Sacred Fire k-3 Read online

  Sacred Fire

  ( Kingpriest - 3 )

  Chris Pierson

  Chris Pierson

  Sacred Fire

  Prologue

  SIXMONTH, 961 I.A.

  The wind blasted down the canyon, roaring like a mad dragon and raising great curls of dust. Varen turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut just in time to avoid it. Some of the other men did not, and their curses echoed from stone to stone. When the gust passed, half of them doubled over, gasping and spitting and dousing their faces with water to wash away the grit Around them, their guides-lean, sun-weathered men with beards dyed garish colors-laughed at their expense.

  His sharp-featured face contracting into a scowl, Varen walked past the choking men, to the one who was their leader: a stout, oxlike fellow in chain mail, with an opal-encrusted longsword slung across his back. “This is the best you could do, Morias?” he asked in a low voice. “These men are idiots and fools.”

  Morias Gall made a face that could have been a grin or a sneer; the old warrior was missing half his nose and part of his upper lip, so it was hard to tell. “They’re strong backs and strong arms,” he hissed-another scar ran across his throat. “You think you can find better, ride back to Jaggana and find ‘em”

  “I need men with wits too,” Varen shot back. “If I wanted brainless muscle, I’d have brought a herd of minotuars. The way things are going, we won’t have way things are going, we won’t have enough of your strong backs left to carry our prize.”

  This time, there was no mistaking Morias’s expression for a smile. A young man with no training at arms, Varen weighed maybe half what the grizzled warrior did, and stood more than a foot shorter. Morias could have broken him in half with one hand. But though the scholar paled slightly, he didn’t back down.

  “Only I know how to get there,” he said. “Kill me, and you’ll never find your fortune.”

  Morias glared at him a long moment, then grunted and turned away, raising a hand to call his men near.

  Varen let out his breath What am I doing here? he wondered, not for the first time. A scholar from Tucuri, far away in Istar’s northern reaches, he had spent most of his life poring over tomes in that city’s renowned university. He could barely lift a sword, and riding horses left him almost crippled with saddle-sores. Only six months ago, the thought that he would be out here, in the wastes of Dravinaar, would have made him laugh. But here he was, deep in the desert, by men who would cut his throat-“give you a second smile,” as Morias quaintly put it-and leave him for the jackals if he looked at them wrong. Why?

  It embarrassed him, how pedestrian the answer was. Riches … fame… a name others would remember.

  Daubas Mishakas, the books called this labyrinth of mesas and gorges, carved out of the stone in the midst of the Sea of Shifting Sands-The Tears of Mishakal. The locals called it, rather more aptly, Raqqa az Zarqa: The Sun’s Anvil. Few lived here these days, for it was a cursed place, and the Dravinish claimed it was haunted. Once, however, one of Istar’s grandest cities had stood in its midst, carved out of the rock itself: Losarcum, the City of Stone. It had been a thriving place, the pearl of the desert, a wonder of the world.

  That had all ended in thunder and fire, seventeen years go. It had happened during the holy war against wizardry, when the forces of the Istaran church had sought to storm the Towers of High Sorcery. Treacherous to the end, the mages had destroyed two of those Towers. One had leveled a large part of Daltigoth, the capital of faraway Ergoth. The second had been in Losarcum, and it had brought the whole city to ruin, smashing it and burying it beneath countless tons of rubble.

  In the years since, many treasure-hunters had come to the Tears in search of Losarcum’s ruins. The wealth that must be buried beneath the rubble was enough to tempt many, from itinerant adventurers to the holy church itself. Thus far, however, no one had found more than a few baubles and potsherds. But then, three months ago, Varen-whose discipline at the university had been antiquities-had received a journal, recovered from an ill-fated expedition into the Tears. Its author had written of a passage, a cave that led to a “land of glass,” where great riches could be found.

  Varen had decided, then and there, that he would be the one to find the lost bones of Losarcum. The time since was a blur. He’d spent another month in study, piecing together all he could, then quit his post, taken all his silver, and traveled south to Jaggana, a city renowned for its sell-swords. There he’d met Morias, and a week later they’d set out into the desert with fifteen hired mercenaries and a handful of Dravinish guides.

  The mercenaries were down to ten now. One had died on the way, overcome by heat poisoning. Three more had fallen to the creatures that lived in these parts: giant, hairy spiders and snakes that could spit deadly venom a dozen paces. The fifth had lost his temper with Varen the day before yesterday-their eighth in the Tears-and had drawn his blade on him. Morias had put a dagger through the man’s throat, then hung the body from a cactus as a warning to the rest. The way they looked at Varen-and the way they fingered their swords and maces-they still weren’t feeling very friendly.

  Fine, he thought. I didn’t come here to make friends.

  Morias was snapping at his men. Varen eyed them, wondering if they would try to kill him once they found the treasure. He’d lied to them, talking of other caches he’d heard about, in the hope it would stay their hands. Now he looked past them, at the canyon’s snaking, ridged walls. He pulled a map from his belt and unfurled it, studying it as the wind tried to snatch it from his hands. They were close now-had to be. According to the map, Losarcum was less than a league away. He prayed the maze of chasms wouldn’t betray him.

  A sudden shout snapped him out of his contemplation, and he turned in time to see steel flash among the Dravinish guides. His insides lurched before he realized they didn’t mean to attack. One had drawn his curved saber and brought it down to stab something on the ground. The man twisted his blade back and forth, then raised it again to reveal a snake impaled upon its tip. The serpent twitched feebly, and the Dravinishman flashed a smile full of white teeth-then stopped, eyes widening, and flung the blade to the ground. He shouted something in Dravinish, backing away. His fellows did the same.

  Morias and Varen reached the saber at the same time. The sell-sword bent down to pick it up, then flinched back. “Huma’s balls!” he swore.

  The snake had legs.

  Basilisk! Varen thought, panic surging within him. Dravinaar had once been rife with the fell beasts whose gaze could turn a man to stone-but men had wiped them out more than a century ago. And at second glance, he knew the creature wasn’t one. It was a bonetail, a particularly deadly serpent, but six stubby legs, each ending in a single talon, stuck out of its sides.

  “Strange,” he said.

  “Bloody right,” Morias rasped. “What in the Abyss did that?”

  “Sharaz Qunai,” murmured the man who’d killed it.

  Morias and Varen looked at him blankly. Neither spoke more than a smattering of Dravinish.

  “The Staring Ghost, it means,” said Pashim, the leader of the guides. He drew a hand down his swarthy face, a ritual gesture against evil. “He haunted these parts, near the city-that-was. He curses those who come too close, as he cursed old man serpent.” He nodded toward the snake, then shook his head. “My men will go no farther.”

  “What!” Morias’s face colored as he stepped forward, towering over Pashim. “That wasn’t the bargain. We paid you good silver to take us all the way.”

  Not intimidated, the Dravinishman rested a hand on his saber. “We will give you back your silver. But we will not offend Sharaz Qunai.”

  Morias held still a moment, then slowly relaxed, rumbling in his chest. The guides withdrew,
leaving the saber behind: none would touch it now. The old sell-sword glowered at them, then looked over his shoulder at his men. “All right, lads, form up,” he growled. “We’re almost there. Let’s get moving.” Grumbling, the mercenaries grabbed up shields and shouldered packs. Varen stayed put a moment, staring at the misshapen snake. He’d heard stories about animals warped by the energies that had burst from the Towers when they exploded. According to one, the rats in the sewers beneath Daltigoth were the size of lions, with glowing eyes and stingers on their tails. The snake could only mean he was right: they were close to Losarcum now. His heart quickened.

  But what about Sharaz Qunai, a voice in him wondered. Who is this ghost the Dravinishmen fear?

  “Ai! Ink-fingers!” called Morias. “You going to stare at that thing all day, or are you going to join us?”

  Varen snapped back to himself, looking up. The mercenaries were ready to leave, looking daggers at him for holding them up. Swallowing, he gave the serpent one last glance, then hurried to follow.

  They found more warped animals as they went: a spider with one staring, bloodshot eye; a lizard with three heads; a blue scorpion with iridescent wings. That last cost them another of Morias’s men, who turned purple and died thrashing while the others looked on. That wasn’t the only sign they were getting close, either: shards of natural glass, translucent and razor-sharp, jutted from sand and stone alike, and the air shimmered with something more than just the desert’s heat. Sometimes, Varen thought, it even sparkled for a moment before fading again.

  And then there was the feeling. There was a sharpness to the air-nearly a scent, almost a taste. It made his scalp prickle and the hairs on the backs of his arms stand erect. He could tell Morias and his men felt it too: their glances at the cliffs to either side were nervous, and many had drawn their weapons. Small wonder the Dravinish thought this place was haunted, with all the wild magic running loose.

  When he finally saw it, his voice failed him. They rounded a bend in the canyon, and there it was: a dark, narrow cleft in the stone, halfway up the canyon wall. Only one who was looking for it would have thought it more than a shallow crevice: the sell-swords paid it no heed. Varen stopped, however, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He stood very still, staring at the crack.

  “What?” Morias asked, striding near. He followed Varen’s gaze, and his eyes widened. “God’s piss, is that it?” he swore. “It looks so small.”

  “What were you expecting?” Varen replied. “If it were bigger, everyone would know of it. That’s the way to Losarcum.”

  The old mercenary nodded, then clapped his hands. “Well, then.”

  The climb was slow going, for Varen was little good at it, and the rest were weighed down with armor and weapons, but one by one they moved up the cliff. Morias was the first to the cleft, pausing long enough to light a torch before stepping through. Varen listened to him go, half-expecting to hear a bloodcurdling scream. Soon Morias reappeared, frowning with impatience.

  “Come on,” he snapped. “What’re you waiting for?”

  Varen followed, the sell-swords at his back. A voice in his mind said this was not a good idea-if they meant to kill him, this would be a good time-but he couldn’t wait for the others. His curiosity was aflame, and his heart pounded like a dwarven trip-hammer.

  The tunnel was close and difficult, the stone broken on all sides. Deep groans sounded from above, and streams of grit poured out of the cracks. Varen bashed his head on a jutting brow, drawing blood; behind him, the armored mercenaries scraped and clanked and blasphemed. Varen cringed at every noise: if the Staring Ghost was real, they’d given it plenty of chance to hear them. Still, they pushed on, deeper and deeper.

  After a while, he piled into Morias from behind. The sell-sword grunted, shoving him back, but he pressed closer again. “What is it?” he asked. “Why are we stopped?”

  “Look up ahead.”

  At first, Varen could see nothing but rock, lit by Morias’s flickering torch. But then he spotted something else: a second light, a steady golden glow, on down the hall. He stared at it, bewildered.

  “Lamplight,” he breathed.

  “What I thought,” Morias agreed. “But who lit it?”

  Sharaz Qunai, said a voice in Varen’s head. He thrust it aside. “Someone’s been here already.”

  “Probably still are.”

  “What do we do? We can’t turn back.”

  Morias chuckled. “This tunnel only goes two ways.” He dumped his torch on the floor and stomped it out, leaving the passage dark except for the distant glow. Unseen, his sword scraped out of its scabbard.

  “Stay out of the way, if things get sticky,” he said. Varen nodded. Then they were moving again, as quietly as possible. The glow grew brighter and brighter, until it was enough to see by. Morias led with the tip of his blade, every step careful. His breath came quick, and sweat beaded his forehead. Varen noted his fear with surprise.

  Finally they reached a bend in the passage and stopped, staring in amazement at what lay beyond. It was a huge cavern of shattered, pinkish stone, its roof a natural dome that had formed when the rest collapsed. Huge chunks of rubble littered the ground, but there were only pieces too big to lift. Near the middle of the cave was a pool of clear water, bubbling up from beneath and trickling in a stream across the floor and out a crack in the wall.

  The wall. There was something strange about it. Varen squinted, trying to figure it out. The stone there was smoother than elsewhere … as was the floor, now that he looked at it. He froze, sucking in a sharp breath.

  “A street,” he murmured.

  “What?” Morias whispered, glancing back.

  Varen gestured ahead. “This place is a street. We’re in Losarcum-what’s left of it, anyway.”

  Then were several lamps close by, they saw as they moved closer: glimmering brass things on chunks of stone that proved to be fallen pillars and the rim of a shattered fountain. Morias went to one as his men poured out of the tunnel behind Varen, and nudged it with his foot. Brow furrowing, he peered around him.

  “There,” he said, pointing with his sword. “That opening. It must lead somewhere.”

  It had been a doorway once, but the door was long gone, and the lintel had cracked. Someone had shored it up with chunks of stone and wood. More light glimmered from within Varen started toward if, converging with Morias as he drew near. The sell-sword signaled to his men, silently directing six to stand guard and the rest to follow. They did as he ordered, weapons ready. Varen and Morias went through the doorway side by side-and stopped, their breath failing them.

  They stood in what had clearly been the entry hall of some grand manor. Its floor was covered with a glittering mosaic of a Kingpriest with a sapphire crown-Ardosean the Uniter. Varen noted absently. The wall to their left was lined with gilded statuary, porcelain urns, and satin arras with jewels woven into them. Most of it was intact and incredibly valuable; they had found the treasure they sought.

  It wasn’t what drew their eyes, though.

  To the right, things were different. The sandstone there had melted, then fused again, turning to cloudy, rosy-gold glass. It poured down from the ceiling in ripples, and pooled and puddled upon the floor.

  “Branchala bite me,” swore Morias, staring into its depths. “Are those people in there?”

  A shudder ran through Varen as he approached the glass. He saw them too, six in all-men, women, and one small child. All of them were frozen, encased, their faces twisted into expressions of horror and agony. They had died afraid, and in horrible pain.

  “This side of the building was facing the Tower of High Sorcery,” Varen said solemnly. “When it exploded, it must have turned the stone to glass and trapped them inside. They’ve been here like this for nearly twenty years.”

  “That’s impossible,” Morias said. “The heat should have burned them to ash.”

  Varen shook his head, reaching out to touch the smooth glass. “There was a lot of magi
c pouring through the city at the time. Somehow, it protected them.”

  “Not the word I’d choose,” the sell-sword retorted. “This stuff would fetch a fair price in the cities, I’d say. Losarcine amber, we might call it.” He sneered, avarice gleaming in his eyes. “Or Mishakal’s Tears.”

  He raised his sword.

  “Don’t!” Varen cried, too late.

  The crash of sword striking glass filled the room. A shard of the stuff broke off, clattering at Morias’s feet. It glinted in the lamplight, the color of sunrise. People would prize it, Varen realized as the sell-sword lifted it up. It was remarkably beautiful, and it existed nowhere else in the world. The riches, the fame he’d craved… it was all here, for the taking….

  “No,” he said, stepping back. “It’s grave robbery, We’d be selling these people’s tomb”

  Morias shrugged, regarding the shard in his hand. “They don’t need so much of it. If we just take a little for now…” He stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing, and cocked an ear.

  Varen heard it too. At first, he’d mistaken it for the clang of the mercenary’s sword hitting the glass, still echoing out in the street. It wasn’t getting any fainter, though-it was growing louder. And then there was a new sound, rising above it: a sharp, pained cry, and the clatter of an armored body hitting the ground.

  “What in the Abyss?” Morias grunted, dropping the glass. It clinked on the floor without breaking. His men were already moving toward the doorway, and Varen started to follow, but Morias shoved the scholar aside, hurrying after. The clamor of steel outside grew, fiercer with every heartbeat.

  A man stumbled into the room then, and the sell-swords nearly cut him down before they realized it was one of their own, a burly man who fought with twin shortswords. One of the blades was gone now, and his left arm below the elbow as well. Blood washed his armor. He had a second cut across his chin, and his eyes were wide with terror.