowledge away as useful and continued his chain of thought. Why would his own people do this to him? To punish him? Perhaps. To get him out of the way? A possibility. Why not destroy him?

As soon as the thought hit him he felt a deep and dreadful shock of revulsion. His whole being recoiled from the idea. His people did not do that. It was an anathema. The Lady would turn her face from those who did it. It was to be avoided at all costs and yet...

The Lady. Our Lady of the Moon. The Mother of the Eldrim. His people. A vision danced before his eyes as real as the dungeons that surrounded him. He stood in a perfect courtyard upon a glass floor beneath which lay stars. Around him a thousand Eldrim danced. Their forms shimmered and flowed. All were graceful. All were beautiful. All were competing for the attention of the being who ruled over them.

He remembered a perfect silver face and a perfect silver hand reaching out for him and the knowledge came back to him that he had once been chosen . . .

Chosen for what? The knowledge eluded him and when he returned to the fragment of memory, all he could find was what he already had. There was scent: the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine and moonglow. There was sound: the magnificent atonal music of the silverharp and metaclave. There was vibration: the tread of the great dance resonated on the surface of his skin. There was light in many spectrums. There were the stars below and the distant glitter of the moongates through which the guests were arriving.

He replayed the memory over and over. He gave himself eyes so he could weep. He howled with longing and loss. He looked upon his people in their days of glory and he knew that those days were gone although he did not yet know why or how.

How could this be? How could he remember a single scene so perfectly and yet not recall anything else? Again knowledge came to him. The memories were stored in his physical form, part of the organisation of his cells. They had been damaged, scrambled. Not by the mortal’s weapon either. The damage went deeper and had happened a long time ago. Who had done it? Who would dare do it? Who had the power?

He did not know yet but he was going to find answers. He would start with what was close, with the memories of mortals. He began to move, his form flowing into a shape part wolf, part human.

***

Kormak lay on the bed beside Rhiana, staring at the ceiling. Sleep would not come. She rolled onto one elbow and looked down at him.

“You don’t look too happy.”

“I don’t feel too happy.”

“Gerd?”

Kormak nodded. “He died because I was too slow.”

She stared at him with calm green eyes. “You can’t be certain of that.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not. And I can tell myself that about all the other people I failed to save, but there comes a point when I stop believing it.”

“You’re tired.”

“Yes. I am. And not just from lack of sleep. I am tired of this whole business. Maybe it is time I gave up the blade, passed it on to somebody better able to wield it.”

She put her hand on top of his. “I’ve never seen anyone who could use a sword like you, and, believe me, I have known some masters.”

“I met Gerd when I first arrived at Mount Aethelas. He was a year older than me. Youngest son of an old Taurean noble family. Made no difference to him that I was from an Aquilean hill-tribe. He treated me the same as he treated everybody else.”

“He made fun of you.”

Kormak smiled. “Yes. He did.”

“He was a funny man. Why did you end up on the Mountain anyway?”

“I came to Aethelas, after an Old One killed my family. My entire village if truth be told. Malan found me, brought me back. The Order took me in and trained me. Since I took up this sword I’ve done my best to see that the Old Ones never killed anybody else’s people.”

“That’s what you’re doing here.”

“Trying to do. It’s what Gerd was trying to do too. Even though he gave up the sword.”

As he spoke, he realised he was getting to the core of what troubled him. “He didn’t need to go with us but he went anyway.”

“He was a brave man.”

Anger sparked within Kormak. “Yes. He was. And he felt he needed to prove that. To me. To himself. And there was something else there to.”

“What?”

“I think he missed the chase. I think he needed to be there even if it killed him.”

“Are we talking about him now?”

He looked into those green eyes. “Yes.”

He snapped his eyes shut. “I need to sleep,” he said.

“I can see that. I’ll let you get some rest.”

The door closed softly behind her.

***

Kormak opened his eyes and reached for his sword. It lay on the table, within easy reach. A ray of early evening sunlight filtered through the heavy drapes. He stretched out, alone in the large bed. His eyes felt gritty and it took him a long moment to realise where he was. The memory of his failure in the catacombs came back to him. He had let Gerd die. He had allowed the Old One to escape.

He pulled himself from the bed. The claw wounds ached. The potion had worn off and he could feel the pain now. His whole body was sensitive to it. There was an easy solution to that.

He stopped his hand as it reached for the medication flask. He had known many men dependent on such alchemical devices to dull their pain. He pulled his hand away. Better just to feel the wounds. They were minor compared to some he had taken and they reminded him that he was still alive.

He looked at the bottle containing Valen’s Elixir. Maybe he should have used it in the catacombs. Maybe if he had Gerd would still be alive.

A knock sounded on the door. He said, “Enter.”

A servant in the livery of the palace stood there.

“Yes?” Kormak said. He did not relax. The habits of a lifetime made him wary.

“I have a message for you, sir,” said the servant.

“Feel free to deliver it.”

“The Lady Marketa, Ambassador from the Courts of the Moon, requests the pleasure of your company.”

The servant’s face was bland but Kormak could tell that he was curious what the response would be. He must be wondering why the Selenean Ambassador would invite the champion of their sworn enemy to her abode. Kormak was curious himself.

“Tell her I will be there.”

“Very good, sir. I will send someone to guide you to her apartments once you have completed your ablutions. Would the seventh bell be acceptable?”

“Perfectly.”

***

Kormak entered the garden courtyard aware that a dozen pairs of unfriendly eyes watched him. An old, old woman led to a table beneath the shadow of a tree. Her face looked lined by the blast of the desert sun. She eyed him as if he were a tramp who had just showed up at the door begging for food. Kormak gave her his politest smile in response. He had found that always annoyed such people. She sniffed and led him forward.

“Your guest, mother,” she said. “The Guardian Kormak.”

“Thank you, daughter. You may leave us.” The Lady Marketa extended one pale and lovely hand as if she expected it to be kissed. When Kormak made no move to do so she smiled and gestured for him to sit. He inspected the rune-inscribed wooden chair before making use of it. Lady Marketa’s smile became amused.

“Are you worried that I might ensorcel you,” she said.

“I was wondering whether it would take my weight. It looks rather fragile.”

“How diplomatic of you to say so.”

“I was surprised to be invited to break bread with the Lunar Ambassador,” he said.

“I am the Selenean Ambassador,” she said. “I do not claim to represent all who follow Our Lady. There are, alas, some who are at odds with my masters and mistresses.”

“Indeed.”

“I invited you here because there are things we should talk about.”

“Does this mean I should listen to what you have to say or that you want question me about recent events beneath the Palace Imperial?”

“You are not a subtle man, are you, Sir Kormak? Or do you just like to give that impression?”

“It’s a hobby.”

She laughed. It was like the tinkling of tiny silver bells; lovely, remote and cold. “You are more entertaining than I expected.”

“I am glad you find me useful for something.”

The mirth vanished from her face. “I know you are useful for many things. That is why you are in Siderea. I do not think it’s an accident that you arrived on a ship that belonged to a notorious pirate and sorcerer. I doubt its chance that you are here as this latest crisis breaks over the palace.”

She paused, waiting to see how he would respond. He looked at the food on the table and said, “Go on.”

“How impolite of me? Are you hungry? Please, help yourself.”

“I have already eaten.”

“Are you afraid I might poison you?”

“You consistently impute me of suspecting you have the most sinister of motives. Why is that?”

Something about his tone reached the ears of the men standing nearby. They were big men, in court garb, with curved Lunar scimitars on their belts. Their hands went to their weapons. Lady Marketa gave the faintest shake of her head and they sank back into dormant watchfulness.

“You are determined to make this less pleasant than it could be,” she said.

“If you have something to say, say it. If you have a favour to ask, ask away.”

“I am curious to know what has been going on. Last night you departed from the ball with the king. This morning the abbot of your order’s local chapter house was summoned, along with all his men. Now the Palace is sealed off. No one in. No one out. There have been rumours concerning all manner of things. Mysterious deaths in the Vaults. The dungeons evacuated. An Old One stalking the catacombs.”

“And you expect me to tell you about this?”

“I may be able to help.”

“How?”

“I possess a good deal of arcane knowledge. There is no one within a hundred leagues who knows more about the Old Ones than I.” It occurred to Kormak that if ever there was a candidate for the person who had unleashed the Old One, she was it. She had the knowledge. She had the power. She had the skill and judging from the way she had been looking at him at the ball she had no great love for King Aemon.

“And why would you want to help the King of Siderea?”

“Because his gratitude might help me with my mission.”

“And what would that be?” Kormak asked.

“My masters sent me here to negotiate the return of the moongate. King Aemon has one in his Museum and all such artefacts are property of the Eldrim.”

Kormak’s eyes narrowed. His lips pursed. “A moongate? Here?”

“Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. The Children of the Moon ruled this land for millennia.”

“I am surprised that the King allows such a thing within his palace.”

“The Palace Imperial is warded.”

“Nonetheless. Such a thing is dangerous . . .”

Her silvery laughter returned. “You have no idea how dangerous.”

“I can make a guess.”

“Yes, you probably can.”

Kormak remained silent.

Marketa saw he was not about to speak. “My offer of aid was sincere. I don’t expect you to believe that but it is true.”

“Does the name Vorkhul mean anything to you?” He asked the question just see her response. Her hand went to her mouth. She gave a faint gasp and her eyes went wide. “I take it that it does.”

“Where did you hear that name?” Her tone was no longer languid and flirtatious. It was the voice of someone who expected to be obeyed.

He paused for just long enough to let her know he was not obedient. “I did not hear it,” he said. “I read it.”

“Where? Mount Aethelas? The fortress-monastery is said, incorrectly, to have the best library in the world.”

“Does the name mean anything to you or not?”

“It means a considerable amount and it is not one I would speak too loudly if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“It might attract the wrong sort of attention.”

“I am used to that.”

“I am not.”

Was it possible she was afraid? She gave the impression of hiding nervousness but all Lunar witches were consummate actresses. He had experience of that.

“So far you have not been very helpful,” he said.

“I would have thought my response would have told you enough.”

“You are attempting to make me believe that the name frightens you.”

“For the simple reason that it does.”

“And why does it do that?”

She glanced around. “I am not sure this is the time or the place to discuss that.”

“I can think of none better. We sit in your garden. There are no visible eavesdroppers. There are no secret passages.”

“There are other means of eavesdropping than listening.”

“And I am sure you have warded this place against them. Unless of course, you intend for this conversation to be overheard.”

“You are a suspicious man.”

“Alas, a lifetime of dealing with the wrong sort of people has left me so.”

“This place is, as you surmise, warded. There are however other things I need to consider.” She glanced at the armed men who stood within earshot.

“You are worried that your own bodyguards might overhear?”

She looked down at her glass and then brought her head up to study him from under her lashes. “The King-Emperor is not the only one who spies on me,” she said. “My superiors and my rivals do to.”

“Tell me about Vorkhul.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“VORKHUL,” THE LADY Marketa said. She glanced around. Her bodyguards had withdrawn far from earshot. They eyed Kormak nervously. They knew they were too far away to perform their function should he prove a threat. “Vorkhul. It means born of darkness. Not a name I ever expected to hear in this place. Tell me, where did you read this name?”

And there it was; the wedge that would allow her to question him. He considered his response for a moment. “On a coffin. In the King’s Vault in the catacombs.”

She seemed almost relieved. “On a coffin?”

“A sarcophagus made of sungold and orichalcum and other starmetals. Inscribed with elder signs of containment. The workmanship was pre-Solari. Perhaps from the Sunken Kingdoms.”

“What?”

“I am just telling you where I read the name. Who was Vorkhul?”

“One of the Firstborn, a Prince of the Moon, a warlord and a dominator. One of the Thirteen who betrayed Our Lady and caused her to turn her face from her people. He swore allegiance to Zothaqua, the Watcher in the Darkness, a Prince of Shadow. He became a Shadowlord himself.”

“And someone has just sent his coffin to the King of Siderea.”

“It is not his coffin. The Old Ones do not die as we do. They are not interred.”

“If it is not his coffin, what is it?”

“I do not know. Vorkhul vanished during the Elder Wars, slain by the Angels of the Sun along with the rest of the Shadowlords.”

“Was he?”

“There was something within the sarcophagus, wasn’t there?”

Kormak nodded.

“It cannot have been Vorkhul,” she whispered. “He is long gone. His sigil has been erased from the Stones of Memory. His rune is redacted from the Book of Names. It is remembered by the Shadow Watchers and whispered in secret by those who stand in the Darkness.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Please do. Now if you will excuse me, you have given me much to think upon.

And to communicate to your masters, Kormak thought. He rose and bowed to her and made his way from the garden.

***

Vorkhul flowed through the darkness. His modified ears picked up distant sounds and enabled him to measure the echoes of the high-pitched clicks. From these he could tell the layout of even the darkest corridors, measure distance perfectly. He liked the feel of loping along and the sense that his claws could shred anything he encountered.

The scent of mortals was stronger. Traces of them were all around. Aroma trails led away from the catacombs to the surface.

He caught the stink of a human nearby. Perhaps it sensed his presence for it started to yammer, shrieking in a tone that suggested panic.

Metal clinked as the mortal shifted. It was chained. In the dark, it would not be able to see him. These mortals relied on their eyes. The rest of their senses were dull by comparison.

He sprang, sinking his claws into flesh, extending his tongue in a dreadful kiss. Its sharp point spiked through the roof of his prey’s mouth and into its brain. Images surged into his mind as cerebral jelly oozed into his mouth. Oceanic tides of memory threatened to drown out all consciousness.

Ancient recollections rose from the core of his being. He had faced this problem before. It was why life-drinking was forbidden to the Old Ones. Integrating the memories of others was always problematic. He grasped that knowledge firmly. It gave him something to hold onto amid the pain and the fear and the chaos of mingled recollections.

So he had done forbidden things, broken taboos among the Eldrim. Perhaps that was the crime he had committed. The thought swirled away in the riptide of the old prisoner’s recollections.

He swam in human memories. Of a distant childhood. Of a strange religious education. Of bizarre untruths about the nature of the cosmos. He saw the faces of friends and betrayers. He saw accusations of heresy because of his misguided beliefs.

Vorkhul absorbed thoughts and memories and language. Some of the words he had heard made sense to him now.

Who’s there? What is it? Have you come to free me? Where has everyone gone?

He felt the last surge of pain and terror and then the ecstatic wave of sensation was gone, leaving Vorkhul replete. He settled down next to the corpse and started to sort through all the things he had learned.

It was time to see exactly how much the world had changed.

***

“Why did you visit the Lady Marketa?” Frater Jonas asked. He had been waiting in the room when Kormak returned. The servants must have let him in.

“I don’t recall inviting you here,” Kormak said.

“Forgive my rudeness. I thought the possibility of saving your life justified it.”

“In what way?”

“In what way am I saving your life? Or in what way is my rudeness justified?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it was most unwise to consult with the Selenean Ambassador without talking to me first.”

“I was invited to break bread.”

“And did not eat anything.”

“You seem particularly well-informed.”

“Little goes on in this palace that Prince Taran or his humble servant, myself, does not find out about.”

“Then you already know what we talked about.”

“Alas, no one was close enough to overhear. Your back was turned and the Lady Marketa spoke in an obscure variant of the Old Tongue. The garden was warded against any sorcerous form of eavesdropping. Not that the Prince would consider such a thing anyway, of course.”

“Of course.” Kormak thought about what the priest had said. His back was turned. The observer could not understand the language Marketa had used. That implied the spy was a lip-reader or that Jonas wanted him to think so. Did he have agents among the bodyguards or the servants? Most likely. There was little the King-Emperor could not afford to offer. No wonder the ambassador was worried about being overheard.

“So what did you talk about?”

“The Lady Marketa was curious about recent goings on in the catacombs.”

“You told her nothing, of course.”

“I told her about the coffin and the Old One.”

“What?”

“I do not doubt she already knew or has ways of finding out. I wanted to learn what exactly she knew. She offered to help.”

“You believe she would do that?”

“If it suits her.”

“Why?”

“You know as well as I do that there are factions within the Courts of the Moon. Just as there are within the Siderean Court. It may be that helping us would embarrass one and improve the standing of another.”

“Do not trust her.”

“I do not. But she is the greatest expert on the Old Ones within a hundred leagues.”

“I would not be so sure of that. There are scholars on the Wizard’s Island who are masters of such lore.”

“Unless they have spent their lifetimes dealing with the Old Ones, I doubt they are as knowledgeable as she.”

“She is our enemy,” Jonas said.

“The last time I looked you were not at war.”

Jonas said nothing.

“It’s like that, is it?” Kormak said.

“Believe me. That woman and her masters mean harm to Siderea and the King-Emperor. They are the enemies of the Holy Sun and the Universal Church and they always have been.”

“It does not mean that on a temporary local basis their interests do not coincide with yours.”

“You are the last man I would expect to hear expressing such sentiments.”

“Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”

“Just be very careful, my friend.”

Kormak smiled at Jonas. In the world they lived in there were few friends. Kormak doubted Jonas was his. “There are those who think Siderea and the Selenean Courts are natural rivals.”

“I have heard that theory,” Jonas said.

“It makes sense. On one hand, you have a rising Solar power, the richest nation in the world, master of the great ocean, a military giant. On the other you have an ancient Lunar Empire, with powerful armies, and mighty magics. It sees the Eastern half of the Dragon Sea as its natural sphere of influence.”

Jonas put his goblet down on the table. “The Lunars see all the lands bounding the Dragon Sea as their natural sphere of influence. The Old Ones see all humans as their natural slaves. You forget Sir Kormak that it was not that long ago that this, the most powerful nation of the West, was under their heel. Our kingdom was forged in the fires of war. We evicted the last Lunar overlords scarcely a century ago. They see this land as theirs. There are many humans who in secret still agree. They still worship their false gods despite the demonstrable error of their ways.

“Look to the East. Taurea, once the bulwark of the Sunlands is collapsing into civil war. Belaria is a cockpit of chaos where the Knights of Blood assert the power of their old gods. Even here in Siderea we are plagued by heresy and secret Shadow worshipping cults. King Aemon does not believe this is an accident. He believes the Old Ones are moving against us in secret, weakening our realms. He believes they plan a new Resurgence, to reclaim what was theirs.”

“He may well be right.” Kormak thought of what he had seen on his own journeys. The world was darkening. “But there has been political turmoil ever since the First Empire collapsed.”

Jonas held his glass up and studied his reflection in its side. He lowered it and took a sip. “That is the problem, isn’t it? It might just be the natural state of things. Brother falls out with brother. Ambitious nobles seek to become dukes. Dukes seek to become kings. Everywhere the peasants suffer. It is the lot of man.”

He paused to consider his words. “Wars cost money just as much as they cost lives. It takes a fortune to raise an army. We know that Lunar silver finds its way into the hands of heretics here. We know that Lunar weapons and armour find their way into Belaria and Umbrea. These things can be tracked. Sorcerers trained in the east come west and they fight in our wars, always to our detriment.”

“It has not been unknown for things to happen the other way too.” Kormak agreed with a good deal of what Jonas said, had seen evidence of such things with his own eyes. But he had also seen that no one side had a monopoly on virtue. “It takes two sides to make a conflict.”

Jonas laughed. “Indeed but it only takes one strong army to conquer a country. Someone needs to keep watch. Someone needs to stand guard. Your order does that against individual Old Ones. King Aemon and my order seek to do that on a much larger level, among the nations and princedoms. Surely you can see the necessity.”

Kormak felt like saying he had seen that claim used to justify all manner of power grabs. People who set themselves up as guardians against a hidden enemy were always tempted by wielding secret power. Who knew that better than his own order? It hardly seemed diplomatic to say so he nodded.

Jonas took this for acquiescence. “Lady Marketa is centuries old. She is a sorceress. She is an agent of the Courts of the Moon. She is one of the favoured creatures of the rulers of that ancient empire. Be aware of this if you plan on having any further dealings with her. She is not our friend. She is the agent of a powerful rival and she will do anything she can to undermine the King-Emperor and his realm. At the moment, we are the last bulwark against the ambitions of her masters.”

“You are hinting that she might be behind the Vorkhul problem.”

“I doubt she would admit it but it is a possibility worth considering, is it not? Our realm is thrown into chaos, the power of her gods is displayed, even here in the shadow of the Angel. She is, as you have pointed out, an expert on the Old Ones.”

“The sarcophagus did not come from her. It came from your own governor in your own colonies.”

“Lady Marketa has friends even there. They might not love her, but they love the king even less. They could aid her in getting the sarcophagus sent here, even if her own agents in the colonies could not.”

Kormak wondered about this. A lot of secret enemies were suddenly appearing, and this would be a useful pretext to clamp down. He saw the hand of Prince Taran in this and the fine mind of Frater Jonas. This crisis could be used to advance their agenda.

Kormak turned the possibilities over in his mind then dismissed them. His task was simple, to find Vorkhul and end his rampage. He did not have to care about the schemes of kings and dukes and nobles.

“I am a simple man, Frater,” Kormak said. “My goals are simple goals. Protect the innocent. Oppose the Shadow. Uphold the Law. That is what I intend to do. I shall leave you to worry about the political ramifications.”

“I do not think you are so simple, nor is it so easy to do the things you claim to want to. Often it’s hard to tell the innocent from the guilty, the followers of the Shadow from deluded fools, those who seek to uphold the law from the criminal.”

“That is not the Law I was talking about.”

“I know. I was talking to myself more than to you. Sometimes in order to protect the greater good, you must break the law and even do things against your own conscience. I have.”

Kormak had too, but he did not want to give any ground. “We need to try to make those distinctions though,” he said.

“Aye, we do.” Jonas hesitated for a moment, rose from the chair, walked over to the fire and studied the flames. “There are times when I wish I saw the world as you do,” he said. “I fear my vision is clouded sometimes.”

Kormak felt guilty, pretending to a clarity of purpose he lacked.

“I would see this moongate that Lady Marketa is so interested in,” he said.

“That is easily enough arranged,” said Jonas. “Come with me.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THEY WALKED TOWARDS the large building on the far side of the courtyard. It loomed several stories high. Its stained glass windows contained mosaics of elder signs. Statues depicting kings and saints stood sentry in alcoves in its walls.

Jonas strode along. His hands were behind his back, left hand clasping right wrist. His eyes looked down as if he were concentrating hard and did not want to be distracted.

He paused at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Museum’s heavy oaken doors. The ironwork reinforcing the wood was moulded into protective runes. It looked as if the doors could resist a battering ram. Jonas gave a sign to one of the guards in the sentry box. The doors to the Museum swung open.

The priest strode up the steps and Kormak followed. They stepped from sunlight to shadow. It was cooler within.

They walked through a high vaulted hall containing the stuffed remains of several huge animals. A woolly mammoth stood in the beams of light from one of the stained glass windows. Across from it was a bridge-backed wyrm, a reptile so huge it made the mammoth look small. The skeleton of a dragon hung from the ceiling. It ran the length of the large room.

“I’m glad you wanted to come here. The King would like your opinion on the moongate.”

“He is thinking of making the trade?”

Jonas glanced around and then shrugged. “It is difficult to understand how His Majesty thinks sometimes. I am just a humble servant.”

“You certainly seem to have become one since you entered the palace.”

Jonas gave a short barking laugh. “I enjoyed our sea voyage you know. I felt a sense of freedom on that ship. But this palace is where my duty lies and where their burden is heaviest.”

They entered a smaller chamber. Elder signs from half a dozen places lined the walls. There were tracings of symbols to be found in the deserts near Tanyth worked on copper. There was a stone pillar that must have come from somewhere in the Northlands. In one corner brooded a black monolith in which a truesilver star within a circle had been set. It hovered just above a plinth of similar black stone. Doors led out to much larger halls on the left and right, but Jonas kept walking straight ahead through an archway. “This is quite a collection.”

“It was started by the Archmage Pelageus,” Jonas said. “His descendants have added to it. King Aemon most of all. He finds such artefacts fascinating.”

“So I gathered.”

“The possibility that worries me most is that someone who knows about the King’s obsession may have chosen it as a way to strike at him.”

“By sending the sarcophagus?”

Jonas nodded.

“It seems a far-fetched way of doing so.”

“I’ve seen stranger plots,” said Jonas.

“So have I.”

The sarcophagus would have looked at home in the room they walked through. Metal coffins stood upright against the walls. The lids had been moulded into the shapes of sleeping humans. Their features were fine. Their eyes were huge. Over each sarcophagus hung a silver mask, each also an excellent representation of a human face.

“Some of these belonged to the Priest Kings who served the Old Ones when they ruled Siderea. Some come from Umbrea. They were interred in mausoleums.”

“I would have thought they would have been destroyed by the Inquisition.”

“Interring them under the shadow of the Angel is symbolic of Solar ascendance,” said Jonas. “It proves the servants of the Holy Sun have triumphed over the worshippers of the false gods and have no fear of them.”

More guards stood by the entrance of the next chamber. Each of them carried a shield warded with an elder sign. Their helmets were similarly protected. They had the hard, fit look of elite warriors. This room was lit by sunbeams falling through stained glass windows in the roof. Dust floated in the pillars of light. At the far end of the chamber stood the moongate. It was an arch three times the height of a man, made of white marble inscribed with runes. Liquid truesilver filled the arch, remaining upright in defiance of gravity. Kormak walked closer and studied it.

Dull moonstones showed in the stonework. They had none of the sparkle they would have possessed when active.

“What do you think,” Jonas asked.

“It is indeed a moongate,” Kormak said. “And it is probably functional.”

“You’ve seen the like before?”

“Yes.” Kormak said, not liking the memories the sight of this thing brought back.

“You think it could be made to work?”

“By a sufficiently powerful sorcerer.”

“They say the Old Ones and their favoured servants used these to travel from place to place as quick as the light of the moon.”

“I know,” Kormak said.

“The elder signs around the Palace hold it inert.”

“They ought to.”

“They say thousands of these once linked every city and palace of the Eldrim. Now there are only a few score left. This would be priceless if it worked.”

“Most likely,” said Kormak. He wondered if the Sidereans really were considering trading this to Marketa and her masters. They could ask a great deal for it. He said so.

Jonas steepled his fingers then glanced around as if to make sure they were not overheard. He said, “The King-Emperor will never trade it.”

“Why? It is worth a fortune”

“She is our enemy.” Jonas said. “And the King-Emperor is already the richest man in the world.”

Jonas walked away from the moongate. He went over to stand before a massive suit of armour forged from orichalcum and spiderglass and some black metal alloy. It was made for someone both taller and thinner than he. The face was a demon mask. Black crystal filled the eye-holes in the visor. More moonstones had been set there. It radiated a cold power.

“What is it?” Jonas asked. “What disturbs you?”

“This armour,” Kormak said.

“It belonged to Darkoth Sharktooth, Prince of the Whispering Caves. He killed a dozen mighty knights and three Guardians of the Dawn before Pelageus overcame him. His axe hangs on the wall there.”

Kormak strode over to the huge weapon mounted on wall brackets. The blades were razor-edged and spread an arm-span apart. In the centre was set a rune-worked moonstone. Another was at the tip of the handle. It looked too heavy for a mortal man to lift. An Old One could wield it though.

“Your kingdom’s enemies were mighty,” Kormak said.

“They still are,” said Jonas.

***

Wearing the old man’s shape, Vorkhul limped through the dungeons. Blood-soaked rags covered imitations of festering sores. He kept his eyes human. His other senses were limited in this form. It was possible to make his hearing keener and keep his sense of smell stronger but not to the extent it had been in his more bestial shapes. His leg still hurt where that accursed weapon had bit into it. The wound followed him no matter what shape he wore. There was no escaping it.

Following some impulse from the old man’s consciousness, he wandered upwards, towards light, towards freedom. The price of the knowledge he absorbed was that something of his victim remained with him and enjoyed a short-lived spell of influence.

He did not mind. He felt that he had done this many times before and come to take pleasure in it. A dark undercurrent of memory warned him that doing so might have been the cause of his troubles. No matter how hard he tried to trace that thought to its source, he could not.

Wearing the human’s form allowed him easier access to the old man’s memories. They hovered on the surface of his mind like scum on a stagnant pond.

He savoured the recollection of standing by a small pool on a summer day and watching the tadpoles swim within it. They were tiny teardrops of life, twisting and lashing their way through the water. Some had vestigial limbs. All had tiny black dots for eyes. It was a memory of a day over fifty years ago, a lifetime for a human, an eyeblink for him.

Mortals! So frail and short-lived and so filled with superstition. They worshipped shadows their minds projected on the walls of the world. They were like tadpoles. They changed so quickly, from tiny children to brief maturity to final decrepitude. No wonder they were so afraid.

As he wrestled with the old man’s memories, he felt a mounting sense of loss and horror. Where were the images of his own people? Where were the Eldrim who should have ruled these pitiful short-lived things?

There were no recollections of their glorious magical palaces. Or their sky chariots. Or the sorceries that should have made them feared and adored. There was just the idea of distant lands where the remnants of the Old Ones lorded it over creatures they were little better than.

This was wrongness on a cosmic scale.

The Eldrim could not have fallen so completely. The world could not have changed so much during his imprisonment. The Old Ones were born to rule all lesser beings in the name of the Lady. They were the wisest, the most powerful. They were created to dominate. Nothing was allowed to challenge that. For millennia, nothing had. They had ruled supreme among the Elder Races. Invincible. Immortal.

Those who could not be defeated by force could be infiltrated, subverted, turned against each other and finally absorbed. Politics and religion were just as much weapons as sorcery and arcanotech and fleshsculpting. All were arts in which the Eldrim excelled.

The plundered memories showed him a world that had changed immensely from the one he had known. The Eldrim were a degenerate shadow of what they had once been. The other Elder Races, the mighty Quan, the Serpent Folk, the Kassandri, were remembered only as fearful legends. The Ghul, the Khazduri, the humans, scores of other subservient species, had all rebelled. Everything he had known had been swept away, leaving this barbarous shrunken world.

He dug through the old man’s memories and found only faint hints of war among the Eldrim. There were stories of the taint of Shadow. There were tales of humans who had overcome the Eldrim and driven them from their lands in the name of the Holy Sun.

The words triggered another flood of his own memories. The Shadow. Something about that made him salivate. Enormous holes in his recollections surrounded the concept, as if any knowledge of it had somehow been erased.

Who would do that? Why? How? He had no idea. He knew only that he felt a great sense of emptiness when he thought of the Shadow.

The Holy Sun. The great fiery enemy in the sky whose light burned the Eldrim, confused their senses, confounded their magics.

The Holy Sun, the arch-rival of the Lady of the Moon.

The Holy Sun. The deity worshipped by the accursed Auratheans.

He saw them now. Beings who rode from star to star in vehicles of sungold and solar flame, who existed as disembodied intelligences of light.

Suddenly a vivid image exploded into his mind, something he felt certain had happened to him. He remembered great golden ships dropping from the sky, metal giants emerging, living war-machines armed with weapons that burned like the sun.

The sick realisation struck him that he had vastly under-estimated the strength of his foes. They burned their way into his palace and captured him and . . .

Infuriatingly the image faded. He could excavate nothing more.

From the old man’s memories he picked out another image; of a huge Aurathean battleform standing in one of the buildings above him. It was one of the vessels in which they manifested. The metal giant occupying the Cathedral had done nothing in living memory. It was regarded as a mere empty suit of armour that had once been occupied by an angel.

That was wrong. The Auratheans had been a power, almost as great as the Eldrim, a threat to his people’s domination of the world.

He searched through his stolen memories and found not a single reference to Aurathean host forms. The humans knew nothing about what the Auratheans were, what they had once been. They worshipped only their empty vessels.

He needed time. He needed to sort through all the things he had learned and begin to piece together a picture of what had happened. He needed more knowledge too.

Another image flickered through his mind. And he felt a sudden shocking sense of recognition. This mortal had once worked in the palace, in a place where ancient artefacts were stored.

The human remembered relics of the Eldrim. There was armour that would allow him to endure the light of the sun. There were devices that would enable him to shape the aether with a thought. There was a huge mirror, a teardrop of liquid truesilver held within a stone arch, that could only be a moongate.

A moongate! A way out of this hideous place! He could go to where his people had once congregated, to Khazduroth or Winterpeak or the sub-oceanic domes of Talazar.

If it still functioned. It was worth investigating. If he could tap the gate’s power he could wreak such destruction that the mortals would relearn their fear of his people.

Vorkhul knew he would have to do this soon. The human who hunted him would return with others of his kind. He would not give up until one of them was dead.

He had his own reasons for going upwards now. He wanted to find the moongate. He wanted to be free of this place, to seek his own kind. He wanted to find out the truth of what had happened, not some half-remembered fable torn from the mind of a dying human. Most of all he wanted to get his hands on the weapons that would make him master of this pitiful degenerate world.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

RHIANA LOOKED UP when Kormak entered her chamber. She sat on the balcony, staring out to sea. “Where have you been?” Rhiana asked.

“Talking to people.”

“Did you learn anything?”

Kormak took the other chair on the balcony. His whole upper body still hurt and he felt tired. “Nothing that I did not already know.”

Rhiana came over. She draped an arm around his neck and then slid down into his lap. She shifted her weight and Kormak felt a stab of pain where the creature’s claws had bit into his flesh.

“Sorry,” she said when she heard him grunt. She leaned forward and looked out at the harbour.

“All of those ships,” she said. “All of them going so many different places and carrying so many different things. We could jump on one and get out of here. We could go to Port Blood. We could go all the way to Terra Nova. We could sail into the furthest north and see what the Shimmering Lights of the Aurora conceal.”

“I’ve seen the Shimmering Lights,” Kormak said. “And I’ve seen what lies beneath them. It is not pleasant.”

“Don’t you ever feel like just jumping on a ship and going somewhere, anywhere. Someplace you’ve never been. Someplace wonderful.”

“Sometimes.”

“I felt that ever since I was a little girl. Ever since I first saw a city. Ever since I saw the surface world.”

“I thought that the sea folk hated being above the waves.”

“Sometimes,” she said echoing his tone. “Me and my sister were always different. We always wanted to go places, do things. Beneath the waves can be beautiful but it can be cruel. And, to be honest, I think there is something in us that craves the light and the air. I think somewhere deep in the blood is the desire to see the surface. My people were changed by the Old Ones but originally we were land dwellers just like your people.”

“I hope you were not like the Aquileans. You’d spend all your time fighting each other.”

“I mean we were not like sharks or fish or Quan. It was never natural for us to be beneath the waves the way it was for those creatures. We had not been beneath the waters for a thousand thousand generations.”

“You’re definitely not like a shark.”

“It’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “Anyway we’ve drifted a long way from the subject of taking a ship. I wish we could just get on one right now and leave. I mean what has that creature from the sarcophagus got to do with us?”

“It has everything to do with me. I took an oath long ago to oppose such creatures and to protect people from them. I still hold to that oath.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to see you dead and I think that’s going to happen if you stay here.”

“I’ve fought Old Ones before and I’m still alive. They are not.”

“You’ve only got to fail once,” she said. “You’ve only got to make one mistake against a creature as dangerous as this one. That’s all it will take. Everybody’s luck runs out sometime. Everybody dies.”

“Yes,” he said. “Everybody dies. Everybody. There is no escape unless you’re an Old One. It’s not death that matters. It’s the way you die. I would rather go out with my sword in my hand than be devoured by some wasting disease in my bed.”

“I can see that. It’s one of the reasons that you do what you do, isn’t it? Even though you know that one day your luck is going to run out.”

He shrugged. “It hasn’t yet.”

“But it will.”

“Most likely.”

“I hope I’m not there to see it.”

“Most likely no one will be—except me and I’ll be beyond caring.”

“I’ve met men like you before, men in love with death and danger.”

He looked up at her. He felt tired, of this place, of this conversation, of having to justify himself. He took both her hands in his.

“This is my life,” he said. “And if it is my death, so be it. That’s just the way it is.”

She heard the finality in his voice, glanced towards the sky, bit her lower lip with her strong white teeth. The shadow of a smile passed over her face. “That’s just the way it is.”

A heavy hand rapped the door.

“Who the hell is it now?” Rhiana asked.

“Sir Kormak—the King-Emperor requires your presence in Council.”

“I had better go,” said Kormak.

“Yes,” she said. “You’d better.”

***

Vorkhul limped through the catacombs. He extended his senses as much as they could be and still allow him to maintain his disguise. He was nearing the vault where he had first emerged. His nostrils picked up faint traces of the hounds and the humans and their strange weapons. The scents were unpleasant, hinting at illness and dissolution.

He shuddered and wondered whether wearing this human form put his thoughts more in tune with those of mortals.

He came to the vault door, recognising it at once. Curiosity filled his mind. He felt the need to inspect the coffin that had entrapped him for so long. Perhaps he could learn something from it.

He paused to listen and heard nothing. He pushed the door open. The mortals had not locked it. He considered whether this might be a trap. He did not hear anything or smell anything or sense any change in the flows of magic around him.

He let his nose and his mage senses guide him and he came, at last, to the coffin. It seemed so small. He could not see how it had held his entire form, and he realised that once again that was mortal thinking. His shape was fluid. It would fit.

He considered the vessel. It was beautiful in its way and it hurt his eyes just to gaze upon the runes inscribed on it.

Some of the text looked like it came from scripture, his human memories told him. It resembled the temple calligraphy of the Solar priesthood. His victim had been an educated man, and Vorkhul did not doubt that this was fundamentally correct.

He studied the inscription despite the spikes of pain it drove into his head. He ignored the ripples of giddiness and nausea cascading through his body. The runes were wards. They had not been created by his people but he recognised their form and function.

Like all runes they shaped and guided the flows of magic. They transformed aether from ambient energy into an active force, making it bend to the will of the scribe. Such fixed spells required no supervising mind to function. Close study revealed their purpose to him, even if the style of calligraphy was alien.

These were runes of binding, designed specifically to contain him, to prevent his escape. They had done so for an unguessably long time. In the end, they had failed. The question was why.

Several of the runes were flawed. Damage had altered the flow of energy, distorting it, ensuring they were no longer fit for the purpose intended. Time had eroded them and sudden violence had broken them.

Once again he felt the deep reverberation of utter certainty within his being. More missing knowledge bubbled to the surface, displacing the tattered shreds of the old man’s awareness.

An overwhelming memory flooded his mind, of being confined within great jars of steel, glass and sorcery. Long needles of sungold inscribed with divinatory symbols prodded his skin. Beings of metal and crystal monitored him, their bodies blazing with signs of power. They wore many shapes, quadrupedal, bipedal and many legged like centipedes. Some had no limbs at all. They were mere floating spheres and polyhedrals.

The animated metal forms were not the enemy. They were sorcerously created vessels that housed the enemies’ minds. The Auratheans were capable of shifting their consciousness from vessel to vessel at need. They changed bodies the way a mortal might change the tool he held in a hand, depending on the goal he intended to achieve.

The enemy had forms for every conceivable purpose, from making war to swimming through the depths of the ocean. They could divide their consciousness among a myriad of slaved drones, or concentrate it in one mighty hub.

The Auratheans had captured him and bound him and shipped him to a place of incarceration. They had blasted his mind with magic. They had inspected his physical form with sorcerous probes. They had experimented on him an as Eldrim biomancer might test a subject in his alchemical laboratory. No need to ask what they had been seeking. They had been hunting for the same things he would have been in their place, looking for flaws and weaknesses in their enemy.

The Auratheans had not acknowledged him as one of the world’s masters, an equal. They had experimented on him. They had treated him as a laboratory subject on which to test their weapons and their theories about the nature of their Eldrim foes. They had smashed his mind with spells and crippled his body with magic. They had ripped his memories and his power from him. Finally they had placed him in storage within that sarcophagus. They had filed him away and forgotten about him. They had left him imprisoned and going mad until he lost all sense of who he was.

More memories flooded back—of the ancient wars when the Elder Races had clashed for control of the world. The Eldrim had known many enemies but the Auratheans had been the greatest.

It seemed they had fallen even further than his own people. The conflicts which had left the Eldrim a degenerate mockery of their former greatness had destroyed them.

He thought about the strange Solar faith the humans possessed. It bore the hallmarks of the Auratheans. It was as if the whole fabric of the human religion was woven from distorted memories of the elder race. Perhaps it was deliberate. His own people had used the primitive beliefs of others as a tool of domination. Perhaps the Auratheans had learned to do the same.

He had been reborn into a strange new world. He was starting to suspect that with the knowledge he possessed he could dominate it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE PALACE BECAME busier as Kormak approached the Cathedral. The courtyard blazed with light. Soldiers moved back and forth. Messengers raced along bearing satchels full of documents. Sentries with torches stood in doorways. The surviving warriors of the Order of the Dawn saluted Kormak as he passed. Rodric held Fang on a leash. Both of them appeared to be in mourning for the fallen.

Kormak entered the Cathedral and the servant led him to a large chamber that had the look of a library converted to other purposes. The King’s councillors sat around the large central table. Kormak recognised Prince Taran, Jonas, Admiral Lorca, Duke Leone. The King himself stood in the corner of the room, fingers interlocked in prayer.

“Ah, Sir Kormak, good of you to join us,” Prince Taran said. “I was about to send out a servant in search of the servant I had sent out in search of you.”

The man who had led Kormak in said nothing. His face was blank.

“I am here now, sire,” Kormak said. Frater Jonas winced. All eyes went to the King. He smiled and looked up at the ceiling so all of the men’s expressions went mild as well. All except the Duke’s. His smile might have been a fraction warmer.

“And I thank you for it,” said the King. There was no mockery in his tone, only a gentle friendliness. Kormak wondered whether the King practised his manner in front of a mirror. “I believe my brother has a few more words to say.”

Aemon made an expansive gesture with his hand towards Prince Taran then walked over to the bookshelf, took a leather bound tome from it and started to read. He gave the impression of being engrossed but Kormak did not doubt he was paying careful attention to everything said.

“We have a problem,” said Prince Taran. “The Old One is still at large. It killed Abbot Gerd and his hounds. A large section of our own palace is denied to us. The creature may emerge at any time and kill more of us. Does this seem like a reasonable assessment of the current state of affairs?”

Frater Jonas looked up. “There is nothing to suggest the creature will come hunting us. The sunstone still glows atop the Cathedral of the Angel. It’s holy light will drive back the darkness.”

“Let us pray that is the case,” said Prince Taran. “I think we can all agree that the situation is untenable. Once word gets out that the thing is loose in the catacombs, our enemies will have a field day. They will say that we are cursed, that the palace is haunted, that we cannot protect our own subjects in the heart of our realm. This is a crisis for the state. And it must be resolved, quickly, firmly and decisively.”

Everyone around the table nodded.

“And how do you propose doing that?” Kormak asked. “Sire.”

“We know the creature is vulnerable to fire, to essence of truesilver, to various alchemical substances. It is also vulnerable to sunlight, sorcery and your own dwarf-forged blade. Correct?”

“It can be harmed by all of those substances and killed by fire and sunlight and my blade. Also by sufficiently powerful magic.”

“Good. We shall equip our soldiers with all of these things, summon every mage in the city. We shall flood the catacombs with our troops and we shall hunt down this creature until it is dead. It is what we should have done from the very beginning.”

Kormak could see which way the wind was blowing. The blame was to be put on himself and Abbot Gerd. Any failure would be his. Any triumph would be the royal family’s.

“There will be a lot of casualties,” said Kormak.

“There always are in wars,” said Prince Taran.

***

Vorkhul stalked to the foot of the stairs leading up from the catacombs. Up there armed men waited, with weapons that could hurt him and magic that could slow him down. He thought about the mortal he had fought, the one with the awful sword.

It would not do to meet him again. Vorkhul’s claws would burn on the truesilver armour. He could not hope to parry that deadly blade with his own flesh. He needed a weapon. He needed armour. He needed those ancient Eldrim artefacts. He needed to push on, to pass those sentries without them giving the alarm.

It would not be easy. His stolen memories told him he would need to find his way through the palace and across a courtyard upon which fell the light of a sunstone. The moongate was warded by elder signs but he felt confident he could enter the place, given time. Once he reached the moongate he would have no need to fear anyone or anything in this place.

He allowed his body to dissolve into a translucent pool that oozed towards the stairwell.

His thoughts were barely above the level of instinctual. He felt the presence of the light on his skin. He felt the sound of men’s voices as a tremor on his flesh, just as if he felt the vibration of their tread pass through the ground beneath him. He existed in a world of simple noise and basic feeling. Amoeba-like he flowed up the stairs, moving as cautiously as he could. As he reached the top of the stairs he sensed the nearness of the living. He elongated a tentacle of plasma and sent it running along the walls.

He became a long snake of living liquid and flowed behind the sentries, avoiding the glare of their lights. He stayed as close as he could to the stonework, using the cover given by tapestries. The need for stealth and the urgency of getting beyond this sentry-point battled in his thoughts.

He slithered into an alcove and rebuilt his old man’s shape, starting with the skeleton, adding muscle and flesh. He allowed some plasma to adopt a simulacrum of rags and blood. It would not withstand close inspection but in the dim light it would fool a casual human glance.

He breathed again and looked upon the world with eyes. His senses were more concentrated and far keener. So far no one had detected him. He was one step closer to his goal.

In the distance, he heard something begin to bark. He cursed. It seemed a hound had caught his scent. He needed to move before the mortals realised what it was whining about.

***

A long animal howl rose to a crescendo, died off and the started again.

Prince Taran tilted his head to one side. His lip curled. His eyes narrowed. “What is that damnable noise out there?”

“A Shadowhound,” said Kormak. “One that has caught the scent of prey. You won’t have time to gather your army. Or summon your sorcerers. Vorkhul is already here.”

Kormak put his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared right into Prince Taran’s eyes. “With your permission, sire. I shall go and kill it.”

“And we shall accompany you, Sir Kormak,” said King Aemon.

“Is that wise, sire?” Duke Leone asked. Kormak wondered whether he was being provocative. The King had to be seen to pursue now or risk being thought a coward.

“The Holy Sun will shield us,” Aemon said. “Let us hunt.”

***

Vorkhul limped along the corridor. A man moved towards him. He was garbed in cowled robes and bore the symbol of the sun, a priest or monk of some sort.

The monk’s head tilted to one side as if he not quite understand what he was seeing. He was taken aback by the sight of a semi-naked old man within the palace. Vorkhul sprang forward. His arm flowed around the man’s throat. His fingers extended themselves blocking the man’s mouth, preventing him from screaming. Vorkhul extended his dagger-sharp tongue and pierced the man’s skull.

He devoured more essence, claimed more memories, drunk them in as fast as he could. The monk’s life swam before him. A boyhood in a monastery learning to write and pray. An adulthood spent on his knees in the Cathedral offering up praise to an empty battleform and copying ancient manuscripts.

A river of details flowed into Vorkhul’s mind, some fascinating, some trivial. He took them all, overwhelmed by a species of gluttony. When it was done, he took the man’s shape and his clothing and strode through the palace. He hoped the robes would provide him with some protection from the light of the sunstone.

***

Kormak raced out into the courtyard. The King and the nobles followed. Outside the soldiers watched uneasily as Rodric tried to calm Fang. The dog tugged at the leash and sought to break free from his handler’s grip.

“Let him go,” Kormak said. “The Old One is loose and we must find him.”

Rodric’s small eyes widened. “As you say!”

He unleashed Fang and the Shadowhound shot off towards the Palace. Kormak ran in pursuit followed by the Brothers of the Dawn, while Prince Taran marshalled the troops behind him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“HAVE YOU SEEN anything like this before, Sir Kormak?” Prince Taran asked, fighting hard to maintain his composure as Fang snuffled round the corpse. The prince kept his hand near his mouth while his gaze darted elsewhere. He avoided looking at the body.

It surprised Kormak. He had thought the Prince a hard man, acquainted with corpses on the battlefield and in the torture chamber. Perhaps it was the circumstances. One did not expect to find dead bodies sprawled in the decorative alcoves of one’s palace.

“Not exactly,” said Kormak. Ignoring the group of nobles huddled around him, he bent down over the dead man. The skin was flaky and desiccated, a sure sign that a life-eater had been at work.

It looked as if someone had cracked the skull open in several places with a chisel and then had scooped out the brain. Small splatters of jelly lay on the ground but the bulk of the organ was gone.

“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.

This must work. He could not die now.

Aether flowed out of him and into the runestones. He became aware of the armour as if it were part of himself, as the spells within it responded to his presence. It became a second metal skin, protecting him, strengthening him.

Triumph roared within him. Inside this armour he no longer need fear the light of the sunstone, or the power of elder signs. He was safe. He was strong. He was all but invincible.

Through the faceplate he gazed upon the advancing human. He no longer feared the mortal. He was master of this place.

***

Kormak saw the runes on the armoured suit spring to life. The surface of the moongate reflected their green glow. Oddly coloured shadows skittered along the walls. The eyes set in the armour’s demon mask glittered. A massive gauntleted hand twitched.

The amulet on Kormak’s chest grew warmer in the eddy currents of strong magic. The suit was a powerful artefact. A rune glowed right in the centre of the armour’s chest. It was the largest and brightest. He aimed his blade at it and stabbed. Perhaps destroying the rune would unravel the web of spells woven around the suit.

He felt the rightness of his lunge. He was on target.

Too fast to parry, the demon knocked his blade aside. A massive metal fist caught Kormak in the middle of the chest. A wave of pain surged through him.

***

Power filled Vorkhul. The small spark of magic he had provided to ignite the armour’s systems had worked. Now it sucked in the surrounding aether and filled him with magical energy, enhancing his strength and speed.

Memories flooded into him. He had used such armour in battle in the past. More spells were embedded in it. It would take him only moments to catalogue them and activate them. He parried the human’s strike, no longer worried about the runes on the blade. The armour protected him just so long as the human did not find a weak spot. He would not give the mortal time to do that.

He struck with the force of a battering ram. The human catapulted away, into one of the descending columns of light. Vorkhul strode forward, no longer fearing the glare of the sunstone. The crystal eye-pieces of the helmet filtered out the light’s deadly glare, turned it into a welcome blueish glow.

The human struggled to rise. Vorkhul savoured the moment, knowing that victory was his now. He would first break the human’s limbs, starting with his sword hand. Then his legs. Then he would crush the human’s skull and eat his brain and find out what he really was made of.

***

Kormak tried to move. The metal demon clanked closer till it loomed over him. He lay in its cold baleful shadow as it studied him with malevolent eyes. He could hear a hound giving voice to its hunting call and the sounds of men racing closer. Vorkhul’s eyes lifted from him to gaze at the door.

Kormak forced himself to roll away from the Old One. As he did so, he caught sight of museum guards advancing into the room. In one hand they held shields bearing elder signs, in the other they held blades.

A metal-shot boot descended where Kormak had lain. A hair slower and his arm would have been broken. The Old One pursued him. The guards charged, shields held high, swords raised to strike.

***

Vorkhul felt a brief pulse of frustration. The distraction provided by the guards had given his prey a brief respite. The two foolish humans advanced on him. Their temerity astonished him. How dare such insects attempt to strike him?

Despite the protections woven into the armour, he was still not comfortable looking at their shields. His battle-suit protected him from most of the magical effects of the runes but their shape still made him queasy. No matter. He did not need to look directly at them.

He lashed out with one enormous gauntleted hand. The blow smashed the shield of the nearest guard, crumpling metal, splintering the wood that backed it. His hand passed through the head of the human’s head. Blood and brains shot everywhere. The sight of the jellied grey matter sent a twinge of hunger through Vorkhul. Later. Later.

The dull sound of metal on metal brought his attention to the impact of the other man’s blade upon his armour. Vorkhul grabbed the sword and snapped it in two. He took the jagged shards that remained and drove them through the human’s body.

He sensed the approach of more mortals. They were arriving in scores, not just guardians of this museum but troops from the palace. An army would soon be on top of him.

He would kill them all. Still he would need a more efficient way of doing it. Glancing around he saw the great battle axe hanging on the wall. It was a weapon intended for a Lunar prince, a fine compliment to his armour. With it he could slaughter the humans all the quicker.

A glance showed him that the human with the Khazduri blade was tottering to his feet. His weakness gratified Vorkhul. He was tempted to pursue right now, but he wanted to get the axe before the bulk of the human army arrived. He strode to the wall and pulled it down.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

KORMAK REACHED INTO his beltpouch for a sunflare. He had only two left. The Old One’s back was turned. He needed to get its attention. Grogginess slowed him. His battered body protested every movement.

Vorkhul touched the rune on the axe’s blade to the glowing gem on the breastplate of the armour. The greenish glow transferred itself from armour to axe, filling the weapon with killing power. Darkoth had slain three guardians and an army of humans before the Archmage Pelageus dispatched him. Vorkhul had been a deadly opponent before. Now he might prove invincible.

More guards raced into the room. They gazed with horror on their fallen comrades and what they took to be the animated suit of armour. One of them froze. The remaining four moved forward, spreading out so as not to present an easy target.

Booming laughter emerged from the demon armour, an alien sound, made by a creature with no idea what mirth was. It just wished to communicate its contempt in a manner it knew the humans would understand. The guards’ advance ground to a halt.

“Run,” Kormak shouted. “Run!”

Two of the guards turned tail and fled. The others backed away, keeping their eyes on the Old One. It strode forward, metal footsteps ringing on the flagstones.

“Run! Damn you! Now!” Kormak bellowed. He did not want to throw the sunflare and blind the men. It would make them cattle to the slaughter. A soldier glanced at him. Vorkhul’s axe flashed out, leaving a trail of green light in its wake. It chopped right through the man’s body, splitting him in two. The guards ran.

Kormak tossed the sunflare and covered his eyes. The mad laughter continued to ring out as the weapon blazed. When the brilliant light died, Kormak saw the Old One was almost on top of him. At first the crystal eye-sockets of its visor were pools of ultimate blackness then the green glow returned. The Old One had not been blinded. The huge axe slashed towards Kormak. There was no way he could parry that monstrous weight of metal.

***

Vorkhul revelled in his utter triumph. The magical crystals of his helmet’s eye-pieces had neutralised the sunflare, darkening instantly when it burst. Now they had returned to normal translucency. Ahead of him the human stood, mouth hanging open, shock inscribed on his face.

Vorkhul swung his blade, backed by all the amplified strength of the armour. There was no way he could avoid killing the man. The axe was not a subtle weapon. He hoped to make his blow as painful as possible. He aimed for the body, wanting to preserve the man’s brain. The bellowing of the hounds was near now.

***

Kormak sprang away. The wind of the axe’s passage rippled his hair. Vorkhul killed the blade’s momentum and brought it swinging back. Kormak dropped beneath it and tried to scramble clear.

The axe rose and then descended in a blurring arc. Kormak rolled to the left. The blade buried itself in the stonework. Green sparks fountained upward.

Kormak scrambled to his feet and lashed out with his sword. It bit into the armour, but all he did was leave a nick. Vorkhul began to lift the axe.

There was no way to win this fight by standing toe to toe with the enemy. He was too battered and too tired. He needed to fall back and come up with a new plan. Perhaps if he could lure Vorkhul into the room full of elder signs, he would have a better chance.

***

The human ran as if the hounds of hell were after him. Vorkhul pulled the axe from the stonework, cursing the fact that his pursuer had somehow eluded him again. His annoyance was momentary. He was glad the creature was alive and fled before him. He would have some sport before he put it out of its misery. He would make it beg for mercy.

Vorkhul lengthened his stride and set off in pursuit. This was how things should be. He was the hunter. The human was prey. The Shadow be praised.

***

Kormak ran through the room full of sarcophagi and raced into the space that held the elder signs then turned at bay. Behind him the gigantic metal form of his pursuer lumbered along. It halted at the entrance as if sensing the trap. It set down the axe, then picked up a metal coffin as easily as a man might heft an empty beer crate. It hurled the huge weight. It missed Kormak completely and crashed into the wall. The sarcophagus shattered on impact. Bits of broken stonework and twisted metal caromed around the room.

The Old One picked up another coffin and hurled it at a different angle. It smashed into the other wall. Glancing to his right Kormak saw that all the hanging elder signs were either broken or fallen or both. The Old One picked up its axe and, laughing like an insane thing, strode into the room.

The Old One’s stride slowed as it crossed the threshold but when it launched its first blow, its strength was undiminished. Kormak ducked away from the sweep of the blade, wondering if perhaps the creature was a fraction slower than it had been. It made no difference. It was still too strong for him. He backed away and then sprang through the outer doorway, slamming it closed.

The axe smashed through the wood, splintering it with one blow. Kormak saw scores of troops pouring into the Museum. At their head was Rodric. Fang dragged him along. In the midst of a company of his Household Guard was King-Emperor Aemon. His brother stood beside him. Frater Jonas was at his shoulder. Warriors of the Order of the Dawn dug into their satchels, producing flasks of alchemical fire and sunflares.

“Sunflares won’t work,” he shouted. “Use banefire if you’ve got it!”

He ducked to one side as the door exploded outwards and the massive armoured form of the Old One appeared. It paused for a moment to contemplate the small army it faced.

“Begone from my palace, thing of Shadow,” King Aemon shouted. He raised his hands. A halo of light played around his head and then a bolt of pure incandescent light flickered from his fingers. It hit the Old One right in the chest. The eye-pieces of the demon mask helmet went completely black. The metal of the armour began to bubble and run.

The amulet against Kormak’s chest grew warm as the King’s magic took effect.

***

Vorkhul felt the armour grow warm as the accursed human sorcerer unleashed his power. For a mortal he was strong.

For a mortal.

Vorkhul invoked more of the runes on the armour. Spells of protection shimmered in the air around him. The gnawing beam of light splashed off, sending bolts of golden sunfire slashing through the air. One hit the stuffed mammoth and set it alight, another sliced through the cable holding the skeleton of the dragon. Part of it tumbled to the ground, crushing humans beneath the calcified bones.

Vorkhul strode forward, into the full power of the sorcerer’s spell, letting it glance off the wards. He shouted mockery at the insects who dared pit themselves against him. The human sorcerer’s face had gone from confident and zealous to weary and doubting. He was using all his power in one tremendous burst and it was draining out of him quickly. The sunfire bolt became weaker and sputtered to a stop. The human soldier’s massed themselves around the mage and made ready to die in his defence.

Vorkhul was happy to oblige them.

***

Kormak watched the king’s spell fail. The glow of pure golden power around Aemon’s head dimmed and went out like a snuffed candle. No human being could unleash so much magical energy in so short a time without feeling the effect. The king doubled over like a man having a seizure. Prince Taran shouted to the guards.

A group of them grabbed the king by his arms and began to pull him back through the door. All the while Aemon protested but he could do nothing to stop them. Jonas went with him. He clutched daggers in his hand.

Taran stood his ground. He bellowed orders, making sure the troops stood fast while his brother escaped. Kormak felt something like admiration for the man. There was no denying his bravery or his loyalty. It seemed likely that they going to get him killed.

***

The brothers of the Order of the Dawn threw their flasks of banefire at the oncoming demon. Alchemical liquid clung and ignited. Flames danced over the metal shell, transforming the Old One. An armoured elemental of blazing death strode through the hall.

Then the impossible happened. The flames around Vorkhul dwindled and died. It was a thing Kormak had never seen happen before. Banefire could burn even underwater.

And still the demon came on.

***

Vorkhul moved through the ranks of the soldiers like a bladed whirlwind, killing as he went. Kormak knew there was nothing ordinary men could do to stop him. Sunflares had failed. Alchemical fire had failed. Sorcery had failed. Even his own dwarf-forged blade had failed. There had to be something he could do.

He felt at his belt for the flask of Valen’s Elixir. He did not want to take it. It might kill him but that was not what made him reluctant. Drinking it would be the final admission that his body, his skill and his blade had all failed him.

Vorkhul slaughtered two more soldiers. The men were on the edge of breaking. How many more would die if he did nothing?

Kormak unstoppered the flask and put it to his lips. It burned like rotgut alcohol on the way down, making him gasp and snort.

He stood frozen for a moment. His heart beat faster. His tongue tingled. His skin felt tight. He counted to ten, knowing that the drug would take that long to affect him and wondered if he was going to die. Many men did when they took the elixir. It worked best for young men. Warriors of his age who used it were prone to sudden apoplectic death.

The Old One killed another dozen men. They threw themselves at him, trying to find a weakness in the armour, to restrain his limbs. He tossed one man a score of yards. There was a terrible cracking noise as he smashed into the wall. He lashed out with his axe and chopped down another three men.

Was he weakening? Were his movements slowing? Kormak realised that the soldiers were slowing down as well. They moved with the speed of men trapped in a nightmare.

It was not that the speed of the battle had slowed down, but that his ability to apprehend what was going on had increased. His hurts were fading away. He could no longer feel his bruises, only a slight numbness on his flesh where they had been. He felt stronger and all nervousness and fear sloughed away from him. He was invincible. There was nothing to fear from the Old One no matter how powerful his magical armour made him. He had slain many such foes in his time. Surely this would be but one more.

A small part of Kormak’s mind recognised these thoughts as a species of madness, as much a side effect of the drug as his speeded perceptions or his numbed flesh. Somehow he managed to refrain from throwing himself forward into the maelstrom of battle. No matter how strong he felt, he knew the Old One was stronger.

Nonetheless it was his duty to fight, to protect the others from the demon. “Vorkhul,” he bellowed. “Turn and face me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

KORMAK CHARGED TOWARDS the Old One. He aimed a cut at its neck. The dwarf-forged blade clanged into the armour. Slivers of metal flew off the point of impact. The sound of the blow resonated like a bell.

The axe swept towards him, trailing bands of green light. He stepped away, knowing better than to attempt a parry despite how strong he felt. The axe-blade whipped by, a finger’s breadth away from his face.

Encouraged by his stand more soldiers threw themselves forward, and were reduced to bloody pulp. Kormak shouted for them to keep clear.

He struck another blow, aiming for the runestone in the centre of the breastplate. Vorkhul raised an arm to block the blow then lashed out with his fist.

Kormak eluded the strike. He spotted a potential weak spot at the elbow joint of the armour and brought his blade down on it. Sparks flew but his blow had no effect.

Vorkhul returned to the offensive. He rained down blow after blow, forcing the Guardian back towards the milling soldiers. Kormak ducked low and aimed a sweeping blow at the back of Vorkhul’s knee.

This time he managed to find a weak spot. The blade slashed through a gap in the armour. The force of the Old One’s movement ripped it from Kormak’s grip.

He faced the Old One without his most potent weapon. The terrified soldiers were at last retreating from the burning building. He was alone and unarmed against the most dangerous foe he had ever faced.

Even through the euphoric confidence of Valen’s Elixir Kormak felt the worm of fear gnawing at his heart.

***

Screaming agony surged through Vorkhul’s leg where the edge of the Khazduri blade made contact. He altered his form, letting it flow away from the weapon, pulling it clear out of the leg of the armour, not wanting to let it touch him.

He was unbalanced, his movement restricted. He reached down to pull the weapon from the knee joint of the battle-suit. If only he could get it free he would be safe and his opponent would be unable to hurt him.

***

Kormak saw the Old One bend to remove the blade. For a moment Vorkhul was off-balance. He sprang forward, aiming all his weight at the metal form, tipping it to the ground. Kormak had the sunflare in his hand and his dagger in the other.

He jammed the dagger into the armour’s faceplate. With a heave of his drug-enhanced muscles he prised it open. He activated the sunflare, pushed it in and slammed the faceplate shut once more.

***

Vorkhul felt himself fall and wondered what the human was up to. No matter. He pulled the blade from his leg-piece. All he had to do was rise up and crush the man.

The visor of the faceplate rose. A sharp blade entered aimed at his eye. He pulled his flesh away from the point of the dagger until he realised that the human’s puny weapon could barely scratch him. The mortal must be mad with fear to even attempt such a thing.

Burning light exploded in front of his eyes. He was blinded and dazzled and in pain from the sunflare. He constricted his form deeper into the armour, compressing it, seeking to get away from the blaze. Trapped within the armour there was no escape.

***

Kormak bend over and picked up the dwarf-forged blade. It felt like regaining a part of himself. With all his strength, he drove it into the runestone in the middle of the chestplate. The magical gem shattered, revealing the fitting into which it had been mounted. Kormak drove his blade right through the gap. He heard the sizzle of Old One flesh as the sword made contact, smelled the death-stink, watched as black fluid leaked from the gaps in the armour.

***

Searing pain blazed through Vorkhul. No matter how he tried to writhe away he was caught by the runes of that devil blade.

No. No. He could not die. Not now. Not so close to victory.

A last image of a long ago ball and a perfect lunar beauty filled his mind. The Lady smiled a forgiveness he did not want. He thought he heard music and then he heard nothing at all.

***

Vorkhul was dead. Kormak turned and walked from the blazing building. Prince Taran stood at the foot of the steps, looking up at him. His face was pale and shocked. King Aemon leaned on his brother’s shoulder looking drained of all strength, a pale, sick shadow of the man Kormak had first seen.

“Is the Old One dead?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Kormak. “It is dead.”

Behind him the roof of the museum crashed down. The palace burned. The drug burned in his belly. Kormak felt like he had won no victory at all.

COPYRIGHT © WILLIAM KING 2015

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

William King lives in Prague, Czech Republic with his lovely wife Radka and his sons Dan and William Karel. He has been a professional author and games developer for almost a quarter of a century. He is the creator of the bestselling Gotrek and Felix series for Black Library and the author of the bestselling Space Wolf books which between them have sold over three nine hundred thousand copies in English and been translated into 8 languages.

He has been short-listed for the David Gemmell Legend Award. His short fiction has appeared in Year’s Best SF and Best of Interzone. He has twice won the Origins Awards For Game Design. His hobbies include role-playing games and MMOs as well as travel.

His website can be found at: www.williamking.me

He can be contacted at bill@williamking.me

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MORE E-BOOKS BY WILLIAM KING

THE KORMAK SAGA

Stealer of Flesh

Defiler of Tombs

Weaver of Shadow

City of Strife

Taker of Skulls

Ocean of Fear

The Kormak Saga Omnibus Edition

The Second Kormak Saga Omnibus

THE TERRARCH CHRONICLES

Death's Angels

The Serpent Tower

The Queen’s Assassin

Shadowblood

OTHER NOVELS

Sky Pirates

The Inquiry Agent

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Also By William King