by B. J. Beach
Symon rubbed at his eyes. “Then if you don’t mind, I’m going to have a little nap while you’re doing that. There’s no point in us both trying, and I’m feeling rather tired.”
A frown of concern creased Karryl’s brow as he watched his mentor settle himself on the chest at the side of the room and lean his back against the wall. After watching him for a while, Karryl heard a soft snoring. Sitting cross-legged on the patterned Vedran rug he cleared his head of all other thoughts and prepared to send out a mind-call.
* * *
Ghian paced the floor of his room, impatient for word that the intruders had been captured. He had not felt the sweet rippling frisson of Talmion magic which would have heralded their arrival. Although he had spent long hours praying for it, he had never been granted the ability to detect Talmion. Two of his clergy had come to his room in a state of extreme agitation, shortly after the latest sacrificial rite had been completed.
Bowing low, the black-robed priest spoke first. ‘‘Great Lord, we have sensed the use of alien magic within the city.’’
Ghian glared at each of them in turn. ‘‘Both of you have sensed this?’’
The blue-robed priestess also bowed. ‘‘We have, Lord Ghian.’’
She dared to give him a self-satisfied smirk. Her reward was a sharp slap to the side of her face. She gasped and staggered from the blow, tears of pain and humiliation starting in her eyes. Ghian was unmoved. His chagrin was deep, his gratitude non-existent, his pride and vanity all-consuming. Being bested by a mere priestess was something he would not tolerate.
Fists clenched, he hissed through bared teeth. ‘‘So, they come at last.’’ Pacing the room, he spat out his orders. ‘‘There will be two of them; this so-called Mage-Prime and his assistant. Have them captured, bound and separated. No doubt they are combining their powers.’’ He made no effort to disguise his contempt. ‘‘Have the ‘Mage-Prime’ taken to a sealed chamber. The other one may await my pleasure in a locked cell.’’
The priest and priestess bowed and turned to leave. Ghian snarled after them. ‘‘They are not to be killed.’’
The door closed and the Grelfine Lord gloated. ‘‘Soon their knowledge and powers will be taken from them, then all will be mine.’’
* * *
The two magicians were given little opportunity to take any kind of evasive action. The taint of Vedric magic sullied the air as three black-robed priests materialised in the room. At the same time a half dozen heavily armoured temple guards crashed through the ancient wooden door. The two magicians were quickly surrounded. One of the guards dragged Symon from his seat on the chest and roughly pushed him to his knees. Karryl lunged forward only to find his arms locked behind his back as he too was forced to kneel. One of the priests moved to stand in front of him.
A cruel smirk twisted the priest’s thin lips as he looked down at his captive. “The Lord Ghian has been awaiting your arrival. Personally, I was expecting something a little more spectacular.”
Slowly turning his head, he looked across at Symon, studying him intently. He then turned and looked down at Karryl. “For a Mage-Prime, if there is such a thing, your master certainly seems unimpressive, but appearances count for nothing. Therefore, you will be kept apart for the time being.”
At a nod from the priest, Karryl was hauled to his feet and pushed towards the door, but not before he was able to exchange a meaningful glance with Symon. The little magician had also been pulled upright, and stood meekly with his hands folded in front, the point of a guard’s wickedly barbed spear making a small depression in the skin of his throat. Seconds later, Karryl found himself being bundled outside. Flanked by a pair of grim-faced, heavily armed guards, Karryl was hurried through Vedra’s cracked and gloomy streets. Once, he stumbled, prompting thumps and ferocious, guttural growls from his captors. When he occasionally looked about, commands were barked at him, which he took to mean ‘‘Face front!” Despite his apparent confusion, Karryl knew exactly where in the city he was. Curbing any reaction or emotion, he allowed himself to be marched straight past the place in the wall where Miqhal, then known to him as Areel, had opened the secret entrance to the temple.
Prodding him left into a narrow side alley, the guards hurried him towards a high, black iron-studded and bolt-furnished door. There they stopped, their yellow-irised eyes fixed on their captive, alert for any sudden move. Remaining perfectly still, Karryl kept his gaze fixed firmly on the door. He wondered how long it would be before Ghian discovered his mistake. There would almost certainly be repercussions when he did. What form they would take Karryl could only begin to imagine.
Accustomed as he was by now to riding the lame horse of uncertainty, the thought that Magnor may not have caught his mind-call filled him with considerable misgivings. There had been neither sight nor sound of Miqhal for days, and the astral conjunction was only hours away. Other uncertainties added themselves to the mix. How much magic could these guards detect, and would they think of searching them at some point? Of one thing Karryl was certain; he needed a calming spell. Deciding to risk it, he closed his eyes just as the sound of heavy bolts being drawn grated on his ears. Their barbed spear-heads uncomfortably close to his neck, the guards motioned him forward. The door had opened just wide enough for Karryl to slip through, aided by a heavy-handed push on his back. Stumbling into complete darkness, he felt the massive door slam thunderously behind him, followed by the sound of the outside bolts being rammed home. He heard nothing more, and could see nothing. Standing perfectly still and quiet, he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. Still he saw nothing, no darker bulk within dark, no vestige of light. He took a pace backwards, twisted his body round and reached out behind him. His fingers came into contact with rough timber and heavy iron studs. He turned to his right and began to feel his way along the cold granite wall, his searching fingers detecting close tight joints between massive blocks. The deep silence amplified the shuffling of his feet as he made his way along, soon realising the wall was following a curve. Changing his pace to a steady side-step, only a few more minutes had elapsed before he found himself back at the door. He knew then, he was in a small circular room; a cell.
Throwing caution aside, he attempted to draw in power. There was no response. The cell seemed to be acting as some kind of barrier. He felt he had enough for a dark-sight spell, but he didn’t really need to see. His prison was all too clear in his mind’s eye. Leaning against the wall, he folded his arms, closed his eyes, and gave his mind free rein. A memory jabbed at his brain, jolting him back from near sleep. Catching the fleeting image, his agile mind held it fast and quickly built onto it piece by piece. In seconds he had the answer to why he was unable to draw power. He didn’t need to. All the power he needed was within him. The entities who dwelt in the dimension beyond the ocean mist had seen to that.
He opened his eyes, shifted to dark-sight and quickly surveyed his cell. An iron-hooped wooden bucket stood against one wall. The centre of the stone-flagged floor was occupied by a three-legged wooden stool and a large earthenware jug. Karryl picked up the stool and the jug and took them to the edge of the cell. Sitting on the stool he sniffed at the contents of the jug. It seemed to be water. He put the jug on the floor without drinking. The presence of the bucket told him he would probably be here for some time. The weight now off his feet, he leaned against the wall and began to think. He knew his options were at best limited, and in all probability he would only get one chance whichever he chose. Although his use of the dark-sight spell had not provoked any outside reaction, he resisted the temptation to try anything further. Resigning himself to the possibility that his incarceration would not be a short one, he stripped off the black Vedran robe. After folding it several times to make a cushion, he placed it on the floor and settled himself on it. More comfortable than on the hard wooden stool, he leaned against the wall again and closed his eyes.
* * *
As Karryl was being pushed out into the street, a
guard had grabbed Symon’s wrists and tied them tightly together behind his back. He then gripped his upper arms while another guard fixed a thick blindfold over the little magician’s eyes. A gag was shoved into his mouth and tied in place. The guard released his hold. Symon heard the sound of receding footsteps and a door opening and closing. He stood unmoving, the leather thongs round his wrists cutting cruelly into his skin. The coarse binding over his mouth stank of stale food and body odour. Drawing in deep breaths through his nose and exhaling slowly, he fought the nausea which threatened to overwhelm him. A latch clattered and Symon turned his head towards the sound, a welcome draught wafting briefly round his feet as the door opened and closed again. Soft footfalls drew nearer and a firm hand grasped his shoulder. Seconds later his nostrils caught the harsh metallic taint of Vedric magic. His head suddenly felt hollow, the hand released its grip and the Vedric taint quickly dissipated. All was quiet. It remained so for many minutes, and Symon wondered rather incongruously whether he was dead. If so, he was not impressed. He had no desire to spend eternity standing up, unable to see, hardly able to breathe and with bindings cutting painfully into his wrists.
Again he heard soft footfalls drawing closer. They stopped and Symon detected the heavy acrid odour of incense mingled with something stronger and more sickly sweet which he could not immediately place. Feeling warm breath against his face, he tensed. Surprisingly gently the malodorous gag was removed. Working his mouth he drew his teeth over numbed lips, attempting to moisten them with a tongue that was already thick and dry. The steely sigh of a knife being slipped from its sheath seemed ominously loud in the still air. Symon flinched at the momentary pressure as the bindings on his wrists were sliced through. Grateful for the release he murmured ‘‘Thank you.’’
There was no reply. Slowly he brought his arms round to his front and carefully massaged his wrists as he listened for any sounds he could associate with activity. Only a brief soft rustle reached his ears. With feeling restored to his fingers and the sharp bite of his bonds easing, Symon folded his arms inside his sleeves, stood still and waited.
Eventually, his patience wearing thin, he called out ‘‘Is anyone there?’’
His query met with silence. After waiting for a few more minutes he began to ease off the blindfold, expecting at any moment to be slapped, kicked or knocked to the ground for his efforts. His only punishment was the tear-inducing pulling of his hair, caught into the fabric’s tight knot.
With the blindfold removed and consigned to the floor, Symon looked about him. Set near the top of the high wall, two tiny barred windows admitted narrow shafts of murky yellow early evening light. He was alone in a small circular room no more than five paces across. This came as no real surprise. Causing him considerably more concern was the construction of the room itself. There was no door, nor any sign that one had ever been there. Just as he had completed his second circuit of the tiny cell, with a loud clang all light vanished. Keeping one hand pressed against the wall, Symon strained his eyes in an effort to see a vestige of something. The darkness was absolute.
He had already noticed there was nothing to sit on, no food or water, and no vessel to relieve himself in. Either someone would be bringing these most basic of essentials later, or it was a tactic designed to humiliate and ultimately break him. Symon suspected the latter. Not overly perturbed, he held out his hand palm upwards and proceeded to hum the series of notes which would result in the Light of Perimus. Nothing happened. The little magician smiled into the darkness. Changing disciplines he tried equivalent forms in Rhamnic and then Altic. Still nothing happened. Reluctant to use Vedric in case he was being observed, he pulled off the black Vedran robe, fumbled it into a thick pad, groped around to place it on the floor and sat down. Thankful for the meagre comfort, he leaned against the wall, stretched out his legs and tried to relax.
After a few moments, and against his better judgement, he began to utter the harsh tones of the Vedric spell for light. Several attempts later he was about to admit defeat when a sickly orange glow lurched into the air in front of him, gradually expanding until it was the size of his fist. It hovered unsteadily for a few moments, then tilted sideways, sank to the floor, and died. Symon’s hopes did not die with it. He now knew he could achieve at least a small amount of success with Vedric in this obviously shielded chamber. All he had to do was work out which spells would be most amenable and effective under such circumstances without totally draining his own power. Wriggling his behind into a more comfortable position on his makeshift cushion, he lapsed once more into deep thought
* * *
The temple interior blazed with light. Every wall-sconce held a flaming torch, banishing shadows and illuminating dark recesses. At each corner of the massive altar stood an ornately wrought gold candlestick holding a thick red votive candle. The sweet cloying aroma of incense and the metallic tang of newly spilled blood hung heavy on the air.
Fighting to control his increasing desperation, Ghian entered the temple. Even though the magicians had played into his hands, he still had to breach the Jadhrahin stronghold and recover the precious artefacts. The first squad had not returned, his queen grelfon’s behaviour telling him they were almost certainly lost. Miqhal had outsmarted him again. Not for much longer. The means to finally defeat him was in his grasp. With so little time left, there could be no mistakes. All must be ready. He beckoned to the priest who stood waiting just inside the temple’s massive iron-bound door.
The black-robed priest briefly but respectfully bowed his cowled and hooded head. ‘‘All has been done according to your wishes Lord Ghian. We caught them completely unawares.’’
His expression grim, Ghian nodded. ‘‘Good. What kind of men are they?’’
The priest gave a little shrug. ‘‘The Mage Prime is most unimpressive and seemed somewhat confused. It would seem that the role he has taken on has become too much for him. His assistant allowed himself to be bound and led away without a struggle. Both are now confined where their magic will have no effect.’’
Ghian’s ill-tempered shriek echoed through the temple. “Where? Tell me where!”
Inured by years of service to the Grelfine Lord’s frequent outbursts, the priest gave the location of each prisoner, their shielded dungeons under heavy armed guard and separated by a mile of dark and unfamiliar streets. Barely mollified, Ghian dismissed the priest and sank to his knees in front of the black and blood-fouled altar. Head bowed over tightly clasped hands, for over an hour he knelt there, praying fervently to a god who had not yet seen fit to answer. Candle flames jerked and flared in an errant breeze. Ghian’s skin prickled as his scalp tingled. It took mere seconds for him to realise this was not, at long last, a response from the god to whom he had dedicated himself and to whom he believed he owed his powers. Enraged, he leapt to his feet, his face a mask of incandescent fury. The frisson tormenting his skin held the sweet rich tang of Rhamnic magic, underpinned with something sharp and unrecognisable. In this city, constantly shielded and concealed under a shroud of intense Vedric, any other magic should have been nullified. Incensed by the possibility that his powers had been bettered, he moved himself in a perilously excessive surge to the narrow cul-de-sac which accommodated Symon’s prison. The iron shutters were still in place over the narrow street-level windows. There was no door.
Quelling his fury, Ghian steadied his heart-rate and calmed his racing mind. Hardly disturbing air, he entered the unrelieved darkness of Symon’s cell. To Ghian’s enhanced eyesight, Symon appeared as an unmoving featureless white shape huddled against the wall.
Ghian allowed himself a rare smile. He was not fooled for a moment by this Mage-Prime’s apparent acceptance of the situation. Despite his seemingly mild manner, Ghian knew the man was dangerous. He drew satisfaction from knowing he presented no threat while in this particular cell. Only a very limited amount of Vedric would have success within these walls, and nothing else. Ghian had no doubt of the Mage-Prime’s ability to work Vedric, b
ut in the time it took him to establish which spells would be effective, his attempts would have been detected. The Grelfine Lord took a perverse pleasure from anticipating how he would deal with these two interlopers. That time was not yet. Now he had to discover who was responsible for the enhanced Rhamnic magic which had so blatantly trespassed in his Vedric field.
* * *
In an Ingali jungle clearing a small temple trembled and shook as a great howl of despair surged into the darkening sky. Powerless to respond to his supplicants, the entity roared with frustration. All someone had to do was get his name right. Then there would be a day of reckoning. With a loud crack, the temple wall split from floor to ceiling. Birds screeched and animals scattered; then all was quiet.
62 - Shape-shifter
Jaknu stepped back. With a resounding crack a narrow vertical crevice opened in the wall. Sheared off by the impact of the Grelfon’s strike, a long shard of granite crashed down to litter the tunnel floor with chunks of shattered rock. Squeezing past Jaknu’s huge body, the Jadhrahin moved cautiously forward to examine the cleft fault. Tapered at top and bottom, it formed a black, vertical toothless grin, mocking them.
With a hint of a grudging smile on his mouth, Alek turned to look back at Buller. ‘‘Air comes through. This opening leads somewhere.’’
Abandoning his efforts to calm an increasingly excited Jaknu, Buller gave him a sharp slap on the snout before walking forward to join the others in their survey of the crevice. His torch held high, he played its narrow beam into the space behind the newly created opening.
He turned to look at Alek and the other Jadhrahin. ‘‘It goes a long way back and widens out a bit, but that’s all I can see. It needs one of us to squeeze in and see how far he can get.’’
Any further discussion was temporarily halted. Head lowered, neck out-stretched, Jaknu suddenly twisted himself around and faced back along the tunnel behind them. The soft sounds of rapidly approaching footfalls reached their ears. Backs to the fault-marred wall, weapons readied for combat, Buller and the Jadhrahin waited. Whoever it was would first have to get past the vicious claws, jaws, and huge body of Jaknu. From round a curve in the tunnel, blue torch-beams bobbed into view.