I felt both nervous and curious about what lay ahead. I wanted to ask Tyron about Hob. Only one thing stopped me – the strange reference he’d made to Kern’s soul. It made me afraid to enquire further – as if the answers might reveal a different Tyron to the one I respected and admired: a superstitious stranger I barely knew.
How could you buy back a man’s soul? I wondered.
As we moved higher, the air cooled and, from nowhere, a thick mist swirled before us, coiling like serpents with a single determined aim: to form an impenetrable wall of whiteness. It was as if we’d penetrated low cloud – though I’d seen no hint of cloud previously, and on a night in late summer, with the air still warm, the thick white blanket that had enveloped us without warning could surely not be natural.
Then, as suddenly as it had descended, the mist was below us, a white collar circling the hillside; above it, the whole landscape was bathed in moonlight, and the great walls and thirteen twisted spires of Hob’s citadel reared up like a dark beast before us.
Tyron brought the horses to a halt and, with a curt order – ‘Bring the bag!’ – jumped to the ground.
The money bag, although merely sealed with cord, was attached to a long loop of security chain. Once clear of the wagon, I slung it around my neck. It was heavy and I struggled to keep up with Tyron, who strode off along the outside of what soon proved to be a curved wall. But for the fact that it was stone rather than wood, we might have been circling the outer rim of the Wheel.
At intervals along the wall were a number of small dark openings, barely large enough to admit a man. Each one went down at a steep angle and the grass around them was churned into mud, as if they were used frequently by tassels. The night when the three Genthai warriors had come to our aid, I’d seen some of the tassels escape, slithering away into tunnels such as these. We passed the large gates against which those Genthai had hammered, but without even glancing at it, Tyron continued along the wall.
At last we came to a great curved archway. No gate barred our way, and Tyron turned into it without hesitation, crossing a small flagged courtyard to enter a dark tunnel. There was no glimmer of light ahead, and if it hadn’t been for the sound of Tyron’s footsteps clattering on the stone flags, I would have turned back.
To visit this dark citadel at all seemed like folly, but to come in the dead of night seemed reckless beyond belief. But then I thought of Kern, the reason we’d come to this forbidding place, and tried to banish my own fears from my mind. I had to trust that Tyron knew what he was doing and that good would come of it.
One thing was now certain beyond any doubt: Tyron knew exactly where he was going. He’d visited Hob’s citadel before.
We emerged from the darkness of the tunnel into a great space illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles. Some were fastened to the walls, others embedded in huge iron candelabra standing on the floor. Despite their light, the walls towered so high above us that the ceiling was lost in gloom. To both right and left stood rows of pillars, beyond which lay sinister shadows, with the hint of other pillars beyond them.
The floor was constructed of marble, with an intricate design of intertwining fantastical creatures; it was a complex glittering mosaic formed of vivid reds, yellows and rich royal purples. Tyron walked swiftly forward, and then I saw that, at the far end of the room, three steps led up to an elevated platform bearing a huge throne.
As I stared at it, the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise.
That throne was occupied . . .
At first I thought that the seated figure was a giant, maybe three or even four times the size of a man. But as we drew nearer, I realized that it was just an illusion created by the size of the hall and the positioning of the pillars.
It was certainly very effective, no doubt calculated to inspire awe in anyone who approached that throne. And as we crossed the hall, I sensed that I was being watched from either side; a feeling that was reinforced by a disturbing noise, so faint it was almost inaudible, of whisperings and mutterings.
I gazed quickly left and right, searching amongst the pillars, but there was no sign of anyone other than the figure seated upon the throne.
Why were there no servants in attendance? And was this indeed Hob, my enemy, or was it some mere keeper of an anteroom with something even greater beyond it, as yet unseen?
My question was immediately answered for, to my dismay, Tyron suddenly cast himself first upon his knees and then upon his face before the throne. He lay prone for many seconds while I tried to adjust to what I was seeing.
Could this really be Tyron, the greatest artificer in all Gindeen? Tyron, who was respected the length and breadth of the city? I stared up at the throne, trying to understand what could have caused him to behave in such a way. It was then that Hob slowly turned his head in my direction and his eyes locked onto mine.
He no longer wore the bronze helmet. Was this indeed the creature who had just slain Kern in the arena? I wondered.
He had the shape of a man, and his clothes were dark and nothing out of the ordinary, but his arms were long like a lac’s. He wore a short, full-sleeved jacket of good quality leather, and his trousers were sewn by a first-rate tailor, and across the back of his throne lay a cloak with long tassels, each ending in a black bead. It was from this that his servants got their name.
But then I noticed his boots – boots made for fighting in Arena 13, light and trim, laced to a point high on the ankle. Tyron had once told me that, about ten years previously, it had been fashionable in the city for aficionados to wear such boots in imitation of the combatants they supported. But this was no longer the case; apart from Kwin and some stick-fighters, only true combatants now wore that type of boot outside the arena.
The boots looked new, but they were splattered with small dark stains. I shivered as I realized that it was blood from Arena 13.
It was Kern’s blood.
As Hob continued to stare at me, my knees began to shake. At first it was only a slight trembling, but for some reason I took a step backwards and the tremor began to grow, my legs becoming weaker until they threatened to give way beneath me. Another second and I’d have fallen; however, just in time, Hob’s gaze was directed back at Tyron, who’d come to his feet.
‘Lord,’ said Tyron, ‘I am here to beg a great favour.’
Hob gave a barely perceptible nod, as if indicating permission for Tyron to continue. Free of his gaze, I was able to examine him once more.
His head was slightly larger than normal and completely hairless. There wasn’t even a hint of facial hair. The nose was large and hooked, so that he looked like one of the large predatory eagles that soared over the Southern Mountains in spring.
‘Lord, the youth that you defeated in the arena tonight was the husband of my daughter,’ Tyron continued. ‘Would you allow me to buy his remains?’
At the word ‘remains’, I grew cold. He was talking about Kern, who’d recently been so full of life and hope, so happy with his wife and child, so proud of his rapidly developing skill in the Trig.
There was a long pause before Hob spoke. Rather than answering Tyron’s question, he asked one of his own.
‘Is your elder daughter well?’
‘Yes, Lord,’ Tyron replied. ‘She is in good health. But I fear that what has happened will destroy her sanity, unless you will be gracious.’
‘How much have you brought?’ Hob asked.
Tyron turned and waved me forward, so I unslung the chain from my neck and placed the bag on the marble floor at his side. Tyron immediately knelt before it, untied the string and pulled out a handful of gold coins, allowing them to fall through his fingers somewhat theatrically, to cascade in a golden shower back into the bag.
‘This is but a deposit, Lord. Twice this I will give you for the remains of Kern.’
‘Would this include his soul?’ Hob asked.
There was a long silence. At last, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, Tyron gave the merest of nods
.
‘Then we have a bargain,’ the djinni said. ‘For double what you place before me, you may have the remains as agreed. You may take them now, but the full price must be with me before the new moon.’
A hooded figure emerged from the pillars to our left: one of the tassels carrying a large black wooden box. He halted before the throne and bowed to Hob, setting the box down before Tyron. After another bow to his master, he withdrew into the shadows behind the pillars.
Hob gestured, and Tyron immediately fell to his knees before the box. Although it had no visible hinges or clasps, he quickly raised its lid and pulled down the front panel, as if he was familiar with such devices.
I could only gaze in horror upon what was now clearly visible within the box.
It was the head of Kern.
Bile rose in my throat, and I struggled to hold down the contents of my stomach.
There was a worse horror to come, for it was clear that the head still lived. It was supported upon a tangle of fibrous tissue that resembled roots or fungi, and the face was horribly animated, twitching as if in spasm. But the features suddenly settled, and the eyes opened and looked directly at Tyron. A moment later their gaze fell upon me, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the head was conscious. That Kern, even in this appalling condition, was still alive and aware, still able to recognize us.
Tears were running down my cheeks now. Why should such a terrible thing have been allowed to happen to Kern? I remembered the patient teacher; I saw him holding his wife’s hand and smiling into her eyes; kissing the child on his knee.
Kern’s mouth started to move. No sound emerged, but a pink froth formed upon the lips. Tyron placed a hand very gently upon the head, as might a father upon the head of his child.
I watched, filled with sadness and horror. Now, turning back to look at Hob, I saw again my mother’s shoes lying in the long grass by the river bank. I saw her dead body drained of blood. I saw the angry eyes of my father as he used his fists on me, driving me away. I saw our house burning and smelled the charred flesh of my parents.
I had left Tyron’s house as I had entered it, dressed for the gallery and, like Tyron, still wore two blades at my belt. Now my urge to kill Hob was so overpowering that before I even realized what I was doing, I had drawn my blades and taken three steps towards the throne.
Hob didn’t respond, but time itself seemed to freeze, and slowly, very slowly, I became aware of the enormity of what I’d done.
The drawing of the blades had been an instinctive response, born of deep emotions that now boiled up into my throat, robbing me of speech. Something within me sought to end the life of the sinister creature on the throne, the blood-drinking djinni who had done such unspeakable things.
But now it was not only emotion that took away my ability to talk. Hob’s eyes were regarding me, and never had I seen such eyes. The whites were unusually large, the small dark iris sitting above the centre of each orb. I’d heard the expression ‘wall-eyed wrath’ used to describe staring rage. There was something of that here, but if this was anger being directed at me, it was of a type I’d never encountered before.
For the eyes were cold and gazed unblinkingly, like a great predatory fish from the darkest depths of the ocean, unfeeling and without pity, at a mote of life that had fallen into its domain. There was no emotion behind those eyes, no compassion. They were windows through which something utterly alien peered out upon the world of humans, and I struggled to break free of a great weight that was dragging me down into unspeakable depths of darkness.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tyron staring at me; a sequence of emotions flickered across his face, but they were impossible to read. I’d caused more trouble. I should have controlled my feelings. He would be angry.
He’d said I was somebody he could rely on, and now I’d let him down.
Suddenly Tyron was on his knees again, prostrate before the throne, and as he spoke, he began to beat his forehead rhythmically against the marble floor.
It was hard to make sense of his gabbled words, but it was clear that Tyron was now begging for my life. I stood there like a fool, unable to speak or even move, until at last he came to his feet, approached me and, seizing my hands, guided my blades back into their scabbards.
Now he had his arm around me like a father and, with a sudden shock, I saw that he was weeping. Finally he seemed to gather himself and spoke more slowly and carefully.
‘The boy is young and hot-headed, Lord. I should not have brought him here. He knows not what he does. But I will teach him. Just allow me time, Lord. You will see how he can change.’
‘Perhaps,’ Hob acknowledged, ‘but before I decide what is to be done, I would ask a question.’
He directed his cold gaze upon me again. ‘Whom do you love, boy?’ he asked slowly.
It was a strange question. I didn’t want to answer, but knew that, if I refused, I’d never leave that place alive. And I also knew that, within these walls, there waited more terrible things than death.
I tried to answer, but was filled with confusion. I had no father or mother to love now. Hob had been responsible for their deaths. Deinon was my friend, but as far as emotions went, Kwin was the person I’d felt closest to since arriving in the city. I was strongly attracted to her, but my feelings couldn’t be described as love. In any case, she’d once had feelings for Jon, and since discovering that, I’d tried to distance myself from her. And although I thought of Tyron as my friend and guardian, I did not love him as I had once loved my father.
So there was only one answer I could give.
‘I love no one,’ I replied.
For the first time Hob smiled. ‘You may take two souls with you, Tyron,’ he said. ‘But the price will be doubled and the whole must still be paid before the moon wanes to new.’
Tyron began to babble out words of gratitude, but Hob silenced him with a gesture of his hand. He was looking at me again.
‘You have dared to threaten me, boy, and for that a price must be paid. You must be punished. One day, in the fullness of time, you will change,’ Hob said. ‘You will learn to have for others the emotion that man calls love. One by one, as you grow older, the number of those you love will grow, and the depth of that love will grow too. Then, one by one, I will take from you those you love. Piece by piece, I will take from you all that you hold dear until only you remain. Only then will I kill you. Only then will I devour your soul.’
Again, my hands seemed to have a life of their own: they moved to draw the blades a second time. But Tyron had already lifted the wooden box and had wrapped his other arm about me with a grip of iron; he was turning and forcing me across the marble floor towards the door at the far end of the hall.
Once we reached the wagon, Tyron seized the reins and urged the horses back down the hill, while I sat beside him, lost for words. The horror of Kern’s condition was a great weight that lay upon my soul like a coffin of lead.
But the ordeal wasn’t yet over. I realized that Tyron was not taking the track that led directly back into the city. Soon we were on a wooded slope, pressed on either side by young trees. Here, Tyron stopped the wagon, seized the box and leaped down onto the grass.
I followed, hardly knowing what to expect. We were in a small clearing, and the moon was just visible between the trees, its faint white light casting spectral shadows across the grass.
I stared at Tyron, expecting him to be livid with anger at what I had done. He had said he trusted me, but I had let my emotions get the better of me. I had let him down again. However, he looked sad and close to tears.
Tyron set the box down on the ground between us and opened it quickly. In the shadows, Kern’s features were not clearly visible, but I could see the eyes rolling in their sockets.
I watched Tyron lay a hand gently upon Kern’s forehead, his fingers covering the eyes, and murmur simply, ‘Peace . . .’
There was the glint of a blade and, with two swift strokes, Tyron severed t
he fibrous tissue beneath the head. He pressed the eyelids shut and sighed. Then he went back into the wagon, returning moments later with a spade.
He handed it to me. ‘Dig it deep,’ he commanded.
So I began. At one point I glanced back at him; he was sitting cross-legged before the box. All around us there was utter silence – apart from the sound of Tyron weeping.
At one point I leaned back on my spade and asked if the hole was deep enough.
‘We need it deeper than that, boy. Twice as deep,’ he replied.
When it was done, Tyron placed the open box in the hole. The head was still now. Mercifully, all life seemed to have left it. Tyron then went back to the wagon and returned moments later with a can of thick lubricating oil. He doused the contents of the hole liberally, and then ignited it.
There was a whoosh, a sheet of flame, and then a nauseating smell of burning flesh. Twice more he doused that hole. Twice more he sent flames searing upwards into the night sky.
‘We can’t take any chances,’ Tyron told me. ‘You wouldn’t believe what Hob’s capable of.’
Then, without further explanation, he took the spade and began to fill the hole with earth. Finally he shook his head sorrowfully and stamped the earth down hard with his feet.
We returned in silence. My mind was numb.
26
Dignity
Our master Caesar is in the tent, where the maps are spread.
His eyes fixed upon nothing, a hand under his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream,
His mind moves upon silence.
The Compendium of Ancient Tales and Ballads
Once inside the house, I muttered a goodnight and headed for my sleeping quarters. I assumed that Tyron would want to be alone with his family, but to my surprise he beckoned to me.
Obediently I followed him upstairs to his study, expecting to receive a dressing down. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and without a word Tyron pointed to a seat before it. I sat down, and was left alone for half an hour or so.