by Duncan Pile
Blanking out the pain, Voltan took a steadying breath and forced himself to take stock of the situation. Sestin had a single aim – to free the Dark God from his prison and set him loose in this plane of existence. The renegade had tried to abduct Hephistole on two occasions, intending to use the chancellor’s extraordinary powers to break through the final barrier holding Ak-Thakis at bay, but he had been thwarted. Had Sestin given up on using the chancellor, and if so, was he to take his friend’s place?
Quelling a sudden surge of panic, Voltan forced himself to examine the harness in more detail, looking for a weakness he could exploit. The cuffs were made of thick leather, blackened and smudged with layers of dirt, grime and worse. The iron chains of the harness were pulled tight, splaying his limbs wide. He hung at an awkward angle, putting pressure on his chest and making it difficult to breathe. He scrutinised one of the cuffs. It was sturdy enough, but it was no match for a carefully shaped strike, unless Sestin had strengthened them with an enchantment. There was only one way to find out.
Ever so carefully, he tried to draw an infinitesimal sliver of power, but nothing came. He shook his head in frustration, which sent a jolt of pain through both his swollen shoulders and made him gasp. Clenching his teeth, he reached for his power once more. Nothing! Giving up on subtlety, he put all his strength into summoning a strike, but it was as if his powers didn’t exist.
“You may as well stop that,” a voice said.
Voltan’s head snapped up. Sestin strode towards him in close-fitting, crimson robes, carrying a large, cloth-draped object with something akin to reverence. Voltan tasted bile at the back of his throat. He knew what was under that cloth.
“Magic is beyond your reach right now, and will remain so until I say so, at which point you will wish it were otherwise.”
“What do you want from me?” Voltan asked, taking in the renegade’s dry, shiny skin, the delicate bones of his skull and his glittering black eyes. All his features were in the right place, but somehow he looked inhuman.
Sestin moved to the altar and placed the object on a central stand. He removed the cloth with great care, revealing a large, egg-shaped rock. Veins of fell, red light throbbed against the inky black body of the stone.
“Bloodstone,” Voltan moaned. It was as he feared; the renegade was going to use Voltan’s powers to feed the stone. He swallowed hard, remembering Gaspi’s battle with a different stone on the way to Pell; it felt like a lifetime ago. The Bloodstone’s influence washed over him, urging him to channel power, but Voltan resisted it.
Sestin took hold of a dangling chain and began to reel it in, tilting the harness until Voltan was stretched out horizontally, looking down on the Bloodstone. “That’s right,” Sestin breathed. “With your help, I am going to open a portal to the underworld. Even now the barrier is thin as a membrane, and Ak-Thakis is pressing against it.”
“This is madness!” Voltan said. “Think, Sestin…” he said, desperate to keep the renegade talking, but Sestin slashed a hand through the air and suddenly Voltan couldn’t find his voice.
“The time for words has passed,” Sestin hissed, securing the first chain and letting out some slack on a second. Voltan felt his body dropping, inch by stuttering inch until he was barely a foot above the Bloodstone.
The assault on Voltan’s mind intensified, eroding his will to resist. He hunkered down, seeking sanctuary in the depths of his own consciousness. Using a long-practiced technique, he summoned an image of a single, steady flame, blocking out all other thought. It was exhausting, like swimming upstream during a flood. The Bloodstone’s song was mesmerising, threatening to shatter his focus, but Voltan held on, concentrating on nothing but the flame.
At long last fatigue got the better of him and he faltered. It was only for the briefest moment, but that was enough for the Bloodstone to break past his barriers and flood his mind with a vast rush of power. Desperately he fought it off, but control was slipping from his grasp. He battled on with the last of his strength until he could hold out no longer. Against his will, he found himself trying to summon power, but there was nothing to draw from. It was torture; reflexive, arcane dry-heaving that felt like it would turn him inside out.
Sestin retrieved an object from within his robes – a small, circular device that buzzed quietly in his hand. A nullifier! Sestin must have used it to suppress Voltan’s powers, and now he was about to release them again. The renegade squeezed it between thumb and forefinger and Voltan felt the floodgates open. He couldn’t control or shape the energy flowing from him in any way; his power belonged to the Bloodstone now. Magic surged into the hungry Bloodstone in great, vomitous gouts. He could feel the Dark God’s presence, pressing against the membrane that held him back – a membrane that was thinning by the moment.
A sharp pain in the crook of his knee alerted him to Sestin’s presence at his side, a bloodied knife in his hand. Hot blood trickled down Voltan’s leg and began to drip onto the stone. Its glow intensified with every splash and the Dark God’s presence drew nearer.
Ak-Thakis’ presence was like nothing he’d ever felt before; dire, dreadful and awe-inspiring all at once. He could feel his cruelty, just as he could feel his greatness. The two were one. He knew that, should Ak-Thakis break through to this plane, he would have no choice but to fall down and worship him, compulsion or no compulsion.
Power flowed from Voltan like a river. Blood trickled down his leg like a stream. Both fed the Bloodstone, which glowed like the very heart of evil. He could no longer see the flame, his vision swamped instead by images of the Bloodstone’s previous victims. A mouth filled with blood, a stiffening hand clawing the air, the whites of a man’s eyes turning crimson as his blood vessels burst.
Voltan tried to look away, to close his eyes, but there was nowhere to hide; the images paraded through his mind come what may; sickening him, pushing him to the brink of madness. He began to lose his grip on any sense of self, so battered by horror that it was all he knew. His mind rebelled, straining to breaking point but it didn’t give way. He screamed his anguish to the skies. Make it stop!
Fear joined blood joined magic, a threefold chord of power flooding into the Bloodstone, which flared with a blinding radiance. Its song rose in a deafening, triumphant crescendo that might have issued from the Dark God’s mouth, and then came the most terrible crack, as if the spine of the world had snapped in two. Voltan’s mind broke, overcome by pure, feral madness. His heart rabbited and hitched and finally burst, and blessed blackness swamped his vision at last.
…
In the absence of demon-fear, Gaspi became aware of something far worse; a slow, grinding sense of wrongness that disturbed him to the core.
“It has begun,” Hephistole cried. “Hurry.”
They rushed headlong through the streets until they drew near to the tower and came to a stop. A sudden scream rang out – long, lingering and utterly devastated.
“Voltan!” Hephistole cried, his face as pale as a ghost.
The scream stopped, its echo quivering in the air. Gaspi looked up at the tower, looming over them. It was ancient and crumbling, its stones pitted and worn. Darkness swelled within it, brooding and pervasive.
A loud chorus of baying sounded from nearby as they approached the enormous, oaken doors. A pack of vaergs teemed from a distant street, flowing towards them on silent feet. Gaspi drew a pair of throwing knives.
Hephistole grabbed his arm. “There’s no time!”
“He’s right,” Jonn said. “Taurnil, Sabu, Baard and I will hold the doors while you go inside.”
“No way!” Taurnil said. “I’m not leaving Lydia’s side. Besides, I’m meant to protect you, right Gasp? I can’t do that from out here!”
Lydia took his hands in hers. “You can’t come, my love. What waits for us beyond those doors can’t be fought with weapons; even enchanted weapons. We need you out here, holding the door against anything that tries to get in.”
Taurnil looked anguished, b
ut the baying was getting louder as the vaergs drew near. “Okay,” he said at last, drawing her into an embrace and holding her tight. “Come back to me.”
“I will,” she whispered, and let him go.
“Taurn!” Jonn warned. The vaergs were almost on them.
With painful clarity, Gaspi realised this might be the last time he saw his guardian and best friend. He didn’t even have time to say goodbye. Jonn seemed to understand what he was feeling. “Go on son,” he said, holding Gaspi’s gaze. “Do what you came here for.”
Gaspi didn’t trust himself to speak and merely nodded.
“We need to go,” Hephistole said.
With a final look at Jonn, Gaspi hauled open the doorway and stepped into the inky blackness within. Emmy, Lydia and Rimulth followed, accompanied by the four elementals – ferret, otter, hawk and dragon – and lastly by Hephistole, who closed the doors behind them just as battle was joined on the other side.
Forty-five
Fearful for his friends, Gaspi had no choice but to walk on in the oppressive gloom. He swallowed the lump in his throat and drew power, ready to defend himself.
In a great flash of light, the elementals transformed. Gone were the ferret, otter, hawk and dragon, and in their stead were Lilly and Loreill’s coruscating blue and green forms, the storm-tossed, crackling frame of the air spirit and the spinning vortex of flame that was the fire spirit. Gaspi could sense their battle-ready state of mind. This was it – the moment of destiny they’d anticipated for centuries.
The elementals’ light revealed a wide atrium with an expansive but dusty floor. Twin stairways rose in mirrored, graceful arcs on either side of the room, meeting in the middle and leading to a wide landing overhead. A transporter plinth rose from the floor in front of them, and beyond it was a single, stout-timbered door, fitted with a round, brass knob. There was no question about where to go; the sense of menace emanated from the other side of that door.
Gaspi turned to Hephistole. “You don’t need to go in there. You’re not in a fit state to take on Sestin.”
“But you’re depleted too,” Hephistole said, frowning.
Gaspi shook his head. The answer was suddenly obvious. “I’ll be using elemental magic. All of us will. The power comes from them – we are just the channels.”
Hephistole’s expression stiffened. “If you think I’m waiting out here while Voltan is still in there, you are very much mistaken.”
“This isn’t about rescuing Voltan anymore,” Gaspi said. “Can’t you feel it? Sestin has already begun to summon the Dark God. There are forces beyond that door that an ordinary person cannot survive; even you! We go in with protection you don’t have and we fight with weapons that you don’t hold. There’s no place for you in that room.”
Hephistole shook his head. “Don’t argue with me Gaspi. I’m going in, whether you approve or not.”
“Please! Heppy, I just know you shouldn’t go in. I’m begging you.”
Hephistole’s expression softened. “I know you mean well, but you don’t understand. I will not abandon Voltan., even if my own life is at risk.”
Gaspi looked at Hephistole’s determined expression and knew there was no talking him out of it. They couldn’t afford to delay any longer. “It’s up to you, but we can’t afford to be distracted. If you can, save Voltan and get out of there.”
“I will,” Hephistole said.
Gaspi turned to Emmy, Lydia and Rimulth, seeing in their faces the same fear and determination he felt.
“What do we do, Gasp?” Emmy said breathlessly.
“This is all about elemental magic,” he said. “We go in channelling it; surrounded by it, filled with it. Beyond that we must trust the spirits; they will be our guide.” A great surge of approval passed through the bond, and he knew the others felt it too. Resolve galvanised them, readied them. It was time.
Gaspi reached out to Loreill and yielded himself to the spirit’s power. The moment he opened the floodgates it rushed through him, filling him completely. His tongue tingled, and a chant came to his lips – low and steady, the slow circling of unfamiliar syllables. Emmy’s voice joined his; a high-pitched counterpoint. Lydia’s voice brought a third strand to the cord and Rimulth’s a fourth. Power flooded them, surrounded them, and Gaspi knew they were walking into the Dark God’s presence with a measure of protection.
Gaspi moved to the door and took hold of the handle. He looked at his friends, and then at Hephistole. “I’ll take the lead,” he said. The chancellor nodded.
Gaspi took a steadying breath and opened the door, which swung towards him on silent hinges. Gaspi tensed, ready for battle, but nothing came at him. Exchanging a glance with Emmy, he slunk through the doorway and found himself at the top of a narrow staircase.
He descended carefully, placing one cautious foot in front of the other. Moments later, the door swung shut with a quiet clunk. The sense of menace swelled with each step until he reached the bottom and emerged into an enormous, circular room. The tableau before him was beyond his worst nightmares. Voltan hung from some kind of harness towards the rear of the room, his blood spattered over an altar beneath him and drenching an object Gaspi instantly recognised – a Bloodstone. It was alive, fiery, engorged with power. Before the altar was a pit, filled with shifting mist. Sestin stood on its far side with his eyes screwed shut in concentration, chanting feverishly under his breath. It took all Gaspi had to hold to the flow of elemental magic.
The others gathered beside him as they entered the underground room.
“Voltan!” Hephistole cried, and took off across the room.
Gaspi almost called the chancellor’s name, but a sharp warning from Loreill told him not to break the chant. He needed the protection for what was to come.
With a sharp cry, Sestin fell to his knees. Time seemed to stop as the sense of menace swelled beyond measure. It was the worst thing Gaspi had ever felt. Worse than having his essence drawn by a Bale-beast, or feeling the Darkman reach for him; worse than the devilry he’d been assaulted by in the hermit’s hut. The presence he felt was vast, ancient and incalculably evil; the Dark God. Gaspi’s life-force flickered like a flame in a breeze, about to be snuffed out. He was dimly aware of his surroundings – ahead of him, Hephistole had collapsed to the floor, and beside him, the others were still chanting – but his senses were attuned to a much greater reality. The barrier between the planes had been reduced to a film and the Dark God was pressing against it. He sensed the Dark God’s will; his thirst for dominion over the natural realm. He yearned to bring terror, pain, darkness, and death. He longed to trap the living in prisons for the soul and feed on their pain. He would feast until sated, and then he would reign, glutted and torpid, over a shattered world.
Gaspi could feel the membrane keeping Ak-Thakis at bay stretching dangerously, yielding to the relentless pressure from beneath. The Dark God was too powerful, unstoppable even! In that moment, Gaspi cursed his own folly. How had he ever thought he could win this? How could anyone stand against this torrent of hate? The flame of his life was flickering, dimming, and any moment now it would go out.
He could sense the spirits’ presence too, within and without, but their light, though greater than his, couldn’t penetrate the encroaching darkness. What good could they do, powerful as they were? It was then that he felt Loreill’s warmth, reaching out to him, steadying him. He embraced it, letting it curl around his heart and mind, flooding him with the memory of living, growing things. The smell of soil was thick in his nostrils and he felt the flow of elemental power strengthen. His chanting intensified as he yielded himself to Loreill’s power. Even as he did so, another wash of power blossomed nearby, this time of cleansing, healing energies. He could hear the babbling of a brook, the thunder of a waterfall, the roar of the seas, and Emmy’s voice chanting. Lilly!
There was another surge of energy as Rimulth’s chanting deepened, channeling power that spoke of the birth of storms, mighty winds and the crackling of
lightning-tossed energies. Lydia’s voice rose to join them, and Gaspi was mindful of stinking sulphur and hot ash, the flow of lava and the destruction of all living things. The power of the fire spirit joined that of earth, water and wind, but powerful as they were, the four fountains of elemental magic felt dangerously exposed; individual strands that needed to be woven into a single cord. Acting on instinct, Gaspi reached out, opening himself to the flow of energy from each of the spirits, and felt their power infuse him. Emmy, Lydia and Rimulth continued to chant, but the elemental magic they commanded was channelled into Gaspi, rushing through him as a single force. The power coursing through him was immense – greater than anything Gaspi had known – but it couldn’t match the riot of dark energy flooding from the pit. The membrane between the planes was stretched taut as a drum, and the moment it split they would all be engulfed.
He needed more power – much more – but he had nothing left to give. He’d exhausted himself in the battle to save Helioport, and had none of his usual strength to call upon. Even if he could, what could one magician, however powerful, do in the face of such a titanic foe? Gaspi felt a surge of angry indignation. What had all this been about? After everything he’d been through – losing Everand at the Measure, the quest to Pell, the death of the twins, their battle against the Darkman, the siege they had just endured, where thousands had lost their lives – was this to be their final end? It was the spirits who’d convinced him of his destiny in the first place. Their belief in him had helped him come to terms with and embrace his destiny. He had yielded himself fully, believing he was chosen for this very task – to thwart Sestin and deny the Dark God entry to the living plane. And yet, here at the end, it seemed like he had been chosen simply to fail. So much for destiny. So much for his unique gift!