Cradle of Darkness

by Tom G. H. Adams

  This is my humble abode, the calti said, pray relax and tell me what it is you seek.

  Eétor scrutinised the calti, somewhat puzzled by the feline’s presence. Where was Zodarin? What was it Grizdoth had reported? The knowledge escaped him, so he decided to engage with the creature.

  I seek enlightenment, Great Spirit, a view of the future. What is in store for me?

  You wish the Hallows to bestow a prophecy? A vision of your destiny comes at a cost, it sent. Will you give yourself to the Hallows?

  Eétor abandoned all hesitation. The subjugation he endured at his sister’s hands, her dismissal of his contributions and a sense of losing his place in the history of their emerging great nation. All of this urged him to seize this opportunity with both hands. If that is what it takes, then I am sure.

  The cat lifted its paw and pushed a cup across the table. Drink, and then tell me what you see in the looking glass.

  Eétor obeyed, drinking the glass of jarva juice dry. He looked into the small reflective surface.

  I see nothing but colours, Eétor sent.

  Keep watching.

  Eétor looked again, and this time saw himself. He was searching, his eyes casting around the room. A creeping disquiet took hold as he looked for a door — but there was none. No matter how he searched he couldn’t find a way out. He was trapped!

  The Praetor wrenched his eyes away from the glass and saw that the calti was gone — so was the door. It was just as he had seen in the glass. The animal gave him a vision, true — a minute’s foreshadowing of the future that was now a reality.

  He tried to wake himself from the dream that was becoming a nightmare, but was unable to rouse his body from sleep. His ethereal body staggered around the dream-room, arms sweeping crockery and ornaments from the surfaces, looking for any way out of the place. With the door’s disappearance, the only portal to the outside world was one small window. Yet there was no latch or opening mechanism. He took a large weight from a set of scales and threw it at the window glass, yet it bounced off as if it were made from steel. Three times more he tried, the last attempt resulting in the weight rebounding to strike his head.

  Krut you, Calti! What have you done to me?

  Then through the window he saw the animal, looked into its amber eyes and remembered Grizdoth’s warnings of the shape-shifting wizard. It smiled at him — an expression of resolve, but also mixed with … what … regret? As he gazed at the creature, it transformed into something beyond even Eétor’s darkest nightmare — the thing that had killed his father. He had blotted it from his mind, but now he saw it in its grotesquerie, swelling in size such that the window could not provide sufficient field of view to observe it all. It was a giant mass of thrashing tentacles, typhus-green slime oozing from reddened warts, and what he did see of its shrunken head — a myriad of blinking amber eyes.

  From some place far in the distance he heard Phindrath’s voice. It was tremulous, calling for a healer. He cried out to her until his throat was hoarse, but she could not hear. And all the time, the terror outside observed him until he could stand it no longer. A mind can only receive so much shock and trauma — and Eétor’s was approaching an irrevocable unhinging. It did what every protective mechanism does under such circumstances and closed down into blackness.

  ~ ~ ~

  After examining Eétor’s body and sniffing the empty goblet on the table, the healer offered his diagnosis.

  “Phindrath, your brother has entered a comatose state as a result of ingesting large quantities of divine messenger. Its influence can not be easily undone. His body is alive yet his mind is elsewhere. It may return in time but — ”

  “My brother was not taken to addictions,” Phindrath said to the apothecary.

  “And yet the evidence is plain to see.”

  The young princess was shocked at this development. She was perplexed at how Eétor had taken upon himself a solitary existence since Etezora’s emigration to Wyverneth. Now, perhaps she knew the reason. Yet with his incapacitation, it fell upon her to take over rulership of Cuscosa — something she was unprepared for. She needed counsel, and there was only one she could turn to.

  She instructed a guard to take Eétor’s body to his bed chamber and make him comfortable. “Send for Zodarin,” she instructed another. “We must get to the bottom of today’s events. First, there was the murder of Grizdoth, and now this. Double the guard on the castle gates too.”

  Oswald watched what transpired from his hiding place behind one of the great drapes. Purring contentedly, the dreamer deceiver closed his eyes. He had disposed of a problem without resorting to actual murder. Eétor might yet prove to be useful, but until the wizard assumed command the Praetor would remain trapped in the Dreamworld. In the meantime, he could easily manipulate Phindrath.

  I ought to return to my tower, he thought. Phindrath’s guard will be looking for me. Well, let her wait. I have exerted myself enough and Oswald, like any cat, wishes to sleep.

  He padded out of the room, unseen, and found a warm corner of a stable to curl up in. For the first time in many days he slept soundly.

  38

  The culture of hidden means

  Tayem’s instincts caused her to struggle against the giant’s grip, but after a while she concluded it was useless. She might as well have tried to remove herself from a burial up to the neck in sand.

  At least I can breathe, she thought, even if this is so undignified.

  The Gigantes’ strides ate up the distance, and with the mists now cleared Tayem could take in the wonder of the passage — and the enormity of peril they had just escaped from. The giants were carrying the Dragon Riders along a causeway of wrinkled, grey rock that formed the only route forward. It divided a chasm that sank to untold depths below. Tayem understood now why Milissandia had baulked at leading them along this treacherous route while still shrouded in mist.

  Ahead, the causeway ended in a winding path that snaked over a rise layered with garpine and mountain spruce. She would have enjoyed the spectacle of the landscape more if her predicament did not demand she focused her attention on more urgent matters. Perhaps appealing to this giant might help.

  “Giant! Do you know who it is you have affronted?” she said, unable to resist the Hallows’ rising ire.

  The giant looked at her with distaste. “I know you are Queen of the Donnephon,” it said. “But there is something in you that denies your heritage.”

  He means the Hallows, Tayem thought.

  “Save your entreaties for now,” Milissandia said from below. She was jogging alongside the giant. “His name is Ebar, and he is Hill Warden of the Gigantes Council. He will not listen to you until you are safely ensconced in Herethorn. Just don’t aggravate him.”

  Ebar regarded the druid and narrowed his eyes. Tayem looked up at his face and saw, drawn in its creased darkened surface, the wisdom of countless sols.

  Diplomacy, she told herself. That is the attire you must wear now. Perhaps Milissandia is right. I should be patient.

  Although that was the received counsel, she hoped she would not be made to wait much longer. The giant’s grip was becoming uncomfortable.

  “At least,” she said to the druid, “can you tell him to loosen his grasp. I can hardly breathe. There isn’t any risk of me escaping — you know this.”

  “Ebar?” Milissandia said to the Gigantes.

  He gave out a haarumph, and then placed the Queen on his shoulders. Although the perch was unsteady, it was much more preferable to her previous position. With her greater elevation she was able to look behind and see that the Gigantes, carrying their Dragonian passengers, were spaced about twenty strides apart with the one called Wobas bringing up the rear. As Ebar trod the causeway, the Dastarthes Mists closed behind him, veiling the route they had come with a dense blanket. Out of the depths, the sound of shrieks and moans emanated once again, protecting the sanctuary with their dread presence.

  When Tayem turned once more, they were cre
sting the steep rise, and Ebar stopped a moment to let the rest of the train catch up. Tayem gasped as she took in what she saw.

  So this is the sanctuary we sought, she said to herself. Its beauty rivals that of Wyverneth itself.

  Below their vantage point, embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, she saw a beautiful valley, thickly wooded with cypresses and garpines. They covered the folded landscape, netting the defiles with emerald shadows. Here and there, in isolated clearings, cabins and dwellings were dotted, their inhabitants moving amongst them like crawling insects — some large, some small. The mountains on which they stood were composed of a white quartz-like rock. They extended round in a broken circle, magnificent and snow-wreathed precipices that reached for the deep blue sky.

  Blue, Tayem thought. Is it that this place is untouched by the Hallows?

  To the north she heard the distant roar of mountain cataracts tumbling over white-scar rocks. The water eventually formed a river, lying like a black ribbon in kinks and curls as it wound its way to the west and some unknown course.

  Far to the east, a lake nestled in the lap of the great mountains, sunlight glinting off its surface; and beyond this, the prickly peaks gave way to a pass leading to lands that appeared baked by the Hallows purple that seemed to besiege this mysterious place on all sides.

  The other Gigantes had joined them, and Ebar took this as his cue to descend along the path that zigzagged between wind-tossed crowns of great trees below.

  Ebar’s footfalls shook the ground, jarring Tayem’s body. Yet his steps were sure-footed, and she began to relax as she gained confidence in his ability to navigate the slopes.

  A half hour later, the land began to level out, and they emerged from the trees to behold a village, long worms of grey smoke billowing lazily amongst the rooves.

  Although the temperature had risen upon their descent, Tayem kept her cloak wrapped around her. It seemed that ice inhabited her bones, as if the Hallows were retreating to her core and reacting to this place by instilling a deep chill. She shivered in response, and was glad when they emerged from the woods, beams of sunlight radiating her skin.

  She ventured a question to Milissandia, who was just managing to keep up with the bounding Ebar. “Where will they take us?”

  “To the Council Chamber, I would guess,” she said.

  “Are we their prisoners?”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Milissandia replied.

  Viewed from Tayem’s lofty position, the druid’s cowl hid her face, so Tayem could not judge how confident the woman was in her statement. “Would it be too much to ask your leader to set us down?” she said.

  Before Milissandia could answer, Ebar picked her from his shoulders and placed her gently on the ground. “Follow me into the village,” he said in a lazy tone, and paced off along a descending road that widened into a jumble of wooden buildings.

  Their entry into the village drew a considerable crowd of onlookers, although all of them seemed to be of smaller stature. As they passed through, Tayem caught snippets of conversation in common-speak distinguished against a hum of talk related in a language which Tayem was only barely familiar with.

  Old-speak.

  “These Gigantes show no respect for the Royal House,” Cistre said, drawing up alongside. The other giants had followed Ebar’s lead in laying down their passengers, and gradually the Dragon Riders reformed themselves into a fast-moving huddle.

  “The Gigantes respect people, rather than positions of power,” Milissandia said in reply. “Would you rather they forced you to make your own way here? You’d still be half-way up the Whispering Mountains. Besides, it is they who stooped to transport you. Few can boast to have travelled on the shoulders of the Cyclopes.”

  “This place is wonderful,” Mahren said. “How is it that both Donnephon and Gigantes claim it as sanctuary?”

  “There are only so many questions I can answer,” Milissandia said, “but I wouldn’t make mention of claims too hastily. You are here as guests, but can easily be ejected as interlopers if you do not choose your words carefully.”

  “Daughter,” said a breathy voice from behind. Wobas had struggled to keep up, but now hobbled along to join them. “It is wonderful that you returned to the village. We feared you had fallen foul of some treachery.”

  Milissandia looked at her father, and Tayem detected a deep-seated, unresolved hostility between them. If what the woman said was true regarding her relationship, then there was some significant bridge building ahead of them.

  “We have much to relate, father,” Milissandia said, “but it must wait until after the Donnephon speak with the Council. Suffice it to say these people need our help, and if you can aid in achieving co-operation between our peoples, then it may just prevent a great evil from advancing across the Imperious Crescent.”

  “Very well,” Wobas said, “but we face an uphill task. The Cyclopes are hostile to any involvement in the outside world. Ever since the Decimation there has been a cloak of suspicion preventing any contact with other races.”

  “A great shame,” Tayem said, “seeing how once the Gigantes were purveyors of much blessing in times gone by.”

  “The Cuscosians put paid to that,” Mahren said.

  “Indeed they did,” Wobas said. “Yet it is not I you need to convince, but the Gigantes’ Council. Now hold, we reach our destination.”

  The building they approached was constructed from blackwood and stood imposing above the remainder of the village. It lacked the grandeur of the Donnephon palace, but nonetheless conveyed a sense of authority. It was clearly designed to accommodate bodies far greater in size than Tayem’s entourage. They scaled the gargantuan steps and walked through a tall open doorway into a cavernous but brightly illuminated room. There were scant adornments save for a large tapestry on the far wall illustrated with a multitude of pastiches depicting numerous dramas and legends of the Gigantes people.

  Seated around a central fire were the Cyclopes who had carried them here, along with a handful of others, none of them female as far as Tayem could tell.

  “Enter,” Ebar said, his single eye prominent against his sun-kissed skin. The appearance, besides being disconcerting, made it difficult to judge the giant’s expression. At times it seemed he glowered at them; yet at others, a smile or a turn of phrase contradicted this. The Donnephon Queen decided not to make hasty judgements in this most delicate of discourses.

  “You will have to make do with sitting on floor cushions,” Ebar said. “I’m afraid our chairs are designed with more sizeable bodies in mind.” At this, a few members of the Council let out chortles of laughter, but their tone did not seem mocking.

  The Dragon Riders stepped cautiously into the ring of chairs and took positions where there was a gap in the seating. In this way they could all see each other without craning their necks.

  Tayem was grateful for the warmth of the fire, although her companions did not seem to feel the chill as she did. “I thank you for receiving us into your midst, Great Chieftain of the Gigantes,” Tayem said.

  “No need for grand titles,” Ebar said. “I am sorry for the manner of your entry into our sanctuary, but there is good reason to be wary of outsiders. You were lucky that Milissandia accompanied you, otherwise the outcome of our meeting might have been … less friendly. But let us hold our words, your journey has been arduous and you must take refreshment.”

  He beckoned, and three Cyclopes women entered from a side door carrying trays bearing drinks and plates piled with pastries and roasted root vegetables for the unexpected guests. The Dragonians dug into the welcome victuals while Ebar and a number of the other Cyclopes lit up pipes of jarva-leaf. Tayem found the practice a little incongruent given they were about to discuss matters of great import, but she held her counsel, enjoying the taste of hearty kernel-bread and nut-roast slices.

  “Your food is wonderfully prepared,” Tayem said to the nearest serving woman. She responded with a kindly smile
and a nod.

  “They are not allowed to speak in the Council Chamber,” Milissandia said to Tayem. “Do not take their silence as rudeness.”

  “Strange behaviour,” Tayem said. “Does this mean you will not be able to speak either?”

  “It will be frowned upon,” Milissandia said, “but I’m not going to let that stop me.”

  Tayem smiled and drained her goblet of fig-berry juice, revelling in the warmth of the spicy drink.

  Once they had finished their repast, Ebar rose and called the meeting to order. “Fellow Council members and esteemed people of the Donnephon, it is time to speak. Let me start by saying that, as visitors, you are welcome — and free to leave at any moment. We will extend our fullest hospitality to you, but it goes without saying we expect you to keep the location of this sacred sanctuary a secret from all others.”

  Ebar took his seat again, making it clear that the Dragon Riders had the floor. Tayem stood and searched for the right way to start. She knew nothing of the Cyclopes customs, but her instincts told her they were not ones to stand on great ceremony, despite their apparent disdain of women.

  “Ebar, and all other distinguished members of the Gigantes Council,” she began, “we come to you at a time of great need. Milissandia has told us you heard of the tragedy that befell us in your former home of Lyn-Harath.”

  At the mention of the place that marked their decimation, several council members murmured in what seemed like a prayer or warding invocation.

  “There is now a doubly strong reason for us all to remember that place with great sorrow. You lost most of your brethren, as did we. In addition, our dragons were slain in a manner most heinous and terrible.”

  Once again, the Cyclopes murmured their empathy.

  “As if this were not enough, the Cuscosians have driven us from our home at Wyverneth. The Dragon Palace has fallen, and we are a people dispossessed. Even now we exist on the slopes of the Whispering Mountains, exposed to the elements, our sick and wounded falling prey to harsh conditions.” She scanned the faces of the assembled Cyclopes Council to judge how her words were being received. Some, she noticed, gazed at her with sympathetic expressions, but most were unreadable. True, they all listened attentively, but what were they actually thinking? Nothing to do but continue.