As Alijah flicked his head from The Crow to the Reaver, his chin returned to its quivering state. “No! No! Please, no!” He struggled against his chains. “Just leave me alone!”
“Tomorrow,” The Crow promised, “you will be stronger than you are today. And you will never forget the lesson…”
The Crow shut the creaky door behind him, though it did nothing to mute Alijah’s cries of pain. Subjecting the rogue to such drastic circumstances brought back the worst of memories for Sarkas. He remembered all too well the feeling of helplessness, being pinned by a power you couldn’t overcome and then torn inside out.
It all served a greater purpose he reminded himself. Where his beatings and torture had been for the simple pleasure of his old master, Alijah’s torment would turn him into something he could never be without it.
He put his hand to the wall and thought of all that he had done to get this far, the sacrifices he had made, the brothers he had lost. The Bastion was his forge, Alijah the raw material. He held onto that, using it to bolster his resolve. All he wanted was peace for the realm, but there would be blood first, so much blood.
As the screams continued, Sarkas pulled at his collar of dark feathers and made his way into the heart of The Bastion. The present was always hurtling into the future and Alijah was but one of many things he must attend to.
He passed through the draughty main hall and continued to his private study, the ancient laboratory of King Atilan himself. Like most of the chambers in The Bastion, it was overly large and furnished with equally large furniture. Atilan’s desk was more akin to a banquet table and his book shelves belonged in libraries.
It suited Sarkas’s needs. As ever the student of magic, he pored over the books he had taken from The Citadel a millennium ago. Scribed in the ancient glyphs of The First Kingdom, these books had travelled from the temple of the first casters, in Erador, to the library of The Echoes in Ak-tor, the once capital of the world. With these as his guide, there was nothing even capable of standing in his way.
Spread across what was now his desk, were scrolls and tattered maps taken from various sources, some of which predated any settlement in Illian. He had cross-referenced multiple myths and legends, all written before he was born, to find the exact spot he had been looking for.
Two years ago, he had found it…
Sarkas focused on the map detailing the island nation of Dragorn. The city was densely populated with the worst that humanity had to offer. Thankfully, the island itself had something much more to offer, something ancient the inhabitants were oblivious to, despite it being just beneath their feet.
Hanging on a small stand, beside his plans, was a silver necklace, a simple chain of no great detail. The red gem that weighed it down, however, was far from simple. The Viridian Ruby had belonged to Hadavad for five centuries and allowed the mage to transfer his essence from body to body.
The sound of a staff rhythmically stamping the floor beyond his study stole his attention. There was only one who walked these halls with a staff in favour of a wand.
Before the first servant could knock, Sarkas called, “Enter, Morvir.”
The Crow’s right-hand mage stepped into the study, preceded, as always, by his long and crooked nose. Like all the mages in The Black Hand, Morvir believed all their efforts were in the service of Kaliban, the one true god. This belief only made Sarkas pity him more. Still, valid beliefs or not, his service to a fictional god would enhance the world.
“My Lord Crow.” Morvir bowed his head before coming any closer. “Tobun has made contact from Velia. He has had an… interaction with King Karakulak that he wishes to share with you.”
“Does he now?” Sarkas replied absently, his eyes still shifting over the maps and scrolls.
Morvir stood awkwardly in front of his master’s desk. “He sounded—”
Sarkas waved his hand, silencing him immediately. “What news from Dragorn?”
The first servant hesitated, looking from the maps to his master. “They are still digging, Lord Crow. They have unearthed much more, but the island has proved to be somewhat stubborn in revealing all of its secrets.”
“We have been excavating that site for two years, Morvir.” Sarkas had an edge to his tone, conveying just enough of a threat to keep his servant on his toes. “I have failed to oversee it personally because discovering Asher’s bones was more important. Do I have to oversee everything personally?”
Morvir swallowed hard. “No, Lord Crow!” he stammered. “I will ensure better progress is made. You have my word!”
Sarkas locked eyes with the man. “I’ll take from you more than your word if you fail me, Morvir. Kaliban only rewards the strong. All else is cut down, discarded, forgotten…”
The first servant licked his lips and averted his gaze. “It will be done, Lord Crow.”
Sarkas paused for a moment, keeping Morvir rooted to the spot. “How fare our prisoners?”
Thankful for an easier question, Morvir confidently replied, “They are well fed and warm, Lord Crow.”
“And they match the descriptions I asked for?” Sarkas added.
Morvir nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Hair and eye colour have been matched as well as complexion.”
“Excellent,” Sarkas proclaimed. “And the room?”
“It’s almost completed, Lord Crow. Replicating the glyphs so perfectly is taking time.”
Sarkas flashed his cold eyes at the first servant. “Magic can be punishing when one fails to reach for perfection. See it completed to my designs. Now, leave the diviner and return to your duties.”
The first servant happily placed the dark orb on the desk and bowed before scurrying from the chamber. Sarkas made Tobun wait another moment before he picked up the orb and allowed his consciousness to be pulled in.
Tobun’s smoky form blew about in the ethereal winds, his detailed features impossible to discern. His beliefs were just as ridiculous as Morvir’s, but he was a competent enough mage.
“Speak,” Sarkas commanded.
“My Lord Crow,” Tobun began. “Velia has fallen to the orcs, just as you said it would. It seems, however, that in his growing victory, King Karakulak believes he no longer requires our aid…”
Tobun waffled on along the same lines, but Sarkas found himself scrutinising the magical tether between the diviners. He could feel the presence of a third, an observer content only to listen.
“Silence,” he ordered Tobun. “There are only a handful of diviners connected to this one,” he said into the ether, addressing the spy. “Were you of our order you would know better than to eavesdrop. Reveal yourself… king of orcs.”
A third ghostly form took shape between the two men as Karakulak’s muscular body emerged from the shadows. Tobun failed to hide his surprise and Sarkas dismissed him with a wave of the hand.
“An orc using magic…” Sarkas raised a hairless eyebrow at the king. “A crime punishable by death, I believe.”
Karakulak turned his head left and right, searching the eternal abyss that lay beyond them. The orc was clearly uncomfortable.
“We are alone,” Sarkas reassured.
“All but the north is under my control,” the king finally said. “Velia and Grey Stone fell before the sky fire died.”
Sarkas couldn’t help but express his smugness. “Did I not say it would? Has the world not fallen to you just as I said it would?”
“I see now the power in your words,” Karakulak replied unexpectedly, “though I will never bow to your Kaliban.”
That alone makes you smarter than every mage under my command, Sarkas thought.
“You are right to praise Gordomo,” The Crow said instead. It was impossible to detect any subtle change on the orc’s face, but his body language suggested he didn’t agree with that statement.
“You said I would be king of Neverdark, of the world,” Karakulak continued. “It is not enough! I wish to see the orc risen above all others, including their current state of mind�
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Sarkas guarded his expression. “You wish to change the very foundation of what it means to be an orc?”
“Yes!” Karakulak professed. “We are capable of so much more than the strength in our arms. As king, however, I can decree nothing on such a scale.”
Sarkas had foreseen the king’s wishes years ago and knew exactly how to manipulate him. “You wish to become a god in the eyes of your kin,” he stated.
“Every generation before me has worshipped Gordomo,” Karakulak explained. “But he has kept us chained to the dark. For the first time in five thousand years, Neverdark is within our grasp. I am not such a fool as to believe that I can maintain order once the races of the surface kneel in our shadow. The land will fracture and the chieftains will rise up, emboldened by their new-found territories and power.”
Sarkas paused, his every movement and word carefully calculated. “Be careful what you wish for, good king. The last who tried to take control of Illian also fancied himself a god. It did not end well for him…”
“I care little for the failures before me!” Karakulak snapped, still a slave to his own orcish instincts. “I am the first orc intelligent enough to see the bigger picture and, right now, the chieftains do not see The Black Hand in our future. They want me to kill you, as proof that I am not enthralled by your magic.”
“Then you need to convince them otherwise,” Sarkas replied. “I told you; you cannot win this war without us. Your assault upon Namdhor will be like no other—”
“Namdhor will fall,” the orc barked in his feral voice, “but I cannot convince the tribes that The Black Hand has more to offer.”
Sarkas twisted his mouth, their dialogue moving in just the right way. “You mean you cannot convince them as king?”
Karakulak lowered his voice. “There is a story, from The Great War, between my people and the alliance of dwarves and elves. Every orc knows of it. It tells of a ritual in which the king was blessed by the very touch of Gordomo. For a time, he was stronger, faster, and wiser than all. It is said that the king slaughtered ten dragons with his bare hands!”
Sarkas couldn’t hide his scepticism. “Your people do have a flair for embellishment, but I see where you’re going. There isn’t enough magic in the world, however, to give you the strength to kill even one dragon with your bare hands, let alone ten.”
“I don’t have to be stronger than a dragon, only stronger than my own kin. Your magic can do this, yes? You could make the ritual appear real to the eye.”
Sarkas held his tongue for a moment, pretending to consider the king’s proposal. “There are spells capable of what you ask for, but I warn you, they do not come without a price.”
“If I can convince my people that I am Gordomo Himself, the price will be worth it!”
Sarkas feigned surprise. “You desire to imitate the god? I thought you only wished to be blessed?”
“A blessing will not suffice,” Karakulak replied, relishing in the use of words he couldn’t use around other orcs. “I must be a god, nothing less. Can you do this, Crow?”
“It can be done, but you must continue to heed my counsel. We can only change this world if we work together.”
“Then make me a god soon, Wizard. My army in Velia is preparing to march north as we speak. Once our new war machines are complete, we will not stop until we reach Namdhor.”
“If you prepare for the ritual I can give Tobun the necessary details to enact the correct spells—”
“No,” Karakulak interrupted. “I want you to do it, not one of your minions.”
“That’s quite impossible,” Sarkas said firmly. “I am detained elsewhere, miles from Velia.” Seeing the king’s frustration rising, The Crow continued, “But if you were to travel north, up the coast, The Selk Road would bring you past the eastern edge of The Vrost Mountains. If you could delay your march there, I could personally see to your… ascension.”
“That will be days from now,” Karakulak argued.
“Your journey will take you through Palios and Darkwell,” Sarkas soothed, speaking of the towns, “both of which will satiate your people’s need for violence.”
Karakulak bared his fangs as he thought it over. “Very well. By the edge of the mountains.”
Sarkas made to withdraw from the conversation before adding, “Oh, and one more thing. I would say consider it my price for your elevation, but my needs will serve you just as well as they do me. It has come to my attention that the kings of Grey Stone and Lirian have survived our recent attacks.”
Karakulak tilted his horned head. “How do you know this?”
“I have spies in their caravan,” Sarkas answered casually. “They travel north, up the western road to Namdhor. It does you no good to have others roaming the land calling themselves kings. Kill them both,” Sarkas commanded. “Their deaths will open a vacuum that will consume our enemy and their alliance. That’s the kind of chaos you want when you invade the north.”
“Something tells me you have spies everywhere,” Karakulak speculated.
Sarkas offered a sly grin. “In places you wouldn’t believe.”
Pulling his mind from the shadow realm, Sarkas inhaled a deep breath and sat back in his chair. Orcs might be more unpredictable than man, but they were just as easily manipulated. Karakulak believed he could see the bigger picture. Sarkas scoffed to himself. He had chosen the orc to be king because of such arrogant notions.
His fingers slipped through the folds in his tunic and ran over the scar that covered his heart. He remembered all too well the feeling of that blade plunging through his skin and into his beating chest. Sarkas had sacrificed more than anyone for the sake of the realm and its people. Then he thought of Karakulak and took some comfort in the knowledge that others would share his burden…
5
A Stroll on the Beach
After three days of crawling through dirt and clinging to life through small streams, Gideon Thorn found enough strength in his leg to finally stand. Only his bond with Ilargo could offer him such strength, healing his wounded limb even from afar. Together, they had endured the pain and broken bones, relying on the will of the other to see them reunited.
His progress had been ever slowed by the patrolling orcs. The filthy beasts had laid claim to Velia and had spent the last few days securing the surrounding land. More than once, Gideon had been forced to hide in the tall grass and lie still for hours. He could think of nothing more than the warmth of Ilargo’s scales.
Now back on his feet, the Master Dragorn limped onto the beach of The Shining Coast. The sun should have risen before him by now, bringing light to the waves of The Adean, but dark clouds of ash loomed overhead. He would find no reprieve from the freezing air, leaving his breath to spill out before him.
The world has become a dark and cold place, Ilargo…
The dragon’s voice replied from somewhere deep in his mind, I will bring light back to Illian, even if I have to set every orc on fire to do it.
Gideon managed half a smile. Had he not been able to hear Ilargo’s voice over the last three days, he was sure madness would have set in by now. As frightening as the world had become, the Master Dragorn couldn’t say he was fearful, his resolve always bolstered by Ilargo’s confidence. Only a dragon, a predator at the top of its food chain, could muster such thoughts in a dark time.
Looking north, up the beach, Gideon scoured the dunes and long grass for any sign of his companion. Then a jolt of pain ran up his injured leg and he could do nothing but rest on the sand for a moment and wait for it to subside. In his mind, he felt Ilargo share that momentary pain.
I’m coming to get you, the dragon stated.
No, Gideon replied firmly. I told you, the orcs have taken precautions. There are ballistas everywhere, loaded with spear nets.
I do not fear a few spears, Ilargo declared. I will tear through their nets and burn their machines of war!
That is not all they have, Gideon reminded his companion. Remember
what I saw yesterday; the red powder. Some of their spears are tipped with rounded pouches of the stuff. I’m sure by the way they were handling it that such powder is to be feared.
Ilargo’s response bloomed a sullen impression across their bond. You believe they used this powder during their invasions.
Gideon took a cold breath, happy that the pain was starting to fade. How else could they blow through to the surface? I have no idea what it is, but if it can crack the earth open it can kill a dragon. Stay where you are, Ilargo; I’m coming.
You’re close now, the dragon assured.
Were Gideon to believe in gods, he would surely thank them for such a fact. As it was, he knew full well that such deities were the fiction born of real legends, lost to the inaccuracy of recorded history. Instead, the Master Dragorn relied on the only thing that was real; his bond with Ilargo. With the strength that resided between them, Gideon found his feet again, his determination renewed.
I tell you, Ilargo, there’s nothing worse for a man’s resolve than being damp from head to toe day and night.
Who would have thought, Ilargo replied, bemused, that Gideon Thorn could be brought so low by wet clothes?
Gideon almost managed a chuckle as he continued down the beach. After his defeat at Velia, the Master Dragorn had been brought down by dark thoughts of failure, his mind dwelling on all those who would suffer and die because he couldn’t beat Asher. He agonised over the deaths of his fellow Dragorn and their dragons. Those few who had followed him into battle had fallen to the ferocious might of Malliath the voiceless. How many more would die while he limped across the land?
These thoughts had threatened to bury Gideon’s mind under a mountain of guilt and fear. Only Ilargo kept his head above the water. Focus on one problem at a time, the dragon had said. Their first problem was the distance between them. Gideon had deliberately let go of the rampart, avoiding certain death by Asher’s blade, but he had commanded Ilargo to flee the battle before their inevitable shared injury saw the dragon fall to Malliath.
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