by Liam Reese
Oddly the screaming hinge was silent this time as he leaned on the door.
Maybe the rust cleared earlier.
He followed his own footsteps through the palace, turning in a different direction once through the throne room. Down a short flight of steps he found several suites of rooms that had probably been for important visitors. Large, dusty rooms filled with old drapes and furniture that had seen better days. The almost completely dark palace appeared brightly lit to his eyes and he wandered through the rooms and corridors surefooted and at will.
The young prince came to an area that had been opened up for some reason. A hole in the main wall allowed a gentle breeze in, blowing the dusty air away from his nose and his eyes picked out the signs of many pairs of boots that had tracked mud in from outside. He followed the footprints through a wooden door that had been wedged open, and down a corridor with rooms to either side, each one with a pair of bunks.
A guard barracks? Why would Tiernon have needed guards?
His mind cast back to the Hall of Kings and the numerous statues there. Of course Tiernon had no need of guards but his predecessors would have had them. The giant Norvasil had been part of his grandfather’s guard and he vaguely recalled Herofic telling him he had been a guard at some point too.
Joranas wandered through the deserted, empty hall until he reached the end. His eyes picked out a hole in the wall, the stone blocks looked almost melted and he tentatively approached it to see a rough tunnel leading down into the earth. Tiny pinpoints of light shone from the stone walls and floor and he looked closer at one.
“Thoranite,” he breathed, frowning.
So this was the source of the rare crystal his father had mined years ago. This was what had saved the Gazluthian economy after Tiernon had all but ruined the country. According to the stories he had been told, his aunt Thoran had discovered the diamond like crystals after escaping Tiernon’s cage and while searching for Sharova…
Joranas swallowed.
If this is where the thoranite came from, this is where Sharova was sealed in!
The young prince had no desire to see where his uncle had almost died and ran back through the guard barracks to the main palace. Heedless of his direction Joranas eventually found himself face to face with the statues in the Hall of Kings, studying the faces of his ancestors.
None of them looked anything like his father or himself, he thought, until he reached the farthest end, just before the plinth that bore his name. There was a passing resemblance, he realized, between the likeness of his grandfather and his father, something about the eyes, the set of his mouth that reminded him of his father. Joranas turned, looking at the hole where Tiernon had blasted the likeness of his own brother through the wall, pounding it to dust, before moving on up the corridor.
He was almost upon the door when he realized something was wrong. The barred, sealed chamber his father said held something evil, stood open. Joranas froze, his abdomen clenching in cold fear.
Something’s in here with me!
Yet the subtle pull of whatever lay in that room was more powerful than his fear, and Joranas took a step towards the door, leaning on the wall for support. He took three deep breaths, held the fourth and peered round the door.
To see an empty room.
Feeling silly he stepped inside, looking at yet another cage Tiernon had kept people in and wondering if his aunt had been captive here too. Something glowed to his left, a sickly blue light that formed mesmeric patterns in the surface of a table.
Joranas felt a wash of calm come over him. There was nothing to fear from this, how could his father call it evil? Joranas watched his hand reach out towards the silvery light, just to feel the patterns there.
A locked off portion of his mind screamed relentlessly and pointlessly to stop. To just run, run as fast as he could and never come anywhere near this thing again. Helplessly Joranas watched as his own hand betrayed him, touching the ice-cold pattern.
As soon as the contact was made, Prince Joranas Fringor vanished.
Besmir floated above the surface of Hell. Gray and bleak, the virtually featureless landscape stretched off infinitely in all directions. Besmir flowed across the surface of Hell, pulled by an unseen hand that guided him.
He recognized the pulverized remains of his father’s house when it came into view. The stream, pond and trees remained untouched but the house his father had built to hide and shield the portal to his world had been ripped apart. A few sections of wall were all that remained and Besmir clearly saw the portal floating harmlessly above the surface of the planet.
“Father!” he cried out, his words coming as a whisper. “Where are you?”
Besmir fought to stay where he was but found himself dragged away from his father’s house. He struggled and fought, to no avail, as the image of the ruined house and portal to his home world faded from view.
He felt the presence of the absence before he saw it. A pervasive, hollow sensation that grabbed at his insides even though he was not physically there. He approached the blackness, the absence drawing him in until he thought he would be pulled into it, lost forever inside the awful, crushing nothing.
His flight ended, however, inches from the entrance to whatever abysmal place it led to. His father had once told him the world beyond was so unimaginably awful it would rip his mind just to enter it. Now his nose hovered just beyond that border and fear clamped its familiar cold fingers around his chest.
“I have thy son,” a voice echoed from inside the absence.
It sounded like a billion tortured souls screaming for simultaneous release and Besmir felt his mind slipping at the horror of it.
Wait. Hold on. My son?
“What do you mean you’ve got my son?” he managed to ask.
“Exactly that,” the tortured voice screamed at him, “your son now resides in my care. If it is thy intention to see him released unharmed, thy path is clear. Present yourself in this location, stand before me in thy physical body and I may grant you audience.”
“Who are you?” Besmir asked as he felt himself thrust away from the absence.
“Porantillia,” the scream came as a whisper as he flew from Hell.
“Joranas!” Besmir screamed as he jerked awake.
“What?” Arteera asked as she woke, wide-eyed and scared.
Besmir ignored her, dashing from their room, naked to bound down the hall, past startled servants who averted their gaze. He virtually threw himself at the door leading into Joranas’ room and halted as if kicked in the stomach by a horse when he saw it empty.
“Where is he?” Besmir demanded of anyone within earshot. “Where’s my son?”
The queen floated down the hallway, her diaphanous gown trailing like a ghost behind her.
“What is going on?” she asked looking into the room.
“He’s gone,” Besmir said in a tone of defeat. “Joranas has been taken by something.”
Arteera’s face fell and she shoved past her husband, searching her son’s room frantically.
“What? What do you mean he’s been taken by something?” she asked as she tossed Joranas’ bedclothes and opened his wardrobe. “Besmir?” she turned, her face pale and stretched in shock. “Where is he? Where is Joranas?”
Besmir stepped across to take her in his arms but she slapped his hands away, shouting at him.
“Where is he, Besmir? In the city? Guards! Guards!”
Arteera ran from the room, leaving Besmir to stand, naked, in his son’s room, his head down as his fists clenched, opened and clenched again.
Chapter Four
“I have every man and woman out searching, your Majesty,” Norvasil said solemnly, bowing to Besmir. “Heralds have been charged with crying the news to the people so they can look too.” The massive warrior trailed off as he looked at the despair ravaged face of his king.
Zaynorth arrived with Keluse and her daughter, Ranyeen, who looked more frightened than Besmir felt. The king all but ju
mped at Ranyeen who tried to hide behind her mother as he knelt before her.
“Ranyeen,” Besmir said, laying a hand on her shoulder, “has Joranas been saying anything about running away?” his eyes bored into the girl who was paralyzed with fright.
Besmir shook her gently.
“Think, love,” he implored. “Did he tell you where he was going?”
“Ranyeen?” Keluse asked. “If you know anything you’ve got to tell us.”
Ranyeen flicked her wide eyes from the king to her mother and back again before shaking her head slowly.
“You’re hurting me,” she said in a tiny voice.
Besmir snatched his hand away from her little shoulder and hung his head, a posture he was rapidly becoming used to.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “so sorry...I didn’t mean to…it’s just...”
The king took in a deep shuddering breath and looked up into the open, honest eyes of Keluse’s daughter. The little girl jumped at Besmir, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing. Surprised, he returned the hug, lifting her tiny body and allowing her to wrap her legs around him. A single tear rolled down Keluse’s cheek as she watched them.
“How’s Arteera?” Keluse asked in a thick voice.
Besmir put her daughter back down and watched as the child leaned against her mother. He sighed again, rubbing at his eyes before staggering backwards into a chair.
“Not good,” he said sadly. “You know how she is with him, and since we discovered we couldn’t have any more...he’s precious to her, you know?”
Keluse nodded, the lump in her throat a gritty ball she could not shift.
After all we’ve been through!
“I got the healer to give her something to help her sleep,” Besmir said to no one in particular. “I...uh...I don’t know what to do.” Besmir looked at his friends for help.
None of them would return his hurt stare for long and the silence stretched out until Zaynorth spoke up, his voice gruff and tinged with an edge of anger.
“Tell us about this dream again,” he said without ceremony.
Besmir dragged in another shaking breath and described his dream in as much detail as he could recall.
“Porantillia,” Zaynorth grumbled. “I’m unfamiliar with that name, but I’ll consult the palace archives and send word to Mistress Cornay at the university,” the old mage hesitated. “If this was a message, rather than just a dream, how does this Porantillia expect you to present yourself physically?”
“I don’t know, Zaynorth,” Besmir said, shaking his head. “I really don’t know.”
Days passed as Besmir watched his people virtually turn the city of Morantine upside down looking for his son. His love for them grew at the same time as the despair in his heart swelled.
“I don’t know if I can bear it,” he said to Keluse as the pair walked along the river that flowed through the city. “Half of me wants to kill and burn and destroy but the other half just wants to...” he trailed off.
“Curl up into a ball and shut the world out?” Keluse said.
Besmir stared at her in shock and she smiled bitterly.
“I lost my husband on my wedding night, remember?” she said. “I know what grief and loss feels like.”
The same, familiar guilt cut Besmir as she spoke, carving lines of fire on the inside of his ribs. While he had not sent Ranyor to his death he had let the man volunteer for the mission that ended his life at the hands of Tiernon.
“Have you spoken to your wife about how you feel?” Keluse asked.
“She’s got her own troubles,” he said. “I can’t bring this to her as well.”
“Typical man,” Keluse snorted derisively. “All she needs now is you,” she said. “Not medication, not sleep, not to be left alone. She needs you.” Keluse turned and poked Besmir in the shoulder, hard. “Trust me on this, I know what I’m talking about.”
“She doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Besmir said, “and blames me for his loss.”
Keluse grabbed her oldest friend and one time mentor in a tight hug, wishing she could take his pain away.
“She doesn’t, Besmir,” Keluse said patiently. “She just hasn’t got anyone else to lash out at.”
Besmir pulled back, staring into the blue eyes of his one time apprentice and smirked.
“When did I become your apprentice?” he asked.
A clattering of weapons on armor and hammering of feet dragged his attention from Keluse and he turned to see two of his house guards pounding towards them.
“Majesty,” one panted, her chest heaving. “A discovery...footprints…Joranas.”
“Show me,” Besmir commanded. “Now.”
Besmir followed the guards he had interrogated earlier, trying to get them to recall seeing his son leave their house, as they led him upstream to an outflow that disgorged a thin stream of brown water out into the river. Stagnation and sewage filled Besmir’s nose as he breathed and the guards pointed out the single, small footprint that had been almost perfectly preserved in the mud.
Both he and Keluse squatted to examine the footprint, noting the size, direction, depth and the fact whoever had left it walked with toes pointed inward like a duck. Besmir smiled recalling Joranas’ first steps and how he had looked so awkward with his toes pointed at each other. He and Arteera had tried so many different things to get him to turn his toes out but the lad had never been able to manage it fully. Besmir laid his fingers on the mud as if it would connect him with his son.
“Where does this go?” Keluse asked, pointing to the drain.
“We...do not know, ma’am,” the guard replied, embarrassed. “No one has been inside as yet.”
Besmir freed his mind from his body, flicking up the stone pipe at the speed of thought until he came to a grate in the roof. Through that, he discovered himself in some kind of storage area, staring at a face he knew. His cook, Nashal, was busy filling a basket with meats and fruit that had been stored down here. He watched as she moved around the room, apparently in a world of her own until she came to the corner where the grate lay. Besmir watched her look at the ironwork, dismissing the partially open grate as she turned back to her list. A second later his anger dissipated as her eyes widened and she dropped her basket, screaming for guards as she pelted for the stairs.
“The cellar,” Besmir said as soon as he had entered his body once more. “It comes from the cellar under my own house!”
Keluse turned back from where she had been scouting along the riverbank, the skirts of her dress wet with mud and worse.
“More footprints here,” she said, “going upriver.”
“With me!” Besmir commanded the guards, both of whom snapped to attention.
The king trotted up the stony bank searching for any sign of his son. His mind was drawn to the fact Joranas’ footprints were the only ones he saw. His son had been alone, rather than taken by someone.
Why Joranas? Where were you going?
They followed the flowing river upstream, past warehouses and businesses that dumped all manner of rubbish into the flow, adding to the stench. Disgust cut at Besmir when he smelled the overpowering stench of decay from the rotting carcass of a sheep that must have washed down from the grasslands above the city.
It was Keluse who spotted the first signs Joranas had turned from the river, a patch of grass he had gone through had almost straightened back up but her keen eye picked it out.
“This way!” she cried, scrambling up the bank.
Besmir followed her, his heart sinking with every step towards the destination he feared the most.
The old palace sat like a brooding hen, the curtain wall broken only by the main gate he had sealed with magic only he or Zaynorth could penetrate. They had come up with the idea to protect people from entering and potentially ending up as victims to Tiernon’s altar.
Besmir felt a sick sense of certainty punch him in the stomach as soon as he saw the gate hung open. He dashed through it, running heed
lessly through the snatching, grabbing plants that tried to snag his clothing, keeping him from his son. Without a thought Besmir summoned his power, sending a gout of flame exploding from his hand to cut a path through the once elegant topiary.
Burning, scorched wood filled his nostrils and the hiss of steam boiling from leaves filled his ears with the pop and crackle of burning shrubs. Fueled by rage and desperation his flame was lava-hot and it cut an almost instant path through the gardens, revealing the palace door hung as open as the main gate.
The two young guards looked at Besmir in shocked awe having never witnessed his use of magic.
Besmir sprinted for the door, not bothering to track his son any longer as he was almost certain where the boy would be.
That cursed altar!
He pelted through the throne room and into the Hall of Kings where he skidded to a halt, his legs collapsing, forcing him to grab onto a statue for support. Keluse and the pair of guards arrived a few seconds later to see their king hugging the likeness of his grandfather for support.
“What...?” Keluse asked staring at the splinters and burst masonry. “Did Joranas do this?”
Besmir shook his head, staring at the doorway with fear in his heart.
“L-Look,” Besmir stammered. “It’s been burst outwards...”
“That means...” Keluse muttered. “Something opened it from inside...” she finished, putting her hands up to her mouth.
Besmir nodded, finally managing to take a few steps towards the door. His guards bustled past him, knocking him sideways in their haste to enter the room first.
“Let us, Majesty,” the woman said.
Besmir reached for her as she turned from him to the room.
“Noralynn wait!” he said, missing her by inches.
The king made a second desperate grab for his guard as she walked into the room. Missing her again he stumbled in behind her as her male counterpart shouldered his own way into the room.