Cradle of Darkness

by Tom G. H. Adams

  “You should sleep,” she said, “rest that sword arm of yours.”

  “What about you?”

  “I will ensure the sentries are doing their job properly, then I might rest a little easier.”

  She left the dragon hand covering himself with a blanket and snuggling down while she paced the perimeter of their encampment. She passed by tent after tent of soaked humanity, and the sounds emanating from beneath the canvas were common: hushed conversation, the sound of weapons being sharpened and the occasional snore. In truth, Cistre knew she would hardly sleep at all tonight and welcomed the opportunity of solitude, although it did leave her alone with her thoughts.

  She stepped into a clearing where the canopy opened out onto a laden sky and looked up into the blackness. Raindrops hit her face like a punishment from the gods, but she held her pose nonetheless. Are you still out there, my Queen? Perhaps you too are sheltering from the elements. Dare I hope to occupy a small place in your thoughts tonight?

  If she imagined a reply might carry on the storm clouds, then surely she had lost her mind. Yet hope she did. It was the only thing that kept her standing strong.

  ~ ~ ~

  What have I committed our people to? Ebar thought as he looked out over the hunched figures camped under a grove of giant colossus pines. The Cyclopes mixed with the Minutae for there was no distinction in terms of status or respect — not here where they prepared for war. Shamfis had ever chided him for his doubtfulness. He often deferred decisions in the council to a vote; which made him wonder why the Cyclopes had ever elected him Warden. They must have seen other qualities. Taumahg was certainly more decisive, but the bearded one had often cited Ebar’s ability to unite as his defining strength. But united in what?

  As he mused over his people’s fate, he caught movement as a Cyclopes emerged from around the pine bole. It was Hanar, largest of the Cyclopes, twenty spans tall and fearsome to behold — if one did not know him better.

  “I see you, Hanar,” he said. “Sit with me a while and perhaps I can bring a smile to your grim face.”

  “I doubt that,” said the giant, “but a share of your jarva-leaf will.”

  Ebar chuckled. “I don’t mind if you do. It may be the last of my stash but it will give me pleasure if it brings you peace.”

  Hanar settled himself down, took out his clay pipe and accepted Ebar’s jarva-leaf gratefully. “This is very welcome,” he said, “all things considered.”

  “War is a grim thing for any Gigantes to contemplate.”

  “All the grimmer knowing you won’t survive it.”

  Ebar looked at him, a deep melancholy descending. “You too? I was not aware.”

  Hanar took a flint and lit the leaf in his pipe, puffing deeply. “Third moon in the month of Adis was the date foretold on my twentieth natum day.”

  “Gandris mortallun,” Ebar said, offering the traditional condolence at the receiving of such news. There were no more words to say. The Cyclopes accepted the fate of knowing the date of their death with stoicism. It did not make it any easier a burden to bear, however. Hanar would have made arrangements with his family and everything would be in place. Ebar hoped they would be able to bring his body home.

  “To die on the battlefield is a noble end,” Ebar said.

  “It is — but I might choke on my breakfast or get bitten by a tree scorpion yet!”

  Ebar laughed. He would miss Hanar’s sense of humour.

  “You have refrained from taking a census,” the giant said, his face becoming solemn.

  “Yes,” Ebar said. “It would be an affront. A Cyclopes’ death is a private matter.”

  “Not if the information might inform the outcome of a battle.”

  “Knowing how many will die cannot help us determine strategy.”

  “No, but it might give hope.”

  “What hope would there be in knowing every last Cyclopes is to perish?”

  “Is that what you predict?”

  “It is what I fear.”

  “Yet such a foreknowing might cause you to reconsider committing the Gigantes.”

  “Again — that is what I fear. This curse we shoulder afflicts us in so many ways. Sometimes it is better not to know. The council’s decision is based on what is right. If we do not fight now, we might never fight at all.”

  Hanar nodded, accepting his leader’s words.

  “Let us not argue on your last night,” Ebar said.

  “Agreed,” Hanar replied and placed a gigantic paw on Ebar’s shoulder. “I know as a people we do not harbour thoughts of revenge, but I will not mourn taking as many Cuscosians with me as I can.”

  “No one would condemn you for such a thought,” Ebar said and blew three smoke rings in succession. The inhaled heady vapours soothed his inner turmoil to a degree, and he leaned back against the bole of the pine. Soon, Hanar was snoring beside him, and as Ebar’s eyes grew heavy, he pondered his own mortality. He would survive this battle, but was not sure he deserved to. If only one could know the circumstances of one’s demise, he thought. Yet even this did not yield any comfort, simply opened more doors of torment.

  It is beyond me, he finally declared to himself and shifted his position. Just before sleep claimed him, he saw Shamfis’s face together with those of his children.

  Tomorrow I fight for you, he declared.

  ~ ~ ~

  Next morning the rain abated, although the ground was sodden and a damp mist settled in the valley where the allies camped. All about, the sound of people eating hastily prepared breakfasts and the bustle of disassembling tents could be heard. Cistre washed quickly in the nearby stream and then made her way to Ebar’s encampment. She found him conversing with Brownbeak in an indecipherable language. She had only seen the raptor a handful of times before, but soon recognised the nobility of the winged creature. Although it was not related to dragon lineage, its sharp eyes held the wisdom of an ancient race, and she extended her full respect accordingly.

  “Greetings, Ebar,” she said.

  “I see you, Cistre of the Dragonians,” Ebar replied.

  “What word from our feathered ally?”

  Ebar pursed his lips. “Mixed news. There are five battalions of Cuscosians between our camp and Wyverneth, fully armed and alert.”

  “Are they in communication with each other?”

  Ebar unrolled a map and placed it on a tree stump. “They are positioned here,” he said, pointing to five locations.

  Cistre considered the positions for a moment, and then smiled. “They have gaps in their formations of one periarch, enough for us to slip through unnoticed.”

  “Yes,” Ebar said, “although, when we attack, they will pose a threat to our rearguard.”

  “We will let the dragons take care of them,” she replied. “What else?”

  “Brownbeak says he has finally met with Brethis.”

  “That is welcome news!”

  Ebar shook his head. “He has barely mustered five hundred more dissidents, all poorly armed. There was a promise of more from the southern plains, but they were not forthcoming.”

  Cistre sighed. “And Tayem?”

  “Alas, nothing. Not even a whisper on the horizon. Brownbeak’s son ventured three days into the Northern Wastes. Even if Tayem and Mahren still lived, they are too far away to lend us any aid.”

  “I refuse to believe they have perished!” Cistre snapped.

  Ebar looked at her patiently.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I could do with some good news.”

  “I understand. But we can’t count on them returning to help. We must play our strategy as planned, and hope that the spirit gods are with us.”

  Cistre nodded. “You are right. We should break camp in the next half an hour and split into smaller squads. The Dragonians will guide our Cuscosian allies, stop them from making too much noise as we pass through the enemy lines. I will entrust the command of your troops to you, Ebar.”

  Ebar chuckled. “Co
mmand? That is not our way, but rest assured, we will do our part.”

  “Then we will see you on the Maidwin hills. Dixtrath semlessin.”

  And so the Dragonian alliance returned once more through the borders of Wyverneth. For all their military might, the Cuscosians were not adept at detecting the approach of an adversary so skilled in concealment and stealth. The Dragonian scouts picked out sentries and clumsily camouflaged outposts with ease, and so they succeeded in bypassing the Cuscosian northern defence. They held the dragons back, awaiting Brownbeak’s signal, and the allied troops congregated on the wooded slopes of the Maidwin hills just as Sol-Ar began to set. They were tired, but ready to do battle.

  Cistre stood with Ebar, Wobas and Milissandia surveying a multitude of lights illuminating the battlements of Wyverneth. The invading allied forces were dispersing, as ordered, along the shrouded valleys formed by numerous tributaries that converged on the Halivern River’s upper reaches.

  “Brownbeak will have delivered his message to Beredere by now,” Ebar said. “I still would advise patience and attack in the still of the night, when the defenders will be at their lowest ebb. It will also give a chance for Brethis to take up position.”

  “We have already lost too much time,” Cistre said, “and Zodarin might make his move at any moment. Once we see the dragons approach, I will sound the horn.” She itched with anticipation, all the time longing to be mounted on Muthorus, her beloved dragon. The royal host could not arrive too soon as far as she was concerned. With such air power, they might not need to scale the walls of the city.

  “Will Aibrator be in place?” Wobas asked.

  “I await his signal,” Cistre replied, “but he has only been gone half an hour and he needs to navigate the dragon claw sluice.”

  The dragon claw sluice was a secret gate at the bottom of Wyverneth’s fortifications which acted as an outlet for waste water from the palace. Aibrator’s task was not a dignified one, but it was essential for the Dragonians’ chances of victory.

  “So many things to go wrong,” Milissandia said.

  “Or,” Wobas replied, “so many opportunities.”

  The others didn’t share the shaman’s optimism, even if they did understand the motivation.

  “The time for speculation is past,” Cistre said. “Look!”

  She pointed to the horizon behind, to where what looked like a flock of birds approached, appearing as pinpricks against the violet sky. “Soon the Cuscosians will identify them for what they are,” Cistre said.

  Sashaim ran towards them to confirm what they had all witnessed. “Our dragons have passed over the Cuscosian’s northern contingent, they are already lighting signal fires,” he said.

  “Then let battle commence,” Cistre said. She raised the battle horn to her lips and let out one long blast. Down below, they saw individual battalions of their warriors moving towards the battlements, bows and slings at the ready. Cistre hoped they had listened to their instructions regarding staying out of range of the Cuscosian crossbows until the last minute. She turned her head northwards again and judged the dragons were still five minutes away. Although she was impatient for their arrival, she still knew they would have the element of surprise.

  Then, a low moan caught her attention amidst the commotion of activity all around. It was Milissandia. She held her temples as if in pain. Wobas too had a distant look in his eyes. Cursed dreamworlders, why can they not contain their emotions?

  “What is it?” Cistre said tersely.

  “It is Memek-Tal,” Milissandia gasped. “He has summoned us.”

  48

  The Earthshaker's gift

  Tayem had faced adversaries and potential allies in negotiations many times before. She thought herself a seasoned diplomat, yet this stark pronouncement by the great dragon left her speechless. The thrill of finding one of the last surviving matriarchs of the Agnarim was wiped out with the numbing finality of the dragon’s first words.

  The dragon’s head alone matched the size of Quassu, and Agathon lifted it now, causing the sisters to reflexively step back. “I know your cause is just,” she said, “as I too have sensed the rise of the Black Hallows once more — although I am protected from its influence here under the mountain.”

  “Then you know how grave the threat to our people is,” Tayem said, finding her words at last.

  “I have witnessed the rise and fall of six Black Hallows cycles,” Agathon replied, “and each brought over a hundred sols of misery. I know not how the evil manifests itself this time, but I am entirely sure I cannot expose myself to its influence again. Can you imagine what it is like to be possessed by an evil deeper than time itself?”

  “I don’t need to imagine,” Tayem said, her voice barely a whisper.

  Agathon extended her head further forward such that her breath was a breeze over the Dragon Riders, redolent of earth and parchment. “Yes, I can see in your eyes the scars of the Hallows. You escaped its grip? That is an achievement indeed. But for one such as I, the temptation would be too great.”

  “You fear your own choices?” Tayem said, an anger starting to rise within, despite her predicament. “You are wise beyond measure, your knowledge spans millennia, yet you cannot stir the resolve to resist the Hallows’ enticements?”

  “Dragons are wise. Dragons are mighty. Dragons are also vain. The prospect of unparalleled power draws us more than any human. That is why I now dwell in this mountain. If I emerged from my lair to aid you in your battle, Sol-Ar’s rays would bathe me once again in their baleful glow. I would seek the nearest Hallows shrine and drink in the energy I found there — and nothing would be able to stand in my way. I nearly succumbed during the last cycle, and it was only a supreme act of will that urged me to bury myself here.

  “Age overtakes me too, and I near the end of my days. There comes a time when the earth will claim me once again, and this is as good a resting place as any.”

  Tayem heard the dragon’s complaint, but she was not finished yet. “You talk of your own demise, but what of the complete annihilation of the dragons? Would you countenance their destruction?”

  “What is this you speak of, child? The dragons will survive this cycle — as they always have.”

  “Then you have no knowledge of the harroc di wurunwi?”

  “You speak in the language of the Dreamworld, child. What does that mean?”

  “Hunter of dreams,” Tayem said. “A great sorcerer of the Dreamworld has arisen. He has already slain many of our dragons and now gathers his strength again to complete the destruction.”

  “I know nothing of the Dreamworld. How is this possible?”

  “Like most other species, the dragons have avatars in the Far Beyond. When this monster slays in the Dreamworld, it is enacted in the Near To. Noble Enthusarr was murdered in this way.”

  “Enthusarr? I knew her as a hatchling, watched her grow into a mighty force of vs’ shtak. She is gone?”

  “I’m surprised your far sense did not detect it.”

  “A dragon has its limitations. My heart grieves for her loss.”

  “You are vulnerable too. The sorcerer may not have found your avatar yet, but it is only a matter of time before he does. You may speak of dying with dignity at the end of your days, but what does it say of the greatest living dragon if you are brought down by this monster?”

  This news clearly took Agathon aback, and she raised herself up, blinking rapidly. “I cannot let this pass. It is beyond possibility to join with you on the battlefield, but perhaps there is a way I can help.” She turned her attention to Mahren, regarding her with a look of respect. “Kirith-A, you have remained silent during our discourse, yet I sense you may be the key to confronting this problem.”

  Mahren looked at Tayem in bewilderment, but the Queen encouraged her to step forward. “I am not sure how I can,” she said. “I am simply here to accompany my sister.”

  “You are more than a companion,” Agathon said, “I sense a great talent
within you. Indeed, were it not for your presence I would have dismissed your Dragon Queen out of hand. I am curious. You talk to dragons, but can you listen to them as well?”

  “I understand the ancient language of vs’ shtak, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It is. Now there are sacred words that a dragon must learn if they are to transcend to the Agnarim. They are words of power, and can only be retained by one who is worthy.”

  Mahren’s eyes grew wider. “You speak of the pneuma fyre? But there are no dragons I could pass this on to. Enthusarr is dead, and there is no other to equal her in sols.”

  “There is one,” Agathon said, and she leaned forward to impart her words to Mahren. Tayem braced herself, wondering how her sister might receive this rare gift. But Agathon imparted her words in a whisper only Mahren heard. The only sign anything had happened was when Mahren closed her eyes and thanked the dragon.

  The sisters’ passage out of the great dragon’s lair was much easier than their ingress. Climbing up the intervening space between the cavern floor and the tip of the dangling rope was tricky but not insurmountable. They doused one torch, using the light of the remainder until it reached the end of its life. Just as it started to sputter, Mahren relit her torch, providing enough illumination to last until all but the final hundred paces.

  Back in the open, they found Quassu and Jaestrum huddled against each other. They raised their heads in grateful greeting once they caught sight of their mistresses.

  “It is good to drink in fresh air again,” Tayem said.

  “That is true,” Mahren replied. “I would not be an Agnarim — stagnating down there in the depths of a mountain.”

  “Sshh, we don’t want to offend her,” Tayem said, but smiled nonetheless.

  “Could it be true? What she said about one who could receive the gift of pneuma fyre?”

  “She senses the movements of her kindred over these northern wastes. I don’t think she was mistaken.”

  “But it seems so unlikely he would seek us out, given the state we last saw him in. I had thought him lost.”