Once upon a time I would sooner have died than crawl through a pit full of rotting carrion simply to avoid a fight, but those cruel years under Navar’s fiery whip had taught me a great deal about what could and could not be tolerated.
I was already covered in blood and muck, and so reckoned I could hardly get any filthier. The stench and filth actually complemented the blurring effect of my sorcery, making me all but invisible to the few living guards I passed, although it didn’t make the experience any less disgusting or undignified. I reckoned the ditch to be an old riverbed from the smooth rocks that occasionally jutted from the sides and the way it tapered away towards the swamps.
What was worrying me far more than the threat of so many wizards and rank fluids soaking my clothes was the chanting that was becoming audible as I approached the main tent. It was a strange, sibilant sound that rose and fell with a cadence that made me feel strangely off balance even though I was already all but flat on my belly. I gritted my teeth and pulled myself through another jumble of body parts, fighting the growing urge to join in with the chanting which had wormed its way into my thoughts. Even my precious medallion couldn’t protect me from this, and as I fought my way forward I felt the blurring construct I had been holding together begin to fragment, the focus needed to maintain it failing under the eroding effect of the chanting.
The words themselves were completely nonsensical to me, but that was no surprise. Only the intonation and intent mattered, not the language. They could be reciting a list of the Worm Lord’s favourite meals but as long as they said it in the right way it would not make a mote of difference to the effect.
The pressure peaked as I passed the tent, every part of me aching as if I had just pulled myself up a mountain rather than through that slimy ditch. The riverbed widened here, thinning the depth of the bodies beneath me and soon after that the pile tapered away amidst a tangle of bodies that were still warm. I slid to the bottom of the pile and once I was a good twenty yards from the last body I slowly pulled myself to the lip of the bank. I was now behind the last of the smaller tents that ringed the large tent, which was more or less exactly where I wanted to be.
I fought to draw my sorcery to me again, and even as skilled as I was, it was a struggle to channel more than a trickle into myself. I hoarded what power I managed to call, then carefully sent a sliver of it out over the edge and towards the tent, probing for wards and unseen dangers. What I found was that the tents ringing the large one were full of prisoners taken by the Penullin army, which went some way to explaining the riverbed of bodies. From the number of dead, they must have been bringing more in from somewhere else on a regular basis.
I also began to sense that the ward I had sensed wasn’t a ward at all, but something altogether different. I had encountered a good number of them in my time, ranging from the most basic sort to the complex, interlinked kind that had nearly killed me recently. For all the differences and dangers they presented, they had a common underlying structure that anchored it to the source of power that fed them. The cold, shifting sphere of energy that was pressing back at me now felt nothing like that, and yet it was definitely anchored to something within the tent, as a ward would be.
Drawn in by my curiosity, I pushed too far and suddenly felt that same formless cold latch on to my sorcery like a striking snake. It pulled with a terrible force, tearing it from my mind before I even knew it was gone and devouring it in an instant. I tumbled gracelessly down the bank and lay there stunned, unable to do anything more than try to breathe through the unspeakable pain of having my sorcery ripped from my mind. It was fortunate that I had drawn so little; had I been caught unawares with more power summoned the result would most likely have been far, far worse than a nasty headache and bout of nausea. It may not have been a physical attack, but it was nonetheless a brutal and violent act. Once the nausea passed I focused on the anger that always followed an injury, savouring how righteous it felt.
I pulled myself up and over the lip and rolled onto the grass, enjoying the feel of something other than cold flesh against mine, then quickly moved across to crouch behind one of the tents that I now knew to be holding prisoners.
I edged around the canvas and risked a glance towards the larger tent and the glow within. The light within was a soft shimmer, like moonlight reflecting off water, the brightness waxing and waning in time with the pitch of the chanting. I was immediately gripped with the idea that if I would only look into the centre of the light I would understand the pattern; it wanted me to look at it, just as the chant wanted me to mouth the words that formed it. What harm was there in it, after all? I would finally see what the others saw, and know the truth. I would be part of something greater than me.
I felt myself turn towards the glow, my hand reaching up to pull my hood off, but a sudden heat against my breast made me flinch. I felt the allure of the light and its glow fade, and the sight of it suddenly felt as unwelcome as an unexpected lump in a mouthful of wine. I shrank back behind the tent and fumbled St Tomas’ medallion from the sodden pocket I carried it in. The blue stone in the centre flickered briefly as if acknowledging my gratitude, then dimmed and cooled. I patted it with no little affection and carefully put it away again. Its intervention had won me a brief reprieve from the insidious effect of the chant, giving me the momentary clarity of thought I needed to protect myself from it. I felt my anger stir anew and welcomed the sensation. It had sustained me through seven centuries of captivity and degradation, and it would see me through this too.
I inched forward again and looked towards the tent, concentrating on what was happening on the fringes of the light, rather than within it. It was like trying to watch fish at the bottom of a fast river, but after a fair amount of quiet cursing the figures finally swam into focus. The swaying figures were prisoners from the look of them, each linked to the other by a glittering chain fastened about their necks. Interspersed between them I could see the darker shapes of necromancers, their eyes glowing as they raised their staffs and crashed them to the ground, sending white sparks which flew to join the brighter glow in the centre.
I dragged my gaze away and looked around, suddenly conscious that the spectacle of the ritual had kept my attention for far longer than it should have. Aside from the wizards, who could protect themselves from the side effect of the spellcasting, the only figures moving around this close to the main tent were a number of undead guards, who I supposed were likewise immune to it. These ghouls weren’t the more common sort who only reacted to things, but were armoured like men and roving under what appeared to be their own will, their eyes permanently ablaze with the cold light that signified a higher awareness. I would have preferred normal, living soldiers who were far easier to distract or kill. I had no real idea of what these ghouls were capable of. What could they actually see with the blank white orbs that served as their eyes?
I watched as a pair passed near to me, my legs braced to charge if they reacted to me, but whatever they saw, it seemed it did not extend to their peripheral vision, something that I would try to remember. I edged a bit further around the tent as the pair passed, then abruptly froze in place as I saw another of them in front of the very tent I was hiding behind. He was clad in stiff looking leather armour with metal discs sewn onto them, and held a heavy looking mace which I quite liked the look of.
As I inched closer to make sure he was alone, a woman within the tent suddenly screamed, and after little or no respite from the sibilant chanting and buzzing vibrations, her shriek was like a blade being jammed into my ear. I recoiled, and as I did my foot caught one of the ropes. I caught myself before I fell, but by then the guard’s helmeted head had already swung towards me and the same mace that I had been admiring was suddenly lifting.