by Peter Harris
Chapter Forty-two
The Fellowship of the Void
In the thorn thickets around about, the Aghmaath felt the summons. ‘Go to the southern border of Zaghrabinrakah, the Third Mother,’ croaked the voice of Phagrapag, Master Inquisitor of the Dark Labyrinth. ‘There you will find the Girl and the Guardian. They are lying in a glade at the edge of the forest. Already their spirits draw near to the gates of blessed despair. Bind them and bring them to the Labyrinth. Make sure they see the enthorned rebels along the way.’ He sounded almost smug, if that were possible in one so advanced in the Way of the Void. For as Tergarax the Didact of Phagradak had written:
Account nothing a triumph; smile at nothing; for laughter is anathema to the Void, and Success is as a rotten carcass hanging upon the thorns, fit only to be picked over by the thornbirds. For only when all life, even your own, hangs upon the Thorn can the Return to the Void be achieved.
The patrols took chains and shackles, and thorn spears in case the Guardian gave any trouble, and set off along the hedge. ‘Not long,’ thought Phagrapag, ‘and they will be ours. And all that they have.’ He thought of the Vapáglim, but buried the thought deep.