Cradle of Darkness

by Tom G. H. Adams

  “All hail, you stone-encrusted kruts I call brothers. I stand before you to celebrate our escape from the mountain. We have confounded the plans of the Cuscosian scum. Tonight in the purple light of Spidersnatch we drink and toast our saviour, Nalin. We pray to Tarchon for a speedy recovery — which I’m sure he will make. Now let us embrace the power of the Hallows and rise against our Cuscosian foe.”

  He paused to take a drink and felt the malevolence of the purple mist infect him. The Rockclave must have noticed its manifestation because looks of trepidation and fear were drawn on many a face. Those nearest even flinched backwards. As they observed their leader however, revelling in the intoxication of its power, the influence seemed to reach out to all of them. Magthrum was the conduit, but the Hallows was not satisfied in corrupting just one, it craved the infection of all — whether they be Dragonian, human or lowly Kaldoran.

  “My loyal grabes, we must prepare to fight,” Magthrum said at the top of his voice. “We will strike at the heart of Cuscosa, the mighty castle itself. Our engineer Nalin has shown us the way with his magnificent war machine. If we can tunnel out of this great crag, then we can also burrow our way under the castle.”

  One stonegrabe standing close raised his grimy hand. “A question, my Lord.” The grabe was new to the council and did not yet understand the protocols of Magthrum’s chamber. If he had, he would have held his tongue.

  Magthrum’s eyes flashed. “What is it?”

  “Castle Cuscosa is over one hundred periarchs away. Surely we cannot tunnel our way from here?”

  There was a time when Magthrum would have punished the stonegrabe’s insolence with a swift hatchet to the head, but a leader’s wisdom stayed his hand. The Kaldorans were but a vestige of their former selves and they needed every stonegrabe fit and healthy for their plans to succeed, however stupid the individual might be. “Have faith,” Magthrum said instead. “We will build a transportation vehicle and hunt down another herd of rockbulls. It will take many days, perhaps weeks, but we will carry our machine over land by light of the moon until we are close to the heart of the Cuscosian Empire. They may have the numbers, but we have our stealth and cunning. We will elude them and strike at the centre of their kingdom. Nalin has shown us what is possible. Are you with me?”

  The stonegrabes, spellbound by Magthrum’s Hallows-induced rhetoric replied ‘Yes, oh exalted Fellchief.’ A loud chanting ensued with shouts of ‘Tarchon’s favour on Magthrum,’ and ‘Praise to Nalin.’ When the ululation began to subside, Magthrum initiated a new chant: ‘Death to Cuscosia!’ The anthem had reached fever pitch, spreading beyond the Rockclave to the Kaldoran remnant at large. They were incensed, infiltrated by Hallows energy ejected from Magthrum and spilling from the fissure at Spidersnatch. Magthrum raised his arms and punched the air, leading his people in a litany of ancient Kaldoran battle cries and death chants.

  The treaty with Cuscosia was effectively void. Tonight the stonegrabes would celebrate their survival, and tomorrow they would usher in a new era of Kaldoran expansion.

  Next morning, Magthrum visited Nalin on his crudely constructed cot. The engineer remained unconscious, and in the indigo light of morning, with the chants of the stonegrabes but echoes from the night before, Magthrum felt a pinprick of doubt. The healer’s prognosis regarding the coma offered little optimism.

  “He may remain like this a time longer than I originally thought,” the physicker said. “I fear the exhaustion and narcotic intake has been compounded with extreme grief.”

  “How long?” Magthrum replied.

  “A few days, perhaps a week or more. Maybe even months.”

  The Fellchief furrowed his brow in concern. “Do what you can for him. But if he dies — I will hold you responsible.”

  The healer’s lip trembled. “I’m sure his state is only temporary, Fellchief. Let me prepare another dose of willow essence. It will help cool the fever of his mind.”

  As the stonegrabe busied himself crushing herbs in a mortar and pestle, Magthrum regarded his friend. Mayhap it is best you sleep, he thought. You are carrying a weight of guilt, and only time will salve your conscience.

  The anger welled up inside him again. Eétor would pay dearly for the Cuscosian betrayal, and he, Magthrum, would personally pull the krut’s larynx out with his bare hands.

  He summoned Nutug.

  “You have worked closely with Nalin, yes?

  Nutug nodded.

  “Then commence the construction of a transporter for the cave-crawler. I will lead the hunt for more rockbulls. I need the thrill of the hunt to invigorate my soul.”

  “Take care, Fellchief,” Nutug warned, “the tribes of Gurunthi may have been emboldened by the fall of Jennu Narod and roam abroad in the mountains to the east.”

  Magthrum picked up his war-axe. “My hope is that they do,” he replied. “It is a long time since I have tasted human flesh, and my appetite is great.”

  Nalin was floating. He looked down at his body lying beneath and understood he was but a spectre, hovering over his corporeal self. Had he died? Perhaps he had started his journey to the lap of Tarchon. Then again, it could be the jarva-leaf. He saw Magthrum talking to the healer. Their figures were indistinct, dream-like and although their mouths moved, he heard nothing of what they said.

  He wanted to call out, but his jaw seemed clamped shut, and as he pondered his predicament, he realised he was sojourning in the void between life and death. Although there was none to instruct him or direct events, he understood he had a choice. He could sever all ties with his body now, pass into the bosom of the gods and his suffering would end. But that would be a betrayal of the Kaldoran people. He might find peace, but at what cost?

  His other choice? To return to a world of pain and mental anguish, the insufferable tonnage of guilt for the sins he had committed. As he floated on the wisps of the nether-world he concluded he really had no choice at all.

  Nalin startled the healer as he sat upright with a gasp, eyes wide open.

  “Lord Nalin,” the healer said. “You are with us once more.” The relief on the stonegrabe’s face was all too apparent.

  “Indeed I am,” Nalin said, sweeping back his bed sheet and rising to his feet. “Revenge has brought me back from the nether-world.”

  Anger burned in his soul, and he knew he would not rest until he had tasted the juices of Cuscosian flesh cooked over a burning spit. The torment of his deeds had crystallised his resolve and, although he was still in the deep throes of jarva addiction, the Black Hallows that pervaded the air galvanised every sinew of his body.

  For the first time in weeks he smiled, an expression the healer clearly didn’t quite know how to interpret.

  “You need more rest, Lord Nalin. Magthrum gave strict orders for you to — ”

  “I have no time for that,” Nalin said. “I must be about my business. Now, where’s my jarva-pipe?”

  40

  A Queen's messenger

  It had been two long weeks since Etezora and the Cuscosian troops had returned to Wyverneth. Those affected by the forest fever recovered after Disconsolin had once again proved his worth by dispensing what, to the dragon folk, was a simple herbal potion distilled from the sap of the dragon willow.

  Tuh-Ma had been the slowest to recover. The fever had exerted a much tighter grip on his great hulking body compared with the diminutive humans. It was fair to say that the blue-skin was not enjoying his enforced period of recuperation. He was fed up of being surrounded by the Cuscosian soldiers and courtiers. He craved the attention of his mistress, Queen Etezora, but she was preoccupied overseeing the construction of giant crossbows — machines to bring down the dragon squadrons should they return before Zodarin could deal with them.

  Oh, how he worshipped his Queen. She was beautiful beyond measure, and he delighted in her strength, her decisiveness and the depths of her depravity. He longed for the day when they might take to the battlefield once again, or roam abroad on a predatory spree, despo
iling and dispatching their victims in a partnership of sadistic glee.

  But as he plodded wearily around Wyverneth, shaking off the remaining ravages of the wyrmbite, he sensed that affairs of state and military preparations distracted her. He tried to occupy himself with carving small figurines as presents for his Queen, but his hands still trembled from the ague, and the soft trappings of the Donnephon were not to his liking. Most of all, the lingering smell of the dragon pits turned his stomach.

  Why did Etezora not even visit him or allow him in her presence? Had she turned her back on him? Written him off as a casualty of war? No — he would not believe it!

  Then, on the fifteenth day after their ignominious return from the foothills of the Whispering Mountains, his Queen called for him.

  “I have a task of great importance that I would entrust to you,” she began with no word of greeting or enquiry regarding his health. Tuh-Ma did not mind. It was enough that he was in her presence again, feasting on her seductive beauty, and it seemed to him that she was even more glamorous than he remembered. He loved the way her mouth moved when she spoke, as if it snarled the words she formulated in her exquisitely twisted mind. The manner in which she stroked the salyx mesmerised him, and he wished he were that creature, sitting on her lap and enjoying her attentions.

  Perhaps one day, he dreamed — the very idea that his misshapen form would be a comfortable fit on her royal knee irrelevant to his simple mind.

  He had listened as the Queen told him of her frustration with her brother Eétor, about the rumours of Kaldora Prime’s downfall and her anger at the Praetor for not telling her about his decision to commit troops to the mission. Most annoying of all was the patronising wizard, Zodarin’s disappearance. She had now lost patience and charged Tuh-Ma with a fact-finding mission to Castle Cuscosa. He was to accost her brother, demand an explanation and update to his stewardly decisions and progress. “Do not be fearful to act on my full authority,” she said to the blue-skin.

  “You mean Tuh-Ma can … use force to get the information?”

  Etezora gave Tuh-Ma a crooked smile. “If need be,” she said. “Give Eétor an opportunity to offer an explanation first. But if you are not satisfied then use your talents to impress upon him the need to … comply.”

  “Tuh-Ma can crush?” he said with eagerness.

  “By no means, you ignorant troll. I still need him to administrate at Cuscosa. My feeble sister, Phindrath is hardly up to the task.”

  Tuh-Ma received the scold with difficulty, but it was forgotten in a minute. He was back in her favour again — and she trusted him with an important mission. He could not be happier.

  The North Road was a well maintained highway and the blue-skin’s massive steed galloped up the miles in a matter of a day and a half. The route bustled with supply trains and mounted troops, and all those who saw him pass gave way to him. Everyone recognised the Queen’s blue-skin servant and none would even consider delaying or waylaying him.

  By the time he approached the gates of Castle Cuscosa, he had shaken off the last remnants of his malaise and once more regarded the battlements of the place he called home. He patted his saddlebags, checking they still contained the royal scrolls laying out Etezora’s demands. They bore her seal and full written authority to act on her behalf.

  He passed through the outer gate without challenge and tethered his exhausted mount. The beast was twenty spans tall — a battle charger. But the difference between carrying a soldier and the deformed mass of muscle that was Tuh-Ma could only be described as considerable.

  He lumbered up to the guard post on all fours, adopting the gait of a large gorilla.

  “Tuh-Ma here to see Lord Eétor,” he grunted to the guard on duty. The man recognised the blue-skin, sneered at him but took care not to pass any derogatory comment. He understood what would happen if he did and bottled his reservations.

  Tuh-Ma was directed to the Captain’s quarters in the outer courtyard, and after waiting for his knock to be answered — with no response — nudged the door open, entering without further hesitation.

  The Captain was engaged in a frantic conversation with his Sergeant at Arms and two others. Their voices were raised, and it was no wonder they had not heard him knock.

  “What do you want?” said the Captain, turning to face the source of interruption. “Oh, it’s you, troll.” The man looked him up and down in a manner that filled Tuh-Ma with the urge to wring his neck. Another time, Tuh-Ma, he told himself.

  “Queen has told Tuh-Ma to speak to Lord Eétor,” he said, presenting the royal scroll.

  The Captain took the document from his large, wart-covered hand, broke the seal and opened the manuscript.

  “Scroll is for Lord Eétor,” repeated the emissary. “Tuh-Ma must speak with Lord Eétor only. My Queen wants answers.”

  The concerned Captain looked at the two guards and turned back to regard the large figure before him. “The Praetor is not here. We thought he had travelled to join the Queen at Wyverneth.”

  “No, Tuh-Ma not seen him. Eétor should be here.”

  “Princess Phindrath might know the answer to this puzzle, Emissary. Follow me.”

  The Captain led the way to the throne room, passing on what information he could to Tuh-Ma. His reading of Etezora’s instructions had clearly put him in a less haughty frame of mind, and despite his apparent lack of perception, the blue-skin reckoned he would be glad to leave Phindrath with the task of apprising him. “Lord Eétor was here when the wizard returned, but is now nowhere to be found.”

  As they passed across the central courtyard Tuh-Ma spat in response to what he saw in an animal pen. “Krut,” he cursed. Grazing at a trough of dried figs and grasses was a pygmy dragon. “Why wyrm here?” asked the blue-skin. “Disgusting serpent. It not belong.”

  “It is Lord Zodarin’s ride,” replied the Captain.

  “Wizard rides dragons?” stammered Tuh-Ma. “He has betrayed us.”

  “I do not think it wise to speak thus,” the man said. “The wizard’s eyes and ears are everywhere.”

  “Tuh-Ma not afraid of that sorcerous krut.”

  The Captain snorted, but refrained from commenting on what he considered a troll’s worthless slobbering.

  Zodarin surveyed the courtyard from his lofty chamber and witnessed the blue-skin’s arrival. He cursed under his breath. “Another unnecessary complication,” he muttered to himself.

  Although he had recovered his magical strength after the assault on the dragons, the dragon blight had wearied him, and the spiritual leakage required to keep Eétor confined in the Dreamworld only tired him further. The Praetor’s comatose body had been ensconced in the cellar basement of the wizard’s tower at his instruction, and only the Princess, the royal apothecary and a handful of select guards knew of it. He intended to make sure Eétor’s predicament remained a secret, even if it meant concealing the fact from Etezora.

  What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, he judged.

  He needed to be present when the blue-skin met with the Princess. But before he left the chamber, he removed his gloves and applied another layer of ointment to his encrusted skin. The dragon blight had continued to spread across his body, and the gloves concealed the scaly degradation.

  Gods only knew what he would do if and when the blight started to assault his face.

  None must hear of this weakness.

  A cure for the affliction still eluded him, and he was starting to wonder if he would find one before he succumbed to its grip.

  After replacing the gloves he descended from his tower, frantically thinking how he would deal with the blue-skin. He certainly didn’t want the troll snooping around. Another disappearance would be very difficult to explain, and he doubted clever words would assuage or circumvent Etezora’s wrath. Thus, he dismissed the idea of killing the beast. He had to find another way of getting rid of him.

  He entered the throne room to find Phindrath already in conversation with the blue-skin. Z
odarin wasn’t sure if the Princess was aware how obvious her disgust of Tuh-Ma was, but the way she held her handkerchief to her nose when in his presence left nothing in doubt to anyone else.

  It was not just Zodarin who understood that Phindrath did not have the wherewithal to sit on the royal throne. She was but a feeble shadow of her venomous sister. This was why he had strongly advised her not to reveal the truth of Eétor’s incapacitation. The citizens would grow restless and even rebellious if they knew they were no longer under the iron hand of the Praetor.

  The Captain had recounted the news from Wyverneth and shared the contents of the scrolls with Phindrath. She now re-read the scroll as if she’d missed something, but Zodarin could see by her expression that she was desperately trying to think of a way to distract the blue-skin from the subject at hand.

  “So what would you have me say, troll?” she said at last. “I do not know where my brother is. He just up and left after the death of the lurking Grizdoth.”

  Tuh-Ma looked at her suspiciously. “What about fall of Kaldora? What has Princess heard about that?”

  Before Phindrath could respond, Zodarin coughed and stepped forward, making his presence known. The look of relief on the Princess’s face was impossible to conceal.

  He bowed as he approached the throne.

  “Ah Lord Zodarin,” Phindrath said. “This is a timely intervention. I was just telling Etezora’s emissary about my brother’s puzzling disappearance.”

  Zodarin passed his amber eyes from the Princess to the blue-skin and back again. The blue-skin hissed as he stepped forward.

  “Yes,” the wizard said, “it is very perplexing. We sent out search parties to all points of the compass, but there has been no trace of him. I have my own theory, of course.”

  Tuh-Ma shambled across to him, looking at the sorcerer with contempt. “Tell Tuh-Ma. Do not hold anything back, Wizard. Etezora is not pleased with you either.”