The Hunter's Gambit

by Nicholas McIntire

  The Apsis. The one place in all of known Creation where the Archanium laid against the realm of the living like a second skin.

  The stone beneath his feet faintly hummed with the untapped energy that emanated from the chamber’s center. Even without seeing through the Archanium, Bael could detect a subtle warping of the air surrounding the Apsis.

  This was the place where Cassian had first reached across worlds. This was the exact point that the Demonic Presence had first been birthed into the realm of the living.

  As though conjured from his thoughts alone, Bael found himself suddenly immersed in a memory of this room, a vision from a dead era. He had caught glimpses of it before, but now he saw each heartbeat pass with painful precision.

  He saw a figure standing in the chamber’s center, the full might of the Apsis illuminating a golden man, infusing him with the full might of the Archanium.

  An agonizing ballet played out, and Bael watched in startled surprise as the golden man lashed out with the same flurry of black tendrils that Aleksei Drago had leveled against him.

  Whatever it was, it had the same effect then as now. He watched the man, who could only be the legendary Richter, crumple to his knees. He watched as Cassian’s hand reached out and touched Richter’s shoulder, infusing him with the poison of the Presence.

  And then something very strange happened.

  Bael knew what was coming. He could feel the sudden lance of the Seraphima as it shot through Cassian, could feel the Presence scream in agony at the alien magic’s intrusion. But the attack had been too unfocused, too diffuse to incapacitate him. The Presence rallied, commanding Cassian to Fade to safety.

  No.

  The word crashed through the Presence, through Bael, nearly shattering his sanity with its force. With its indomitable intent. Bael had grown to believe that the Presence had leant Cassian the power that had very nearly consumed the world.

  But that one moment of defiance planted a seed of doubt in Bael’s stock-still heart. What if this union had been based on a lie? What sort of entity had he aligned himself with?

  The Seraphima tore through Cassian a second time, stronger, swifter than before. Bael’s vision swam as Cassian collapsed to the floor, his eyes now staring directly into Richter’s.

  The ancient Hunter was paralyzed with poison, but his eyes still shone with that same desperate love that confronted Bael every night in the darkness.

  As the Seraphima’s claws sank deeper into Cassian, into the Demonic Presence, the Presence tried to lash out, to escape, anything to free itself. And Cassian once again exerted his will. No. Keeping his connection to the Archanium, and through the Archanium, holding the magic of the Presence out of reach.

  And Bael suddenly understood Cassian’s Pride.

  He felt the Magus' determination, his desperation as he kept the Presence at bay, knowing that this would be the end of his existence and embracing it. And for what? The Presence reviled Cassian because, even after a thousand years, it had never been able to comprehend why he had surrendered to the angels, to Richter, in the end.

  Lying there, staring out through a dead man’s eyes and into that golden gaze, Bael thought that some part of him understood. This had not been some sacrifice for the greater good, but one final act made by a man for the sake of the one he loved. Richter would not survive their final encounter, but Cassian was determined that Richter’s sacrifice would not be in vain.

  Cassian had wanted it all to end, but more than that, he had desperately wanted his last moments to be with Richter. He had sacrificed the last fragment of his humanity, his will, for a chance to say goodbye.

  Bael heard the Presence’s death rattle, its hunger insatiable even in defeat. He watched Richter succumb to the poison a heartbeat later, his face registering a sort of pain that Bael could scarcely believe.

  A final flash of white cut the memory short.

  He blinked, finding himself unmoved, a pace from the Apsis.

  He could feel the Presence tremble within him. It was excited. It was terrified. This was the site of its greatest triumph, its delivery into his world, and its greatest defeat. Not at the hands of the angels, as legend claimed, but rather as a casualty of Cassian’s Pride.

  He was weak. You will be strong. Claim what is yours, Child. Drink deep. Take your fill. Teach your foes to fear what you have become.

  Bael could feel the power of the Apsis, but he hesitated. There was something about that memory, that final moment between Cassian and Richter that gnawed at him. He had stared into Richter’s eyes, even as the life had bled from him, and he had seen something pure, unbreakable even in the thrall of death.

  With a jolt it came to him.

  Those golden eyes, so full of love and sorrow, and yet so hauntingly familiar. Familiar because he had seen another pair of golden eyes mirror that expression. It was the look Aleksei Drago had shared with Jonas Belgi before their fight on the wall.

  It was familiar because, then just as now, the Presence within him had served as the harbinger of destruction and decay, eternally bent on corrupting something so sterling, Bael hardly credited its reality.

  Aleksei and Jonas hadn’t given up, and despite Bael’s superior power, he had been bested. He had underestimated both men, believing Aleksei to be very much the poor farm boy of yesteryear; Jonas to be inexperienced and over-impressed with his talents.

  Bael had never accepted the idea of the two men as one unit, each complimenting rather than restricting the other.

  You have no Knight, Child, but you are the master of many. The Presence whispered, its powerful throb now little more than a subtle buzz. You have no need of such a crutch. They draw strength from each other. We draw strength from you, as you draw from Us. You have no need of their kind.

  Bael straightened, stepping into the swirling distortion that was the Apsis. The deep vibration of the Presence was silenced in the sudden cascade of energy that rushed through him. His head snapped back and he opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the moment was over. Bael stood in the center of the Apsis, feeling the power of the Archanium thrum through him. The pulse of the world, every living being a beat that throbbed from the earth, was bursting through him before exploding into the sky. Yet to the naked eye he stood in an unfurnished room, alone.

  His thoughts drifted back to the scene he had just shared with his predecessor. The love that had passed between Richter and Cassian. They way Cassian’s love, Cassian’s Pride, had ultimately doomed them both. He would be stronger. He would not fall victim to love, to emotion of any kind that separated him from what his heart truly desired.

  What was more, his followers would never choose between duty and a Knight. Knights were liabilities. Their death spelled the death of their Magus.

  Bael suddenly found the entire premise as absurd has his father had before him. He had no Knight, would have no Knight. He was of royal blood. He needed no outside aid. He had the Presence. He would be as a god. And his followers would do just that. Follow.

  They would train themselves as ultimate weapons, without care for another, without the liability of love. They would be his soldiers, and without fear of love, they would only lust for conquest.

  The memory of Jonas and Aleksei’s farewell flashed across his vision once more, but this time Bael pushed it aside in revulsion.

  That was not how a Magus, how a prince, ought to act. He suddenly felt that his cousin had done him a great service in prying Aleksei Drago from him. Better Jonas be burdened by that ignorant fool than Bael. Bael was a prince among men, never the equal of some poor farm boy.

  We want you to taste it, the Presence panted, taste it now. You touch it, it caresses you, it worships you. Find them. Feed them to Us. They smell sweet. Find them. Feed them to Us. All of them. Like little fish, dripping. Wriggling. Alive.

  Bael deliberated a moment before selecting a pale, nearly-transparent swirl from the hurricane of reds and black
s and golds. His mind was lit with half a million pulsating pricks of light. One light for every life within the city’s walls.

  He had but to reach out to the light he sought and extinguish it.

  “Jonas Belgi.” he whispered, summoning the object of his hate, near ecstasy as the violence of the Archanium threatened to tear his wits to tatters.

  Nothing.

  The lights held constant. Bael felt a tinge of irritation, but it was quickly lost in the storms raging across his mind.

  “Aleksei Drago.”

  Again, nothing.

  Anger surged through him. Well, perhaps both men had managed to escape the city. The Demon roared within him.

  That last look, that pained glance between Cassian and Richter, so swiftly shifting into a mirror between Jonas and Aleksei, dragged a horrible thought into the back of his head. He felt icy talons claw at his stomach.

  “Andariana Belgi.” he whispered, now slightly hoarse.

  Nothing.

  Bael ran through the names he had heard bandied about in the past few years. “The Magus Ilyana.”

  “The Princess Tamara.”

  “Sammul!”

  Nothing.

  Bael crumpled to his knees with an anguished cry, clutching his head. He had worked so hard, had sacrificed so much, and for what? A few buildings and a shoddily-trained military force. Wasted. Everything wasted!

  His rage exploded outwards in a wail of Demonic fire. The flames burnt the white stone black, the pristine marble drooling down the wall like candle wax in the heat of Bael’s torrential tantrum.

  The walls of Kalinor shook with his fury.

  Henry Drago sat astride his horse, watching smoke billow up from the Palace Gate. With his spyglass, he could see that the gates had ceased to burn, though he imagined they would smolder for days.

  Sentries walked back and forth along the wall, but they wore either the gold and purple of House Perron or the red and green of House Krasik. He searched the city and then the Palace grounds for any signs of House Belgi’s crimson and blue, but found nothing.

  Colonel Frederick Rysun rode up next to him, “Anything?”

  Henry shook his head, putting down the glass and restraining a heavy-hearted sigh. They had double marched for days, sleeping only a few hours at a time. Life in the wilderness had toughened the men in ways that training alone simply couldn’t, but even their newfound reserves of stamina and determination had not been sufficient to move them three hundred leagues in the time they’d been allowed.

  Kalinor belonged to the enemy. A new flag flew atop the Palace, the Krasik crow perched atop the skull of what Henry could only guess was the Belgi ram.

  “The city’s been taken.” Rysun said softly, “The southern Palace Gate is a cinder. I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine very many survived the attack, Henry.”

  Henry nodded, though for some reason he didn’t feel concerned for his son. Living with Rysun and his men for so long had given Henry an opportunity to see Aleksei through the eyes of his men. Never before had he realized how much they revered and idolized his son.

  This appreciation had developed into a queer kind of confidence. Henry watched the men, the enormous faith they put in their Lord Captain, and after a while he couldn’t help but succumb to the same devotion.

  He looked away from their camp and down into the marshland that spread before them for a league before slowly rolling into the plains that swept across most of northern Ilyar. He wondered if they could have reached the city in time had they taken a different route. Or would they simply have run into the same crushing force that now dominated the Palace?

  A sudden movement caught his eye and he squinted into the haze that shrouded the marsh. His eyesight wasn’t what it had been when he was younger, but Henry swore he saw men emerging from one of the rocky outcroppings that dotted the marshland.

  “Colonel, look there.” he said, pointing towards the marsh.

  Rysun held up his spyglass glass without question and directed its gaze down among the rocks. Henry followed suit, stunned by what he saw.

  Almost two hundred soldiers had spilled out into the marshland, and more kept trickling out of what appeared to be a tunnel leading into the rocky outcropping.

  “Great gods!” Rysun bellowed, then turned to summon Sergeant Orman.

  “Sergeant, take a squad of men and some fresh horses down to the marsh. We have men down there who need help.”

  The Sergeant saluted and hurried away. Within moments a lone man was riding back up the hill.

  “Colonel.” the man called as he brought his horse before them.

  Rysun saluted, “Hail, soldier. Who am I addressing?”

  The man smiled, “Colonel Charles Ander, of the Palace Guard. I must say, my men and I are very pleased to see some friendly faces.”

  Rysun nodded, “I imagine those have been in short supply of late.”

  Ander chuckled, “To say the least. I honestly thought we were done for before the Prince showed up.”

  Henry leaned forward eagerly, “Jonas? Is he here?”

  Ander suddenly looked uncertain, “Well, we thought he was, but when we exited the tunnel he was no where to be found.”

  “But he was with you until then?” Henry pressed.

  Ander nodded, “He was. And who are you, sir?”

  “Henry Drago,” the farmer said proudly, “I’m the Lord Captain’s father.”

  Ander snapped into a smart salute upon hearing this, “A pleasure, Sir. Truly.”

  Henry tried not to smile too widely.

  “Colonel Ander, how many men do you have?”

  Ander’s face fell, “Less than fifteen hundred.”

  Henry blinked in surprise. That was almost a fourth of the size of the Guard. Then again, he supposed, casualties had to have been high when the gate burned, when the city was taken.

  “Very well then,” Rysun said finally, “bring them to our camp.”

  “Colonel?” Henry asked as Rysun turned to go.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are we headed now?”

  Rysun bit his lip in an uncharacteristic show of doubt. “Keldoan. The Lord Captain told us to head to Gedon if we ran out of food, but Keldoan is far more defensible. And if he is indeed still alive, we’re going to need every able man to fight for us. I’d rather be behind a wall than out in the open.

  “Until we hear from him, or hear what happened to him, we can only await the day when he’ll lead us back into Kalinor. But we can’t fight the horde they’ve built as we are.”

  Henry nodded solemnly, then followed the Colonel back to camp, his thoughts finally wandering to his son. Was he safe? Was he alive? “Good gods, Henry,” he muttered to himself, “you told him to go north. If anything has happened to that boy, it’ll haunt you for the rest of your days. This day, and every dawn to come.”

  EPILOGUE

  A Pyre for the Unrepentant

  LORD SIMON DECLAN pulled his gelding to a halt, surveying his men as they marched past. His heart fluttered with a strange mixture of hope and terror. Much remained to be accomplished, yet with the fall of Kalinor so much more became possible.

  He and his men had ridden hard from Relvyn to reach Mornj in time, and it seemed their efforts were not in vain. With the Lord Captain missing and a substantial number of troops unaccounted for, it was only a matter of time before an army appeared prepared to defy Krasik’s forces.

  They could not afford to lose Mornj to Drago.

  Krasik’s Magi had brought word only hours before of their victory in the North. And while part of him regretted leaving the comfort and security of Kalinor behind, his fate had long ago been decided by men far more powerful than he.

  It had been hard at first, and he was still uneasy about regarding the Queen as his enemy, but Emelian Krasik had other plans for him.

  There were but trifling matters to be cleared up from the aftermath of the siege, and Krasi
k and Perron were more than capable of dealing with those personally. Thus, the secondary force was directed to secure the southern fortresses. A plum like Mornj could hardly be allowed to spoil.

  A clarion blast sounded, announcing their arrival in the garrison. Declan snapped out of his reverie and focused on the task at hand.

  Ahead of him, the garrison of Mornj glistened in the morning sun, kept from their control for so long by Krasik’s mad lust for Belgi blood.

  He smiled as his men wound slowly up the road and into the gates of the fortress. This would prove a boon, and one managed without bloodshed. Mornj boasted the most defensible fortress in the South, and now it was his without a single casualty.

  The discovery of the Lord Captain’s secret documents in Kalinor had been an incomparable treasure for the cause. With those safely in his possession, Perron had seen immediately that Drago was putting all his weight into Mornj and had been for quite some time. One did not accumulate such a wealth of supplies by sheer accident.

  And so with the Magi had come new orders, committing the entirety of their secondary force to the garrison. Still, whatever Perron’s intelligence might contain, this victory still belonged to Declan, if in name only.

  “Let them call me useless.” he muttered smugly.

  In truth, these supplies were desperately needed. Krasik was a poor judge of the sheer weight of materials required to maintain an army of such magnitude, especially in winter, and they had yet to establish supply lines to feed and clothe the troops. If nothing else, Declan was pleased that the men would at last have proper equipment and, should the gods be even more merciful, full bellies for once.

  Beautiful morning is it not, milord?

  Declan turned to regard the man who had spoken, but found no one behind him.

  One can always smell victory in the air, milord. It is the scent of high spirits and hope. And blood.