by Adam Collins
AL-Imri sat thinking for a few moments. ‘Send our condolences to Gambri’s family Prolat. There will be a state funeral of course. Invite them here to the citadel. You can make the arrangements.’
‘Yes, Great One,’ answered Aalil as he nodded and bowed.
‘They will need comforting during this difficult time. Both his wife and daughter. What was her name again?’
‘Emir, Great One,’ answered Aalil.
‘Ah yes...Emir. I look forward to offering my condolences, in person. We will let Gambri’s fate and that of his family serve as a lesson to all the nobles. I think you will find them a little more compliant afterwards, Prolat. I am of a mind to found a new Order. One with a more...feminine leaning.’
‘A Sisterhood, Great One?’
‘Yes, a Sisterhood,’ he paused, ‘ they will be called, The Black Veil.’
‘There will be certain...criteria...to be met upon joining, Great One?’
‘Purity will be the strictest requirement, of course.’ Malevolent laugher rolled from his sneering lips. ‘Inform the nobles of their responsibilities with regard to the new order. I expect full and enthusiastic support. Anything less will be dealt with...most severely.’
With a flick of his hand AL-Imri dismissed the Prolat. He waited patiently until the room was empty, then he rose a little unsteadily from his throne. There was a price to using his newly acquired powers. The Dreadlord had promised that this weakness would pass, in time. That he would become increasingly stronger with each use of the dark arts. He longed for that. It was a joyous elixir and he wanted more. Much more. Enough was never enough. The need coursed his veins, blackening his soul, like an all-consuming drug against which he was powerless to act. But now he felt tired. It was a long walk to his sleeping chamber. The corridors were deserted as he shuffled along. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls. Kings and Queens of old, their stern disapproving eyes silently watching him pass. He paid them little heed, intent now on reaching the solace of his room and the chance to rest and recuperate. The castle was cold and dark. A damp musk tinged the air. A winding stairs lead up to the next floor, flaming torches lighting the way. With great effort, he slowly climbed the worn granite steps. At the top he entered a corridor and turned left. There was a large room on his right. A banquet-hall. Once filled with light, music, and laughter, it now lies, unused, abandoned. A light film of dust covering tables and chairs, the logs in the fireplace now home to a family of mice. The Lord of the East passed silently by. Turning left, again, he arrived at another set of stairs and again trudged wearily upward. Distorted shadows cast by flickering torches, dancing along the curved inner wall, shy away and grow anew at his approach and passing. Rising up like misshapen monsters then receding, only to rise again with each passed flame. He reached the top and turned right; his bed-chamber was on the left. Two guards immediately snapped to attention as he approached. He opened the door and entered. The room was warm. A fire licked yellow flame up a soot blackened chimney. Food and wine had been placed upon a table to his right. But he had no interest in them for the moment.
Lying on the bed staring blankly at the ceiling was a young peasant girl. Hair, the colour of ripe golden wheat just before harvest, lay splayed across the pillow like a golden sunburst. Her eyes, as blue as the deep Agento Sea, moist but unresponsive to any stimulus. AL-Imri walked around to her side and sat. A pretty little thing he thought. He would have taken much pleasure in her in his youth. But those feelings were long dead. All that he wished for now was her sweet essence. He could feel it on her soft ivory skin as he tenderly caressed her face.
Placing a hand either side of that beautiful face he began to drain her of her life force. He smiled and closed his eyes as the energy surged into his body. It felt good. After a few moments he stopped. He had his fill, for now. He didn’t require all, at this time, just a good portion. He would save the rest for tomorrow. He looked down at the young woman’s face. She was still alive, and still pretty, but now looked twenty years older than she had just a few moments earlier. The Lord of the East stood and walked to the table upon which the food rested. Roast duck, whey bread, and ruby red wine. He felt suddenly, quite hungry.
12. Instruction
Brinn stopped his horse and glanced around. They were in the high pastures of the Benteer Mountains on the Gantu side. Southern Gantu was mainly pestilent swamps, the perfect hiding place for rogues and murderers. Far below them, beyond the foothills, the swamp sprawled out in every direction, half obscured in smoky fog. Fresh tracks in soft mud was proof that a large party had just come through the pass. At least one hundred men he estimated, plus two or three wagons.
Brok reined his horse in beside Brinn. ‘Is that them?’ he asked, looking down at the freshly made tracks.
‘Yes.’
‘How far ahead?’
‘Three or four days.’
‘Good. We’ve made up some time. The wagons will slow them.’
‘It’s probably too late,’ Brinn looked down at the swampy hinterland.
‘Why?’
‘You ever try to track through swamp? It’s a nightmare. We’ll need a lot of luck, and even then it will be near to impossible. A guide with local knowledge would be a big help.’
‘A guide's out of the question, but we do have a network of informants up here. They could point us in the right direction.’
‘It sounds like you have something in mind.’
Brok almost smiled, ‘Yes as a matter of fact I do. We’ll make for Ash. It’s what passes for a town in this mire. I have a contact there who could be of assistance.’
‘Lead the way, I’m at your service.’ Brinn smiled and swept his hand forward in the direction of the swamp.
Brok lead the group down through the mountain pastures, and into the foothills. After a day’s hard riding they arrived at the start of the wetlands. There were muddy roads leading off in three different directions but only one had fresh wheel ruts. The sun was setting quickly as they set up camp for the night. Rat excavated a small pit for a fire and rations were handed out. The Pathfinders settled down for the night. Lom and Tam took first watch as the Sun disappeared below the horizon.
Brok lobbed some dead-wood onto the fire and turned to Brinn, ‘From the signs, it looks like they’re heading towards Ash alright, that’s good. You know, I’m starting to believe we have a fair chance of finding them.’
'I'd say we have more than a fair chance, lad,’ Balzimar sat down beside them and fumbled in his belt pouch.
‘How so old man?’ asked Brinn.
‘Well you see we have this little thing to help us,’ Balzimar held up his hand and in his palm there was a flat round stone, half the size of his palm.
‘A pebble's going to help us?’ Brok looked unconvinced.
‘That’s right. Well, it’s more than mere common rock, of course,’ said Balzimar.
‘Oh of course,’ Brok looked bemused.
‘It’s a seeker stone - very rare these. Took me eighty years to get my hands on this one. Found it among the belongings of a particularly nasty Darkspawn that I…dispatched...but that’s another story,’ he winked.
‘So what does it do?’ asked Rat.
‘Exactly what it’s supposed to do - seek of course - you numbskull!’ the wizard retorted.
‘Seek what?’ Rat looked a little peeved at being rebuked.
‘Whatever you are seeking!’ Balzimar’s eyebrows knitted together to become one on his furrowed brow.
‘How does it work?’ asked Brinn, trying to divert the conversation before things got too heated.
‘You place it in your palm like so, with the arrow pointing to your heart,’ the old wizard placed the stone in the centre of his palm. A small white arrow had been painted onto the surface at one end. The arrow pointed towards the wizard’s heart. ‘Then you simply have to think of the thing that you are seeking. Simple, eh?’ he grinned happily.
‘Here let me have a go,’ Rat grabbed the stone before Bal
zimar could react and placed it onto his palm with the arrow facing his heart as instructed. ‘Nothing's happening!’ Rat looked annoyed.
Balzimar grabbed back the stone and slapped Rat’s open palm with his blackthorn stick.
Rat shouted in pain as the barbs pierced his skin, ‘What in the name of Badur’s black heart was that for?’ Rat scowled, placing his injured hand under his armpit to help ease the hurt.
‘For your lack of manners, oaf!’ Balzimar rapped Rat’s shin with the stick for good measure.
Rat got up and hopped around on one leg swearing oaths. ‘You old goat! If you wasn’t here to help I’d--!’ Rat grabbed the hilt of one of his knives and pulled it free from its scabbard.
Both Brinn and Brok went to intervene but then stopped and started to laugh. For instead of a knife there was a flower clasped in the wily fighter’s hand.
Balzimar smiled up at the confused man, ‘Why thank you Rat. I accept your apology,’ he leaned forward and deftly took the flower from Rat’s hand. ‘But next time, you must ask before touching - clear?’
Rat was so shocked he forgot all about the pain. ‘Cl...cl...clear,’ he finally managed. He backed away, scratching his head while muttering something about seeing how Lom was.
‘So where were we?’ asked Balzimar, after Rat departed. ‘Ah yes, the seeker stone. Now what I didn't get a chance to say before was that the user needs to be able to access the power within in order for the stone to work.’
‘The power within the stone?’ asked Brok.
‘No-no, my lad! The power within yourself. Your essence.’
‘What...essence?’
‘Your power - your life force - your essence!’ answered Balzimar
‘I’m not sure that I follow,’ admitted Brok.
‘How can I explain?’ Balzimar scratched his bald patch. ‘You see, there is more to a man, or woman, than can be seen with the eye. Beyond the mere flesh and blood that you can touch and see, there is also our driving force. It’s invisible to the uninitiated of course, but, believe me, it does exist, and can be very potent. Though no two people have the same strength, yet all have it just the same.’
‘What’s its purpose?’
‘It binds the individual into a whole.’
‘I’m lost,’ Brok shook his head.
‘You’ve heard of the spirit, have you not?’ asked Balzimar.
‘Yes of course.’
‘Well it is the spirit, and more. It is everything that you are. It binds you and gives you strength. Not the physical kind but the strength that makes a man do good, rather than evil, though it be the harder option.’
‘I see,’ Brinn nodded. ‘Is this – essence - where magic comes from?’
‘No. But it’s the first step along that road. Control of your inner power is the key that unlocks the door to a greater source. Put simply, good essence opens the door to the light, while bad, the door to the dark. But beware! Once a side is chosen, and its door unlocked, there's no going back. Beyond that threshold the adept will find pooled, limitless, reservoirs of good or evil throughout existence and time. So as you can see, it is the quality of your soul that determines from which side you draw.’
‘Can you show me how it's done?’ asked Brinn.
‘Yes...if you're sure you want it.’
Brinn thought for a moment, ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Very good,’ Balzimar smiled. ‘Steady yourself. You are about to enter a whole new world,’ Balzimar placed the seeker stone into Brinn’s upturned palm.
Brok felt uneasy. He didn’t understand magic and was quite happy to leave it so. He rose and left the two men to their mutterings. As he left the circle of light that the small fire cast he looked back at Brinn. The stone in his hand was floating and turning in the air all by itself. Balzimar looked very pleased and patted Brinn on the shoulder. Brok shook his head and turned away. Perhaps Tam would like some company, he thought as he walked off leaving the two men to their instruction.
As he carefully picked his way through the darkness Brok wondered were Tam had gotten too. It was a half moons night, more than enough light to guide his way. Ahead lay a few large rocks and a single beech tree. Brok gently edged closer trying to sneak up on Tam. He liked to practice whenever possible. His boots made no sound as he crept along. He could sense that Tam was close, probably hidden in the rocks. The moon peaked between two passing clouds, and for a moment Brok caught sight of a shadowy figure leaning against one of the larger boulders. ‘Got you,’ he whispered and crouched ready to spring on the unsuspecting man from behind.
‘No you haven’t,’ came a voice.
Brok got a fright. The voice had come from somewhere over his head. As he looked up Tam appeared from a large shadow high in the branches of the tree, he was smiling broadly, with bow in hand and arrow nocked. The figure against the rock had been Tam’s cloak and hat, cleverly made to look like a sentry.
‘Just thought you might like some company,’ Brok blustered.
‘Mmm.’ Tam slid down, crossed to the rocks and sat.
Looking up at the sparsely-clouded night sky he sighed, ‘It’s a good night for snagging.’
‘Snagging?’ Brok’s brow furrowed, ‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ Tam looked bemused, ‘You city boys, never heard of snagging?’
‘Afraid not, care to explain?’
‘It’s using a snag-line with a loop or hook on the end to pull Gupfish out of the water. We used to do it all the time back home, me and my friends. There was a big old deserted quarry near where we lived.’
‘And that really works?’
‘Sure enough does. If we’d the time I’d show you.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Biggest one I ever caught was the length of a man. Damn thing nearly pulled me under. They can get pretty big.’ Tam stared off into the night. ‘My friends saved me that night. Snag-line got wrapped around my leg. I just couldn’t get free and he was taking me down. It took four of them to drag that monster out of the water, and me with it.’
Tam pulled his hair back from his face. He looked tired. ‘We were close though, like brothers, you know what I mean.’
Brok nodded.
‘We all joined up at the same time, felt so proud marching through the town with all our neighbours cheering and shouting at us like we were heroes.
‘Where are your friends posted now?’
Tam cleared his throat and lowered his head, ‘They’re gone...I’m the last.’
‘The war’s been tough all ‘round.’
Tam straightened his back, ‘I know...’
They sat in silence. Overhead a shooting star whisked across the sky. In an instant it flared and was gone. Crickets and frogs clicked and croaked all around in the darkness as a deep fog crept across the undergrowth obscuring all in its path.
13. Sanctuary
The fire crackled in the old hearth. Its warmth and glow gave comforting solace to Megan as she prepared herself for sleep. Overhead, the stars winked down from a cold dark sky. She lay, on her back looking up, cocooned in thick soft woolen covers. The roof, now long gone, gave her a wonderfully clear view of the frosty heavens above. The first tendrils of wispy fog passed lazily cross her vision obscuring, in gradual ebb, light of some of the dimmer celestial orbs. Drowsy warmth filled her, dragging her hooded lids down. She surrendered, with welcome relief, to her need for sleep and allowed her weary eyes to gradually close.
The firewood gave a loud crack and sprayed small sparks. Her eyes opened again. Above the open roof the fog was thickening. More stars had disappeared, lost from view behind the ever expanding opaque shroud. Again her eyes started to close. She was warm and comfortable snuggled beneath her blankets. Anabel lay beside her. She could feel the warmth of her back. In the other corner, Karem sat snoozing against the wall, the blanket enwrapping his body pulled tight, in clamped fists, beneath his chin. One of his men was sitting beside the fire feeding it with small twigs and pieces
of dry wood. Her eyes closed and the world slipped away.
Outside Grik and his men lay huddled sleeping, in little groups, around large log-fires. Small though it was, it was apparent, from the relaxed atmosphere, that even the toughened slavers were much happier to be inside the protective boundary-wall of the complex. With a few hefty logs thrown across the entrance to keep unwanted guests out, the wall provided adequate protection from the worst dangers inherent in the swamp. The fog density was increasing at an alarming rate. The sentries watched, with growing fret, as the steadily thickening haze overwhelmed the land. In a matter of minutes it had slipped silently in, stifling breath, numbing extremities and any uncovered flesh. The ponderous flow covered everything with a clinging pervasive damp. It was eerily quiet in the surreal gloom. Even the normally cacophonous frogs and crickets had gone strangely silent.
Grimp was set to guard the northern end of the compound. He was a low sized stocky man with a scar that ran right across his face from his left temple to just below his right ear. He had long stopped caring about his ruined looks. A toughened outlook was staple when growing up in the wilds, and besides, he enjoyed the way people instinctively got out of his way when they saw him coming. The scar made him look fierce, and for that alone he deemed it an asset. He oft bragged about how he had gotten it in a bar-brawl, in Gantu-Prime, while facing down three men. He chuckled to himself at the thought, Well, a farm accident when I were twelve don’t quite garner the same kind of awe from an audience. And respect and fear were important in this tough land. When a wrong look could get your guts spilled, reputation was everything. Even if most of the time it was built on lies and exaggerations. The fouler a man’s persona the better his chance of avoiding trouble. It was a simple but accurate decree, and one that had kept him alive in many dangerous situations. Few wished to tangle with a man who looked as though he had been through several wars. He was feeling tired, so he leaned heavily on his spear for support while blankly staring into the milky wall of fog. A shiver ran up his spine. There could be anything out there crawling towards him and he wouldn’t see it until it was too late. He hopped from one foot to the other trying to warm himself. Behind him, in the camp proper, he could make out the light from the three fires that the others were huddled around. Some were already asleep. He could hear their snores quite plainly. He was tempted to sit, but then decided against it. If Hraaj came out to check, he would get a beating. Worse still if it was Grik. He shivered again as he remembered what Grik had done to Mirank when he had caught him dozing on duty. Held him down with those big bear-paws of his. Mirank struggled but it was no use. I remember his screams, like it was yesterday, when Grik sliced them ears off. Grimp took his weight off the spear and struck a more alert pose, while unconsciously fingering at one of his ears.