Read Online Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny by Simon R. Green - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Simon R. Green
Ads: Link
joined the dance the moment they arrived, almost as though pulled in against their will, and were now lost to her; just two more willowy albinos stamping their pale feet on the gray stone floor. There was no music, only the rhythm of hammering feet on the floor, and the Blood Runners' fast, frantic breathing. Their eyes were wide and staring, lost in the grip of some inner song, some violent siren call to which only they were privy. Hazel turned her attention to the great standing stone, expecting it to have the impact it had manifested in Scour's image, but to her disappointment it was just a stone. It meant nothing to her.
Human arms thrust up out of the stone floor, holding torches to light the hall around the stone. The walls were too far away to be seen. If there were walls.
It was like standing on an open plane. The ceiling high above was lost in gloom.
More of the severed heads with their brains exposed stood on pedestals in the middle distance, like so many computer terminals standing ready for use. Hazel wondered if that was to be her eventual fate, when the Blood Runners had got all they wanted from her, and she shuddered despite herself. Hundreds of the
headless bodies formed a perimeter circle, containing the stone and the dance at a respectful distance. They were utterly motionless, unmoved for the moment by the will of their owners.
From listening to Scour and Lament, and occasionally egging them into arguing with each other, Hazel had managed to build up some notion of how they lived here. They all derived their powers from the Summerstone, making them all theoretically equal, so they pursued power and influence by forming ever-changing partnerships and cabals, and creating ever increasing private armies of the headless men to enforce their will on the physical plane. Intrigue was rife, occasionally breaking out into open clashes between opposed armies in the stone corridors. The already precarious status quo was apparently on the edge of breaking down completely with Hazel's arrival, and the possibility of accessing the full power of the Madness Maze.
The Blood Runners danced on and on, sweat dripping from their faces as their bare feet slammed harder and harder against the unyielding stone. Hazel lost all track of time with nothing to measure it against. But finally the Blood Runners stopped, crashing to a sudden halt, their feet hammering down in one last simultaneous step, as though the unheard music had been abruptly cut off. They stood breathing heavily for a long moment, not looking at one another, and then they turned as one and bowed to the stone. They broke up into groups then, murmuring quietly together, too softly for Hazel to overhear. They sounded like the far-off murmur of the sea, rising and falling. The largest group had formed around Scour, and eventually all the other groups orientated on his. He stared around him coldly, almost sneering, then reached inside his robes and brought out an object wrapped in crackling parchment. Scour unwrapped it slowly, not allowing himself to be rushed by the intent concentration of the others. Inside
was a severed human hand, ancient and mummified. The tips of the fingers ended in candle wicks. Scour spoke a few quiet words, and the wicks caught alight, burning with pale blue flames.
Hazel grimaced. She'd seen such things before, on Mistworld, where they were called Hands of Glory. Made from the severed hand of a hanged man, the superstitious claimed they could open hidden doors, discover lost treasures, and reveal the secrets in a dead man's head. The arts involved in their manufacture were said to be very unpleasant.
Scour advanced on the Summerstone, holding the blazing Hand of Glory out before him. Hazel felt a sudden lurch, within and without her, and suddenly the stone wasn't just a stone anymore. Without moving or changing in any way, the Summerstone was more real, more there; realer than anything or anyone on the great stone plane. Hazel could
Human arms thrust up out of the stone floor, holding torches to light the hall around the stone. The walls were too far away to be seen. If there were walls.
It was like standing on an open plane. The ceiling high above was lost in gloom.
More of the severed heads with their brains exposed stood on pedestals in the middle distance, like so many computer terminals standing ready for use. Hazel wondered if that was to be her eventual fate, when the Blood Runners had got all they wanted from her, and she shuddered despite herself. Hundreds of the
headless bodies formed a perimeter circle, containing the stone and the dance at a respectful distance. They were utterly motionless, unmoved for the moment by the will of their owners.
From listening to Scour and Lament, and occasionally egging them into arguing with each other, Hazel had managed to build up some notion of how they lived here. They all derived their powers from the Summerstone, making them all theoretically equal, so they pursued power and influence by forming ever-changing partnerships and cabals, and creating ever increasing private armies of the headless men to enforce their will on the physical plane. Intrigue was rife, occasionally breaking out into open clashes between opposed armies in the stone corridors. The already precarious status quo was apparently on the edge of breaking down completely with Hazel's arrival, and the possibility of accessing the full power of the Madness Maze.
The Blood Runners danced on and on, sweat dripping from their faces as their bare feet slammed harder and harder against the unyielding stone. Hazel lost all track of time with nothing to measure it against. But finally the Blood Runners stopped, crashing to a sudden halt, their feet hammering down in one last simultaneous step, as though the unheard music had been abruptly cut off. They stood breathing heavily for a long moment, not looking at one another, and then they turned as one and bowed to the stone. They broke up into groups then, murmuring quietly together, too softly for Hazel to overhear. They sounded like the far-off murmur of the sea, rising and falling. The largest group had formed around Scour, and eventually all the other groups orientated on his. He stared around him coldly, almost sneering, then reached inside his robes and brought out an object wrapped in crackling parchment. Scour unwrapped it slowly, not allowing himself to be rushed by the intent concentration of the others. Inside
was a severed human hand, ancient and mummified. The tips of the fingers ended in candle wicks. Scour spoke a few quiet words, and the wicks caught alight, burning with pale blue flames.
Hazel grimaced. She'd seen such things before, on Mistworld, where they were called Hands of Glory. Made from the severed hand of a hanged man, the superstitious claimed they could open hidden doors, discover lost treasures, and reveal the secrets in a dead man's head. The arts involved in their manufacture were said to be very unpleasant.
Scour advanced on the Summerstone, holding the blazing Hand of Glory out before him. Hazel felt a sudden lurch, within and without her, and suddenly the stone wasn't just a stone anymore. Without moving or changing in any way, the Summerstone was more real, more there; realer than anything or anyone on the great stone plane. Hazel could
Similar Books
