by Martin Frowd
“Careful, Archdruid of the Boar, you are close to tying yourself in knots with your logic,” said Zenryth with a smirk. “From doubting the validity of this prophecy, straight to insisting that the prophesied chosen one comes from your own tribe? Quite the leap.”
“Whosoever finds the way by which the Divine Prince returns will surely be honoured above all other men,” Archdruid Sholvyth whispered. “And no doubt his tribe of the People will receive high honours. Perhaps to be set above all others, forevermore.”
“The lore of those who came before would suggest a connection to the First People,” said Archdruid Zarth of the People of the Wolf, making his first contribution to the discussion, before Zakaran could rise to Zenryth’s baiting. “Perhaps further answers might be found among the ruins of ancient Shadra, across the lake from us.”
“Druid brethren have studied the First People ruins for centuries,” his neighbour Archdruid Zakaran protested, “even millennia, and have uncovered nothing of the sort.”
“Druid brethren have also disappeared without trace in the First People ruins for centuries,” Archdruid Sharath growled, flexing his claws, “as well you both know, as the ruins stand on the border where Wolf and Boar lands meet! If there are answers to be found, they have eluded us thus far.”
“The Archdruid of the Wolf may well be right,” agreed Archdruid Ranvyth with a slight incline of the head to the Archdruid opposite him. “Although we must take the Archdruid of the Tiger’s valid point also, brothers. But as the prophecy suggests that this Gifted will be, or has been, taken overseas to be raised outside of the Twelve Tribes of the People, it could equally reflect a connection to the long-lived, or the Towering Ones, or the dragons, or even to the spirits of the elements themselves! The wording does not stipulate that this breaker should be raised by those who came before, only that he be steeped in their lore. Therefore the possibilities are many, brethren: I would suggest that we should narrow down the timing of the lunar conjunction before hazarding any further action.”
Grand Druid Zakryth had remained above the debate among the Archdruids until then, letting them argue the ramifications of Ranvyth’s prophecy, apart from his brief intervention to prevent open conflict. He was inclined to agree with Zarth, but he recognised that the others had valid arguments. Now he nodded. “Let it be so, Archdruid Ranvyth. Once we have a clearer idea of when this breaker may come to be born, or has already been born, we will be better able to plan such next moves as may be necessary. Until then, there is little value in further dispute. Let us adjourn this Conclave and defer any other debate until next we meet, that the Sighted may swiftly be put to the task of discovering what we must know. Until next time, brethren, before the Empty Throne.”
“Before the Empty Throne, and may it soon once more be filled,” the twelve Archdruids spoke the ritual response as one, ending another session of the Conclave.
The Grand Druid was the first to rise from his ornate chair, as was tradition. He gripped his rune-carved iron staff and brought it crashing down upon the stone floor of the council chamber, focusing his will into it. Before the clashing sound of the first impact had faded, he brought it down hard on the stone floor a second time, and again a third. The runes carved along the staff’s length glowed and flickered, shooting sparks of red, blue and purple light into the air to shimmer and fade. With a mighty grinding sound, the vast double doors of the chamber swung open. The Grand Druid was the first to leave the chamber, noting as he went that the Archdruids were beginning to disperse in their leader’s wake. Some no doubt sought their apartments – and beds – within the fortress, while others perhaps sought destinations much further away, despite the lateness of the hour.
◆◆◆
As Archdruid Zarth stepped out of the council chamber into the hallway outside, illuminated by the flickering flames of torches in iron brackets upon the black ebonstone walls, a brown-robed man peeled himself off from a knot of brown-clad and black-clad Druids waiting against the wall and bowed respectfully to the Archdruid of the People of the Wolf.
“A moment of your time, if I may, Exalted?” he said softly, in deference to the late hour and the dispersing cluster of other Archdruids, some likewise being intercepted by their own juniors. “There is a matter of some sensitivity.”
Zarth glanced sideways at the other Brown Druid, whose face bore but one tattoo, in the form of claw marks down the left cheek only, the mark of a Druid Master of the Brown. Zorgh. A safe pair of hands. If an experienced Master like Zorgh had concerns to raise, their importance – and urgency – would not be exaggerated. The Archdruid inclined his head fractionally. “My study, then, Master Zorgh,” he said without breaking stride. The Druid Master followed in his wake, both sets of bare feet slapping on the ebonstone floor as they cleared the dispersing crowd and left the hallway before the council chamber.
Within minutes, the pair were ensconced within the Archdruid’s utilitarian, almost severe study, Zarth seated behind his large ebony desk while the younger Druid stood before him, for there was but one chair in the room, deliberately so. The Archdruid raised an eyebrow at his subordinate.
“You know, Exalted, that I am duty Master of the Watch tonight,” Druid Master Zorgh began. Without waiting for the Archdruid’s affirming nod, he kept going. “Less than an hour ago, one of the Watch intercepted a nighthawk flying over the Keep. The bird carried the imprint of a mind-passenger, one of our own, a Druid Wanderer of the Bear named Ryvyth, with an urgent report to make. The mental imprint had been passed several times from bird to bird, to quickly cover the distance from the Bear lands to the Keep, and did not endure long, but our Watch patroller brought the hawk promptly to me and I was able to get the key details before the imprint faded.
“A few days ago, on a routine seasonal visit to the Duskwalker clan, who currently range near the Hills of Dusk, this Ryvyth uncovered a knot of heretics – a hunter and his woman, and their stripling. The first two were slain swiftly, but the child, a boy, was another matter. He called shadowfire, and was able to -”, Druid Master Zorgh broke off. Zarth realised he must have grimaced or frowned. “Exalted?”
“It is of no matter,” Archdruid Zarth waved him off. “Continue. No. Wait. How old was the child?”
“The report we received through the bird did not say, Exalted. But I should not imagine a child capable of channelling shadowfire without burnout, and already raised to heresy, would still be salvageable by the Order’s teachers, so surely at least six summers.
“In any case, Exalted, this Ryvyth sought to have the heretic spawn slain, but the execution, at the noon hour yesterday, was interrupted by an infidel from across the sea, Gifted in the Path of Death,” Zorgh grimaced in turn as he spoke the distasteful words. “This outlander took the stripling and made off toward the Hills of Dusk, after calling on his Gift to somehow prevent our Wanderer Ryvyth or any of the local hunters from following in his wake. This Ryvyth was apparently unable to follow but was able to attract a nearby bird and imprint a message-compulsion on it that brought it to us.”
“We are more than a thousand miles from the scene,” Archdruid Zarth snorted. “I suppose this Ryvyth did not think to include in his report whether he had managed to send other message-imprints in other directions, to intercept the outlander and this boy?”
“The report did not mention such, Exalted. Although it would make sense to do so, he might simply have had to wait until more birds flew within his range. In any case, I thought it best to bring the matter promptly to your attention.”
“You have done well, Druid Master Zorgh. Does anyone else know? The patroller who intercepted the bird? The Archdruid of the People of the Bear?”
“So far, none beyond the two of us, Exalted. The patroller – Wanderer Rhobyth – knows that the hawk carried an imprint, and from whom, but no more than that. I have not yet involved the Exalted Archdruid of the Bear – I could if you wish it?”
“No,” Archdruid Zarth’s reply was swift and unequivocal.
Certainly not. Not while I may yet seize the opportunity to take control of the situation, before the others even know of it. “Pass quiet word among the other Masters of the Watch that any other missives by message-imprinted bird must come to me first, as a matter of tightening our security – if my fellow Archdruids find out, they will think nothing of it, but I want any more such messages first, in your absence.”
“By your will, Exalted.” Druid Master Zorgh bowed his head, and Zarth took the other Druid’s obedience as his due. One did not reach a Master’s rank, after all, without being aware of the currents of intrigue among the Conclave and the games the Exalted Archdruids played to embarrass one another in front of their peers and the Most Exalted Grand Druid. Zarth recalled well his own time as a Druid Master, serving then-Archdruid Zakryth, and his own involvement in the machinations that had helped elevate Zakryth to the Grand Druid’s seat – and, not entirely coincidentally, cleared the way for Zarth’s own elevation.
“In my absence, Exalted?” Zorgh continued, raising an eyebrow.
“You will be leaving for the Hills of Dusk in the morning to investigate, contain, and clean up any problems. Take this Wanderer Rhobyth with you – he is already involved, and you will need an assistant. Commandeer local Druid brothers only as required. You will ensure no further stain of heresy exists, Zorgh. Conduct an inquisition as you see fit and ensure all who remain among the Duskwalkers are truly loyal. As for this boy…”
“He may already be beyond our grasp, Exalted. One would assume that an outlander death-mage must have a ship waiting somewhere. How else could he have crossed the sea? But should it not already be too late, I will ensure the boy is duly returned to his clan for sacrifice, and that the sacrifice is not profaned a second time.”
“You will do no such thing.” Born to the people, raised far away, Archdruid Ranvyth’s prophetic-trance words ran through Zarth’s mind.
“Your pardon, Exalted, I assumed…”
“Yes, yes. Should the boy be yet within your reach, you will take him alive. Alive, Zorgh. He must not be slain! Let the People of the Bear believe – let our local Druid brethren believe, should it come to that – that he is to be sacrificed by your own hand, to ensure no second interruption. But then? The boy will regrettably try to escape, and you will be forced to eliminate him to prevent him from going free. Leaving no remains. Or at least, that is the story you will tell others. Even other Druid brethren. While in truth, you will bring this boy-abomination back here, alive, to me, and no other. This is vital, Zorgh. Vital that all others believe him ended, when he yet lives in the safe keeping of the Wolf. Much may depend upon it, Zorgh.” Zarth fixed his subordinate with a keen stare. Only once his blood is spilled shall the Empty Throne be filled. His blood. All the rest is secondary.
“As the Dark King and the Divine Prince are my witness, Exalted, it shall be as you command. Should this boy yet be within our reach, he will be yours.”
“Of course. I have faith in you, Zorgh. You leave at first light.”
“I am of course obedient to your command, Exalted, but if I may venture a question…?”
“You may.” Although the answer I give is another matter.
“Would not a Master of the Unseen be more suited to the task?”
“The Unseen?” Archdruid Zarth frowned. “They are superlative assassins, it is true. But the Watch are at least their equal in ferreting out the truth of a matter – and the Watch report to me, where the Unseen report to the Archdruid of the Rat. I wish the matter resolved before the others of the Conclave become aware of it, Zorgh. I trust this is clear?” Allow that modernising upstart of the Rat to control our future? Or the Bear, whose people birthed the abomination? Never! It must be the Wolf who ensure the Prince’s return. The Wolf who are raised above all other Tribes.
“As clear as the midday sky, Exalted.”
“Dismissed then, Druid Master Zorgh. You had best get to your bed for you have an early departure ahead.”
With a final bow, Zorgh backed out of the Archdruid’s study, leaving his Exalted superior alone with his thoughts.
FOUR: IN THE HILLS OF DUSK
Zarynn woke to the warmth of sunlight on his face. The hard ground was warm beneath him, but a chill went through him as he remembered the events of the past few days.
The rustle of silk told Zarynn that his strange foreign rescuer was awake and moving. In the distance, he heard the trill of a hookbeak, and somewhere closer, the buzz of insects. The warmth of the sun was becoming more insistent on his face, and the discomfort of the hard rock beneath him, more pressing.
Zarynn opened his eyes just enough to let in the slightest glimpse of daylight and take account of his surroundings. With slitted eyes, he saw that he was lying still on the hilltop where they had made camp when night fell. By the position of the sun, as any of the People learned to mark from earliest childhood, the morning was still young. The magic fence formed of tightly spaced bones, stained a deep purple hue by more magic, still ringed the hilltop, serving both to keep him in – although really, where else could he go? – and keep enemies, wild animals or monsters out.
“You wake at last,” his strange rescuer’s deep voice came from somewhere behind him, speaking the tongue of the People but with his odd foreign accent. “It is good. We have far yet to travel before we reach safety. Rise now, young Zarynn, and eat. You will need all your strength.”
Zarynn complied, clambering awkwardly to his feet and rubbing life into muscles stiff from a night on the bare ground rather than within a yurt of his people – no, his people no longer, he silently corrected himself. Whatever his future held in store for him, any return to the People of the Bear would bring him only death.
Turning, still a little stiff, he saw his black-robed, ebon-skinned rescuer, sitting cross-legged on the bare ground within the ring of jagged bones. A couple of pouches from the necromancer’s belt lay open on the ground, from which the midnight-hued outlander was producing more flatbread, what looked like dried meat and perhaps some kind of sliced root, a dark reddish brown in hue. A flask stood upright on the ground next to the pouches.
“No camp fire this day for us,” the necromancer continued. “Plain fare must be enough to content us, until we are far from pursuit,” he indicated their meagre repast with a tilt of his head. “It would be folly to needlessly draw pursuit by means of camp fire smoke, yes?”
Zarynn took a moment to be sure he had understood correctly, given the necromancer’s accent, and then nodded as he understood what the man meant. Another chill went through him despite the warmth of sun above and ground below as he contemplated the consequences of being found and recaptured by the hunters, or perhaps worse, the Druid.
Slowly, his thoughts still in turmoil, Zarynn accepted food from the black-clad necromancer and began to methodically chew. The outlander’s food tasted odd, but not unpleasant, and was quickly gone. When the outlander proffered the flask to him, Zarynn regarded it warily, making the connection between his last drink and his sudden slumber.
“Drink now, young Zarynn,” the necromancer’s oddly accented words urged him. “You will need your strength,” he reiterated. “We have many miles yet to go, yes? We will not stop again until the downing of the sun.”
Reassured that the outlander was not trying to drug him again, Zarynn accepted the flask and drank deeply of the cold, refreshing water. Having eaten and drunk his fill, he stretched again as the necromancer stowed his possessions away and made ready to depart, then watched as the black-clad man raised his hands wide to point at the circle of magical, purple-hued bones that penned them in like beasts in an enclosure.
“Orthim’na’graa,” the man – Glaraz, Zarynn reminded himself – intoned carefully. The results were immediately apparent: even as Glaraz and Zarynn watched, the circle of bones shimmered and began to retract into the ground, the rock swallowing the mystical bones as easily as if it were quicksand. In only a few minutes there was no trace that the bone circle had ever st
ood.
“The ground – it ate – ate the bones!” Zarynn gaped and pointed at empty air where the bone circle had stood only minutes before.
“Now you see true power, young one,” Glaraz acknowledged. “Those who rule these lands have power also, but not such as mine, you see? Necromancer is my calling, and power over death my Gift. A Druid power this is not.”
“B-but – rocks don’t die,” Zarynn tried to argue. “Rocks don’t live, so they can’t die! And they don’t have bones!”
“Astute, young Zarynn,” the necromancer nodded approvingly. “I was right to save you from the stoning. Already you have a keen mind, and it shall be keener still, once trained. The orthim’te’graa – bones of the earth – are not, in truth, bones of the land itself, boy. They are the bones of those who have lived and died, bones that come when called by one who has the knowledge and the power to call. Bones that recede – that go again – when they are dismissed, until there is need again to call them.”
“B-but – the fires -”
“You are remembering that in these primitive lands, bodies are burned, and not buried?” the necromancer shrugged. “So it is now, but these lands are old. They have seen many dead, young one, long before those who now rule here, yes? Long before your people began to burn their dead. Old bones lie buried deep below. Old bones that I called up. Old death is strong. You have much still to learn.”
Zarynn gaped and said nothing as he absorbed the stranger’s odd words. Buried? The People have always burned the dead. Always! How else could their spirits fly free to the Gods? Even his father had never said anything against the burning of the dead. Surely it could not be just a thing of the Druids and their terrible Demon King.