Circles of Stone. Ian Johnstone

Чтение книги онлайн.

      “… like the exodus of ancient times, she led them thence, to those fateful plains of Salsimaine.”

      THE ANCIENT DOORS OF the Dirgheon thundered as the vast bolts were drawn back, growling their complaint at the city. As they inched open, putrid air gushed through the crack, pooling down the wide steps. The creaks and groans sounded out like a fanfare as the opening grew wide.

      And then they came.

      First the sounds, not close but somewhere in the depths, out of sight: the quiet chink, chink, chink of chains; the padding of soft feet; the scraping of claws against stone. And then the panting of giant lungs, the hiss of air between teeth, the deep guttural rasps of canine tongues.

      Suddenly there was movement in the shadows and they prowled out into the half-light, their gargantuan heads lolling from side to side as they drooled from muzzled jaws, their keen yellow eyes searching the streets below. Chains trailed from wrought-iron collars fastened around their massive, muscular necks. Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty Ghorhund passed in three rows, all straining against their bonds as they paced silently between the gigantic doors. And behind came their handlers: brooding, deadly, marching across the stone in perfect unison, making no sound. At times the Ghor appeared human, but they were too large, too powerful, and they moved with a chilling, predatory ease that betrayed their canine blood.

      They were not alone, for they shared their formation with their slighter, sleeker cousins: half-breeds of a new and curious kind – sometimes upright, sometimes thrown forward, loping on lithe limbs, their watchful eyes drinking in the darkness, seeing all. Some purred with satisfaction as they saw the city spread out below, while others hissed and prickled at their hound-like companions, baring their claws when they drew too close. And each of these creations grasped the chains of a single Ghorhund, occasionally giving them a vicious yank to keep their charges in check.

      This was no ordinary outing, no swift assault upon the slums. It was a quiet, well-planned exodus.

      Then there were new sounds: the grating of metal wheels against stone, the clatter of harnesses, the snap of reins and soon a dazzling medley of red and gold passed between the giant doors: a beautiful chariot constructed of ornamental armour, riding on massive, heavy wheels of solid oak. And there, standing resplendent at the reins, was Scarpia, her hood thrown back to reveal her strange, disfigured beauty and her teeth flashing white as she snarled at her newborn horde.

      But although she was clearly in command, she was not alone. She seemed to be leaning away from something strange and unearthly at her side, something transparent and ghost-like. The structure of the chariot behind it was still clearly visible and yet it seemed to draw the light, creating an amorphous blur, like a trick of the eye. But what made its presence certain, its being beyond doubt, was its shape. It had all the proportions of a man, standing tall and still at Scarpia’s side.

      Then, just for a moment, the light of the moon played across it, tracing its edges in silver. And in that moment the dancing light picked out a face wrapped in rotten rags. The face was flat, revealing no sign of a nose, and its eyes were but empty voids, staring blackly over the city. The wide gash of a mouth lolled open, swinging loose between threadbare bandages.

      A Ray Reaper.

      Scarpia turned and eyed it with something between fear and distaste, and when it turned towards her she quickly averted her gaze.

      Behind came a humbler crowd: men carrying boxes and bags, sleeping rolls and tents, and with them, the lesser beasts – pack-horses and mules, livestock to eat.

      As Scarpia’s chariot reached the brink of the steps, she paused. She gazed out over the city – across the huddling pyramids of rooftops, over the cowering slums, through the gathering palls of smoke. She peered beyond, out into the wasteland, into the expanses of the Barrens, to where she knew it lay.

      The Circle of Salsimaine: gateway to another world.

      She threw her head back and let out a half-human cry that became a wail. As her legion surged ahead, she flicked her tail and the chariot leapt forward, clattering down the steps and careering into the streets below.