by William King
“When it comes to the likes of Malkior, you can’t be.”
“I understand you are being blamed for the plague and the walking dead.”
Asea smiled sourly. “Indeed. I think we can guess who is behind those rumours.”
“People can be very stupid,” said Rik.
“People are frightened, Rik, and they can only go by what they have heard. Someone set a very cunning trap for us here, and we walked right into it. We are fortunate that we can walk out again.”
“You think we will?”
“Azaar will pacify the city. We will remain here for the winter, then we shall see what we shall see. We have lost our allies here.”
Rik felt very tired. The power he had drained from the Sea Devil was gone. He had used it all fighting with Malkior and healing himself afterwards, and now he felt like an empty vessel. He wanted to feel the power again. He wanted to blaze with stolen life.
Feed! Feed, the voices urged him. He fought them down. He was not going to be like his father if he could help himself.
“What now?” he asked Asea. She stared into the flames for a long time.
“Someone has reopened the gates in the East. The legions of Sardea are on the move. The real war is just starting Rik, and worse things than Malkior are behind it. The Princes of Shadow are here.”
Rik stared into the flames too, watching the yellow-orange coals glow as the crumbled. He feared the day was coming when more cities than Halim would burn, that perhaps the whole world might catch fire.
And he feared too, that he was going to be there to witness it.
THE END
About the Author
Aeons ago seeking a better life than that offered as a dole claimant under the gloomy skies of his grim northern homeland, Bill King fled south to the ancient, daemon haunted metropolis of Nottingheim.
Amid its narrow alleys and fog-shrouded streets, he stumbled into the unhallowed precincts of the Low Pavement Studios of the Workshop of Games where he was initiated into the blood-stained mysteries of the Adeptus Scriptorum.
After years of grueling toil amid the clatter of the great Script Engines, he clambered to the position of Scribe Third Class With Very Occasional Responsibility for Game Development. Driven mad by the endless perusal of forbidden books he took flight, passing through the fleshpots of South East Asia and Stranraer till he eventually came to rest in the doomed city of Prague, from which he makes occasional forays into the great world beyond.
The sound of buckets of six-sided dice being thrown onto baize covered tabletops haunts his dreams still.
Bill King is the author of over 20 novels, an Origins Award winning game designer, husband, father and player of MMOs. His short stories have appeared in Interzone and Years Best SF. He lives in Prague, Czech Republic.
His website can be found at www.williamking.me