Beside him lay the cooling carcass of the latest horse he’d killed. The animal had staggered to a halt, stood a moment, and then sunk wearily to the sandy beach. This was the sixth horse he had literally ridden into the ground in recent days—and Timozel had slid his feet quickly from the stirrups and swung his leg over the horse’s wither as it slumped to the ground, standing himself in one graceful movement.
As Timozel sat on the gritty beach, watching the grey waves, he wondered what to do next. How was he going to keep moving north now this damned horse had died on him?
And what had driven him to the shores of Murkle Bay in the first instance? It was many leagues to the west of where he should have been heading—Jervois Landing, then north into the Skraeling-controlled Ichtar through Gorken Pass and then north, north, north to Gorgrael’s Ice Fortress. It would be a hard journey, perhaps months long, and only Timozel’s determination and his bond to Gorgrael would see him through.
As each horse fell Timozel had stolen another one—not a difficult proposition in the well-populated regions of Avonsdale. But he was unlikely to find a horse in the desolate regions surrounding Murkle Bay or in the mountains themselves.
He squared his shoulders. Well then, he would walk and Gorgrael—if he truly wanted Timozel—would no doubt provide.
But not today. Even his fear of Gorgrael-sent nightmares would not keep Timozel from sleep tonight. He shivered and pulled his cloak closer, shifting uncomfortably on the cold, damp sand. Somehow he would have to find enough fuel for a fire to keep him warm through the night. A rumble in his belly reminded him that he had not eaten in over two days, and he wondered if he could snatch a fish from Murkle Bay’s depths.
His eyes narrowed as he gazed across the bay. What was that out to sea? Perhaps a hundred paces distant from the beach Timozel could see a small, dark hump bobbing in the waves. He’d heard stories of the whales that lived in the Andeis Sea and wondered if perhaps this dark shape was the back of one of the mammoth ocean fish that had strayed into Murkle Bay.
Timozel stared, blinking in the salty breeze. As the dark shape came closer Timozel leapt to his feet.
“What?” he hissed.
The hump had resolved itself into the silhouette of a heavily cloaked man rowing a tiny boat. He was making directly for Timozel.
Timozel’s dull headache abruptly flared into white heat and he cried out, doubling over in agony. But the pain died as quickly as it had erupted and after catching his breath Timozel slowly straightened out. When he looked up again he saw that the man and his boat were almost to shore.
He shivered. The man was so tightly cloaked and hooded Timozel could not see his face, yet he knew that this was no ordinary fisherman. But what disturbed him most was that although the man made every appearance of rowing vigorously, the oars that dipped into the water never made a splash and the boat itself sailed as smoothly and as calmly as if it were pushed by some powerful underwater hand.
Magic! Timozel took a step back as the boat slipped smoothly ashore.
The man shipped his oars and stood up, wrapping his cloak about him. Timozel could feel but not see a smile on the man’s face.
“Ah, Timozel,” he said in a deeply musical voice, stepping smoothly out of the boat and striding across the sand that separated them. “How fortunate you should be waiting for me.”
Sweat beaded in the palms of Timozel’s hands and he had to force himself not to wipe them along his cloak. For the first time in nine days thoughts of Gorgrael slipped completely from his mind. He stared at the dark man who had halted some three or four paces in front of him.
“Timozel,” the man said, and despite his fears Timozel relaxed slightly. How could a man with such a gentle voice harbour foul intent?
“Timozel. It is late and I would appreciate a place beside the warmth of your campfire for the night.”
Startled, Timozel looked over his shoulder at where the man pointed. A bright fire leaped cheerfully into the darkness; a large rabbit sizzled on a spit and a pot steamed gently to one side of the coals.
“How…?” Timozel began, doubt and fear resurfacing in his mind.
“Timozel,” the man said, his voice slipping into an even deeper timbre. “You must have lit the fire earlier and, in your exhaustion, forgotten the deed.”
“Yes.” Timozel’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes, that must be it. Yes, my mind is so hazy.”
Beneath his hood the Dark Man’s smile broadened. Poor, troubled Timozel. His mind had been shadowed for so long that it was now an easy task to manipulate it.
“The rabbit smells good,” he said, taking Timozel’s arm. Surprisingly, all traces of Timozel’s headache faded completely at the man’s touch. “Shall we eat?”
An hour later Timozel sat before the fire, feeling more relaxed than he had in months. He no longer minded that his companion chose not to reveal his features. In these past months he had seen stranger creatures, like those feathered abominations that now crawled over the fouled palace of Carlon. His lip curled.
“You do not like what you have seen in Carlon, Timozel.”
“Disgusting,” Timozel said.
“Oh, absolutely.”
Timozel shifted, his loathing of the Icarii rippling through his body. “Borneheld tried to stop them, but he failed.”
The Dark Man shrugged. “Unfortunate.”
“Treachery undid him.”
“Of course.”
“He should have won!” Timozel clenched his fists and stared across the fire at the cloaked man. “He should have. I had a vision—”
He stopped. Why had he mentioned that vision? Would this strange man laugh at him?
“Really?” The Dark Man’s voice held no trace of derision; indeed, it held traces of awe. “You must be beloved of the immortals, Timozel, if you have been granted visions.”
“But I fear the vision misled me.”
“Well,” the cloaked man said slowly, as if reluctant to speak, “I have travelled widely, Timozel, and I have seen many bizarre sights and heard even stranger stories. One of the things I have learned is that visions can sometimes be misunderstood, misinterpreted. Would you,” his hands twisted nervously before him, “would you share your vision with me?”
Timozel considered the man through narrowed eyes. He had never shared the details of the vision with anyone—not even Borneheld, although Borneheld knew Artor had enabled Timozel to foresee his victory over Axis.
But Borneheld hadn’t won, had he? And Artor seemed powerless in the face of the Forbidden invasion; even the Brother-Leader had gibbered impotently before Axis. Timozel dropped his gaze and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps the vision was worthless. A phantasm, nothing more.
“Tell me of the vision,” the Dark Man whispered. Share.
Timozel hesitated.
“I want to hear of it.” Share.
“Perhaps I will tell you,” Timozel said. “It came time and time again. Always the same. I rode a great and noble beast—it cried with such a voice that all before it quailed.” As Timozel spoke he fell under the spell of the vision again, and his voice sped up, the words tumbling from his mouth. “I fought for a Great Lord, and in his name I commanded an army that undulated for leagues in every direction.”
“Goodness,” the Dark Man said. “A truly great vision.”
“Hundreds of thousands screamed my name.” Now Timozel leaned forward, his voice earnest. “They hurried to fulfil my every wish. The enemy quivered in terror; they could do nothing. Remarkable victories were mine for the taking…in the name of my Lord I was going to clear the filth that invaded Achar!”
“If you did that then your name would live in legend forever,” the Dark Man said, and Timozel could hear the admiration in his voice.
“Yes! Yes, it would. Millions would thank me. I saw more—”
“Tell me!”
“I saw myself seated before a fire with my Lord, and Faraday at our side. The battles were over. All was well. I…I had found my de
stiny. I had found my light.”
He dropped his face into his hands momentarily, and when he raised his eyes again the Dark Man could see they were reddened and lost. “But it was all a lie.”
“How so?”
“Borneheld lies dead—I saw Axis tear his heart out myself. His armies are dead or have betrayed his name and fled to Axis. In any case, Borneheld would never give me command.”
“He did not trust your vision. Perhaps that is why he lost,” the stranger said, and Timozel nodded slowly.
“Now Faraday lies with Axis and becomes his wife, and we are all lost. Lost. And now…now…”
“Now?” the Dark Man asked. “Do you experience other visions? Dreams, perhaps?”
Timozel’s eyes flared, his suspicions aroused. “How did you know?”
“Oh,” the Dark Man soothed. “You have the look about you. The look of a man troubled by visions.”
“It is not visions that wrap my thoughts now, but dark nightmares that ensorcel my soul!”
“Perhaps you have misinterpreted—”
“How can I misinterpret the fact that Gorgrael has his talons locked into my soul! It is over! Finished!”
He stopped, appalled. He had never, never, mentioned Gorgrael to another person before. How would Gorgrael punish him, now he had shared the secret?
The stranger did not seem overly perturbed by Timozel’s mention of Gorgrael. “Ah yes, Gorgrael is a good and dear friend of mine.”
Timozel recoiled in horror, almost falling backwards in his haste to put more distance between himself and the cloaked man.
“Your friend?”
“Ah,” the Dark Man said. “I fear you have fallen under the spell of the evil rumours about Gorgrael that sweep this land.”
Timozel stared at him.
“Timozel, my friend, how can Gorgrael be evil and dark when he fights the same things that you do?”
“What do you mean?” How could that appalling creature not be evil and dark?
“Consider this, Timozel. Gorgrael and Borneheld fight—fought—for the same thing.”
“What?” Perhaps he should slice this stranger’s head off and be done with it, Timozel thought.
“Listen to me,” the Dark Man said, his voice soothing, calming. “Gorgrael hates the Forbidden—the Icarii and the Avar—as Borneheld did. Gorgrael wants to see them destroyed as much as Borneheld did. Both shared the same purpose.”
Timozel struggled with the stranger’s words. Yes, it was true that Borneheld hated the Forbidden and ached for their destruction. And Gorgrael wants the same thing?
“He surely does,” the Dark Man whispered. “He surely does.”
“But the Prophecy says…” Timozel tried to remember exactly what it was that the Prophecy said.
“Bah!” The Dark Man grinned to himself under his hood. “The Prophecy is nothing but a tool of the Forbidden to cloud men’s minds and blind them to their true saviour—Gorgrael.”
“Yes…yes.” Timozel thought it through. “That makes sense.”
“And Gorgrael aches to kill Axis as much as Borneheld did.”
“Axis.” Now Timozel’s voice was edged with unreasoning hatred.
“Who has brought the Forbidden back to crawl over Achar’s lands, Timozel?”
“Axis!” Timozel hissed.
The Dark Man spoke very slowly, emphasising every word. “Gorgrael is committed to killing Axis and ridding this fair land of the Forbidden. Is that not what you want?”
“Yes. Yes, that is what I want!”
“Gorgrael will help rescue Faraday from the foul clutches of Axis and the Forbidden.”
“Faraday! He will help rescue Faraday?” Was there hope for Faraday yet?
“With your help, Timozel. With your help.”
“With my help?” Could he redeem himself in Faraday’s eyes?
“Ah, Timozel,” the Dark Man said dejectedly. “Gorgrael is truly misunderstood and he fights for a true cause, but he is not a good war leader.” He sighed, and Timozel leaned even closer, eager. “Timozel, he needs a war leader. He needs you and you need him. Together you can rid Achar of its foul corruption.”
A small voice deep in Timozel’s soul told him not to listen to this man, not to believe his smooth words. Had not Borneheld fought Gorgrael as well? Were not the Skraelings as evil as the Forbidden? But, caught as he was by the weight of the enchantments being woven about him and by the blackness that was eating into his soul, Timozel pushed those thoughts out of existence. Gorgrael would be the one to restore sanity and good health to Achar.
“He would give me command of his army?”
“Oh, surely. He knows that you are a great warrior.”
Timozel sat back, enthralled. A command of his own, at last! Even Borneheld had not done that for him.
“Don’t you see, Timozel?” the Dark Man asked, drawing the net of his lies closed. “Don’t you understand? Gorgrael is the Great Lord of your visions. Fate must have sent me south to fetch you, to bring you north so that your Lord can give you control of his armies.”
“Truly?” Perhaps there was still a chance the visions would be fulfilled. That there was still a chance he could do some good. Yes, fate must have manoeuvred this meeting.
“Very truly, Timozel.”
Timozel thought about it, one thing gnawing at him. “But why has Gorgrael been disturbing my sleep with such dark dreams?”
The stranger reached out his hand and rested it on Timozel’s shoulder. “The Forbidden are desperate to turn you from Gorgrael. They have been the instigators of those dreams, not Gorgrael. You will have no more bad dreams from now on.”
Certainly not once I have a word with Gorgrael, the Dark Man thought. There had never been any need to disturb the boy’s mind with such dreams—but Gorgrael was ever inclined to the melodramatic.
All doubts had gone from Timozel’s mind now. At last he had found the right path. The visions had been true.
“Gorgrael will free Faraday from Axis’ foul clutches?” he asked.
“Oh, assuredly,” the Dark Man said. “Assuredly. He will be a master whom you will be proud to serve. You will sit by the fire with your Great Lord, Timozel, with Faraday by your side, sipping wine.”
“Oh,” Timozel breathed ecstatically, letting the vision engulf him.
“Now,” the Dark Man rose with the Icarii grace that he could not completely repress, “why don’t I take you to the Great Lord? I have a boat, and in only a few short hours we shall reach his fortress. Your saviour’s fortress. Will you come?”
“Friend.” Timozel stood by the Dark Man’s side, shaking sand from his cloak. “You have not told me your name.”
The Dark Man pulled his hood closer. “I have many names,” he said quietly, “but you may call me Friend.”
As Timozel climbed into the boat he realised how familiar Friend’s voice sounded. Why? Who was he? Where had he heard the voice before?
“Timozel? Is anything the matter?”
Timozel stared at the man, then he shook himself and climbed in.
“No, Friend,” he said. “Nothing’s the matter.”
Jayme abased himself before the icon of his beloved Artor the Ploughman, the one true god of all Acharites—or at least, who had been until the setbacks of recent weeks.
Once the powerful Brother-Leader of the Seneschal, most senior mediator between Artor the Ploughman and the hearts and souls of the Acharites, now Jayme mediated only between his own broken soul and the ghosts of his dreams and ambitions. He had once manipulated kings and peasants alike; now he manipulated little more than the buckles on his sandals. He had once resided in the great Tower of the Seneschal; now the Forbidden had reclaimed the Tower and burned the accumulated learning of over a thousand years. He had once sat easy with power, protected by the might of the military wing of the Seneschal, the Axe-Wielders and their BattleAxe. But now the remaining Axe-Wielders had cast aside their axes to serve the ghastly Forbidden, and their BattleAxe now c
laimed to be a Prince of the Forbidden. The BattleAxe. He had been as a son to Jayme, yet had betrayed both Jayme’s love and the Seneschal in leading the Forbidden back into Achar.
Jayme had once enjoyed the friendship and support of his senior adviser, Moryson. But now Moryson had deserted him.
Slowly Jayme rose to his knees and stared about the chamber where he had been incarcerated for the past nine days. They had not left him much. A single wooden chair and a plain table. A bedroll and blanket. Nothing else. Axis believed Jayme might try to kill himself, and so guards had emptied the room of everything save what Jayme needed for basic comfort.
Twice a day guards came to bring him food and attend his needs, but otherwise Jayme had been left alone.
Apart from his two visitors. His eyes clouded as he remembered.
Two days after the death of Achar’s hopes in the Chamber of the Moons, the Princess Rivkah had come to see him…
She entered the room silently and Jayme did not know she was there until he stood from his devotions before the sacred icon of Artor.
The moment Jayme turned and saw her his mouth went dry. He had never expected to be confronted by the woman he thought he and Moryson had murdered so many years previously.
For long minutes Rivkah just stood and stared at him. Jayme could not but help contrast her proud bearing with his own hunched and subservient posture. How is it, he thought, that the woman who did Achar and Artor so much wrong can stand there as if justice was on her side? How is it that she can stand there so beautiful and queenly when all Moryson and I deposited at the foot of the Icescarp Alps was a broken woman near death? Artor, why did you let her survive? Artor? Artor? Are you there?
“Why?” she eventually asked.
Surprising himself, Jayme actually replied in a moderately strong voice. “For the wrong that you did your husband and your country and your god, Rivkah. You did not deserve to live.”
“I was the one wronged, Jayme,” she said. “Yet you would that I had died a horrible death. You did not have the courage, as I remember, to put a knife through my throat.”
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