Engines of the Apocalypse

substance that looked disturbingly like bone. From the floor of the chamber to the ceiling on either side — and it was a long way up and a long, long way down — the frontages of countless tombs could be seen, each of them inscribed, in elven script, with the name of its occupant. Kali tried to count them but gave up after the third ledge of tombs, but there were thousands here. These were Bastian Redigor's people. This was the final resting place of the Ur'Raney.

But there was something wrong with the whole picture. Kali couldn't immediately put her finger on it but something was very wrong. Straining to read the script on the tombs, for the most part ignoring the names, her eyes flicked from one to the other until what was nagging at her clicked into place.

It was the dates accompanying the names. They were all the same.

'Yantissa 367, Interlude Third,' she whispered to herself.

'Something wrong, Miss Hooper?' Freel queried.

'Yantissa 367, Interlude Third,' Kali repeated more forcefully. 'It's elven chronology. According to these tombs, all of these elves, thousands of them, died on the same day.'

'So?' Slowhand said. 'I thought it was generally accepted that the Old Races were wiped out in one go. Maybe that's when it happened?'

Kali pondered. 'If it was, I'd be ecstatic, believe me, because we'd be able to pinpoint the end day exactly. But I don't think this date has anything to do with that.'

'Why?'

'Think, Liam. If that was the day the Old Races were wiped out…'

'Who buried them?' Jakub Freel finished.

Slowhand looked from one to the other. 'Redigor?'

'One man, all this?' Kali mused. 'Even with an eternity to play with, I don't think so.'

'Okaaay,' Slowhand said. 'So maybe Yantissa 367, Interlude Third isn't a day. I mean, I know your elven history is better than mine but as you admit yourself, you've still a lot to learn. Maybe Yantissa 367, Interlude Third refers to a period of time, and maybe it took the Ur'Raney a while to die out?'

Kali stared at the archer. 'You know, Slowhand, that's not bad. Not bad at all.'

'Hey, I'm not just a pretty face…'

'Completely wrong, mind. Because it still doesn't make sense.' She indicated the tombs and structure around them. 'Think about it. If the world was falling apart around you, would you take the time to build this?'

'I wouldn't,' Freel said. 'But if it wasn't the end day that killed them all, what did?'

The question was momentarily forgotten as Slowhand pointed. 'Hooper, Freel, look.'

Above and below the bridge they were standing on, obscured in the shadows of the huge chamber, other, smaller bridges crossed the bone chasm. Each of these bridges led to one of the ledges of tombs, and each was filled with slowly filing figures. The soul-stripped who had been phased through the Sardenne, all chanting that strange, elven chant, were making their way to the fronts of the tombs and, one after the other, taking up positions before each of them, simply standing there, staring blankly ahead.

'It's as if they know which tomb to go to,' Freel whispered, for fear that his words might alert the soul- stripped to their presence.

'Redigor knows,' Kali said.

'And it strikes me,' Slowhand offered, 'that he's the only one who can tell us what happened on Yantissa 367, Interlude Third.'

The party crossed the bridge, casting wary glances about them as they did, and the wailing, haunting, tortured cries that had been audible since they first entered the necropolis grew louder with every step, reaching a deafening pitch as they reached the door at the far end. A door which could only lead to the Chapel of Screams.

Again, Kali scanned it for traps and pushed it open. Before them was the tableau Slowhand and Freel had caught glimpses of from the roof, only the Chapel seemed much bigger, stretching away before them, the figures barely discernible at the far end. Behind them — silhouetting and warping their outlines with its churning, chaotic energy — was the base of the pillar of souls. It was, of course, from here that the screams were emanating and, again, as Slowhand and Freel had seen on the roof, souls captured within struck and writhed at the surface, giving the occasional close-up glimpse of a struggling form or tortured face, even the odd hand outstretched in pleading to be pulled from the turmoil. The proximity of the pillar of souls — its sheer size and power — seemed to be of no concern to the two figures, however, presumably because one was the Pale Lord himself, the master of all he had conjured, and the other, under his control, was Katherine Makennon.

They walked down the central aisle of the Chapel of Screams, Makennon's fellow abductees lining the Chapel on either side of them like a guard of honour. The tombs were far more ornate than the masses they had passed on the bridge. The eleven men and women had been stripped of their own clothing and garbed in uniform, flowing robes, making them look like sacrificial victims — which for all intents and purposes, of course, they were. There was little doubt that those who lay in the tombs behind them were the individuals for whom they had been hand- picked to become hosts — Bastian Redigor's Ur'Raney High Council. As they passed between them Kali recognised the faces of Kantris Mallah, the mayor of Gargas, Thilna Pope, Volonne's Ambassador to Vos, and Belf Utcher, Thane of Miramas, among others — though, of course, none of them recognised her in return. Redigor, it seemed, had not soul-stripped the hosts for his most important returnees as he had the masses outside, but it was clear from their haunted, staring eyes that neither had he left them entirely intact. The expression in their eyes begged her for release from bodies that had become prisons.

There was nothing Kali and the others could do for them. Yet.

The three of them, Slowhand and Freel walking either side of Kali moved on up the aisle, coming at last to stand before Bastian Redigor and Katherine Makennon. Despite herself, Kali faltered slightly. The portrait she had seen of the Pale Lord in Fayence did not, in reality, do him anywhere near justice. He soared above both Freel and Slowhand, a tall, gaunt, angular figure with flowing black hair who should have seemed cadaverous but who radiated an aura that Kali had to admit made her go weak at the knees. The man — the elf, she corrected herself — was sheer presence, more magnetic even than the hub, and she could see how he had become lord of his people. Bastian Redigor stared down at her, smiling coldly, and for a few seconds she found she could not draw her eyes away.

She kept telling herself how much of a bastard he was and, with this mantra, dragged her gaze to Makennon, and the sight of what he had done to the Anointed Lord quashed the elf's glamour.

Redigor had wasted no time in preparing Makennon for her role, stripping her armour and clothing and dressing her in a diaphanous shift that fell loosely from her shoulders to her ankles and did little to conceal her nakedness beneath. A high, stiff collar had been placed around Makennon's neck, thrusting her jaw upwards; a zatra, a collar of obedience whose prime purpose was to denote the status of a woman as a pet. Kali's eyes travelled down her body, noting the recent bruises, and then back up until her gaze met Makennon's. Though Kali had little time for the woman, her eyes teared at what she saw — fury and frustration at what had been done to her, yes, and shame and utter humiliation that she should be paraded in this way, knowing that all knew the indignities she must have suffered. Kali tried to offer her some look of reassurance but wondered whether anything could offer solace for what had happened, and after a second she was forced to turn her gaze away. She looked at Slowhand, but even the normally libidinous archer was staring at the floor, unable to look up.

'Proud of yourself, Baz?' Kali queried, snapping her gaze back to the Pale Lord. 'Is this what we're to expect when the Ur'Raney return?'

'This, and more,' Redigor replied, his smile widening. He turned to look at Makennon and then back at Kali, his eyes widening in anticipation. 'Perhaps when I tire of her I shall take you as mu'sah'rin in her place. I sense in you a stamina that I think will be able to satisfy even my demands.'

'You keep your slimy elven hands off her,' Slowhand threatened, making a move forward, but Kali placed her hand on his arm, stopping him. Redigor might be dripping sleaze but she could feel his raw, unadulterated power. The reason there had been no traps on the way in was that Redigor didn't need any. Slowhand would have no chance against him.

'In your filthy, farking dreams, pal,' Kali said to Redigor. She motioned to Makennon and the others. 'At least