The remainder of that day was spent ferrying Brethis and the wounded via dragon to the Donnephon camp. Sashaim remained with the other humans — those who were reasonably fit — to act as guide and lead them back to the Dragonian camp on foot. The lieutenant was somewhat reluctant (Mahren could see it in his face,) but obedience elicited a dutiful response, and he promised to undertake the task to the best of his ability. Mahren estimated it would take another day at least for them to reach their destination. Time enough to prepare Tayem for their arrival, a task she did not relish but was determined to accomplish. It was also time enough for Etezora’s troops to discover them if fortune conspired.
She circled Jaestrum in order to approach the Dragonian camp from the north, keeping him close to the treeline, ever fearful that at any moment an invisible assailant might strike him from the sky. She had named the unknown enemy ‘Shadow Man,’ although she could not be certain it was in fact a man who had perpetrated the atrocity. The only reassurance she had was that she would recognise the premonitions if they happened again. At Lyn-Harath, the malignant tremors she had perceived on the ether had only given her minutes warning, but it would be enough to perhaps execute evasive manoeuvres. It might be a vain hope to steer her dragon out of range from the hidden adversary, but she was prepared to try anything if it meant saving Jaestrum.
Brethis held on to her in the dragon harness, petrified at this most breathtaking of journeys. Mahren found it difficult to see things from his perspective as riding dragons was second nature to her, but she guessed it must be singularly unsettling. Once alighted safely in the makeshift draconest, she called for the dragon-hands to help Brethis to the physicker’s quarters. The thorn would be removed there and give him much needed relief. In the meantime she mentally prepared herself for the inevitable meeting with her sister.
She found Tayem in her command hut, deep in conversation with Gemain, Frodha and a peculiar looking woman dressed in what seemed like druidic apparel. When Tayem laid eyes on her, Mahren thought she detected a hint of relieved warmth in her sister’s demeanour. However, it was quickly replaced by a look of stern disapproval.
“I’m astounded you have the gall to show your face here again,” she said. “Did you decide to call off your fruitless search, sister?” Her curt response drew a calming hand on her shoulder from Cistre, who stood, as ever, behind her. Mahren had noticed Tayem tolerating this tactile comfort more readily in the last week. It might have raised her hackles before, but she saw how it seemed to help still the Hallows malignancy she knew resided in her.
Mahren decided not to rise to Tayem’s scolding. “I bring heart-lifting news, My Queen. Brethis is alive, and he has led a surviving group of dissidents out of Cuscosia.”
She waited for the outpouring of vitriol and was surprised when, instead, her sister cocked her head. “That is … good news,” she replied. Then, turning to the dusky-skinned woman said, “It would seem that your predictions are holding true so far.”
“My hope is that it will be enough to convince you to accompany me along the path to Herethorn. I too have my own reparations to make with a family member — I understand all too well how hard this can be.”
“Come join us,” Tayem said to Mahren. “This is Milissandia, dweller in Herethorn and representative of the ancient Gigantes.”
“Gigantes?” Mahren said, sitting on a roughly hewn tree segment, “but you’re so …”
“Small?” Milissandia replied, smiling. “You are thinking of the Cyclopes. They are the progenitors of our race, but mostly our kind are of shorter stature. The woman’s accent was truly outlandish, with ‘rs’ pronounced like the sound ‘ah,’ but after a little adjustment, Mahren was just about able to make out her meaning.
“I would request something from you, my Queen,” Mahren said, eager to get this next part over with.
“You wish us to give succour to the Cuscosian dissidents?”
Mahren bit her lip, “I know our resources are stretched, but — ”
“It shall be done,” Tayem said. “If we are to defeat Etezora then we need to recognise and welcome all who would lend us their aid.”
What has come over her? Mahren thought. “You have no objection?”
A purple light flashed across Tayem’s eyes. It did not go unnoticed by Milissandia. “Your Majesty,” the Gigantes said, “I sense a great conflict in your soul. If I may make so bold; did you drink of the Hallows?”
Tayem looked at the soothsayer sharply. “You overstep your position of trust, wise-woman. I — ”
Cistre rubbed her Queen’s shoulder, distracting her, and it was Tayem’s turn to be interrupted. “You have no need to conceal what lies inside your heart, or indeed to be ashamed of inviting something you thought would give your people hope,” Milissandia said. “But understand this; the Black Hallows has nothing but chaos in its mind. If you hold on to its essence — it will surely destroy you and your people.”
At her words, the Hallows light audibly crackled as its energy seeped out of Tayem’s eyes. This was to Mahren, the Hallows most overt expression she had witnessed since fighting by her sister’s side on the battlefield. At the time, it had given her a perverse feeling of satisfaction as she saw how the power leant strength to her sister’s assaults, reaping the Cuscosians by the dozen. But now it only filled her with dread.
No words passed between any of them until the fire subsided. When it did, Mahren saw a look of helplessness pass across Tayem’s face.
“How can I be purged of this affliction?” she said, and Mahren recognised the significance of the confession. What she didn’t understand was how this strange woman had drawn it from her proud sister.
Milissandia sighed. “Alas, it is not within my power to exorcise you of the Hallows’ dread influence, but I know one who might achieve such a thing.”
“Who?” Tayem said, her upper lip trembling.
“My father.”
34
At water's end
Zodarin had allowed himself to fall asleep in the dragon’s saddle. The gentle sway of the dragon’s gait induced a soporific effect, and although his eye kept partial watch on the immediate environment, his mind drifted towards the Dreamworld. This was an unprecedented occurrence as in the usual course of events he would consciously invoke the transition. But since the killing of the dragons he had found the border between the Near To and the Far Beyond increasingly blurred.
The wolf craved solitude. It was wounded, infected — legacy of its encounter with the darastrix. The harroc found it disquieting to have this sense of malaise in the Dreamworld. The disease affected not only his sense of wellbeing but also his vision. Images shimmered like mirages, and when they moved their edges became indistinct, blending with those that came before and after. Was that the winged night sentinel he saw? It seemed to watch him from its perch, eyes filled with dread, but also pathos. He could not remain under its gaze and broke into a run, distancing himself from a creature he suspected was a friend come enemy.
He ran over rolling downs until he reached the forest. Perhaps I might find rest in the shadows, he thought. But even here there was no solace. There, in the lower branches of a garbeech he spied a tree serpent. The sight of the creature would have been unusual in itself, as they were a retiring species, yet this one was immensely beautiful, with skin of iridescent greens and blues. Why had he not seen it before? Instinctively, he knew it was a she.
The anduleso watched him with a sense of animal caution mixed with a higher being’s audacity, and although the creature was dazzling beyond measure, he had the desire to seize the thing in his jaws and relieve it of its life force. As these emotions rose within the wolf’s breast he found his form changing, reverting to something more primitive. What is this? The wolf that was Zodarin grew, its outer skin sloughing off to reveal something altogether more slimy and warty. His last transition to this ultimate form had been ordered consciously, but this — this was beyond his control. He felt the Black Hallows fuellin
g the change, but the direction and speed of the transformation were being interfered with by some other agency. Something he could neither predict nor control.
Events were transpiring at a rate that defied him. Before the change could complete itself, he sensed a force drawing him back to the Near To, a protective strand of magic warning him his presence was required there.
He came to his senses with a jolt, the dragon halting abruptly. There, rising out of the grass tussocks in front of him were three vile Kaldorans. The first was larger than the others, its skin encrusted with suppurating rocky scales. Two scrawnier individuals flanked this one, each encased in shabby stonegrabe armour. The tall one, obviously the leader, brought a slingshot to bear upon him, a wicked looking spiked sphere loaded in the launching pouch. The other two wielded spears with jagged, hooked tips, fashioned for melee and capable of tearing open a victim’s innards when withdrawn.
“Stand down wizard,” declared the leading stonegrabe. Its voice was the grating of two stones against each other.
“Stand down?” Zodarin replied, “but I am unarmed.”
“Watch his hands, Gruford,” muttered the one on his left through blubbery lips, “don’t give him a chance to cast one of his cursed spells.”
“I know!” Gruford replied, irritated by his henchman. “Wizard — raise your arms.”
Zodarin smiled. “As you wish.” He dropped the reins and slowly complied with the stonegrabe. It was amusing to him that the Kaldorans believed he required arm movements to exert his power, but he obeyed their wishes nonetheless. He cursed himself for not being more alert, but the fact they had not simply shot him from his saddle indicated they had other mischief in mind.
“Tie him to the tree, we need to know what he knows,” commanded Grufrod.
“My noble Kaldoran friends,” Zodarin said, “no need to be uncivilised. Tell me what you want and I’m sure we can come to some agreement without resorting to unpleasantness.”
It was Gruford’s turn to smile. “What — and do without our fun? Tarchon’s blessing on that one, human. You will tell us what we want to know, but not before we’ve had our sport.”
The two henchmen pulled Zodarin roughly from his saddle, and then made to slay the dragon.
“Your Fellchief will thank you for keeping the dragon alive, my friend,” Zodarin said. “Fresh dragon meat is always more favourable than old, and you are far from your borders.”
“We do not answer to Magthrum,” a henchgrabe said.
“Quiet, fool,” Gruford said, slapping the Kaldoran across the face.
Zodarin did not offer any resistance to his treatment and allowed the Kaldorans to pull him to a lone yarra tree where he was bound with thick witch-hemp ropes. He noted they refrained from killing his compliant steed, however.
They aren’t exactly the sharpest needles in the sewing kit, he reflected.
He tried to engage the stonegrabes in further conversation, but Gruford commanded them to ignore him while they tied the dragon to a hammered-in stake. As they lit a fire the twin suns descended toward the horizon, and Zodarin surmised the Kaldorans would want to eat before starting their devilment.
Always putting their stomachs first, he thought. Despite their limited exchange, he had already gleaned useful information. They held no allegiance to Magthrum, and they understood the currency that dragon meat represented. This was not a typical preserve of Kaldorans — more of Cuscosians. Hired hands then, he thought.
He contemplated entering the Dreamworld to dispose of them, but that realm had proved unpredictable. He decided instead to employ subterfuge.
As they pulled out pieces of indeterminate meat that Zodarin suspected were human in origin, they muttered in their guttural mountain tongue. He was too far away to overhear their conversation, and if he was to learn anything before they carried out their threats, he would have to act soon.
“Are Kaldorans still partial to a sack of gold or two?” he shouted across to them.
Gruford looked up from his meal, scowled, then ambled over.
The wizard looked up at the stonegrabe and offered his friendliest of smiles. “Deliver me safely to Cuscosa and I will pay you twice that which Eétor offered you,” he said.
“You can afford three hundred gold pieces?” Gruford said before realising his mistake. His fist extinguished Zodarin’s smile as it slammed into his jaw. “You think you can weasel information from us, wizard?” He said. “It will do you no good, seeing as you won’t survive this night.”
Zodarin spat out a mouthful of blood and then met the Kaldoran’s gaze. “Are you sure about that?” He sensed a growth emerging from his side and realised he had expended considerable energy restraining the transformation that now become undeniable. Let it come, then.
With a suddenness that took even Zodarin by surprise, the tentacle that had emerged from his back lashed out at the Kaldoran, snaking around his throat and constricting viciously. It took only three seconds for the stonegrabe’s neck to snap, and so swift was the wizard’s attack that the other stonegrabes did not even notice the execution of their leader.
Further tentacles emerged from the dissolving form of the wizard, and his body swelled like a bladder filling with water. This was not a pleasant experience for Zodarin. He felt as if his internals were exploding, and every nerve ending was afire with excruciating pain. The physical disruption to his body was traumatic enough, but more so was the total abandonment of control. A loud moan erupted from what had been his mouth, and the ropes about him snapped as easily as gossamer.
The commotion was enough to attract the attention of the remaining two stonegrabes, who rose to their feet, eyes wide in terror. One soiled itself, a sickly green effluvium dripping down its leg, while the other turned on its heels and ran.
Zodarin did not so much leap forward but surged. Now that the transformation fuelled by Hallows energy was complete, an inexplicable joy filled him, as if he had cast off centuries of imprisonment. He overwhelmed the transfixed stongrabe, only vaguely aware that he had snuffed the creature’s life out, and then moved across the plain in pursuit of the last fleeing prey. As he closed in, seeing its terrified face looking over its shoulder, a faltering occurred within. The conflict that had caused his release now seemed to be absorbing his energy. He was slowing, and Zodarin faced the very real possibility that the Kaldoran might escape.
No, this shall not be!
Then the fates intervened. The stonegrabe was running headlong in the half-light and its rocky foot stumbled on a clump of reeds. It was brought to the ground, limbs tangled amongst themselves. Then Zodarin was upon it, his savagery unleashed, inflamed by a frustration and bewilderment at the phenomenon he experienced. This was not the sadistic gratification exhibited by one such as Etezora, but an archaic primal hierarchy expressing itself. Uncountable tentacles wrapped themselves around the stonegrabe, and although Zodarin’s strength was on the wane, their constricting power was enough to burst the fragile Kaldoran shell. The stonegrabe’s intestines were forced up through its gullet while every bone snapped under the irrepressible force.
As the rocky body went limp in his embrace, an extreme lethargy overcame Zodarin and he fell forward into blackness.
A sandpaper-like rasping on his raw cheek brought Zodarin to his senses. He was laid on his back, blinding sunlight piercing his eyelids. He forced them open and saw the dull visage of the pygmy dragon stooped over him, licking his face. He tried to raise his hand to ward it off but didn’t have the strength, so he lay like that for another half hour.
So I have reverted to human form again, he thought.
The wyrm had imprinted itself upon him, somehow uprooting the stake that restrained it.
He was thirsty, a throat-parching insatiable dryness. More than this, it was a bodily yearning to be immersed in water. These feelings were strange yet somehow familiar, primal desires reaching out from an indistinct past.
He gathered his resolve, and with a little nudging from the dragon
, managed to sit up. Around him was evidence of the previous night’s carnage, the ruin that was the Kaldoran’s bodies spread over the floor of the plain. He assumed the events had occurred the previous night, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Gods, how long have I been enveloped in blackness?
He examined the back of his hands. The skin had now turned completely black and pustules covered them like a bubbling, pestilential carpet. Worse than this, the blight had started to spread up his wrists. A despairing moan escaped his lips as he contemplated how much time he might have lost.
I need to access my pharmacy and grimoires. I also need to deal with Eétor.
This recent encounter had taught him three things: Eétor had plotted against him, his primal nature was coming to the fore, and time was running out for dealing with the dragon blight.
35
The anger within
“You have lost the trail again, Captain?” screamed Etezora. The shriek echoed through the forests scattering a flock of ringed doves from a tree overhead.
The man winced. “Yes, Your Majesty, it’s as if the dragon-folk vanished into the very trees.”
It was the end of another arduous day, trekking almost aimlessly through the lower wooded slopes of the Whispering Mountains, and Etezora had reached the end of her patience. The Cuscosians were a people of the plains, and Etezora was tired, hot and irritable — the result of steering her horse around what seemed like an endless morass of vegetation.
“We know they headed for the mountains,” Etezora said, the frustration and menace in her voice unconcealed. “Why do we not simply strike out for the nearest pass?”
A troop of Praetorian Guard had scouted ahead of the main Cuscosian caravan following what they believed was the route taken by the fleeing Donnephon. As the undergrowth had thickened, progress had slowed to a virtual standstill, and the Captain had called a halt, returning reluctantly to deliver his report — and face the wrath of his Queen.
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