Tonight I shall be rid of you, it thought. Yet there would be time to revel in that later.
It was time. It would do the Queen’s bidding this one last occasion, and then it would seek out Wobas and his daughter. It possessed the energy, the means and the desire.
Settling itself in a depression eroded out of a large, oblong monolith that seemed designed for this very purpose, it closed every one of its thirteen eyes.
The force with which it entered the Far Beyond exceeded anything it had experienced before, and its two hearts beat ever more vehemently in response to what seemed to be a calling. It drove itself through the Dreamworld forests at a speed that swallowed the breath in its body, and yet it wasn’t fast enough.
They are here, and they are intent on stopping me.
The amioid passed across the woodland boundary, moving like the wind over plains where the grass parted before it, until it came to the place where the wyrms dwelt.
For beasts so wise, why do you congregate in this way and make my task so easy? It thought.
There they were, facsimile avatars of themselves, huddled together as if they knew their time was upon them. Even in this state, the amioid saw and felt their nobility. This recognition stirred the blight-curse within, setting its murmuring against his malign intent.
Still your voice, he commanded it.
Your affliction speaks the only voice of reason left within you, came a voice from across the dell, and the amioid beheld the Spirit Guide standing regally if somewhat diminished.
The monster could not resist a desire to crow. You seem a little malaised yourself, Memek-Tal. Let me ease you of your burden.
The Spirit Guide smiled, albeit painfully, and the amioid wondered if it was pain or pity at its root. Release? That would be welcome, Memek-Tal sent, but it is not for you to ordain. There are others who will weigh my deeds in their scales.
Then why are you here?
To entreat and to witness.
You would entreat me? I am too set on my course, and I have waited too long.
The Spirit Guide hung its head as if sensing further words would be ineffectual. I see that. Yet true choices should be made with as much foresight as possible.
I have seen the future, Memek-Tal, the amioid sent, and it is glorious.
You have seen what the Black Hallows wants you to see. But tell me, amioid, who exerts the control — you or it?
As the Spirit Guide uttered these words, it raised a limb, conjuring an invisible sigil in the ether. Before the amioid’s eyes it saw a vision, its body writhing in alternate paroxysms of pain and ecstasy, purple ectoplasm issuing from its mouth, its pores, indeed every orifice of its body.
No, the amioid screamed. You lie, Memek-Tal. The Hallows has never inhabited one such as I, and I am its master. Begone, duplicitous vision.
It pushed back with its mind and the Spirit Guide staggered backwards.
No more delay, the amioid stated. I shall vanquish these beasts, and the Gigantes shaman and his daughter will be next.
Why not confront us first? Another said.
The amioid spun round, angry that it had allowed itself to be distracted. Wobas? You have saved me the bother of tracking you down. I see your subterfuge, and will stay my hand no longer.
~ ~ ~
Wobas viewed the thing that Zodarin had become and understood he was witnessing his former friend in his true form. The harroc di wurunwi’s appearance hurt his scops eyes, even though it was but a Dreamworld apparition.
The sorcerer, Milissandia sent, crouching in the grass next to him. Is this his true nature? I can hardly bring myself to look at it.
Wobas’s heart quailed within his breast, for truly the thing was an abomination. What he had previously seen at the edge of his vision was but a whisper compared to this monstrosity. The thing stood — if standing was a word that could describe its posture — at a height to rival Ebar himself. There was no head crowning its torso of bubbling green. The eyes were too many to count, embedded as they were in the folded flesh. Where its multitudinous tentacles joined with the body, their points of attachment disappeared in the depths of undulating folds such that Wobas was left with a sense that the whole thing was the very concept of ambulation.
And then it spoke. Not through its mouth, this seemed reserved for functions more terrible than Wobas could imagine. You have humiliated me, Shaman, and I would see you suffer before you breathe your last.
Then do what you must, Strip-Willow, Wobas sent.
What? Do you seek to denigrate me with such childish epithets?
You denigrate yourself, Hallows-slave!
You will not distract me, the amioid sent, and with the speed of thought itself, the creature’s tentacles lashed out and wrapped around the necks of two unsuspecting dragon avatars. Unlike Etezora’s lassos of Hallows energy in the Near To, the amioid required no slow process of strangulation. The constriction of its tentacles quenched the life from the dragons in an instant, and Wobas knew two of the ayku had met their end over Wyverneth.
We must strike now, Wobas sent to his daughter, before he can unleash his power again.
I am ready, Father. Though I wonder how effectual we will be against this thing.
Have faith, Milissandia, Wobas replied, and gathered his will to join with that of his daughter. They had practised this many times, yet not in anger, and as he felt the reassuring linkage established with Milissandia’s consciousness, he felt the awesome weight of what he was about to commit.
Now! Came his spirit-shout, and a wave of silver energy erupted from their conjoined locus and surged toward the creature. It struck the amioid at the centre of its mass, causing it to recoil with the impact, screaming in a voice as shrill as a hellish banshee. The flesh seemed to crumple inward around a small blackened crater as it reeled back. Then it stopped, the tissue knitting together until the crater disappeared, leaving only the vestige of a scar.
Is that all, Shaman? This is what you assault me with? It said. I had thought better of you. And with this statement, the amioid’s tentacles uncoiled like whips and flew across the hollow toward the Gigantes avatars. It was only as a matter of reflex that their defensive shield rose in response, deflecting them.
Our soul-energy hardly grazed it, Milissandia sent. How can anyone stand against such a thing?
Do not lose heart, sent Memek-Tal in response. The harroc di wurunwi was affected by your attack. Take the initiative before it —
Only it was too late. The monster’s attack was not intended to wound but to distract. Two more tentacles shot out and grabbed another two dragon avatars, quenching their life force in an instant, and still the creature did not seem diminished from the assault.
Run, Milissandia cried out to them, but either they were deaf to her plea, or were somehow paralysed.
The harroc di wurunwi holds them in place, Memek-Tal sent. Do not waste your time warning them. They will only listen to one of the Donnephon, and the Dragon Rider’s avatars are not present in the Dreamworld.
He is right, Daughter, Wobas said and gathered his strength again. He did not need to signal his intent this time, as his consciousness was one with Milissandia’s. Another argent tsunami swept outwards, this time striking the creature’s tentacles, causing one to be severed and fall to the ground, writhing like an emerald snake.
It is wounded, Milissandia sent.
But far from dead, Wobas replied. Strike again before it is too late.
~ ~ ~
The Gigantes’ latest assault sent a shockwave of pain through the amioid, yet it sensed with its unleashing, that somehow its assailants had spent themselves dearly. Their attack had taken its own toll on the amioid, of course; and despite the weeks of gathering its power, it sensed a diminution with the slaying of the last two dragons. There was also another factor to consider now. It sensed a Dragon presence to the north of the dell. Three of them — one a gigantic wyrm.
It is the Dragon Queen, it said to itself. They may yet be
the greater prize. I must rid myself of these bothersome insects.
It had lost a limb, but it would regenerate in time. Ignoring the pain, it drew on the Hallows with increased fervency, and allowed it to possess its body even more, understanding there was an additional price to pay. It was dimly aware of what the Spirit Guide had revealed but chose to ignore it again. You are the father of lies, Memek-Tal and I will not be swayed from my purpose.
This time, it unleashed all of its limbs at the Gigantes, moving forward with the attack to add momentum to it; and although two tentacles were deflected, the rest wrapped themselves around its opponents, sapping their life energy.
Now you shall both die, the amioid sent, unable to contain its glee.
~ ~ ~
The force of the amioid’s attack stunned Milissandia with life-shaking intensity, and she cried out as she attempted to absorb its effect.
Milissandia, her father cried, and she knew in the utterance of her name that something had changed. He never called her anything but Daughter.
Father, she replied, I cannot withstand this onslaught. I fear I have failed you.
There was no reply from the shaman, and Milissandia wondered if he was not lost already.
Milissandia, Wobas, came the voice of Memek-Tal. It is not enough. The pool of your energy is diminished in the face of the harroc di wurunwi’s attack.
Then we are undone, Milissandia sent.
It does not have to be, Memek-Tal replied, his voice sounding weaker with every statement. There is a way to defeat this creature. But there is a consequence.
Name it, Wobas sent, his own utterances little more than a gasp.
The path of Inuur, Memek-Tal sent. One of you must invoke it.
Inuur? Milissandia sent. The ultimate sacrifice? She pondered for a second, conscious that the amioid was gathering itself for a final surge of power as its tentacles constricted further. Is there a guarantee?
No … guarantees … except both your lives at the hands of this creature if you do not …
Then I shall commit to it, Milissandia swore. Prepare yourself, Father. You must strike as soon as you sense the passing of my spirit-energy.
But before she could invoke the act, she knew she had prevaricated too long. Wobas uttered three words: Milissandia, forgive me. And with that, she sensed a release from him, together with a subsequent charging of her spirit.
The Inuur — an irrevocable shamanic cantrip transferring the life force of one to another. Wobas had taught Milissandia about its existence, and she knew it only required an act of will in the Dreamworld — he had invoked it before she could do so herself.
Do not delay, Memek-Tal sent, otherwise your father’s sacrifice will mean nothing.
Milissandia looked at the crumpled form of the scops next to her, felt her anger rise, and channelled her energy into one final outrush of silver-white fury. During the creature’s onslaught it had drawn close, pressing home the attack such that it towered over the diminutive form of the tree serpent. Milissandia directed her wave of energy as a blanket, spreading and enveloping the amioid, entering every aperture in the surface of its body.
Strike … at … its … hearts, Memek-Tal sent from an indistinct place. Milissandia responded and infiltrated the harroc di wurunwi to its core, saw in her mind’s eye the repulsive beating organs and surrounded them.
She was weakening, had only enough energy for a final burst, and she used it to the full. Just as the amioid attempted to squeeze the life from her with its tentacles, she constricted her argent fists around both hearts, feeling them burst and release their abhorrent ichor.
Aahh, it uttered, a gasp of defeat rather than an agonised shriek. Then it was silent.
She opened her spirit eyes and witnessed the creature cave in on itself where it stood until all that remained was a smouldering pile of darkened green tissue.
As the smoke cleared, she saw the Spirit Guide from across the dell. It was laid on its side, chest heaving and eyes blinking uncontrollably.
Memek-Tal? Milissandia sent.
It is done, the Spirit Guide replied.
But you — what is to become of you?
There is … a cost to everything, came the reply. Return to the Near To… your father holds onto life but cannot last much longer. He would speak with you.
Memek-Tal’s eyes closed and his chest rose and fell no more.
51
'Til all is gone
Aibrator held his torch aloft in the confined space of the sluice tunnel and led the way through knee-high water. He dared not look down at the colour of the fluid that soaked his breeches and seeped through the gaps in his leather armour.
Cuscosian pollution, he thought, as if their effluent was any worse than other humanoid species in the Imperious Crescent. Could be worse. We could be infiltrating the depths of a Kaldoran stronghold. Sesnath knows what we’d be wading through there!
He had almost ordered his small warband to leave their glaives behind. The low roof forced them to hold the weapons horizontally — posing problems as their points poked the soldier in front periodically.
At least they had not been detected during their entry. They were at their most exposed where the Halivern flowed past the sluice-gate and the castle waste flowed sluggishly through a rusted grille. But, after a few vigorous tugs from Bostrom, a hulking Dragonian brute, they’d gained access without an arrow being fired.
Were the Cuscosians so lax that they had not discovered this entry point?
Aibrator certainly hoped so. It would be just his luck to meet a patrol down here, and for him to meet an ignominious end in the sewage.
After traversing the tunnel for some five hundred strides, the warband came to a junction in the waterways. A large vertical shaft emptied its contents through the roof of the tunnel, and several smaller branches found their confluence here too.
“Do we climb up?” Bostrom whispered from behind.
“No,” Aibrator replied. “According to Gemain there is an easier access point up this right-hand branch. Follow me.”
Twenty paces beyond the confluence, up a tunnel so narrow it forced them onto hands and knees, they found a grating in the ceiling. As Aibrator gazed upwards through it, he saw the moon, large as a millwheel shining down into what he knew was a pillar-lined concourse. In the distance he could hear the sounds of battle — the clash of steel on steel, men crying out in pain and … what was that? The roar of dragons.
“Our beasts are dying,” he said, panic rising. “Come, we must breach the gate and join the fray forthwith. We may already be too late.”
Bostrom made short work of the grating and the twenty men exited the tunnel like the sewer rats they resembled. They had only run a short distance when they encountered resistance — ten Cuscosians, dashing across their path with pikes held high. They would have passed in a minute, but one glanced their way, saw the incongruous intruders standing in the shadows and raised the alarm. All ten turned, took in the situation and ran towards them in a tight formation.
“We can’t afford to engage them in melee,” Aibrator commanded. “Archers?”
He didn’t need to say another word. Five of Dragonia’s top marksmen pushed through, crouched and loosed two arrows each in quick succession. The shafts found their marks despite the moving targets, and ten Cuscosians hit the cobbles in a matter of seconds.
Aibrator didn’t hesitate. “Make straight for the gates. We may still catch the defenders by surprise.”
The warband sprinted towards Wyverneth’s main gates, drawing closer to the sound of pitched battle. As they approached the Dragon Talon portal, its heavy heartwood gates standing proud and secure, the warriors found themselves amidst a criss-cross of soldiers, rushing to bolster the defences. Aibrator marvelled at how they bore the Dragonians no attention whatsoever, such was their assumption that no enemy could attack from behind.
It was not until they had accessed the portcullis chamber that the guards recognised they were beset.
Aibrator led his men against the five Cuscosians who rained down arrows on the invading army from slots set in the turrets’ machiolations. Although initially surprised, the defenders offered a spirited defence. Aibrator ran two of them through with his glaive, the weapon giving him an advantage against their shortswords. Yet one of them, clearly a veteran of many conflicts, slew two of the warband in short order.
“Open the gates,” Aibrator commanded Bostrom. “I’ll take this krut.”
The Dragonian commander’s tactic had its effect. The swordsman took his eyes off the gate, allowing Bostrom and two others to operate the machinery.
Aibrator manoeuvred himself around his opponent, jabbing unpredictably to keep him at bay. From back in the courtyard he heard the alarm sound, and the rush of armoured feet up the stairs.
“They will be upon us in seconds,” he shouted at the gate operators. “Hurry.”
Bostrom, sweat dripping from his grimy face turned to him and said, “It is done,” just as a Cuscosian blade appeared in the middle of his chest from behind.
Rest well, my friend, Aibrator thought and turned back to his opponent. The man threw his blade from hand to hand, trying to keep Aibrator off-guard. He tried to second-guess the Cuscosians next strike, but when it came, he could not have predicted it. Like a flash of lightning, the man’s blade slashed at Abraitor’s glaive-shaft, slicing it in two. The blade clattered to the floor leaving him holding the severed shaft. Behind him, his men were fighting a losing skirmish with the troops who now swarmed into the turret chamber.
Krut, Aibrator thought. I hope they wash my body before cremating it.
~ ~ ~
Ebar swung his giant club down on the skull of an opponent, crushing it despite the man wearing a helm made from laminated Erybus steel. As the blow struck home, something died inside the Gigantes. He had killed thirty five Cuscosians, wounded twice as many more, and he recalled every one of the slain. There was no battle-lust to consume him, no fear of death, only a grim determination to achieve the allies’ goal.
Cradle of Darkness Page 43