Born of Darkness (William King) - William King Page 0,31

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