Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) (13 page)

“Difficult,” the guard replied. “Borbonil is plotting something, or we all assume so. We haven’t seen him for weeks. Cabersky is taking it out on all of us. To be honest with you this duty makes a pleasant break.”

“And this all goes back to the unfortunate incident a couple of months back?”

“Yes,” he shook his head. “We still have no idea how he tricked us. Cost us a hundred good men.”

“What was the name again?”

“Serhan. Cal Serhan. We won’t forget that in a hurry.”

“I heard the name again just this morning,” Tarlyn said.

“Really?” The captain was suddenly very attentive, and he realised that he had made a miscalculation. He could have got something for this story, as trivial as it was. There was no going back now that he had started.

“Yes. Someone turned up in town talking about him. Apparently he’s been hunting down bandits all over White Rock territory.”

“Bandits?” The captain looked puzzled for a moment, and then smiled. “Well, there’s no telling what a man will do in his spare time.” There was something more there. The man was excited, and trying not to show it. Had he blundered again? This intelligence was obviously valuable to Ocean’s Gate, and he had let it go for nothing. Perhaps he was losing his touch. He made a gallant attempt to extract a favour in return, but the captain was unmoved. Eventually the conversation came round, as it always did, to royalists.

“So when are you going to come and rid us of Tarnell, Captain?” he asked.

“Tarnell? He’s not really our problem. He takes the odd shot at us, but that just keeps the men on their toes.”

“He’s killed seven of your people in the last year, or his men have.”

“And we’ve killed thirty of his.”

“I don’t think they were all his men, Captain. Especially not the two children.”

“A detail. He knows what happens when he acts, so it’s all down to him.” It was the logic of the tyrant. At least Tarnell was quite particular about who he killed. The captain didn’t much care, as long as he saw blood and could report back numbers.

“All the fighting is causing chaos in the city. It may affect our ability to supply you.”

“I hope not, for your sake.”

Tarlyn sighed. It was always like this. They would do nothing, and they expected everything in return. If you failed to deliver what they wanted they started killing people. He kept trying, though, in the possibly vain hope that one day there would be a different captain, or policy would change at Ocean’s Gate. The latter didn’t seem likely. He knew that the trouble in the city was used to justify a large military establishment at Borbonil’s fortress, since it was the closest to Samara, and the Faer Karani wanted to keep those numbers.

“We’ll carry on as best we can, captain.”

The difficulty for Tarlyn was that he was effectively at war with Tarnell, who considered him a collaborator. He had the forces to protect himself, his house, family and wagons, but it was getting more difficult, and he felt vulnerable. The royalists were organised, and many of them were quite skilled. He knew that they would attack him soon. Cutting off Ocean’s Gate from the easy supplies that he represented would start them raiding again, and Tarnell thought that it would bring more people to his banner. It might, but hundreds would be killed, and the city would disintegrate in months, rather than years.

When the loading had finished the officers thanked them for the supplies and left. The black door vanished from the courtyard and he was left looking at his son.

“That food would have fetched a good price at the market,” he said.

“It would have fed two villages for a year,” his son added.

“Can you see a way out of this?”

“No. The city’s being eaten alive, isn’t it?”

“There’s nothing we can do. Too many predators feeding on the carcase, and they’re not willing to fight over it.”

“You’ll think of something, father. You always have.”

Not this time. Two years, perhaps five, ten at the most, and they would have to do something drastic, or his own family would be gone. He decided he needed a drink, or several drinks, and it was barely past noon. The rest of the day was going to be a without profit or progress.

When Serhan dropped through the hole in the floor of the tower he had hoped to find something of value. The room was big, as big as the one above, but here the floor was dirt, and it was dry and cool. It was the climate, he guessed, that had preserved the body. He saw it as he scanned the room, turning slowly under the trap door. There was nothing else. He studied it for a moment before moving towards it. It was big, so probably a man, and he could see various objects and traces of clothing around it. The skin was partially preserved, stretched like thin, dry leather across the face, and the teeth protruded in an unpleasant grin, as though the dead had a joke they weren’t sharing with the living.

He crossed the room and crouched by the body, examining it more closely. The clothing, or what was left of it, was of the finest materials. There was no mail or armour of any kind.

There was a book. It lay beside the dead man, and a shrivelled and bony hand lay upon it. He raised the hand very carefully and slid the book out. It was heavy, and bound in leather which was still supple. That surprised him. He opened the book and looked at the first page. It was written in the old language, which he did not read very well. Some words he could make out: mage, White Rock, and a name – Corderan. He flicked through the pages, and saw that it was filled with writing. There were pages of tightly written script, lists, diagrams. He closed the book because he was having trouble breathing, his heart was pounding. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a few deep breaths. He was sure that this book was from the time before the Faer Karan, and almost certain that it was a book of magic. How else could it be so perfectly preserved?

Placing the book on one side he looked over the man again, and noticed that the hand that had rested on the book wore a ring. He tried to ease it off, but the finger broke away and he plucked the ring from the dry bones. He studied it in the light of the torch. It was an intricate thing, made of hundreds of gold and silver threads that wove about each other, and captured perhaps half a dozen red gemstones which glinted through the precious metal bars that held them.

The ring went on his finger. It might have some unknown magical property, but it was at the least a beautiful and valuable thing.

There was a sword, too. It was sheathed and attached to the belt around the corpse. He took out his dagger and cut the old leather away, freeing sword and scabbard. It was incredibly light, and for a moment he thought that the metal within the scabbard might have rotted away, but when he seized the hilt and pulled the blade slid out smoothly.

Who are you?

The voice was a whisper in his ear, and he leaped to his feet, spinning to face whoever was behind him, the strange sword raised. The torch flared as he turned and showed him an empty chamber. He turned again, but the corpse wasn’t speaking.

Who are you who dares wield Shadow Cutter?

He nearly dropped the blade. It was glowing with a faint green light in the darkness. The sword was speaking to him. Somehow it was alive.

“I am Cal Serhan,” he said softly.

You are the master of White Rock.

“No,” he said. “I am not.”

You wear the key. You are the master of White Rock.

He looked at the ring on his finger. The Key?

“Who made you, Shadow Cutter?”

Corderan the Wise. Corderan the Mighty.

“And the Key? Who made the Key?”

Corderan the Kind, Master of White Rock, lord of all the world.

“Cal?” It was Darius, calling down through the hole. Serhan sheathed the sword.

“I’m still here,” he called back.

“What have you found?”

“It is worse than I feared,” he said. “As far as you are concerned, nothing. Can you pass down my cloak and a length of rope?”

“In a moment.”

Serhan picked up the book and walked back to the illuminated square beneath the opening. Darius would know that he had found things, but he must keep the nature of them from his friend. Even knowing what he already knew was dangerous. For a moment he considered hiding everything he had found in the earth down here and coming back later, on his own; much later. He couldn’t risk it, though. What he held was important, more important than anything he had ever held, or seen, or known. He had to have it.

Darius returned and dropped the rope and his cloak down. He used them to bind the book into a square parcel, so that nobody could be certain exactly what it was. The ring he pushed into a pocket.

“Take this,” he had said, and passed up the book.

That had been several hours ago. Now he sat alone in his tent, veering between dread and elation. He wore the ring, and from time to time touched it. Nothing happened when he wore it. The sword had said that he wore the key, and there was nothing else, except perhaps for the silver ring that Gerique had given him, but would Gerique give him something called “the key”, something that made him master of White Rock? No. It must be the ring he’d taken from the body, which in turn must be the remains of Corderan, lord of all the world.

If Gerique caught him with these things he would probably die very quickly. A magic ring and a handful of trivial spells were one thing, but the personal possessions of the last human master of White Rock, possibly the greatest wizard of his time, were quite another matter. Death and ignominy beckoned one way, power and glory beckoned the other. He could see no room for anything between them.

He sat like that for some time, ambition battling with fear, but in the end there was no choice. I am the sword that will strike at our enemy. Now the sword has a sword, and perhaps, soon, real power.

He put out the candle and tried to get some sleep.

*              *              *              *

The next day he was tired. He had not slept well, but managed to stay awake in the saddle, and they made comfortable progress towards Sorocaba.

By late afternoon they were close to the town and could see tiled rooftops and the smoke from a few fires above the trees. Serhan persuaded Grand to set up camp a mile or so outside the town. If this was going to be resolved without some sort of catastrophe he would have to do it alone. He certainly didn’t want to match powers with someone claiming to be a wizard in front of scores of guardsmen and townspeople.

“Can you have somebody wake me about two hours after dark?” he asked.

“Of course,” Grand said.

He found a quiet corner away from the bustle of the camp, rolled his cloak around his body and went to sleep. This time he slept deeply, but after a time began to dream. It was a very strange dream. He saw a man standing on the top of the scarp where the guard tower had been. The sun was shining, the air was still and warm, and there was a summer smell of flowers and grass. The man was dressed in comfortable clothes, a sword, and held a blue ball before him in one hand. The ball glowed faintly. He wanted the man to speak, but he just looked at Serhan, as though waiting for something. He wanted the blue ball, too, but didn’t know if he should ask for it.

That was the dream. When he was woken by a guard it stayed in his head, though he had no idea what it meant, if anything. He quickly gathered what he thought he might need and left the camp, walking towards the town. The track was wide, and moonlight made the going very easy. It also made it easy for him to be seen.

He spoke the words of a spell and became invisible.

By the time he reached the town he realised that there was something different going on. The spell was not draining his energy at all. He felt at least as strong as he had when he left the camp. It was the ring. He was still wearing it, and could feel power drawing through it into his body. Where was it coming from? He could only guess.

He put the mystery of the ring to one side and carried on into the town. It was quite large, and it took him a while and a lot of eavesdropping to find the house he was looking for. He stopped outside the door and listened for a while. There were no voices, but the lights were on. He spoke the words that made him visible again and knocked on the door.

It opened. The man standing on the other side was older than him, but still a youngish figure, though his hair was grey, and he was a little taller.

“What do you want?” has asked.

“I need to speak with you,” Serhan replied.

“Very well, come in.”

He went inside. The wizard, if such he was, led him down a corridor and into a large room that was, by the standards of a small town, opulently furnished. There were rugs on the floor, tapestries on the walls, and a pile of books on a large desk. The man took a seat.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“You are Rollo?”

“Yes, of course. You don’t know me? Are you not from the town?”

“No,” he replied. “I am from White Rock.”

The change in the wizard was instant. He jumped to his feet and seized a dagger off the desk. Serhan sat down in a chair. “I wanted to ask you some questions,” he said.

Rollo seemed unsure what to do next. He held the dagger before him, but made no move to use it.

“What questions?”

“Were you expecting Dragan?”

“Yes. Eventually. They sent you instead?”

“They sent me. I’m a lot less dangerous than Dragan. Relax. Sit.”

He sat, but still kept the weapon gripped in one hand, and perched on the edge of the chair, ready to move if he needed to. “What do you want?” he repeated.

“Do you think you can defeat Dragan?” He believed that he knew the answer, but hoped very much that he was wrong.

“We will find out when Dragan arrives.”

“I don’t think so. If Dragan comes here there will be nothing left of this town. He will kill you, and all five thousand who live here. He will burn the town and cast the ashes on the fields.”

“What is that to you?”

“I like to see people alive. I like them to eat, drink, love, marry, have children, argue, make mistakes. Five thousand dead is a big price to pay for… what was it you were trying to achieve here?”

“You would never understand,” Rollo said, but Serhan could see that he was troubled by something. He was looking at him in the oddest way.

“What is it?” he said.

“I know you. I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

It was possible. Many people had seen him in the past few months. “I’ve never been to this town before,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Cal Serhan.”

Rollo looked surprised, and then started to laugh. He laughed hard and long, and seemed genuinely taken with the humour of the moment, slapping his knees and roaring. Eventually he calmed down and grinned.

“Little Cal Serhan,” he said. “I’ll wager you don’t remember me. The last time you saw me you were six years old.” He put on a serious face and intoned in a mocking voice: “I am the sword that will strike at our enemy.”

“You are from the valley?”

“Yes. Trained by those bastards Brial and Gris, though they didn’t spend much time on me after they got hold of you. You were the golden child, the great hope.”

Serhan was stunned. He didn’t remember Rollo at all, but what he said had the ring of truth. He knew that another had been sent over the mountains at about that time. They had mentioned it several times, but not the name. Rollo was the right age, and how else would he know about Brial and Gris?

“Then I really don’t understand what you’re doing here.” Serhan said.

“Nor I you,” Rollo came back. “But let us have a cup of wine and talk for a while. At least I can explain to you without trying to hide anything.”

Serhan accepted the wine and they sat again. This time Rollo was much more relaxed. Indeed he looked happy. Had he been living like this for fifteen years, waiting to tell his story to someone he could trust? Would this happen to Serhan himself in time?

“When I arrived here I did my best to seem invisible,” Rollo began. “Not using the spell, of course. I travelled, pretending to be an artisan. I had the skills to do so, having been a potter before Brial chose me to be his next blind shot at the Faer Karan. I sought out old places and looked for information. I thought that the more I knew about my enemy the better my chances would be when I came to confront it. It took me a year to find the first book.” He turned and picked a volume off his desk. “This contains eye-witness accounts from people who were alive at the time the Faer Karan came, and there are several important pieces of information in it.

“They came to our land across the sea, from the south, from the direction of Cabarissa. They were seen, and watched for some time before they made landfall at Samara and began attacking, without warning, anything that resisted, or might have any authority. Thousands died, perhaps tens of thousands, on the first day. It went on. I have only fragments. It’s like peering through a veil of torn cloth, a glimpse here, a flash there. I have no idea who put this book together, but I am glad that they did. Here, the last entry is the most interesting.” He offered the book to Serhan, who took it and looked at the page. He handed it back.

“I don’t read the old language,” he said. “Can you read it to me?”

“You don’t?” Rollo seemed surprised. “It’s a strange little passage. I don’t think it was written by anyone with a good education, but it’s evocative: