by William King
“Not all that safe then,” said Pablo. He smiled cheerfully. His jovial manner concealed the ruthlessness in his heart. Of all those present, Balthazar feared Pablo the most.
“I do not trust the Prefect back there in Westerby,” said Ricardo. “He took our gold too readily. He swore not to talk too easily.”
Pablo’s smile widened. “He let us go, didn’t he? That’s what our gold bought. Otherwise, he might well have held us until the Guardian came.”
The mention of the Guardian damped all conversation. The men fell quiet. All of them stared at the fire and considered their thoughts. The Order of the Dawn was the mailed fist of the Holy Sun. They hunted down heretics and sorcerers implacably. The idea of being pursued by such a man was a disturbing one.
Not a few faces showed regret, which did not surprise Balthazar. These were men who had been wealthy. Now they were fugitives from the law. Until a few days ago, they had dreamed of being the rulers of a new nation. Now they were huddled around a fire in the deep jungle wondering whether they were going to get a knife in the back.
They had been useful once, but they were fast outliving their usefulness. Joaquin sniffled. Back in Maial, his hypochondria had been mildly amusing. Here it was starting to get on Balthazar’s nerves.
“I don’t feel well,” Joaquin complained. “I think I am running a temperature.”
Perhaps he was getting sick. Many strange fevers were born amid the wild green of the jungle. The presence of the blight made them particularly virulent.
“How can you tell in this heat?” Pablo asked. “I am sweating like a pig in a firepit.”
“I am struggling to breathe,” said Joaquin. The intensity of his self-pity blazed in his voice. Balthazar felt nothing but contempt. Joaquin was a man who could participate in a human sacrifice without the slightest concern for the victim, and yet he expected everyone to treat his slightest ache as a major tragedy. Perhaps he would be better off being a sacrifice himself.
“Look at Dion,” said Pablo. “He’s not having any trouble sleeping.”
Dion had slumped over, head down on his chest. Faint snuffling sounds came from his nose and mouth and then faded away to nothing.
Something passed by overhead, the flutter of wings disturbing the branches high in the canopy.
“Just a bird,” muttered Pablo, trying to reassure himself as much as he could.
“Maybe a spider,” said Balthazar. “They grow big here close to the blights.”
Balthazar peered out into the gloom. It was dark, and he and his companions huddled around the fire. The jungle was merely a stinking mass of shadows beyond the ring of light.
“What was that?” Ricardo asked. He looked out into the shadows.
“Probably just some animal,” Pablo said.
“I think I’ll take a look anyway,” Ricardo said. He got up from the fire, drew his blade, and stepped towards the jungle. In a few heartbeats, he had vanished.
“Ricardo? Ricardo?” Pablo asked. There was a faint note of panic in his voice.
“Relax,” Balthazar said. “I set wards. I would know if anyone was getting closer.”
Pablo peered out into the gloom. There was no sign of the other man. “Ricardo!”
The bellow echoed through the jungle. Something large roared not too far away. Something slithered across the branches overhead.
“Stop that, idiot,” Balthazar said. “If there wasn’t anything looking for us, there will be now.”
Pablo sloped back towards the fire and looked at his companions. Most of them were nervous except for Dion. His eyes were closed, and he was asleep.
“Look at that,” Pablo said. “Bastard can even sleep through all the noise.”
He moved round the fire and slapped Dion on the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead!”
Dion slumped forward face first into the fire. The flames did not wake him.
“What the . . .” Pablo said. He pulled Dion from the flames. Something black and feathered was embedded in Dion’s throat. “What’s that?”
Balthazar stalked around the fire. He reached down and pulled a small poisoned dart from Dion’s throat.”
“Bastard!” Pablo said. “What’s that?”
“Natives are watching us,” Balthazar said. He reached within himself for power.
“Natives?” Pablo asked. All of his companions looked panicky now. Just a few nights ago they had been boasting about their bravery and how they did not fear the jungle. Now they showed every sign of being overcome by terror.
Balthazar invoked a spell. The air immediately around him shimmered. Sounds flattened out. The magical barrier he invoked would at least stop a poisoned dart. It would most likely stop a spear if it came to that. Now it all depended on upon which tribe the man who had fired that dart belonged to.
Darts flickered out of the shadows. All of them found their targets.
His companions fell to the ground. Balthazar waited. No dart had been aimed at him. He prepared a destructive spell and stood ready to unleash it at the slightest provocation.
The fire flickered. A shadow solidified. Standing there was a man, copper skin tattooed with speckles like the hide of a jaguar. The skin of one of the great cats hung over his shoulders. After a moment’s inspection, Balthazar realised the marks were not tattoos.
In his right hand, the newcomer held a short spear, rune-carved, with a ring of feathers dripping from just beneath the point. The man’s face was rounded, his nose broad and flattened, his forehead sloped to a dark widow's peak. His eyes were large and had an inhuman quality to them. Balthazar knew the newcomer could see better in the dark than an ordinary man.
“Greetings, brother Red Talon,” Balthazar said in the tongue of the eldrim. “Be welcome at my fire.”
“Thank you, brother Balthazar,” said the newcomer. “You are welcome here. These unclean strangers were not.”
“I feared that might be the case,” said Balthazar. “Still no one will miss them. Certainly not me.”
The newcomer laughed. “You have not changed much. You still hate your own people more than any tribesman does.”
“They were weak,” said Balthazar. “They were not worthy.”
“But you are, my friend. You most definitely are.”
“It is good to see you again, Red Talon. I have been away from the Lodges too long.”
“There is always a welcome for you at my hearth,” said the tribesman, opening his arms in the traditional gesture of welcome.”
“Then lead on, my friend.”
Without another word Red Talon turned away and led him off into the darkness.
Balthazar followed Red Talon through the darkened jungle. Behind them, a line of jaguar warriors filtered through the trees.
Huge blossoms dripped down overhead, filling the air with the scent of sweet corruption. Drooping vines fondled his shoulders like the fingers of night-walking demons. Blight was spreading through the forest. Balthazar could remember the days when he first came to these woods. The blessings of Shadow had not been so evident, and the cults still had to work in secret. Things had certainly changed.
“This land becomes ever more sacred,” Balthazar said so softly that only Red Talon could hear him.
“Not just the land,” the tribesman said, “My skin bears the mark of the jaguar. My eyes see deeper into the darkness than most. I can track by scent. I can twist my form more and more. It is as you promised my father all those years ago. Our people are growing strong again under the patronage of the Lord of Skulls.”
“They most assuredly are.”
“You also promised my father a great bloodletting. Has that day come?”
That was going to be difficult to explain. The tribes were awaiting the rebellion in Terra Nova. When the colonists were divided and at each other's throats, they would strike. That had been the plan at least. It was going to have to be put off for a time.
“That is something I will discuss with Coiled Serpent and the Council of C
hiefs.”
Red Talon smiled. He heard the promise in Balthazar’s voice and knew that he would be rewarded if he waited. “I have never doubted you, my friend. Unlike some among the council.”
“I trust they are all dead now.”
“You trust correctly. All of those who spoke out against the return of the old ways have departed from this world.”
Huge spider webs blocked the path. When Balthazar looked closely, he saw massive man-sized spiders scuttling across the webs high in the trees. He had heard of such beings. Some of them were said to dwell in the great elfwoods back in the Old Kingdoms. Some claimed that they were sentient species that had been devolved during the Elder Wars. Others claimed they were merely arachnids who had grown large drinking the blood of men and affected by the dark sorcery of the blight.
It was always hard to tell what to believe and what not to believe. This was an old world, and it held many secrets. Even the Shadow gods themselves did not know everything.
He allowed himself another look at his companions. Many of them showed the marks of blight. In some cases, these were merely large growths, sometimes the size of a fist on their chest and shoulders. It did not seem to cause their owners any pain. Some of the men walked in a stooped crouch. They had arms longer than normal, and the fingertips ended in claws.
Many of this Lodge had eyes that resembled those of a cat. He wondered whether that was because of sorcery worked in the Lodge or whether they had been selected because of their mutation. The jaguar was a beast sacred to Xothak, one of the great killers of the jungle. They were often depicted as stalking at his side. When Xothak had walked among men, it was said often to have taken the shape of a great jaguar.
He thought about his companions from this morning. None of them had been expecting to die before the end of the day, and yet they had stepped through Death’s door. It might even happen to Balthazar. He did not think it likely but then whoever did?
He was not like those fools from Maial. He possessed magic. He could defend himself if it came to it. The tribesmen knew that. And yet, life was so fragile. All it would take would be one of those mutants to put a spear through his back, and all of his knowledge and all of the sorcery would not be able to save him. It was ever the dilemma for the wizard. They could wield power far greater than any normal mortal and yet they could never be safe without the protection of others. Everyone needed to sleep. Everyone needed to eat. Everyone needed to drink. A knife in the dark or poison in the bowl get rid of anyone.
He told himself that there were spells that could heal him. He could steal the life force of others and use it to repair his flesh and bones. He could purify his blood of poison. He could devour the souls of those who crossed him and use the energy for many purposes.
The group began to make their way around the spider webs. Even in the darkness he could tell that they were vibrating slightly. Some of the trees round about glowed with a strange green light. It provided him with some illumination. A wrapped body was moving somewhere up the web. It was too small to be a full-grown man but it might be a child or a deer or some other small animal. Balthazar smiled once more. Such was the way of the world. It was eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed.
“How much further?” he asked. A mulch of leaves dragged at his boots. He rather envied the tribesman their bare feet. It must be cool to be garbed only in a loincloth and feathers. Perhaps he would adopt native garb. He allowed himself a small grin. That was not likely. He would need to leave the jungle at some point. He still had a mission that he needed to perform. He would need to return to civilised society at some point. He would need to make contact with some of his brethren within the cult.
“Not much further now,” Red Talon said.
Balthazar could not say that his life had not been interesting. He’d seen many different places in the service of his Lord. He’d met all manner of people, none of whom would have been approved of by his father. He cursed the old man. It did not seem like he would ever get out of his shadow. His father believed that if a man was not a warrior, a conqueror, he was nothing. Well, Balthazar would be a conqueror, but he would do it in his own way.
These tribesmen would help him do that. His brethren in the cult of Xothak would too. He would have power beyond anything that bitter old man ever dreamed of, and he would have a life extended far beyond that of any mere mortal. He had chosen his path a long time ago, and he had walked it as far as he could go. He had paid a heavy price for the power he wielded. He would do it again if he had to.
The path wandered lower. The air smelled even more of rot. The blossoms grew ever brighter, glowing with strange effervescence. They gave out the sort of rotting corpse light that decaying things always did.
The trees sprouted lower and wider. Mould and rot splotched their leaves. Enormous glowing toadstools emerged from the muck. Sometimes the surface of the earth which looked so solid would ripple and flow, and Balthazar realised that he was looking at quicksand even though he had no way of telling it beforehand.
The path squelched beneath Balthazar’s feet. Water emerged from the moss each time his boots pressed down on it. The air grew even more close. The back of his throat tickled and he felt as if he was breathing in spores. Many strange plants grew in this area and sometimes the fungus could grow within men’s lungs and choke them, a hideous way to die. He muttered protective charms against disease and constantly touched his amulets to invoke their protection.
None of the mutated tribesmen showed any curiosity about what he was doing. Some of them whispered their own spells and others just muttered like madmen.
Somewhere nearby, something huge roared. Balthazar glanced in that direction. Something large and scaly and four-legged weaved through the gloom. It looked like a cross between a dragon and a big cat. It was not something that he would care to meet on his own in the dark on this path.
Ahead of him now he saw the village. It lay on an island in the swamp, beneath the shadow of the ruined temple that brooded on the great rock above.
The approach path was made of logs bound together with vines floating on top of the muck. It moved beneath his feet when he stood on it, and he felt in danger of slipping off and falling into the quicksand every moment.
“This was not where your father lived last time I visited with you,” Balthazar said.
Red Talon nodded. “This place grants us access to greater power.”
Balthazar knew immediately what he meant. This village sat in the middle of the blight. That increased the danger of disease and mutation, but it also meant that the air was filled with magical energy which could be tapped by those who knew the secrets of doing so.
“Your father is wise,” Balthazar said.
“My father seeks power.”
Balthazar noted he said nothing about his father’s wisdom.
Chapter Five
A palisade of sharpened logs surrounded the earthen mound upon which the village was built. Each log was tipped with a skull. Most were human. Some belonged to beasts, and some belonged to what might have been demons. They had horns and fangs. All of them had been killed and had their flesh stripped away by the tribesmen.
Sentries watched from the walls, each armed with a spear and a blowpipe.
Over the village loomed a huge spire of rock, atop which squatted the ruins of an ancient temple. Here was a place sacred to the Lord of Skulls old as the great ziggurat in Maial. It had stood since Xothak ruled this land.
The bridge of logs trembled as they crossed. The tribesmen showed no uncertainty as they moved surefooted in their bare feet. Balthazar’s boots felt as if they were going to slip on the muck at any point. He kept his balance by extending his arms. It made him look ridiculous to these ferocious warriors, but he did not care. In fact, it might even be an advantage if they underestimated him.
Balthazar recognised the runes carved into the gate. Magical symbols channelled the power of the blight towards the centre of the living area. He was sure that was where
he would find the Chieftain’s dwelling.
The Count passed within the gates. The huts were exactly as he expected, made of mud, the roofs constructed from branches and leaves. The tribespeople wore loincloths, and little else save the runes painted on their flesh. Most of them had their faces painted white with huge dark circles around their eyes and their noses blacked out.
Women carried small children in leather pouches at their breasts. They looked at him curiously. They were just as naked as the men. Amulets of carved bone hung from their lips.
Mutations twisted the folk’s bodies, particularly the children’s. Some had claws. Some had fangs. Some had the eyes of beasts. Balthazar supposed that was because they had been born and grown up in this village in the middle of the blight. They would be much more prone to being changed than their parents.
There had been a time when even the most devout of tribes would have been reluctant to enter this swamp, but that changed under Coiled Serpent’s leadership. His people did as he told them or they died. The old chieftain was well on the way to building an alliance of the tribes that might sweep the Sunlanders out of the colony. He was the most powerful ally that Balthazar could find in the lowlands. They had known each other since their mutual youth when the cults of Shadow had still worked in secret to reclaim their ancient glory.
Out here in the jungle, the time for secrecy had certainly passed. Hatred of Sunlander oppression and a desire to take back their ancient lands had given the tribes reason to follow Coiled Serpent and the other Shadow shaman. They knew they needed sorcery to oppose the Sunlanders. Those who had refused to see sense had been shown just how strong that magic was against its enemies.
Most people knew the truth. If the tribes had followed the paths of Shadow, they would never have been driven from their lands in the first place.
As they walked towards the centre of the village, Balthazar got his first view of the new Lodge. It was far bigger than the huts surrounding it, larger than any tavern back in the capital. Its sides were open to the air. Its ceiling was made of carved wood supported by massive pillars that had once been the trunks of great trees.