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it is quick and easy - at least for a mage of Tzumezht's abilities. Gods, even
Garnelys could do it!'
He laughed; his laughter was grossly inappropriate, for the boy was staring
helplessly straight at Poel, obviously aware that he was in mortal danger.
'Help me, my lord!' he called weakly, struggling in the hands of his captors.
'Please help me!'
Even Poel was shaken. 'You can't mean to ... Let him go!'
Zhoaah sighed. 'Well, we could. It's your choice. If you don't want us to
torture the boy, we'll have to torture you instead.'
Poel's head snapped to left and right. There were Bhahdradomen all around him,
quiet and soft as spectres, with hungry eyes fastened on him. A feeling of
nightmare madness swept through him; he was unarmed but it didn't matter, they
could take him to pieces with their eyes without even touching him. He wanted
to flee but there was no escape route; he felt sweat pooling in his armpits,
oozing across his wide shoulders.
'Whose pain is it to be, Lord Poel? Yours or the boy's?'
'Gods,' gasped Poel, shaking. 'I can't. . .'
'Please make up your mind quickly.' Tzumezht's eyes bored into him like pins.
'I would like to start.'
'The boy.' Poel pointed at the youth with a wavering hand. The words exploded
like spit from his lips.
'Don't hurt me. Use him!'
Zhoaah grinned. 'So be it, but you must be the one to wield the knife.'
'What?'
Zhoaah pulled a very human, wry face and shook his head. 'We get more power if
humans hurt each other. I don't know why. Twice as much pain, I suppose. It's
especially efficacious if the one doing the hurting is reluctant; Garnelys was
perfect because he so hated what he was doing. So if you find it difficult,
don't feel inadequate to the task; it actually makes it better for us.'
He placed a big, curved knife in Lord Poel's hand.
The others brought the boy before him. Poel stared into the young, desperate
face. He trembled, and his bowels cramped with horror. In his everyday
dealings he was stiff, cold, sometimes cruel; but even he drew the line at
inflicting physical pain. But the Bhahdradomen were all around him, eager,
dangerous.
The boy whimpered, wetting himself in terror. Poel closed his eyes, and
plunged the knife forward.
The youth dropped to his knees, emitting terrible, tearing groans. Poel jumped
back in panic; his aim had been poor and he had wounded him in the abdomen.
Blood poured out through the boy's fingers as he clutched at the wound,
staring up at his attacker with uncomprehending, pleading eyes. His pain and
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fear were so intense that even Poel felt them.
At once the whole Tower seemed to throb.
Tzumezht's arms were raised and his lips moved soundlessly. Between his hands
he held a lump of rock, some mineral that reflected dull liverish light from
its facets. Poel, watching dizzily, had the impression that the boy's pain was
being dragged into the crystal, focussed, and sent spinning out around the
walls. The very fabric of the Tower itself seemed to absorb the stark energy,
vibrating with it.
A column of dark purple light appeared in the centre of the chamber. It stood
there, growing brighter and brighter, until Lord Poel shrank back, dazzled.
Thunderous power emanated from it and he seemed to be looking into another
world, a black world that was no more than a path crossing a plain under a
dark sky. Yet the sight of it filled him with irrational terror.
'What is it?' he mouthed, but no sound came out.
A figure appeared in the centre of the column. His robe swirled black and
purple like a storm but his face was white, blue-white as a cave of ice, the
high, domed skull tattooed with red web, eyes that could swallow galaxies; and
then the tattooed web vanished as the face and skull flushed crimson and the
dreadful eyes tipped back in their sockets, and hands with too many writhing
fingers were stretched out towards Poel.
'It is Vaurgroth of the Fire,' said Gulzhur. 'Chosen of the Ancestor, our
leader. He sees you. Bow
down to the Master of Light!'
Terror exploded through Poel. Losing control and reason he sprawled on the
ground and soiled himself.
Vaurgroth saw him.
'He's pleased with you. Zhoaah said gently. 'He asks not that you worship
him, but that you worship the Ancestor, the only true creator of life. Give
yourself up to him, and you will be King.'
Poel clawed at the earth, and a wild ecstasy filled him. It was easy. All he
had to do was give up his humanity, follow the Ancestor, and all Vaurgroth's
terrible power would fill him. 'Yes. he rasped. 'I give myself to you, I
accept the Ancestor!'
A strange deep noise rang like a bell. A laugh of satisfaction.
Gulzhur said, 'You see, with a human king on the throne it will all be so much
easier.'
Poel neither knew nor cared what he meant. He outstretched his arms to the
dreadful figure of
Vaurgroth and gave himself up, lost in the bliss of surrender, felt the
leader's eyes filling him with a new, savage strength; collapsed back on to
the earth, losing consciousness for a moment.
There was a cry. He came back to himself to find the vision gone, the Tower
dark again. And Gulzhur was standing over the boy, plunging bare fingers
straight into his breastbone, killing him instantly. Poel shivered, suddenly
feeling sick and drained. He didn't know what had happened but it seemed
something depraved. A swamp into which he had now sunk so deep there was no
hope of rescue.
'You should go home now, and rest.' Zhoaah sat on the ground beside him, his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]