Cradle of Darkness

by Tom G. H. Adams

  Shadow of shame

  The first beams of sunlight crossed the boundary between the shaman’s mountain cave opening and the rock shelf outside, bringing with them a creeping sense of foreboding. There was a time when Sol led the heavenly arc, and Wobas used to welcome this infiltration of his domain. But now that Sol-Ar had become pre eminent, the indigo-hued insolation brought nothing but dread. The rays evaporated a jewellery of morning dew-drops hanging precariously on swaying emerald green grass blades as if Sol-Ar’s baleful touch had banished them.

  Wobas sat cross-legged on a hard stone floor, drawing the last of the warmth from a dying fire of smouldering coals. He raised his eyes again and looked beyond the cave mouth to the sun-drenched hills. It should have been a cheering sight but nothing could lift him from his melancholy.

  If it hadn’t been for his encounter with the augur-imposter in the Dreamworld, he might have succeeded in marshalling his thoughts and strategies, found a way out of the blind canyon that was his estrangement from Milissandia. As it was, the experience had made him dread entering a realm he had previously considered a haven. He had questions for Memek-Tal, if the Spirit Guide would grace him with its presence, that is. Yet every time he contemplated passing across to the Far Beyond, a choking fear paralysed him, rendering him incapable of coherent thought or decisive action — the same feelings an age-old acquaintance had once instilled in him.

  This is an affliction of the mind, he told himself. But even this diagnosis could not stir him from his hermitage, and he did not possess the remedies to cure him in the cave. Perhaps there was one he could reach out to? But who might know about his predicament? He was, after all, Herethorn’s shaman — and what value a sooth-sayer who cannot heal himself?

  He closed his eyes and uttered a low moan of despair. Yet even closing himself off from the immediate world in this way held no release. With eyes closed, his mind conjured unforgettable images of writhing tentacles and oozing pustules. Vignettes of a deathly terror that haunted his dreams, left him sleepless and fatigued.

  His eyes snapped open again, and he allowed the next hour to pass staring at the glowing embers as they dulled to black, leaving only inert powder. He felt terrible; he had no energy and pain ate away at his joints. Adding to this were the incessant headaches that tormented his waking hours.

  Please give medeliverance from this malaise.

  There was no relief for him, however. His inner nervousness now began to manifest itself as a restless itching in his joints and an aching of his muscles. Eventually he had no choice but to rise to his feet, resting one hand on the wall, wincing as pain wracked his stooped back.

  You old fool. What use are you to anyone? And that you should choose this time to wallow in self pity while cataclysmic events loom for the Gigantes?

  Then, through the woollen margins of his perception, he detected an approaching figure; large, looming, and threat-filled. His eyes scanned the immediate vicinity but could make nothing out.

  Am I under attack? Who has penetrated my magical defences?

  Nobody had ventured north of the treeline in many a sol-cycle; and even if they did, they would become confounded in the sorcerous snares he had laid about his cave. Again, Wobas thought he heard something but his eyes detected no movement. A panic gripped him.

  Is this how it ends? Death by an unknown assassin’s hand? He glanced at the ashes of the fire wondering if his own life flame was about to be snuffed out.

  Perhaps this is for the best.

  As he offered a prayer to the mountain gods, a voice carried across to him on the wind.

  “Wobas,” it said, “Wobas, are you there?”

  Out of the heat-haze a familiar silhouette emerged, and for the first time in weeks, Wobas’ mouth curled with the hint of a smile. “Ebar, is that you?”

  Wobas watched in disbelief as the giant came lolloping over a ridge and along the path towards the cave.

  Bless his heart — the Cyclopes has found a way through my enhanced Dastarthes perimeter!

  He willed his weary legs forward out of the cave, holding a hand up to shield his eyes. This was no apparition. The Gigantes statesman’s signature presence could not be denied. “Why are you here?” Wobas stammered.

  Ebar approached his reclusive friend and looked down on him with kindness, his large central eye blinking as he gathered his breath. “There is much to discuss my friend, and time is against us,” he said, looking at the dishevelled being before him. “When did you last eat and sleep?”

  Wobas rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I forget. The desire for food has abandoned me and my sleep is filled with dream phantoms.”

  “Here, taste this,” Ebar said, thrusting a skin into the shaman’s hand. “Fresh fig berry juice. Drink deeply, it will refresh you.”

  Wobas accepted the giant’s offer and took a deep draught from the skin. The juice sent a re-vitalising energy through him as soon as it hit his stomach.

  The two friends settled on the comfortable weathered granite, letting silence speak while one gathered his breath, and the other his thoughts.

  “So what is so important to bring you beyond the tree line?” Wobas said after a time.

  “Worry.”

  “The burdens of leadership?”

  Ebar blinked at him earnestly. “Concern for you, my friend.”

  “I did not want to be sought out,” Wobas replied.

  “Which is a very good reason why I should,” the Cyclopes said. “I have never known you withdraw for this long without telling me.”

  Wobas hung his head. “A great malaise afflicts me.”

  “I can tell that,” Ebar said, “which makes me wonder why you didn’t reach out for help.”

  “I fear no one can help me.”

  Ebar placed a gigantic hand on the shaman’s shoulder. “Tell me,” he said, “and hold nothing back.”

  Wobas saw the compassion on Ebar’s face and understood he had to expose his vulnerability — it was either that or die. And so he related the Dreamworld encounter, and how a sickness borne of fear had descended upon him.

  When he had finished, Ebar looked east and took in the sight of the Hallows rupture; a gash in the mountainside that even in this strong sunlight spewed forth an effluvium of purple energy. “I think you have spent too long in the presence of that baleful source.”

  “You know that I never succumbed to its temptation,” Wobas said, defensively.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Ebar said. “But the Hallows waxes strong. See how Sol-Ar’s beams reach down to the earthly rupture. It is as if they conspire and strengthen each other. The very air has changed. Reports reached us from outlying hamlets lying close to yonder Hallows. They speak of people growing restless, arguing amongst each other. Husbands and wives quarrel over insignificant things and lifelong friendships are broken. If that is how the Hallows can affect things at that distance, think how you must suffer being this close.

  The Cyclope’s words rang true and Wobas felt he had been given a key to unlock his affliction.

  “Blindness has overtaken me,” he said, his voice reduced to a croak, “and my powers have deserted me.”

  “Nonsense, my friend. You see matters through eyes distorted by the Black Hallows malignancy. I know it is within your power to aid us. Emerge from this shadow of shame and help protect our people.” Ebar paused wondering if his friend was listening to him.

  “Our world faces a great threat from the plains,” he continued. “A ghost from the past given life by the Hallows energy has emerged. The Cuscosians rise in anger once again and bring terror to the dragon-folk. Even as we speak, the Donnephon flee their ancestral home and make their way towards us.”

  Wobas looked down to the earth. “This is a disturbing turn of events. If the Donnephon should discover us, our people will be overwhelmed as they seek their own sanctuary. But surely they can’t circumvent the Dastarthes mists?”

  “So far our defences hold, but Tayem is a persistent monarch. The C
ouncil fear their incursion into our lands. History led to our isolation and it must remain so. The dragon-folk are not wanted.”

  “And you come to me for help?”

  “Yes. Your powers can enhance the hanging mists — just as you bolstered your own peculiar defences here.”

  “You managed to breach them.”

  “Only thanks to a charm provided by Ginnie.” He fingered a rusty looking amulet hanging from his neck.

  “I did wonder,” Wobas said. “But I’m not sure I possess enough reserves of strength to aid you yet. The attrition of this last few weeks has overwhelmed me.”

  Ebar gripped the shaman’s wrist. “Let me take you from here. I beseech you — return with me to my home and spurn this hermit-like existence which is driving you mad.”

  Wobas looked hesitant. “I will disappoint you.”

  “You have never proved untrustworthy in any respect. All I ask is that you try. If the Donnephon reach our homes then who is to say if the Cuscosians are not far behind? Then what will become of us? Think of my family, your daughter. What will become of her under the tyranny of Cuscosia, if you don’t at least try to aid me?”

  At the mention of Milissandia, Wobas closed his eyes as the pain of their last encounter returned.

  “Ah,” Ebar said. “That brings me to another vexing subject.”

  The shaman opened his eyes again.

  “Your daughter,” the giant continued, “has not been seen this last week either. Vaedra had sent word for her to tend to his son’s broken leg — a casualty from one of the Hallows’ influenced family feuds. A string of messengers returned with no report of her whereabouts. She also missed her weekly clinic.”

  Wobas became weary beyond endurance at this news.

  “I am sorry to be the bearer of further bad tidings, but I sent Brownbeak to search the lower hills. We can only hope that some misfortune has not overtaken her.” He took another look at the Black Hallows. Another flare of energy escaped from the scar on the landscape. “Let us go before all your dreams turn into persistent nightmares, and peace of mind eludes you forever.”

  Wobas nodded his assent. “I will come,” he said. “Your words carry great wisdom. But tell me, is there anything else I should know?”

  “Let us depart, and I will tell you as we walk.” Ebar was clearly anxious to capitalise on Wobas’s surrender to his offer before the shaman changed his mind.

  Wobas gathered a few belongings in a sack and accompanied the giant away from his retreat. Ebar chose a route that skirted the Hallows rift as widely as possible, the Cyclopes stepping slowly to allow Wobas to keep up.

  “I heard Kaldora Prime is no more,” Ebar resumed his news-telling. “The stories are a little unclear, but travellers said the Cuscosians attacked Jennu Narod, causing a cataclysm that engulfed the valley. We are told no one survived.”

  “The Kaldorans too?” Wobas exclaimed. “The pain of Dragonia reached me in my dreams, but I received no omen of the stonegrabes’ predicament. Perhaps if I had ventured back into the Far Beyond, I might have detected this, but I am afraid to re-enter the Dreamworld. It is inhabited by another of great power, something that has possessed or usurped the Augur there.” He went on to describe in detail the monstrosity he had glimpsed, and the repercussions that manifested themselves through his dreams.

  Ebar listened as Wobas described his encounter with the Augur, together with the pain and anguish arising from visions of a future violent death. After listening, the giant said, “There are myths that tell of beasts similar to the one of which you speak, but they were slaughtered many aeons ago.”

  “No,” Wobas replied. “This was as real as you and I. It exists in a different form now, and walks the halls of Castle Cuscosa, I am sure. Yet its true identity still eludes me. It reminds me of one I once knew. But that ghost of violence is dead too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Wobas dredged his memories or a recollection of his last encounter with the one called Zodarin. There was some uncertainty over the circumstances … “Perhaps … I don’t know,” he muttered.

  Ebar, seeing his friend was lost for words and tired, decided to hold his questions for now.

  It seemed like an eternity before Wobas saw the shape of the Gigantes village emerging from the Dastarthes mist, and by now he had had to relent to Ebar’s offer to carry him on his shoulders.

  Shamfis came running from Ebar’s house to greet them, beckoning the giant to bring the shaman inside. He was laid on a bed covered with garbeast blankets.

  After furnishing him with a warm brinn-herb broth, Shamfis said, “Rest will be the best medicine. Now come and sit with the children. They have missed you.”

  It was two days before Wobas was well enough to leave his bed. Shamfis had tended to his needs and his appetite had returned. Now, sitting on the blackwood platform, he took pleasure from watching the children play, although their youthful energy tired him. Djabi, the youngest of Ebar’s children crawled across the floor collecting wooden building blocks while Dshambi, the elder child followed. They stopped when they realised the shaman was watching.

  The two children looked at the stranger momentarily, and then went back to their play, setting out blocks in the form of a Gigantes village. Their laughter was infectious, and Wobas felt the curtains of darkness part, allowing a ray of optimism to penetrate his tormented soul. He was so engrossed in watching the children play he didn’t see Shamfis standing in the doorway. She paused for a moment before quietly going to fetch Ebar.

  When they returned, they found the shaman on the floor with the children, telling them a tale based on the scene they had just constructed. Wobas’s face was animated as he recounted the myth of the Cyclopes while the boys listened to their diminutive storyteller with wide-eyed wonder.

  “It seems our shaman has undergone a healing of sorts,” Ebar said to his wife.

  “Just as well,” she replied. “You both have much work to do before time runs out.”

  “Give him the remainder of this day,” Ebar said. “He deserves that much.”

  33

  Path of the Gigantes

  Mahren blinked twice. Am I even allowed to think this is true, that it is not a dream?

  “Careful,” Sashaim said, “I do not trust these humans.”

  Her small group of Dragon Riders stood at the top of an incline just south of Mount Gathan, having picked up the trail of a large band making their way through the coniferous forest earlier that morning. They looked down at some two hundred figures picking their way through the dense trees toward them. The man who led the way was uncharacteristically bearded, but boasted a crooked nose she remembered with great affection.

  “These are not just any humans,” she replied. “I would recognise Brethis anywhere.”

  Although these words were true, she had to admit the dishevelled staggering figure she saw leaning on a garbeach branch appeared to be weathered as if by a storm; beaten but hopefully not yet cowed. The flesh, exposed by holes in his ragged clothes, was scored by a dozen cuts and grazes, fragments of bramble leaf and twigs tangled his red hair. But the defiance in his eyes remained.

  “Thank Sesnath for that,” she whispered to herself.

  “Brethis — is that you?” She called out to the man, forgetting Saishim’s admonishment to refrain from any noise that would give away their location to Etezora’s patrols.

  The man she had thought dead looked at her in puzzlement, and then broke out in a broad smile. “Mahren? Gods, I cannot believe it. As the blood courses through my veins, can it be?”

  The sound of his voice triggered Mahren into motion. She cast caution aside as she ran towards him. Her emotions goaded her to leap into his arms, but his obvious injury restrained her at the last minute. What a travesty it would be if her over-exuberance caused him to tumble down the steep hill and break his leg — or worse. Instead, she slowed her pace and held him in a tight embrace, half-holding him up.

  “My love, I did not dare ho
pe,” she said, showering him with kisses.

  He held her tight with one arm, clearly needing the other to support himself on the stave. “Word reached us of the Donnephon defeat,” he said. “I too feared the worst for you.”

  “I may have survived, but the truth is we are a people on the run and defeated … at least for now.” She stepped back and took a closer look at him. “Are you hurt?”

  He looked down at his right foot. “Stood on a chasquite-thorn spelk on the lower slopes. It’s driven in deep.”

  Mahren sighed with relief, thankful that at least he hadn’t been wounded by the Cuscosians. “Our surgeons can see to it,” she said, then kissed him again, less urgently this time, but with a lingering borne of fear that this might be a fleeting moment of bliss. Sashaim approached behind, alternately scanning the trees and a gathering crowd of Cuscosians for signs of hostility.

  “Who are these people?” Mahren asked Brethis.

  “Refugees,” Brethis said. “When Eétor’s guard slaughtered our families, I fled with Oathair here. Others joined us. It was only a matter of time before Chalmon targeted them. There are many others still dwelling in Hallow’s Creek sympathetic to our cause but unwilling to stand up to Etezora.”

  Mahren noted the pain on his face and stroked his grimy cheek. “I am sorry to hear of your family. None survived?”

  “They butchered old and young alike. But their actions forged a blade of defiance that will have its revenge. I led these people through the forests seeking a place to regroup and build our resistance.”

  Mahren looked at the crowd of sullied humanity with a sense of pity. She had not seen a more unlikely group of revolutionaries. “They will not fare well if you lead them further toward the mountain. It is a cruel sentinel and its slopes are home to marauders and garbeasts. You are better joining us further to the west.”

  “Surely Tayem will not countenance this,” he said.

  Mahren fixed him with a resolute stare. “I will not countenance otherwise.”