The Unsound Prince Read online

The Xaanian captain barked an order, and dozens of arrows sped toward Ultrich in hard, flat trajectories. They parted at an invisible division in the air, passing on either side of him. The Legatus hardly even paused in his thinking for a party trick like that. Now he began to search among the archers for the source of the strange compulsion.

  The Xaanian captain wasn’t the source of it. Then Ultrich saw a movement among the mounted archers, and a strangely cloaked figure manoeuvred its horse out from behind the captain.

  Ultrich smiled grimly. It was to be a challenge then.

  A wave of unbearable worthlessness swept over him. He looked back over his life and saw the flaws in every decision he had ever made. He counted whatever gains he'd made as nothing. Shame and guilt led him by the hand to the inexorable conclusion that the only way he could atone for his failings was to sacrifice himself to these, his enemies.

  As he looked across the gulley he saw how noble they looked, and how worthy. His life might at last be worth something if he just gave himself to their swords in penance. Despair ate at him, driving him forward. Despair and its cousin emptiness.

  A profound isolation enveloped him.

  All these emotions, and more, flooded over Ultrich. Finding no purchase, they rolled off his back and evaporated into the emptiness of the High Steppes.

  He sat, unmoved, and thought about the challenge he had just defeated. Controlling the forces of nature was not that hard for spirit walkers, but controlling the devilry of the mind was a much greater challenge. That was why the best spirit walkers spent more time changing their ‘human’ nature than learning about the great magics within the world.

  If there was no reaction to circumstance, nothing that was ‘mine’, nothing to live or die for. If the root causes of desire were cut off. If anger was overcome, and greed turned into an empty husk, then the human spirit could not be drawn into the world and manipulated by the ten thousand things it found there. It was this training that saved Ultrich from being sucked into his enemy’s web of lies.

  He shook himself, feeling vaguely begrimed by the assault, and considered his response. In the end, sadly, there was only one option. Like all the deadly sins of the human heart, such violence toward others needed to be met by itself. Only when those who caused pain and suffering felt the same suffering in themselves would they change.

  The Legatus reached out his mind and visited upon the cloaked figure the very things it had tried to inflict upon him.

  The figure arched, a soundless, wordless scream. It slid off its horse. As it hit the ground Ultrich knew it was already deeply unconscious. He relaxed his grip on its mind, and the Xaanian horsemen roused themselves, as if from a long sleep.

  They looked past Ultrich to where the Lancers had finished their grisly work dispatching the Xaanian cavalry. They were forming up into another line, ready to sweep down upon the gulley. The archers turned and fled across the Steppes, back to the advancing Xaanian army.

  Ultrich let them go. He walked his horse down the side of the gulley and climbed an easy incline on the other side. Then he dismounted beside the fallen rider. A smell of marsh gases and freshwater lake wafted from the cloaked figure. It reminded Ultrich of rivers laden with silt. He dragged the cloak off its face with his foot.

  He exposed something reptilian, yet vaguely familiar. As if something human had evolved from different origins. Ultrich pursed his lips.

  “Sarkosay,” he said to himself. It was hard to believe.

  They were creatures of legend, chameleon-like beings that could look like anything around them. They had the ability to control minds, to will others to do what they desired. This one had been perfectly credible as a Xaanian commander.

  He paused. What was the League up against? What power now controlled the ancient, and still potent, kingdom of Xaan? Whatever it was, these things would be perfect underlings for such an evil.

  The figure twitched, and Ultrich felt its consciousness slip away. He wrapped his mind around it, following it into the netherworld. There were too many questions he wanted answered to let it go. He halted its journey, and started to guide its consciousness back to the land of the living.

  Then he was ripped away from his prize, buffeted by the thoughts and emotions of an enormously powerful being. Steeling himself, he withdrew into his inner core, trying to survive the enormous energies whirling around him.

  Traces of lesser minds came and went from the towering consciousness ahead of him in the netherworld. They were passing on information, and receiving new instructions. Ultrich saw the spirit trace of the Sarkosay pass into the centre of it all.

  That same intelligence turned its attention toward him, and he fled for the world of the living. Before he could regain his body on the Steppes, he felt himself seized and lifted up. His mental shields gave way, and he was crushed by an overwhelming demand for answers.

  He resisted, but the battering was too much. Barely conscious, he felt something snatch him from his tormentor. A great howl of rage was cut short behind him as he was ripped away. He remembered being returned to his body, and then he sank into oblivion.

  "Legatus! Wake up! Dammit, someone get me some water," bellowed Gosan. He was unceremoniously slapping Ultrich’s face vigorously. The Legatus was trying to reply when a whole canteen of cold water was poured over him. He sat up, spluttering, trying to push the Wild Marches commander away.

  “All right, all right!” he managed at last. “Is there anyone who’s actually survived your field nursing?”

  The men clustered around him roared with laughter. They were hugely relieved that their supreme commander had regained consciousness.

  Ultrich got unsteadily to his feet, supported by Gosan.

  What in the name of all the hells had happened, he thought, trying to clear his head. Something had snatched him back from that thing in the netherworld, but what?

  He calmed his mind, and tried to recall the event. What had the presence felt like? Who or what had helped him? He smelled an astringency in the air, and the faintest trace of cinnamon, and knew instantly what it meant.

  It had been spirit walker work, and he knew of no one in the League with that sort of power. There was something familiar about the way it was done, however, and he tried to home in on it. Then the pieces fell into place.

  Rossi! By all the gods, his son had saved his life!

  “Are you all right?” asked Gosan, perplexed by the look of wonderment on Ultrich’s face.

  “Yes, yes I’m fine,” said the Legatus, a moment later. He let go of the astonishing realisation his son was capable of such things, and brought himself back to his role as supreme commander.

  “I think we’re finished here. Let’s mount up and escort the last of the Hill Tribes into Rotor Pass.”

  Gosan nodded, and started barking orders. One of the Lancers brought Ultrich his horse, and helped him mount it. The horsemen formed up, and left the scene of the battle heading south-east at a steady pace. They were aiming for the dust clouds ahead of them. It was a marker that would lead them to the last of the Hill Tribes, and their herds.

  Ultrich was unsettled. His worst fears had been realised. Whatever that thing in the netherworld had been, it was more powerful than he was. Unless the League could find another champion, the evil in Xianak was going to be unstoppable.

  ***

  Morning at the Keep was a rather clammy affair. The mists that gathered round the mountain peaks most days were drifting off the tops and down into the valleys. Eventually they would roll out over the desert plains and evaporate, shrivelled up by the fierce desert heat.

  Mudge woke to the sound of a fire sparking to life. Ochren was piling more wood onto last night’s embers. It felt like morning, but everything was dull and grey. He shivered, and tightened his greatcoat around him.

  “Time for the Keeper Stone, boy,” said Ochren, nudging him with his foot.

  “Breakfast first,” said Mudge blearily, still half asleep.

  “You won’t
want anything in your stomach for this,” said Ochren. That woke Mudge in a hurry.

  They left Senovila and Arnima to rouse the others, with strict instructions that no one was to descend into the basement of the Keep. Then they made their way down the steps that lined the outer wall of the basement. A patch of weak, grey light filtered down beside them, but once they were away from the steps it was hard to see anything. Mudge expected Ochren to light a pitch and brushwood torch, but he didn't.

  They stumbled toward the raised plinth that housed the Keeper Stone, finding it mainly by touch. Ochren placed his hands on the dome at the top. Then he took a deep breath. Ultrich had told him what to do, but knowing the words didn't make it any easier.

  He recited a line from an ancient language, and then the voice of the Legatus took over. It was coming out of the air all around them. Mudge figured it was a spirit trace that Ultrich had left to guard the Keeper Stone. He listened in fascination as the words rolled on, creating a spirit pattern.

  This way of doing things had always been something he didn’t understand. A spirit walker from the Priatic schools needed to see a pattern in the world before they could make changes. To Mudge the pattern was coincidental. He wondered why they didn't just reach into the heart of things, and do what needed to be done. That was what he did.

  The voice of the Legatus finished its chanting, and the raised dome split down the middle, each half receding into the carved disc under it. The Keeper Stone blazed with revealed glory. It lit up the basement of the Keep all around them.

  Mudge looked away until his eyes adjusted. When he looked back he was surprised to see how small it was. It was a rough-shaped piece of what looked like mineral ore. A piece that could easily fit in the palm of his hand.

  "All yours, boy," said Ochren, pleased his part in proceedings was over.

  Mudge looked at him enquiringly.

  "Touch the damn thing," said Ochren, moving away from the raised plinth. "And make sure you’ve got your wits about you."

  This didn't inspire confidence in Mudge, but he wasn't going to back down in front of the head Ranger. Ultrich seemed to think the Keeper Stone was important, and if Mudge could do something to help in the struggle against the invaders, he would do it.

  Tentatively, he laid a hand on the Stone, dimming its light. Mudge looked in surprise at his hand, made almost translucent by the light from the Stone beneath it. Then he felt something tapping at his spirit senses. He opened his awareness to meet it, and discovered the Keeper Stone was alive!

  Mudge jerked his hand away. He hesitated for a moment, then cautiously resumed contact. He discovered the Stone was more curious about him than anything. It was wondering what he was, but rather idly so, as if the things of the physical world were of little interest to it.

  Mudge thought about his father. He wondered how much the Legatus knew about the Keeper Stone. At that, the Stone’s interest in him flared strongly. He could feel it searching him out, crowding around him. He forced himself to think about the Keep, and his friends on the floor above. The Stone retreated. It was, once again, biding its time.

  Mudge saw that the Stone responded to his thoughts, or perhaps the emotions that underlay them. There was so much he didn’t know. How did the Keeper Stone work? What did it want?

  Part of him didn’t really want to deal with this right now. Bear had been on his mind all night. He’d thought Arnima would lead the two of them in a healing ritual for his Ranger friend this morning, but instead he was here with the Keeper Stone, at his father’s request. He was ambivalent about his father’s part in it all, and now he was faced with a riddle that seemed as impossible as any ancient paradox.

  Unwittingly, he thought of the moment the winged beast had seized Bear and carried him into the air. The image was emblazoned on his mind. He would never forget it.

  There was an abrupt scream from the floor above, and an anguished moan from Bear. It sounded torn out of him.

  Mudge found himself in two places at once. Still with the Keeper Stone in the basement, yet witnessing what was happening on the ground floor of the Keep. He saw Bear hanging in the air, apparently unsupported. He was in the same position as when he’d been dragged aloft by the winged monster.

  The Keeper Stone! It was taking the picture out of his mind and re-enacting it. He saw Bear jerk spasmodically as the pain of being suspended by his wounded shoulders seared through him.

  Mudge didn’t hesitate. He just poured himself into the Stone, battering it back. He was struggling to control it, and stop it acting out his thoughts. It drew back, wondering at his actions. He felt the ease with which it could crush him, and the growing intensity of a question within it. Why would he risk his life?

  Mudge didn’t hesitate. His heart went out to his friend. He remembered the peace he’d found at Shaker’s Hope, but now two of his friends were dead, and he wouldn’t let that happen to a third.

  He launched himself at the Stone, reaching into places inside himself he’d never been before. He gathered his energies to overcome the Stone, to take command of it and make it stop.

  Then the Stone was gone from under his hand.

  His fingers closed on emptiness, yet it was somehow still there. He could feel its presence, all around him and inside him. He tried to find something that was just the Stone, but it was impossible to separate what was the Stone, and what was himself.

  He pulled back, uncertain how to make it let go of Bear when he couldn’t locate it. Then he began to understand.

  The Stone approved. It understood the fact he would die for his friends, that he was someone who would die for the well-being of others. At the deepest level he cared about the state of the world, and the creatures that lived in it.

  Mudge saw, in his strange, split state, that Bear was now back on his stretcher. He wanted to climb the stairs to check on him, but it was hard to move. Everything had changed, even the way he moved his limbs, as if he was back in his body in a new way.

  Then he was scrambling awkwardly up the stairs, and stumbling to his friend’s side. Arnima was trying to stop the new flow of blood that was seeping through the packing over his wounds. It saturated the bandages around his upper body.

  Kneeling beside her, he opened both his hands above Bear’s recumbent form. He imagined Bear as he’d seen him so many times before. Healthy, full of life, his capable frame undamaged once again.

  Arnima snatched her hands away from the bandages, startled by the energies that suddenly surged through Bear’s wounds. Mudge felt the Keeper Stone looking over his shoulder, guiding his intent, adding its energies to his own. He could feel muscle knitting together, and the delicate network of veins and arteries being restored. He felt the skin closing over the wounds.

  When the healing was complete, Mudge let his hands fall to his sides. He nodded to Arnima. She looked back at Bear, then cut away the bandages. As she removed the packing, the others crowded round. There was a hum of amazement as they saw the faint lines on Bear’s skin, all that was left of the deep cuts forced into his body.

  Bear opened his eyes.

  “Where are we?” he asked weakly. Then he tried to sit up. Arnima hurried to support him.

  “How did I get here?” he continued.

  “That, you lucky streak of horse muck, is a long story!” said Senovila. They were all crowding around Bear now, overjoyed to see him well again.

  Mudge edged away, and signalled Ochren to join him.

  “Keep them out of the basement until I’m ready to leave,” he said softly. “Make breakfast, do a bit of hunting maybe. I have to sort out this Keeper Stone thing. I don’t want anyone down the stairs until I’m done.”

  Ochren nodded.

  “Prince Rossi,” he said quietly, and Mudge looked up. It was unusual for the Ranger to use his formal title.

  “I came here with your father, as part of my training, in the early days of the League. We came over the High Pass, and along the edges of the desert. There was a whole company of
us. Ultrich tried to master the Stone then, too.”

  Mudge’s eyes opened in surprise for a moment, but it made sense. The new Combat Prime would have sought to extend his spirit abilities as much as he could. Mudge was intrigued. He didn't know any stories about his father’s adventures as a young man.

  “The Stone damn near killed him,” said Ochren. He looked Mudge in the eye. It had obviously affected him deeply.

  Mudge didn’t know what to think. Then he realised the same thing could have happened to him.

  “You let me touch the Stone, knowing it had the power to kill me!” he said, his face darkening.

  Ochren seemed unperturbed.

  “You aren’t your father. If you were I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near it.”

  Mudge’s hands were shaking. The delayed shock of what he’d been through this day was coming home to roost.

  “No one said being heir to the Legatus was going to be easy,” said Ochren mildly.

  “I’m no one’s heir!” said Mudge bitterly. “I’m just a kind of insurance policy in case the three ahead of me for the throne get struck down by lightning.”

  Ochren’s expression didn’t change. Mudge recalled a similar conversation they’d had. Ochren had tried to tell him that the League was going to be his, and he needed to be ready when that time came.

  “No!” he said, not wanting the job, and not feeling ready for it by a long shot.

  Ochren just nodded, and walked away.

  Mudge wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He was sitting on the edge of the plinth, deep in contemplation. He was beginning to feel a bit more relaxed about having the Keeper Stone always with him, always part of him. Like a faithful if unpredictable wolfhound.

  He felt its loyalty, but then he realised it wasn’t loyal to him personally. It was loyal to the idea of selflessness, of being second after the needs of others, and, he thought, loyal to the beauty of creation itself.

  He knew now that the Stone had been made in the beginning. Perhaps not even made, just formed out of nothing by some quirk of the energies that were at work then. It was, however, in some fundamental way moral. It had discovered an underlying order to the world, and allied itself immovably with that order.