Adrian Cole
The Crimson Talisman
To Dave Bodmin,
A true creature of the night.
Part One
Flight from Karrnath
1
Horror at the Gates
Through the long slit of the castle window, Vaddi peered out at the gathering gloom. For the last two hours the clouds had been piling together, clashing like huge fleets above the towers of Marazanath Hold, the threat of thunder hanging like doom over the castle and all these remote northern crags. Only the snake-tongue flashes of lightning bathed the surrounding terrain in light, jagged as the rocks that knifed down to the sea two hundred feet below. From out of the north, the icy winds gusted, hurled with a terrible energy.
Vaddi could just make out the combers as they shattered themselves on the shore below, like some mad army determined to dash itself to pieces. The first detonation overhead confirmed that the storm had truly arrived, and Vaddi felt the very walls of the Hold shuddering. There had been storms before. Indeed, they were frequent so far in the north of Khorvaire, along this remote sweep of the Karrn Bay, but somehow he felt that this storm presaged something more ominous, as chough within its cloaking darkness some other force was stirring.
Hidden from his eyes by sheets of driving rain, the inner courtyard at the stronghold gates far below was barely lit by the sputtering torches set under the eaves around it. The night watch, a dozen sleepy guards, huddled under the walls, occasionally casting a look out over the parapet at the winding road.
“Looks like we’ve got company!” called one of the rain-soaked watchers to his companions below, pointing at the churning night.
“You’re imagining it, Garrond! Only a lunatic would be out in this muck.”
“Supplies coming in, by the look of it.”
The watcher shielded his eyes from the blasts of wind and rain. He could see the wide cart as it struggled up the slope toward the castle, its wheels digging into the mud, its sheer weight almost bringing it to a halt. Barrels and crates almost overloaded the vehicle, and two sodden figures hunched over it, urging four huge dray horses forward in defiance of the storm.
“They must’ve started out before this storm broke,” said Amalfax, the other watchman on the wall. “Got so far and thought better of turning back! Hah! Better let them in.”
“It’s gone midnight. You know the rules.”
“Hell’s teeth, Garrond, give the poor devils a break! They’ve half killed themselves getting here. Let them in. That’s our supplies out there!”
Garrond grunted an obscenity and went on muttering about being flogged for improper discharge of duty but nevertheless operated the massive winch that cranked down the drawbridge. It slapped down into the mud across the chasm. The huge cart eased its way onto the bridge, lumbering toward the gates and inner courtyard. As it did so, one of its wheels tilted, thick spokes snapping, and the cart sagged to one side.
Garrond’s shouted obscenities became even more colorful. The two men on the cart were waving frantically. Moments later the night watch scrambled out the gates, all of them setting their shoulders to the lilting cart in an effort to get it upright and into the courtyard. A brief slab of light from one of the guard’s lanterns revealed a sudden tear in the hide covering of the cart’s load. The tear parted, and men squirmed our from beneath it like maggots from a rotten fruit.
Too late Garrond and Amalfax saw steel. The intruders leaped down and rammed their swords into flesh. Four of the night guards were down at a stroke, blood spilling on to the bridge. The cart leaned drunkenly, two huge barrels breaking loose and smashing on to the boards before tumbling into the ravine. A dozen more intruders jumped from the wagon, and within momenta the entire night watch was involved in a furious struggle.
Garrond dragged out his own blade. With a scything chop he ripped open the belly of the nearest intruder. His eyes bulged, for no blood spurted over him—only an explosion of dust. The belly of his assailant opened to reveal rotting clothing and crumbling bone. Its skeletal features were lit by its scarlet eyes, fed by some hellish fires. It grinned at the damage to its gut and attacked anew. The others were akin to this horror, their death-white skin gleaming in the rain, their rusted weapons slashing with terrible efficiency at the guards. They fought in a grim silence, their malign eyes fixed on their victims.
They cut down almost all the defenders and moved into the courtyard. On the bridge, his life seeping out of him from a dozen wounds, Garrond could see other shapes down the road—scores of them. The darkness and the storm had disgorged an entire army, a swarm of invaders, and as they approached, Garrond could see that there were men among them—a ragtag legion of vagabonds and bandits, armed with all manner of weapons.
As he felt life ebbing, Garrond looked up to see one tall figure standing over him like something from a nightmare. Garbed in tight black robes, the being leaned over him, its hideous face gleaming in triumph, its sharp fangs vivid in the brief flicker of lightning-light. Vampire! Garrond realised. This rabble of an army was led by one of the undead!
It was his last thought as the creature lunged.
Vaddi heard a soft tread behind him. He turned away from the storm to meet the cool gaze of his father, Anzar Kemmal Orien, head of the household and one of the lords of House Orien.
“Not asleep? After the rigours of training, I would have thought even this storm would not have woken you.” Anzar smiled.
For all his years, he seemed imbued with an unusual vitality. He wore a shirt of lightweight steel mesh that hung below his waist, and his long arms were muscular from constant practice with the broadsword. In spite of the hour, his eyes were as alert as those of the ravens that made this rugged hold their home.
“It’s an evil night, father. Do you not sense it?”
Anzar studied his son, seeing the young muscles, taut as a spring. Vaddi was barely eighteen, but already the long hours of training had hardened him. No youth from the distant cities would be a match for him, Anzar could see. So different in looks from his three half-brothers, several years his senior, who had years ago become knights in Thrane before returning to serve here. They were the pride of Anzar, but seeing Vaddi, he felt a stab of emotion. In Vaddi’s green eyes there seemed to glow a strange fire, an elemental thing. The youth had jet-black hair that framed narrow features—so like Indreen, Anzar’s second wife. She had been an elf, so Vaddi would never grow to the full stature of his three half-brothers. But there were other powers within the youth, Anzar well knew.
“Such storms are not unknown,” said Anzar, “but they are, after all, merely storms.”
Vaddi’s eyes returned to gazing out the window, where more lightning rent the skies. He straightened, his lips pursing, brows furrowed in the familiar determination.
Anzar grinned, in spite of the circumstances, but a shadow in hit expression made Vaddi stiffen.
“Something is wrong, isn’t it, Father?”
“We live in deeply troubled times, my son. Our lands echo with the dark schemes and treacheries of earthly powers. The Sovereigns know how all of Khorvaire suffers. It is time for you to know certain truths. Your destiny, I believe, lies elsewhere.”
Vaddi tried to smile. “I am eager to serve that call, as you know, Father.”
Anzar looked grave. “The world is at a crossroads. The Last War may have ended, but what is left in its place? A cauldron, stirred by the hand of chaos. A hand that will pluck you and crush you, if it can.”
“Me? Surely I am the least of your sons?”
Anzar came to him and put his hands on the youth’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Never think that, Vaddi. You may not have the physical stature of your half-brothers, but you hold an equal place in my heart. Even more so since your mother died.”