The Forked Path

by T. R. Thompson

  ‘The king has made his judgment!’ Vargul shouted out again, obviously wanting to get things moving again as quickly as possible. ‘Bring the prisoner to the stone!’

  Wilt was shoved roughly around and pushed forward, a guard catching him as he fell then marching him away from the throne. Small rocks and rotten fruit peppered them as the crowd lost all semblance of order and threw whatever was closest to hand.

  Wilt shied away from the missiles, holding his hands up over his head to protect himself.

  That’s it. Keep them in the sunlight. Just a few moments more.

  Wilt could feel the shackles warming, heating his wrists as they seemed to lighten and stretch, pulling away from his skin.

  It’s waking up, coming undone. Here. Let me try something.

  Wilt felt his lips move and a strange tumble of words spill over them in a hushed whisper. Immediately another block in his mind melted away; his thoughts gathered force now, the vortex of power in his centre spinning back up to speed.

  At the same time, his shoulder was wrenched again as he was pulled to a standstill.

  ‘Open your eyes and face your fate, wielder.’

  Wilt blinked his eyes clear, the image in front of him blurring back and forth until it locked into place. He was standing at an altar, a solid stone table curved in the centre with black, dried bloodstains telling the tale of its evil history.

  ‘The king’s mercy!’ Vargul cried out again, and the crowd answered with another shout as a large hooded man stepped into Wilt’s view, an enormous axe held at his side. The blade was fully two feet long, curved and glinting cruelly in the sun.

  Wilt was pushed forward again, forced to his knees in front of the stone altar, his head angled by rough hands to lie in place in the carved indentation in the centre of the rock.

  He saw a shift of movement to his side as the executioner stepped forward.

  Any time now would be good, Higgs.

  I think it worked. Try to pull your hands free. Once the shackles are clear, you should be able to change.

  Wilt forced his hands apart, straining against the stone infused iron that oddly warped and bent around him like thick toffee.

  An expectant hush from the crowd told Wilt he only had moments to live. He closed his eyes and pulled the sucking bonds slowly apart, then wrenched his hands free, the weight of the shackles dropping from his wrists.

  Now, Wilt. Now!

  He dived into the darkness, the world around him shifting into the grey tones of the shadowed world of the wraith. Just in time. The cold axe blade kissed the back of his neck, and the next moment it was through him altogether, the executioner stumbling as the lack of expected resistance sent him sprawling off balance. The heavy axe fell to the ground with a clang.

  Wilt stood up, a thousand black welds writhing in his form, a spot of cold silence in the middle of the sudden commotion that broke out as the guards whirled around in confusion. He reached for the nearest body, the nearest flash of life in the darkness, and his hand passed through it, clasping the man’s heart in a fist of ice, watching as the light in his eyes faded and was finally snuffed out. Wilt felt the death as a spark of heat that barely registered against the howling hunger for more.

  Vargul was standing to one side of the platform, backing away from the horrifying vision that had reared up in front of him. He shook his head frantically, as though trying to deny what his eyes told him.

  ‘No … You were broken … It’s not possible, the master—’

  Wilt reached into him.

  No. Wait. He must know more. Let his memories wash through, let us learn what we can.

  Wilt knew Higgs spoke the truth, but his other side, the wraith form that had control, wanted nothing more than to feast on all the life around it, to take as much warmth and light with it to drown in its depths. It wanted no time to be wasted.

  Wilt, take control. We have to know more. We have to know—

  Wilt’s mind wrenched as he willed himself upward and out of the animal hunger that threatened to overwhelm him. His shadowed hand still closed around Vargul’s heart, but his grip loosened, allowing a last few seconds of life to flash before the man’s eyes.

  He stood at the edge of a courtyard, head hooded and bowed but eyes peering out keenly, studying the surrounding group. There were thirteen other applicants, all eager to join the queen’s ranks. Queen Catherine, beautiful and terrifying, married to the king these past five years and the true seat of power in the realm. It was said she came from the far north; some even whispered the name Redmondis, though never in her presence. It was said she held the king in thrall, that she possessed strange and terrible powers. Many things were said. He knew better than to believe them all.

  He recognised only two or three of the other applicants. They weren’t a threat. They had some talent but lacked the hunger to do what was necessary to gain true power. He’d seen others such as these fail, stand in front of waiting victims and waver, too terrified of the consequences to bring their wills to bear, to push down into their victim’s minds, smashing their way inside if necessary.

  He suffered from no such hesitancy.

  Each member of the group snapped to attention, and he hurried to do likewise as a tall, red-robed figure strode into their presence. He started as he saw the figure, almost falling forward in his surprise. Impossible. A Prefect of Redmondis, here, in Sontair?

  The prefect strode back and forth, studying each figure as though his eyes had no trouble penetrating the shadows of their hoods. When his time came, Vargul stared straight back, taking in the scarred face, the strange golden eyes, the tight lips that curved into a knowing smile.

  ‘Form a line, gentlemen. Present yourselves.’

  From somewhere within his cloak a twisted, clawed staff appeared, and each applicant stood before it, withdrawing their hoods and allowing the staff to touch their foreheads. Vargul watched the first few, saw their shoulders slump in surrender as the staff touched them, saw their blank eyes, their slowly shaking heads as though waking from a dream. He prepared himself.

  Centre your mind. Leave the chaos of thought behind. Become cold stone.

  When his turn came he was ready, his mind blank and clear. He stepped forward and his eyes fell on the clawed staff. It was a wolf’s paw, with long yellow claws. So lifelike.

  The prefect held his gaze, the long scar that ran down one side of his face twitching slightly.

  The claws flexed and Vargul’s control slipped away. It wasn’t a staff at all. It was an arm. The prefect’s arm. Its claws touched his forehead, and a howl entered his heart.

  —Cortis. It had to be. We know the queen was one of the Nine Sisters. He worked for them, before he turned on them. Maybe he was here recruiting, trying to grow their army. But why? Go deeper, Wilt. We have to know more.—

  He stared down into the still water of the reflecting bowl, watching his eyes, looking for the flecks of gold that had appeared in them. The light caught one, and he smiled, recognising it. Cortis would be proud.

  ‘The queen, Vargul. She requests our presence.’

  He stood and followed his fellow adviser, pulling his hood over his head. Cortis had warned him he would be acting soon, taking advantage of the distracted Sisters and the weakened defences of Redmondis. Perhaps the time had come. Their time.

  He walked into the audience chamber and his heart leaped as he saw the tall, red-robed figure standing in front of the king and queen.

  The prefect spoke and turned to watch him and the other advisers file into the room, his displeasure clear on his face. Not Cortis, another. Keep your mind shielded.

  ‘As we mentioned to you, Cantor Wrexley, we have our own skilled advisers here in the capital. We have no need of Redmondis’ assistance.’ The queen’s tone dripped with sarcasm, yet remained calm and somehow soothing. She was bending her will, bringing her powers to bear on the strange prefect.

  ‘Yes, your highness, but the surrounding lands—’

  �
��What is he talking about, Catherine?’ The king sat up suddenly, as though waking from a doze. ‘Has there been trouble in the realm? Why haven’t I—’

  ‘Be still, my king.’ Vargul could feel the surge of power as the queen spoke, wrapping herself around the king’s feeble mind and suffocating all thought. ‘Be at peace. All is well.’

  Silence fell on the room as the king sank back into his entranced sleep.

  ‘You see, Cantor Wrexley, your visit troubles the king unnecessarily.’ The queen’s voice was cold now, the threat unmistakable.

  Vargul watched the tall prefect, saw the struggle writ clearly on the man’s face. The sudden surrender. ‘Yes, my queen. I will … pass on your news to Redmondis.’

  The prefect dropped his head and walked quickly from the room in full retreat.

  —Wrexley. He was sent to the south before Cortis attacked Redmondis. The Sisters must have heard reports of trouble.—

  —But the queen was one of the Sisters, Wilt. They shared the same mind. Anything she knew was already known by the others. Wrexley was sent on a fool’s errand. Moved out of the way—-

  —But why weaken Redmondis even further? Why open themselves up for attack?—

  —Perhaps they didn’t realise how far under the influence of the serpents they had fallen. How twisted their minds had become. More, we need more, Wilt.—

  Vargul stood at the door, watching the huddled shape in the far corner scratch and claw at the walls, trying to melt itself into the rock. On the floor, in the middle of the cell, lay a large, dirty sack.

  ‘Will they be missed?’ he whispered, not taking his eyes from the shivering form.

  ‘No, sir. Not from here. There are more of the new arrivals, too many of them as it is.’

  ‘Good.’ Vargul smiled though his heart remained cold. He could feel himself separating thought from action, washing his hands mentally from what he was about to do. He was no longer in control. He could not be blamed. ‘Free the creatures.’

  The jailer reached in with a large hook and took hold of one corner of the sack, lifting and shaking it free, leaving behind a writhing pile of black forms. He stepped back hurriedly, putting Vargul between himself and the twisting mound of death now free in the cell. Black asps, the deadliest creatures in all the southern kingdom.

  A whimper slipped out from the far corner of the room.

  Vargul stared down at the snakes, lost in the dance of their movement. A rush of excitement surged up his spine as he dropped into a weld and sent it into their minds.

  Hunger. Pure hunger. Flickering tongue tasting the heat of life. Food is that way. The twist and pull of the others as they too caught its scent.

  ‘Leave me.’ His lips formed the words even as his mind forgot its human form and gave itself to the froth and foam of the waters beneath the welds. Where the serpents danced, where the true power lay. Where his master waited for him.

  The jailer needed no further encouragement. He’d seen enough of these performances to know what would come next. The sudden strike, the cry of pain choked off in seconds. Then the feast. There would be remains to remove once the work was done, but for now he wanted to spend his time in warmer, friendlier places than this.

  Vargul heard the jailer leave and gave himself up completely to the weld, pushing to the front of the writhing pile as it wrapped and rolled itself toward the waiting flesh. In the back of his mind he heard a familiar howl of triumph gathering his thoughts and surging ahead in the charge.

  The first set of fangs struck out, spitting their venom deep into tissue, and Vargul tasted the metallic taint of blood and poison that filled his mouth, then all senses shut down as he dropped into the waiting dark.

  The world slipped away as he floated in darkness. Ice closed around him, locking time into a single moment. A choking fear wrapped his chest as he waited, aware suddenly that he was not alone, that something other was here with him. Something that knew every thought he had ever had or would ever have, who knew his secrets and dismissed them, who held his mind in its fist and could crush him on a whim.

  Something that could foresee the moment of his death and knew who else would be there inside him when it came to pass.

  You. I know you.

  The voice closed on Wilt like a fist. The world was a frozen instant of time crystallising around him. Then he was pulled below.

  The shock of the cold blasted his mind clear, all thoughts shattered. With one final gasp of effort he raised his eyes toward the surface, watching as a blurred form danced and skated on the ice far above, out of reach.

  No, Wilt! I’m here. Stay with me.

  He felt himself sinking, impossibly heavy in the darkening waters. The shape on the ice above battered at the surface, its four paws clawing uselessly at it.

  Wilt, fight it. Stay with me!

  He was cold, so cold. So tired. He sank into the darkness, watching the light above fade out.

  42

  Daemi dreamed of water, hidden depths, writhing nests of serpents, and a voice just at the edge of hearing trying to tell her something important, something she had to know.

  She opened her eyes and sat up. Something in the changed sounds of the morning had told her body to react. The next moment the door to their chamber swung open and Lodan’s face appeared.

  ‘Good, you’re awake. Hurry, we need to get to the castle. There’s been trouble.’

  His head disappeared from view before she could ask anything in reply, so she swung her legs out of bed and kicked the bed next to her where Heather still lay deeply asleep.

  ‘Wake up, princess.’

  Heather groaned as she opened her eyes and slowly recognised where she was. ‘Oh. I thought I was back in Redmondis. There was—’

  ‘Never mind about that. Time to get going, something’s happened.’

  Heather’s eyes narrowed in recognition of the urgency in Daemi’s tone, and she sat up quickly as Daemi turned to wake Frankle.

  Minutes later they were out on the streets, munching on hard, thin wafers of trail bread that Lodan had given them to make up for missing breakfast, hurrying along, trying to keep up with his long strides.

  Daemi caught up to him just as another soldier saluted Lodan and marched away. ‘Trouble?’

  Lodan nodded. ‘The reports we’re getting are strange. Muddled. But the one thing they all have in common is our mutual friend.’

  Daemi ducked under a wooden beam that suddenly thrust out of a nearby window, ignoring the angry shouts from behind as other travellers weren’t so quick to notice the obstacle. ‘Wilt?’

  ‘We’d had word that the latest guard patrol to return had brought along a prisoner, a wielder, according to the whispers. A young man, now a guest of the queen. After we met you we put two and two together.’

  ‘So he’s here then, in the castle.’

  ‘He was. Then came reports that the queen had suffered a mischief of some kind. That the guest stood accused, and that court was called to pronounce judgment.’

  ‘So quickly?’

  ‘The king is somewhat … confused these days. Weak. His mind has been fading for some time now, and to be honest it was never that sharp to begin with. The queen has been the true power in Sontair. If the reports are true and she’s—’

  ‘Seems awfully convenient that something would happen to the queen so soon after Wilt arrived.’

  ‘Perhaps someone saw this as an opportunity to lay the blame at Redmondis’ door. You must be aware of the ill feeling most folk have for Redmondis. It’s only grown with the recent troubles.’

  ‘And I thought Redmondis had its intrigues,’ Daemi said.

  Lodan gave a mirthless chuckle and slapped her on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to Sontair.’

  A few steps behind them, Frankle and Heather were too busy dodging the various obstacles that kept springing up to spend any time chatting. As they rounded the corner the street opened out, the narrow lane becoming a wide thoroughfare, broad enough for two wagons in each di
rection, the packed mud hardening into flagstones under their feet.

  ‘This must be the posh quarter.’ Heather sniffed. ‘Even the air smells nicer here.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Frankle stumbled as he caught the toe of his boot in a rut.

  ‘To the castle, I expect. Do keep up.’

  ‘How do you—’

  ‘I’ve got two good ears and I use them.’ Heather smiled.

  ‘I’ve been paying just as much attention—’

  ‘You have not. You didn’t even notice how Daemi and Lodan have been acting. That’s okay though, you’re a boy. Boys often miss that sort of thing.’

  ‘Maybe boys just don’t want to waste time worrying about other people’s business.’

  Heather raised a single eyebrow and stared back at Frankle, who immediately stammered out an apology.

  ‘I mean … maybe we just have other things we’re—’ he stuttered, wilting under Heather’s continued glare.

  After a long moment of silence, Heather looked away. ‘I heard one of Lodan’s guards talking about it as we were getting ready to leave. You and Daemi were busy trying to pack up all your things while I,’ she patted the small pack hanging from her shoulder, ‘came better prepared. There’s a trial happening this morning, and I think Wilt’s involved. Unless it’s some other prisoner from Redmondis they’re talking about.’

  ‘Prisoner?’

  Heather nodded. ‘Come on.’

  She broke into a trot just as Daemi and Lodan ahead of them did the same, and Frankle hurried to catch up. This street was quite sparse compared to the cramped lanes they’d been wading through, and it was freeing to move without bumping shoulders with strangers every few steps.

  Heather was right about the air too. It was cleaner here, the animal stench of the poorer quarter blown away with the breeze that pushed down the wide street. Ahead of them the street angled upward and curved into a slope, snaking around the central hill of Sontair, leading up to the castle perched on its peak. Frankle stared up at it, its high silver walls gleaming in the sun. How many years and how many men had it taken to build such a wonder?