As they walked forward, the moaning grew in volume and floating apparitions assailed the party, brushing their faces and hands, eliciting shudders and the occasional scream.
“They are not real!” Milissandia said from up ahead, the sound of her voice muted by the fog. “Ignore them.”
Not easily accomplished, Tayem thought.
As time elapsed (Tayem couldn’t be sure whether it was seconds or minutes,) a sense of isolation fell on her. She had lost sight of Milissandia in front, and when she turned her head, there was no sign of Cistre behind. Devilish phantoms bearing the faces of those known to her, only distorted into grotesque parodies, loomed at her with increasing intensity. Such was their relentlessness that she found her own voice moaning in sympathy with the sounds they made. This was fear like she had never known.
Then, to her relief, Milissandia appeared out of the whiteness ahead. “Do not be afraid,” she said, extending her hand. “Hold on to me, and I will guide you out of this madness.” Tayem took it, and although the druid’s touch felt like ice, she grasped it with a desperation born of extreme terror.
“Not much further,” Milissandia said, and Tayem felt herself pulled forward, much faster than before, feet stepping recklessly, carried along by the panic of one who is truly lost.
She abandoned herself utterly until her foot stepped into nothingness, and she pitched forward into the emptiness. Milissandia was gone, and she let out a scream cut short by a rough tugging on her belt. She was hauled backwards into the embrace of Cistre.
“You followed a phantom,” her bodyguard said. “It lured you into the abyss,” and she pointed at where the mists were temporarily blown away. In front of her was a chasm that fell away into nothingness, its sides bearing jagged shards of rock pointing upward like daggers, taunting her to fall onto their cruel points.
She looked back at Cistre, and a sudden misgiving overcame her. “How do I know you are real?”
Cistre smiled at her reassuringly — a rare thing — and cupped her hands around Tayem’s cheeks. “Do I feel like a phantom?”
Warmth emanated from the woman’s hands, and Tayem understood this was someone who would always be there for her, unquestioning, loyal, steadfast; and she saw in her eyes something more. Could it be …
“There you are!” It was Milissandia. “I told you not to trust anything you saw.”
“A fine thing to say when these kruts can shapeshift to appear as yourself,” Tayem retorted.
Milissandia sighed, holding her hands up in frustration. “Curse my father. If only he realised he has inadvertently brought about the end of those that might be his only hope of saving the Gigantes.”
“You cannot lead us from this place, then?” Tayem said.
“I could make it on my own, as I recognise the subterfuges of Wobas, but I cannot watch over all of you.”
“Did someone mention my name?” The voice came stridently from somewhere above them.
Milissandia looked up and narrowed her eyes. “Do not trust what you hear. It is another phantom.”
“I am no phantom,” declared the voice, and immediately a vast gust of wind blew down from the heights, dispelling the blankets of mist and allowing the blessed light of Sol to illuminate their surroundings.
Tayem steadied herself, and then gasped at what she saw. Towering over them were dozens of enormous figures, each the size of a young garbeech. Some were dressed in woollen robes, while others wore leather tunics. At their head stood a much smaller man leaning on a staff, his expression hooded.
“You keep suspicious company, Daughter,” the man said.
“Father,” Milissandia replied. “I have not come to seek a quarrel, and these people are no threat to you.”
Wobas turned to the closest giant and made to speak, but before he could, the figure sternly signalled to the other giants who descended upon the Dragonians, seizing them in hands the size of shovels. Tayem could do nothing to resist, even though the Black Hallows coursed vigorously through her, increasing her strength tenfold. The giant raised her up, as did the others with the rest of her cohort. Then they transported the Dragonians away from that place to a land of wonder and impending peril.
37
Dreamer deceiver
Zodarin drifted in and out of a restless sleep, waves of tiredness washing over him, yet the deep slumber he craved eluded him. Turning this way and that on his comfortable bed, he cursed the shifting images that surged through his mind; strange visions from an ancient past. Were they nightmares or memories of a different time and place? It was impossible to fathom.
Locked in a state he could neither wake from nor control, he was subjected to scenes that disturbed him in their alien nature, yet brought to mind a familiarity that had remained dormant for centuries. He saw his birther; the caring being that guided him through his early life and protected him from the barbarity of the past. She … it … had nurtured him, even sacrificed itself — of this he was sure. Now a great yearning and sense of loss assailed his psyche. The memories were so distant that he struggled to make sense of them, and they certainly didn’t explain the entirety of his experience since contracting the cursed dragon disease. However, increasingly, he understood something of his origins, if not what his future held in this multiplicity of forms and consciousnesses.
He was finally wrenched to wakefulness by the memory of his birther’s dying screams, and he reached for the skin at his bedside. It contained a potion he imbibed every three hours since returning to Castle Cuscosa. It soothed the internal itching he felt from the dragon blight, but hardly slowed the progress of the disease.
As he sighed in reaction to his misfortune, part of him longed for a time before the Dead Zone battle; when his fortunes were on the rise, and he was confident in his increasing power and apparent control over the Hallows influence. Now he was sure it conspired with the dragon blight to wreak an irrevocable change in him, a longing for his original state together with an irrational notion of benevolence towards others. What other explanation was there for his empathic actions towards Disconsolin and Merdreth?
Only yesterday, while stalking around the village as Oswald, he experienced an irresistible desire to immerse himself in the waters of Hallow’s Creek. This was only arrested at the last minute by the aversion to water of his feline form. He wondered what that tentacled thing might have done if he had allowed it to usurp his feline body? Yet he did not dare give the thing that destroyed the Kaldorans unfettered reign, for he feared the longer he allowed himself to assume its shape, the lower the likelihood of returning.
So many questions that required answers, but now the urgency to deal with his treacherous former ally loomed close, and he must give his energy to it. Sol had not yet risen, and the potion was beginning to take effect. Perhaps he might gain an hour’s sleep before he set about the day’s unpleasant duties.
Sleep once again descended, and this time he dreamed of events a little more recent, a happier time when he enjoyed the hospitality of the Dragonians. In particular, he recalled his friendship with the hill shaman, Wobas.
The Dragonians had taken Zodarin in as an abandoned youngster many hundreds of sols ago, and during the course of his maturing years his ventures into the Dreamworld exerted a greater influence upon him. He soon learned that his longevity was far greater than those who surrounded him, and so as not to arouse suspicion he would disappear into distant lands once he reached a certain age. In this way he adopted a society for a lifetime, only to return once a new generation emerged in the intervening time. It was migratory behaviour born of the need for protection. He knew all too well how outsiders were treated. How much more so with an off-worlder?
Of course, it also meant he spent many sols infiltrating a community and establishing himself. No wonder it took him so long to find a sustainable position of power.
And so it came to pass some fifty sols ago that he once more arrived at the lush forests of Dragonia. He and the young man, Wobas, became friends,
sharing spiritual desires and talking about their dreams often. Zodarin’s knowledge of the Dreamworld took centuries to amass, yet here was one who seemed to float into that realm effortlessly.
When they explored the Far Beyond together, Wobas had an innate ability to commune with the avatars they encountered there. The wizard learned that he could trade his knowledge of natural magical lore for Wobas’s insights into that most wondrous of realms.
Zodarin did not remember exactly when the divide between them sprang up, but he did recall the reason. He had assumed the form of a wolf more frequently, a transformation that disturbed his confidante, Wobas.
“Why would you want to assume the form of such a fearsome predator?” Wobas would say.
Zodarin could not reveal the entirety of his growth in power to the youthful Wobas; that he partook in the euphoria that accompanies an avatar’s slaying. He was careful to only bring down his prey while on solitary prowls. But eventually Wobas had learned, witnessed the killing of a small mammal in the Dreamworld. Back in the Near To it resulted in the death of a Dragonian family’s goat. The circumstances remained a mystery to the family, but Wobas knew.
This would not have been irreparable had it not been for the intervention of an arrogant, spiteful warrior called Atsa. The man went out of his way to humiliate Zodarin, taking every opportunity to insult and assault him. Eventually, the sorcerer could not take any more and tracked the man’s avatar down in the Dreamworld. When the man’s body was found in the Vale — having succumbed to mauling from a wild beast — Wobas confronted Zodarin, demanding he confess to the Fyreclave about the incident. When he refused, it was Wobas who took his suspicions to the council. As a result, the fearful people cast out the wizard. He wandered alone for many a sol until proving himself useful as a sorcerer to the House of Cuscosa.
These memories formed pastiches in Zodarin’s half-sleep, each one eliciting different intensities of emotion. Most profound was his recollection of the report concerning Wobas’s disappearance. He’d thought him dead, but now it was all too evident the shaman had simply bided his time with the Hill People. How did he feel about him now? He was certainly a threat, and he would never forget how he betrayed Zodarin to the Dragonian Council. Yet, he could not find it in himself to hate Wobas — especially now that Zodarin committed the most heinous of acts — the slaying of the dragons. His was the greater sin. Perhaps Wobas was right all along. He possessed a dark heart to match the Black Hallows that dwelt within.
He rose from his bed and poured himself a green-berry juice. It refreshed his dry throat, and he quickly poured another cup, walking to the window and staring out at the grasslands beyond.
“The scops,” he said under his breath. Strange how Wobas now assumes the form of a predator too. And what of the tree serpent? This is surely a being of great significance too. But what is its identity?
Further deliberation was interrupted by a sound at the foot of his tower. He waited a short while until he heard the soft padding retreat, and then carefully opened the door to his upper chamber. He walked to the edge of the giant spiral staircase and looked down.
Grizdoth snooping again. This must be curtailed.
Returning to his chamber he sat down and made a decision.
Within moments the wolf stalked the grasslands of the Dreamworld once again. It was a strain to prevent the easy slippage into his amioid form, but resist it he did. That path threatened to drain his energy too much.
He picked up a scent in the air; the smell of betrayal filling his nostrils as he followed the unsuspecting bear cub. The prey did not even detect his approach, and it was not long before he was standing over the kill, blood dripping from his mouth. Only it wasn’t the same as before. No longer did he delight in the slaying. This accursed interaction between the blight and the Hallows had placed an alien entity in him — a conscience.
But consciences could be suppressed; and this is exactly what Zodarin did as he emerged from the Near To.
A commotion in the courtyard outside brought him to the window. Grizdoth’s lifeless body had been found with his throat torn out. Eétor would deduce who was responsible, and Zodarin found he was quashing his conscience further as he contemplated what he must do.
A short while later, he received the expected summons and entered the castle’s Great Hall. Eétor stood in front of a mammoth fireplace staring at the rising red and orange flames.
“You sent for me Praetor?”
“Yes,” Eétor said without turning, a slight that did not escape the wizard. “You have no doubt heard of the assassination?”
“Your adjutant? Yes. I never liked him.”
“Indeed. But who would do this within our own walls?”
Zodarin paused for a second, “I warned of Kaldoran treachery M’lord.”
“Is that what you believe happened in this case?” Eétor looked at him with a hint of contempt. “You are so dull. All the remaining stonegrabes are locked up or lying under a thousand tons of rock in Kaldora.”
“And yet,” Zodarin said, stepping closer, “Kaldorans attacked me on my journey here from Dragonia.” Eétor turned at this, and Zodarin caught the look of surprise on his face before he could completely hide it.
“That … surprises me,” Eétor said.
Zodarin smiled. “I’m sure it does — to some degree.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
Zodarin took another step closer and Eétor flinched. “Secrets,” the wizard said. “Everyone has them. You have yours and I have mine. Indeed, we share some confidences that — if they were known more widely — might undo both of us.”
Eétor recovered some of his composure. “But we have always trusted each other, have we not?”
“We have — to a certain extent.”
Eétor slowly raised a pewter goblet and sipped the thick fruity jarva juice. “Perhaps it is time for total truth between us — to ensure there are no further misunderstandings.”
“Or… accidents?”
“Precisely.”
“What do you wish to know, M’Lord?”
Eétor took another sip of jarva juice. “I have always allowed you freedom to access your dream state without question because I trusted you. Others don’t know the extent of your power in this respect, but I understand completely how the Far Beyond provides a means to dispose of your enemies.”
“You mean our enemies.”
“Grizdoth was not my enemy! I recognise your handprint in his demise, wizard, and it makes me think that if you silenced my trusted adjutant then what would you do to me?”
“What indeed?” Zodarin sensed the Hallows fire rising within. Gone was the voice of conscience. “What do you want of me my Lord? My death? Perhaps banishment? No — I think not. You need me if you are to claim the throne.”
“And you need me to ensure your continued position in the Royal Council. One word from me and Etezora will have you removed or even executed. It is no secret she mistrusts you.”
“So, we need each other.”
“It would appear so. Yet I sense this balance of trust is skewed. Perhaps your Dreamworld prowess extends even further than I imagined? I would know more.”
“Be careful what you wish for, M’Lord. Remember your previous passage to the Far Beyond. It was somewhat traumatic.”
“I was but a stripling. I am made of much sterner mettle now.”
Zodarin nodded, then said, “Those who do not possess the gift of passage can not easily cross the great divide.”
“But there is a way, is there not? It has happened before.”
“It has. If you drink the juice of the glistening cacti or divine messenger, as it is called.”
Eétor could not conceal his glee. “Are there risks?”
The wizard paused, “Other than a powerful sleep, I do not know of any.”
“Prepare your potion,” ordered Eétor. “Do this for me, and you will have proved your loyalty.”
“Very well. Give me your goble
t.” There was an uncomfortable silence as Zodarin took the vessel from him and opened a leather pouch on his belt. He extracted a small earthenware bottle with a cork stopper, and then poured a small amount of milky white powder into Eétor’s drink.
“Sit down my Lord and drink this,” he said, offering the goblet to Eétor. “Once it takes effect we will enter the Dreamworld together.”
“How long does the effect last?”
“About six hours.”
Eétor abandoned all caution and, at last, Zodarin understood how much the Praetor craved what only he could provide. “I am ready,” Eétor said.
Zodarin sat down on the floor next to Eétor’s chair and closed his eyes. The Cuscosian Lord lifted the goblet to his lips and drank the concoction.
On the first occasion he accessed the Dreamworld all that time ago, Eétor had been frightened more than anything. But what he perpetrated later that night with Zodarin’s help replaced his fear with an intoxication that arose from exerting one’s power over another — and he wielded it in the most potent expression possible. He understood why Zodarin resisted his overtures to access the Far Beyond since, but now the wizard had acceded his domination, he felt no fear at all.
That was a mistake.
At first, the Praetor experienced a strange sensation of calm as he seemed to float as an incorporeal entity through the room he and the wizard occupied in the Near To. He looked down and saw his soulless body slumped in the chair. Now that he had abandoned it, he allowed his new mind-self to fill with a kaleidoscope of colours. After a time exhilarating in this experience, the shifting patterns slowly cleared, and he saw a ginger-coloured calti beckoning him forward through dream mists into a dwelling of sorts.
Inside, the calti sat on its haunches atop a rough-hewn table in the centre of the room. It was a pleasant, comfortable chamber. A home. A nexus.
Cradle of Darkness Page 31