Pointing at the source of the light he asked, “What is it, my lady?”
“Think of it as a… gateway. It’s very old, and it was what inspired my father to create the artefacts that rightly belong to me.”
He nodded, as though he understood.
“Activating the portal has released the energy that’s destroying this palace,” she added offhandedly.
Mersadion looked no more comfortable for the explanation.
They approached the arch. It led to a set of wide steps that swept down to a capacious chamber that housed five massive, rudely worked standing stones, arranged in a semicircle. At its centre was a low granite dais, studded with what appeared to be gems. Issuing from the dais’ surface was something wondrous.
It was as though a waterfall had been upended. But it wasn’t a liquid cascade. It was light. Countless millions of tiny multicoloured pinpoints, spiralling, twisting, surging upwards in a never ending, constantly replenished flow. The dazzling vortex was the source of the throbbing beat, and a sulphurous odour hung in the air.
There were a number of beings present. Standing just beyond the arch, Jennesta scanned them. Her father, Tentarr Arngrim, known to the covert world of sorcery as Serapheim, was at the forefront. Jennesta’s sister, Sanara, the most human in appearance of Arngrim’s brood, was by his side. The rest were Wolverines, the wretched orc warband who had subjected Jennesta to the bitterest of betrayals. All were transfixed by the glittering spectacle.
Jennesta saw the female orc, Coilla, standing close to the dais and staring at the torrent. Coilla mouthed, “It’s beautiful.”
Standing next to her the dwarf, Jup, nodded and said, “Awesome.”
“And mine!” Jennesta declared loudly as she lost patience and strode down the stairs, Mersadion in her wake.
All heads turned to them. For a split second Jennesta’s steely poise faltered. But she was confident in the superiority of her magic over anything here, spell or weapon.
“You’re too late,” Serapheim told her. His tone was cooler than Jennesta cared for.
“Nice to see you too, Father dear,” she returned acerbically. “I’ve a contingent of Royal Guards at my heels,” she lied. “Surrender or die, it’s all the same to me.”
“I can’t see you passing on the opportunity to slay those you think have wronged you,” Sanara said.
“You know me so well, sister.” She thought how prissy Sanara was. “And how pleasant to see you in the flesh again. I look forward to despoiling it.”
The Wolverines’ leader spoke. “If you think we’re giving up without a fight, you’re wrong.” He indicated his troop with the sweep of a sturdy hand. “We’ve nothing to lose.”
“Ah, Captain Stryke.” She cast a derisive eye over his warband. “And the Wolverines. I’ve relished the thought of meeting you again in particular.” Her voice hardened with the tenor of authority. “Now throw down your weapons.”
There was a flurry of movement. Someone came out of the host, sword drawn. Jennesta recognised him as the band’s healer, an aged fool of an orc called Alfray.
Instantly, Mersadion was there, blocking the attacker’s path. The general’s blade flashed. Alfray took a blow. He swayed, his eyes rolled to white, and he fell.
There was a moment of stasis, an immobility of all present as they took a collective intake of breath.
Then Stryke, Coilla, Jup and the hulking brute Haskeer fell upon the general and hacked him to pieces. The rest of the band would have joined them if it hadn’t been over so quickly.
Jennesta saw no reason to spend any of her magic intervening. But she quickly acted when the vengeful orcs turned to her. An apple-sized ball of fire manifested on the palm of her outstretched hand. Its intensity immediately grew, the brilliance hurtful to the eyes of everyone looking on.
Serapheim cried, “No!” at the backs of the advancing Wolverines.
Jennesta hurled the fireball at them. They scattered and it missed, passing close enough to several that they felt its scorching heat. The fiery globe struck the far wall and exploded, the sound of its report filling the chamber. Chunks of masonry came down with a further resounding crash. She had already begun forming another fireball when Serapheim and Sanara stepped in.
Jennesta wrapped herself in a cloak of enchantment, a conjured field of protective vigour, near transparent save for the slightest tinge of shimmering green. Her father and sibling did the same, and a duel of sorcery commenced.
Blistering spheres and searing bolts were exchanged, needles of energy and sheets of power were flung. Some volleys the bubble-like defensive shields absorbed; others were deflected, causing the hellish munitions to ricochet. Multicoloured streaks sliced the air. There were intense detonations throughout the chamber, cleaving wood and stone.
All the orcs could do was take shelter. Except for a small group, oblivious to the mayhem, who clustered around their fallen comrade.
Under the onslaught, and the building power of the vortex, the palace was beginning to destruct. The rumblings grew louder. Fissures rippled across the flagstone floor, cracks appeared in the walls.
The combined might of Serapheim and Sanara was proving too strong for Jennesta. Her forehead was sheened with perspiration, her breath was laboured. She fought to maintain concentration. Her stamina, and her confidence, were waning.
Sensing that she was weakening, her father and her sister increased the ferocity of their assault. Her protective shield started to waver. When its emerald tint slowly changed to a pinkish crimson Serapheim and Sanara knew the sign. They upped their barrage.
Jennesta lost her hold. The shield silently burst into a golden nimbus that dissolved to nothing. She staggered slightly, then steadied herself with an effort of will. She let out an exhausted breath.
Serapheim darted forward and grabbed her wrist. She was in too much of a daze to stop him. He began dragging her across the chamber.
The Wolverines wanted to kill her. They came forward with blades in their hands.
“No!” Serapheim bellowed. “She’s my daughter! I’ve a responsibility for all she’s done! I’ll deal with this myself!”
Reluctantly, they obeyed.
Serapheim was pulling Jennesta towards the dais and the sparkling portal. When they were almost there she came to herself, and realised what he intended doing. She showed no fear.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she sneered.
“Once, perhaps,” he told her, “before the full horror of your wickedness was brought home to me. Not now.” Holding her in an iron grip, he thrust her hand towards the portal’s cascading brilliance, the tips of her fingers almost in the flow. “I brought you into this world. Now I’m taking you out of it. You should appreciate the symmetry of the act.”
“You’re a fool,” she hissed, “you always were. And a coward. I’ve an army here. If anything happens to me you’ll die a death beyond your wildest imagination.” She flicked her gaze to her sister. “You both will.”
“I don’t care,” he told her.
Sanara backed him.
It seemed to Jennesta that they might have had tears in their eyes. She thought them weaklings for it.
Serapheim said something about evil and some prices being worth paying. He pushed her hand nearer to the sparkling flux.
She looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. She tried to conjure a defence, but nothing came. Her cocksure expression faded and she began to struggle.
“At least face your end with dignity,” he said. “Or is that too much to ask?”
She spat her defiance.
He thrust her hand into the vortex, then retreated a pace.
She squirmed and fought to pull her hand free but the gushing fountain of energy held it as tightly as a vice. A change came over the trapped flesh. It began to liquefy, releasing itself as thousands of particles that flew into the swarm of stars and spiralled with them. The process increased apace, the vortex gobbling up her wrist. Rapidly she was drawn in to the depth o
f her arm, which likewise disintegrated and scattered.
The band was rooted, their expressions a mixture of horror and macabre fascination.
Her leg had been sucked in now, and it was melting before their eyes. Strands of her hair followed, as though inhaled by an invisible giant. Jennesta’s disintegration speeded up, her matter eaten by the surging vortex at a faster and faster rate.
When it began to consume her face she finally screamed.
The sound was instantly cut off as the energy took the rest of her in several gulps.
She was plunging down an endless tunnel. A tunnel that sinuously twisted and turned. A tunnel without walls, like a vast, transparent tube; transparent but faintly iridescent. Outside, if the word had any meaning, there was both nothing and everything. Nothing in the sense of being utterly devoid of recognisable points of reference. Everything in that the dark blue velvet beyond the walls was peppered with countless stars.
She fell, helplessly. And caught a glimpse of a pinpoint of light, far, far below. It grew at a remarkable rate, rapidly swelling to the size of a coin, a fist, a shield, a wagon wheel. Then it was all-embracing and rushing at her, obliterating everything else.
She dropped, not into light, but complete darkness.
To her amazement, she woke up.
She was on her back, lying on what felt like soft grass. The air was balmy, and she could smell the sweet perfume of flowers in full bloom. Other than distant birdsong, all was quiet. Blinking at the sky, she saw that it was a perfect blue, adorned with a smattering of pure white clouds. The sun was high.
Two revelations occurred as her mind began to clear. First, she was alive. Second, this obviously wasn’t Maras-Dantia. It also dawned on her that she was naked.
Her limbs were leaden, and she felt battered, though it seemed she had no major injuries. She tried to raise her head, but she was weak and nauseous, and found it too much of an effort. Her sorcery was also apparently depleted. She struggled to conjure the simplest of rejuvenation spells, and got nothing.
But she had enough of her senses intact to feel the power coursing through the ground beneath her. The raw magical energy in this place was of a strength and purity that far outdid the almost spent vitality of Maras-Dantia.
So she had no option but to lie where she was, in hope of regaining her vigour naturally.
She couldn’t tell how long she was there; she was feverish, and such rational thoughts as she had were on matters other than the mere passing of time. They mostly concerned the retribution she would exact on her father, her sister and the hated Wolverines. If she ever got to see them again.
The day slid into evening. It began to get dark, and cooler. Overhead, stars were appearing.
She heard a sound. It took a moment for her to identify it as an approaching horse. The animal was plodding slowly, and coupled with the squeak of wheels and the jangling of chains it became obvious it was pulling a wagon. It came to a halt close by. Someone dismounted. There was the crunch of boots on gravel, then an absence of sound as whoever it was walked onto the grass.
Somebody gazed down at her. She could only make out that it was a human male, and he was robustly built. He stared for what seemed an age. Not just at her nakedness, but her general appearance. By any yardstick she was beautiful, but her beauty had aspects most observers found disquieting. Her singular eyes were part of it, as was the perplexing configuration of her features: a face a mite too wide, particularly at the temples; a chin that came almost to a point; a vaguely convex nose; a shapely but overly broad mouth, and a mass of coal black, waist-length hair. But it was her skin that was most arresting. It had a slight silver-green lustre, and a dappled character that gave the impression she was covered in minute fish scales.
She was fully aware of the depraved nature of the man’s race, more than once having admired their inexhaustible cruelty. If his intentions had been dishonourable in any way there wouldn’t have been much she could have done about it.
But instead of subjecting her to lust or brutality he performed an act of compassion he would later, albeit briefly, regret. Stirring himself, he spoke. His tone was kindly, concerned. When there was no reply he bent and wrapped her in his rough cloak. Then he gathered her up with the ease of a mother lifting her child, and as gently. He carried her towards his wagon.
Jennesta finally got a better idea of where she was. Even in the dying light she glimpsed a verdant landscape. She saw meadows, cultivated fields and the rim of a forest. Not far away stood a range of rolling green hills.
They came to a road, and the wagon. The man put her aboard tenderly, slipping a couple of folded sacks under her head as a pillow. When they set off he drove carefully.
Lulled by the swaying of the cart, she lay, fatigued, looking up at the rising stars. Despite her fever and her weakness she turned the same thought over and over in her mind.
She had had the luck to come across a good man.
The following week was a blur.
She had been taken to a farmhouse. It was modest, and needed thatching. There were chickens and pigs in the yard. In the house was the farmer’s wife and her brood; four youngsters, all boys.
The farmer and his wife tended Jennesta. They fed her, bathed her and spoke soothingly to her until she got back her senses.
She feigned memory loss, and let them assume she had been attacked and robbed of everything. They just about accepted that the odd greenish patina of her skin was the result of a childhood malady, and soon seemed to ignore it. And it wasn’t so outlandish, they told her, in a world that had orcs in it.
The reference to that particular race revitalised Jennesta. She interrogated the couple, demanding all sorts of information. Where were these orcs? Were they the only non-human race in this world? What was the humans’ political set-up and where did its power lie? They found her questions baffling, and couldn’t understand why she didn’t know the simplest of facts. Jennesta blamed her contrived amnesia, pretending to recall a blow to the head.
What she learned was that she was in Peczan, the cradle of a great empire. It was incomparably mighty, though it had its enemies. Most of these were barbarian kingdoms, often at each other’s throats, and of little account. Peczan’s only possible rival was the orcs, who occupied a far-off land called Acurial. But even they posed little threat, Jennesta was told, given their aversion to warlike ways. Naturally she couldn’t accept her hosts’ talk of the orcs of Acurial being docile, and felt sure they spoke from ignorance. But she held her tongue on the subject.
What she learned set her planning. Now there was a goal, and she turned her will to achieving it.
She had almost entirely recovered physically. Her magical abilities were another matter. They had started to return, but feebly, though she still felt the land’s amazing fecundity. Her plan could hardly be realised from a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. She needed to move on. That meant fully regaining her powers, and the use of people to serve her purpose.
Jennesta applied another kind of power to the oafish farmer. His conquest took just days. Once seduced, he was clay in her hands, and she remade him in her own image. Where there had been humanity, now there was only a dimwitted devotion to her whims. Where there had been tenderness towards his family, now there was callous indifference.
Such was her hold on the man that he willingly conspired in replenishing her powers. In the event, his wife’s contribution was poor fare, mean and stringy. But the hearts of the four boys proved extremely nourishing. Her abilities restored, Jennesta had no further need of the farmer. She dispensed with him by simply removing the cloud from his mind and allowing him to see what had been done. His suicide provided her with a fleeting distraction.
The farmer was her first acolyte. There would be many more.
She had heard of a nearby town, and lost no time getting there, taking the farm’s wagon and what little money she could find. The so-called town turned out to be not much more than a village. But it did have a
tailor. Finally rid of the farmer’s wife’s drab hand-me-downs, she made sure her new clothes included a hood and a veil, should her appearance be an issue.
She also learned something she found intriguing, and which the farmer hadn’t bothered mentioning. Unlike the vast majority of humans in Maras-Dantia, in this world they had a command of magic. At least, some did. These adepts belonged to the Order of the Helix, a sect with as much sway in the empire as its political masters.
The Order’s nearest lodge was in the region’s administrative centre, a provincial city a day’s ride away. Compared to the sleepy hamlets and villages she passed on the road, its bustling streets gave her a measure of anonymity. More importantly, it connected her with a strand of the empire’s web.
Jennesta had no trouble finding the Helix lodge; prominently located, it passed for a major temple. She was less lucky trying to penetrate it as anything other than a supplicant. The Order was male dominated. There were females in its ranks but they were few, and hardly any had real power. Rebuffed, she looked for a weak spot.
The Order’s local overseer was an elderly, addle-headed bachelor who had never met anything like Jennesta before. She captivated him with ease. In half a year she had become his indispensable aide, and was grudgingly admitted to the Helix ranks under his patronage. By year’s end she occupied his position, thanks to the judicious administering of poison.
She had a power base.
The ruthless efficiency with which Jennesta ran the lodge, and reports of her outstanding magical abilities, attracted the attention of the Order’s upper echelons, as she intended. The upshot was a summons to the capital, and Helix’s headquarters.
Competition for preferment was much stiffer once she entered the Grand Lodge, and advancement was frustratingly slow. Applying pressure on obstructive officials, swearing oaths she would later break, forming fragile alliances, corrupting the susceptible, bullying the weak and eliminating rivals needed all her guile. It also took time.
Another two years went by before the Order of the Helix was hers.
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