by Chogan Swan
He ran his fingers over the wall. The chisel marks were more frequent now. Someone had shaped and widened the passage. He walked on; the archway expanded then turned through a sharp dog-leg and halted at an immense double door—banded with dark metal over metal and decorated with sparkling filigree.
Seth took another step—careful, cautious. At his footfall, the doors flew inward, crashing into the walls behind, roaring and ringing like gongs.
A doorman in red and gold livery stepped into view, stooped down in a courtly bow and beckoned for Seth to enter. Seth hesitated. An invitation might be a sincere welcome, but more likely, it meant he was already trapped and someone could afford to pretend courtesy. It didn't matter. He stepped through and followed the doorman down the hall which stretched out of sight.
The measured clicks of the man’s heels echoed on the parquet floor. Seth's soft leather and gum soles whispered. The walls displayed rich tapestries up to the stone ceiling, twenty feet above, carved with strange designs of intertwining beasts and human forms, glowing with pale colors. The effect was lavish and impressive, but some of the details on the wall were blurry at the edges of his vision—perhaps a faint vapor in the air. He let his prayer-light disperse, unneeded now with the glow from the ceiling.
Two minutes walking brought them to an intersection. The crossing hallway looked much the same as the first. He noted an acrid odor of old smoke.
After eight more intersections, they came to a set of doors identical to the ones at the entrance. As they came near, the doors swung open then snicked closed as they passed.
The odor was stronger here. A man sat eating at the head of a long stone table. Two men in dark livery waited on him. A third entered from a side door. The servant on the right stepped forward and pulled out a chair for Seth, three places down from the head. He carried a platter heaped with meat and eggs. The servant placed it on a serving tray at the head of the table. the food was not for Seth
“Sit down, whoever you are.” The man waved a fork at the chair. Though his voice was quiet, it was clear he expected immediate obedience. He dressed in black wool, with fine threads of gold and silver worked into the cloth. Though his head came no higher over the back of the chair than Seth's did, his presence filled the room as he ate with measured, efficient motions. Though he wasn't hurrying, he swallowed without chewing his food at all, working his way through the platter in very little time. Seth tried to use the methods he’d learned from Jyrmak to read his character, but he couldn't get a fix on the lines of his face.
His dark complexion glowed with feverish heat. Seth felt loath to look at his face. The eyes held compelling power.
What am I supposed to do now?
Seth didn't feel worried. He thought he should be though. It was hard to understand. The last two days walking through the tunnels to Darkfire's... whatever this place was... he didn't seem to react to things the way he expected he would. Part of him did, but there was always another reaction underneath.
In spite of what Jyrmak would have advised here, Seth looked into the whirlpool dark eyes and saw surprise there.
“What brings you to my court?” asked the man, turning his attention back to his plate.
Seth watched as the man sliced a piece of meat and raised it to his mouth. Then a peculiar sensation came over him.
Though there was no physical sensation, someone had just nudged him, knocked on his door and commanded him all at once. He also knew the nudge was meaningful, the knock familiar, and the command was reasonable. In fact, he'd already agreed to it.
“I bring a message to you from the Council, Darkfire,” he said.
So this is Darkfire?
The man—who he’d just called Darkfire—stopped eating and put down his knife and fork. His eyes came up to fasten on Seth's. He spoke the dragon tongue. “If you are from the council, then you know any valid message must come by another dragon, so any ruling they have made against me is pointless.”
“Then you acknowledge there are reasons the council should rule against you,” Seth said, also speaking dragon. “Shall I treat this as a confession?”
“Treat it however you want, man, for you are no dragon in shape-change,” Darkfire said. “I sense only two tens of years on you. Even if the council did send you, it was a fool's errand. I have no interest in hearing from them or seeing them or walking down those paths where they find their meager dregs of power. I have other sources of interest to keep me occupied.”
“It is true then. You have turned from the light.”
“It is true the Council did—in fact—send you,” Darkfire said, sneering. “Only they are so dogmatic and ignorant about where to find wisdom.”
“Is that what you call it now, my brother, wisdom?”
Seth noticed the room grow darker. Behind the man at the table, a huge blurry shadow uncoiled with the cold, faraway rustling of hard scales on stone. “You are impertinent,” whispered Darkfire. “Do not address me in that form. Not even a Council member would dare to speak in the familiar. I am Eldest, man. Have you any idea of what that means?”
“Yes. It means the rest of us moved on. Why are you ignoring what you saw in my eyes?”
“Moonglow,” Darkfire breathed out in a long hiss, but Seth felt only remotely threatened—as though he were only a spectator.
Darkfire's men had slunk back, cowering against the walls. The shadow grew darker, coiling closer. The cup on the table crumpled in on itself, spilling out boiling wine that stained the tablecloth the color of blood.
“As you will not turn, I will give you the message,” Seth said.
“Indeed, I was thinking you had forgotten it and were trying to cover up by insulting me.”
Seth rose from the chair. “Hear the council's ruling,” his voice rolled through the hall. Seth thought it very impressive.
“Hear your truename for the last time as your own, Undaumiel, for this is your un-naming,” he said. “Though you were Eldest, the Council rules to exclude you from the communion. You have turned from the Light and forsaken the Fellowship. The paths you walk are unclean and you have now confirmed that you will not turn from them. No longer, will your words have authority or your commands hold weight. You are not welcome in our halls. No longer shall you have the powers of dragonkind. You are severed from our kinship. As you chose the Dark, you will be dark to us. Your truename we take from you. No longer will you be 'dragon', but 'wyrm'. This is the judgment of the council. May the Creator have mercy on you. May you turn again before the end.”
Throughout the speech, Darkfire did not move, but with each pronouncement, his eyes winced. The shadow behind the chair merged with the shape of the man.
When Seth finished speaking, he spun on his heel and walked toward the door, but as he neared it, he saw a red thread of force stitching the door closed. Darkfire wasn’t letting him leave.
Go through it! You don't want to be here anymore.
Now what? He was hearing voices, speaking dragon too? No time to think. He looked at the stitching for a weak spot.
There. The lower-right side.
Ok, first establish the objective...
“Open,” Seth said, concentrating on a line of power on the lower-right of the door and praying the Creator was taking a special interest in his predicament.
The red lines snapped at the bottom and came apart, unzipping and melting away.
Seth crashed against the door, remembering too late it opened inward. A violent yank opened the ponderous door just enough for him to slip past. As he went through, something crashed into the door behind him, snapping it shut again and bruising his heel.
His cloak caught in the jamb and almost strangled him before he slipped out of it and sprinted down the long hallway. Behind him, he heard the doors splinter and burst apart. A tremendous wave of heat and sound hit his back like a searing hurricane, pushing him down the hall. He kept his feet under him for ten long strides, flailing to stay upright until he reached an intersection and ve
ered right. He bounced off the wall and stumbled away from the heat. The smoke was all around him now, choking and caustic.
He couldn't go on breathing it much longer. Its fumes were poison, burning his eyes and throat.
Here!
Here what? Seth wondered.
The tapestry; it's an illusion.
They all are. I spotted that when I came in.
This one hides something. Go through it.
Seth didn't wait to think about this prompting. He dove into the tapestry and found himself in a narrow crack that sloped downward.
Careful here... Look out!
Seth’s feet skidded; a thin coat of water and slime covered the floor; his feet shot out from under him and he landed on his back.
He shot down a smooth, stone chute, spraying water then fell through darkness.
It seemed a long time before he plunged into….
Deep water. Even through his boots, his feet stung from the impact. The breath fled from his lungs. The pit of his stomach spasmed at the concussion and the cold. When it unclenched at last, he gasped and his lungs filled with icy froth. The current tumbled him, whirling him into rocks and...
Darkness.
Book 2 — Darkness Gathering
Chapter 1 (Dark Resurrection)
A tomb-sized clearing enclosed by twisted trees—of crowded limbs and waxy leaves that allowed no light to penetrate—hid a dark spot in the forest. Nothing hunted there, nor did anything run to it for refuge. Animals shunned it. Even the tiny swamp spiders—deadly and accustomed to foul habitat—did not frequent there. Worms would not burrow beneath it, for the blood that soaked the ground burned their skin and made them writhe as though they had fallen into fire.
Yet something was there—on the slab of crusted basalt resting on uneven boulders in the center of the clearing. It was a man, or had been. For a generation he had not moved, but snow did not settle on him in winter, nor did rain touch him in summer. Soon he would awaken.
He had lost much, paying for things he had done. Not that he cared; in the years his body had lain dormant, he had traveled far on dark roads—where a body was only a hindrance. And if he had been evil before, he was now a chancre of darkness. It was his punishment; it was his reward. He had trespassed, violating one with the mark, a queen, with the warning mark written plain on her forehead for any with the sight.
But he had obeyed his master, and he would be well rewarded. Soon he would rise and go to his sons, the offspring of his surgery. When day turned to night, the waiting would be over. His master would call his name.
... Balaak.
He rose, unsteady at first, unfamiliar now with the husk to which he had returned. Then he ascended, gathering his power to him. The deformed branches of the dark trees moved aside with a whisper as he rose higher into the night. The spirits of the baalim still trapped there beseeched him not to leave them bound, but he was not yet ready to release them. As he turned east and flew toward the distant sea, the rushing air caressed him, but its touch called no joy into his breast; none would kindle there.
He was fixed on his purpose—his sons ... No, one was dead now. This he had not foreseen ... It did not matter.
The sky was cloudy; below it was dark. As he passed over the land, brave dogs rushed to doorways snarling into the night. Most crawled under beds and whimpered. Sheep and cattle shifted, uneasy in their sleep, and cats fled to cover hissing. Children woke screaming in terror. Their parents sat up chilled and gasping.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Brynd woke with a feeling of dread that churned his stomach. Part of him protested, crying out in loathing—the part long ignored. He killed it again.
Now.
His dreams had showed him this time. He would come into his power. His true father was coming—with his new name. His lips moved to form it.
Kalki...
Naked and trembling, he rose from his bedroll and walked into the night, rapt with horrible fascination. In the camp behind him, most of his men slept on, restless. Some woke and departed in haste.
That night Brynd met his father, finished speaking the ritual of the ancient lie, assumed his transmogrification, and lost the portion of himself referred to as a soul.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
A small group of soldiers mounted on horses so dusty they all seemed the same color, clattered through the outer entrance of the keep. Guards in the towers closed the gates behind them with a great rattling of chains as the riders reined to a halt before the stables. Marshall swung down from his mount, throwing the reins to one of Sedrick's grooms and made his way toward the King's chambers.
Despite the usual spring in his step, his eyes were grim and tired. The guard at the door of the map room moved aside for him. Arod and Jyrmak looked up. The King held up his hand—silencing Marshall before he could speak—and pointed to a large tub of steaming water behind a screen next to the hearth. Arod and Jyrmak continued speaking quietly while Marshall stepped behind the screen, stripped off his dusty clothes and eased his body into the water.
He sighed and closed his eyes. The events of the last three days turned over in his mind—ambuscades, night attacks, a fragmented chaos of violence. The order of the kingdom was a shambles, and they were out of touch with all border forts and the majority of patrols.
First, the problem with bandits looting in the area had escalated. A few isolated incidents of this happened every year, but this year was the worst in memory. Marshall had gone out with a platoon of rangers to settle the problem then things had gone from sour to sickening.
Refugees fled towards the castle, all with the same story: bandits, killings, homesteads burned, and animals stolen or slaughtered. All these things rose before his eyes once more—every band they found and exterminated soon replaced by more, streaming in from the north and south borders.
And twelve of his men were dead.
Twelve men, their faces flashed before him.
He submersed himself in the tub, letting the hot water cover his face for a moment, then rested his head on the side of the tub. If a servant came behind the screen now, the water running down his face would be only bath water; the augmentation of tears would be unnoticed. When the water cooled, he rose from the tub, dried and put on the fresh clothes that hung on the screen.
He strode to the table where the King and Jyrmak consulted, hovering over the maps.
The King turned to him, his eyes taking in Marshall's sorrow. “For years I have known this would come someday,” he said. “Many good folk have been killed. More will follow. I've lived five-hundred and twenty-three years and seen more deaths than I can count, and it never gets easier. But my duties ... to the living leave little time to stop for mourning.”
Jyrmak stirred where he sat. “Justice and duty demand all of it. We must mourn as we fight. Let it make our hand heavy as we strike.”
Marshall nodded in grim agreement.
“What do you have to report?” Arod said.
Marshall stepped to the map. “Bandit groups from all inland directions are converging on us,” he said, tapping the map’s borders. “Only the Whistling Mountains are untouched. The patrols sent south encountered Tarrian freebooters overrunning our borders. No reports returned from the southern forts. From the east some of the horse tribes have come to loot. And all the cultic temples of the Hand have left Ibuchan and the coastal cities and are moving in force on us from the southeast coast. Pirates are attacking our coastal villages, but the fishing folk have been setting submerged traps and fighting back, so the attacks from the sea seem to be slacking off.”
Arod, moved markers onto the map, nodding for him to continue.
“I questioned several from each faction, before we stopped taking prisoners. They spoke of messages that beckoned them here, and old oaths they had made. Most would say nothing even under threat of death. One prisoner, an acolyte of a Hand cult, said Maru was gathering them all to wipe us from the world. It isn't safe to leave the keep. We are
effectively besieged.”
“Did you see any signs of them organizing yet?” asked Arod.
“Some were banding together. That’s why we returned.”
“How long do you think it would take them to organize enough to attack here?” asked the King.
“A week; longer.... It depends on their leadership, I would think, and I have no clue to that.”
“From what we heard when our spies returned from Brynd's camp, I think we know that now,” Jyrmak said. “Brynd has joined himself with a darkness I have not sensed moving for a generation. His name is Balaak though he disguises himself with another guise. 'Maru' is what is his followers are calling him now. I had reason to hope he was dead, but he is stronger than ever. The attack will be soon.”
With a flutter of feathers, a shadow came through the window to light on Jyrmak's shoulder. “The land people are all come here, or hidden in woods.” Fletch's grammar, usually faultless, had lapsed into Raven sequence. He was missing some feathers and seemed agitated.
Marshall rubbed the stubble on his chin.
He must have had a narrow escape.
The raven was so cocksure of himself he sometimes forgot to be cautious. Someone must have shot at him.
For the last three days, Fletch had done more spying in the last two weeks than a platoon of scouts could have. His aerial perspective allowed him to get an overall view in a quick glance. Countless times, he had warned Marshall of ambushes. The strain was beginning to show.
“Rest now brave raven,” said Arod. “The crown thanks you for your valor. Sleep well, for we may need your eyes again tomorrow.”