Illeanith glanced at the other two mages with an apologetic look and then disappeared down the steps from the balcony.
“I miss her mother,” sighed Thyriol, leaning over the wall to peer down at the courtyard of the palace where armour-clad guards drilled in disciplined lines of silver and gold. “She helped me remember how to stay in this world. Maybe it is time I moved on, let slip this fragile grip that I have kept these last hundred years. I wish I had died in peace, like Miranith. One should not be born in war and die in war…”
The other two mages remained silent as Thyriol’s words drifted into a whisper, knowing that Thyriol was talking to himself, no longer aware of their presence. They exchanged a knowing, worried glance and followed Illeanith from the tower, each fearful of their prince’s deterioration.
“Sorcery is not an end in itself, it is just a means,” said Anamedion. “It need not be evil!
“The means can corrupt the end,” replied Thyriol quietly, his hoarse whisper further proof of his infirmity. “Just because we can do a thing, it is not right that we should do a thing.”
“Nonsense,” spat Anamedion, unleashing his next spell. Flames of purple and blue roared from his hands, lapping at Thyriol. The ancient mage writhed under its power, sparks of gold and green magic bursting from him as he deflected the worst of the spell, though it still brought him to one knee. “You’ll have to kill me to prove it!”
“I will not kill my own kin,” wheezed Thyriol.
“I will,” said Anamedion with a glint in his eye.
Anamedion could feel only Dark Magic in the chamber and knew that the prince’s resistance was all but over. All he needed was another overwhelming attack and this would be finished. He would become prince of Saphery as was his right, and they would take the war to the Naggarothi.
Grasping the fetish at his throat, the rune-carved knuckle bones burning his palm, Anamedion incanted words of power, feasting on the sorcery that was now roiling within every part of his body. He visualised a monstrous dragon, drew it in the air with his mind’s eye. He saw its ebon fangs and the black fire that flickered from its mouth. Thyriol attempted a dispel, directing what little remained of the winds of magic, trying to unpick the enchantment being woven by Anamedion.
Anamedion drew on more Dark Magic, swamping the counterspell with power. He focussed all his thoughts on the spell, as Thyriol had once warned him he must. He had no time to appreciate the irony, all his mind was bent on the conjuration. He could see the shimmering scales and the veins on the membranes of the dragon’s wings. The apparition started to form before Anamedion, growing more real with every passing heartbeat.
In a moment the dragon-spell would engulf Thyriol, crushing the last breath from his body.
Thyriol waited patiently in the Hall of Stars, gazing up at the window at the centre of the hall’s ceiling. It showed a starry sky, though outside the palace it was not yet noon. The scene was of the night when the hall had been built, the auspicious constellations and alignments captured for all eternity by magic. Thyriol had come here countless times to gaze at the beauty of the heavens and knew every sparkling star as well as he knew himself.
A delicate cough from the doorway attracted Thyriol’s attention. Menreir stood just inside the hall, a cluster of fellow mages behind him and a worried-looking servant at his side.
“We cannot find Anamedion,” said Menreir. “Also, Illeanith, Hadryana, Alluthian and Meledir are missing, along with half a dozen of the students’
Thyriol look this news without comment. The prince closed his eyes and felt Saphethion around him. He knew every stone of the palace, the magic that seeped within the mortar, the flow of energy that bound every stone. The golden needle pulsed rhythmically at its centre and the winds of magic coiled and looped around the corridors and halls. He could feel every living creature too, each a distinctive eddy in the winds of magic. It would not take long to locate his grandson.
But it was not Anamedion that Thyriol found first. In a chamber beneath the Mausoleum of the Dawn, there was a strange whirl of mystical power. It flowed around the room and not through it, masking whatever was within; a warding spell, one that Thyriol had not conjured. It was subtle, just the slightest disturbance in the normal flow. Only Thyriol, who had created every spell and charm that sustained Saphethion, would have noticed the anomaly.
“Come with me,” he commanded the mages as he pushed through the group. He showed no outward sign of vexation, but Thyriol’s stomach had lurched. Mages were free to use their magic in the palace, why would one seek to hide their conjurations? He suspected sorcery. Despite his reasons for being in the Hall of Stars, this was more pressing than his division with Anamedion. His grandson would have to wait a while longer for their reconciliation.
Thyriol whispered something, almost bent double, his eyes fixed on his grandson. Anamedion did not hear what the prince had said. Was it some final counter-spell? Perhaps an admission of wrong? A plea for mercy?
For the moment Anamedion wondered what Thyriol had said, his mind strayed from the spell. The distraction lasted only a heartbeat but it was too late. The Dark Magic churning inside Anamedion slipped from his grasp. He struggled to control it, but it wriggled from his mind, coiling into his heart, flooding his lungs. Choking and gasping, Anamedion swayed as his veins crackled with power and his eyes melted. He tried to wail but only black flames erupted from his burning throat. The pain was unbearable, every part of his body and mind shrieked silently as the sorcery consumed him.
With a last spasm, Anamedion collapsed, his body shrivelling and blackening. With a dry thump, his corpse hit the ground, wisps of thick smoke issuing from his empty eye sockets.
Thyriol knelt down beside the remains of his grandson. For the moment he felt nothing, but he knew he would grieve later. He would feel the guilt of what he had done, though it had been unavoidable. Thoughts of grief recalled the death of Menreir, his oldest friend. Thyriol had barely noticed his destruction, so engrossed had he been in his duel with Anamedion. Another link to the past taken away; another piece of the future destroyed.
“What did you whisper?” asked Urian, his eyes fixed upon the contorted remnants of Anamedion. “Some dispel of your own creation?”
Thyriol shook his head sadly at the suggestion.
“I cast no spell,” he replied. “I merely whispered the name of his grandmother. His lack of focus killed him.”
Thyriol stood and faced the mages clustered around the blackened doorway. His expression hardened.
“Anamedion was young, and stupid, and ignored my warnings,” said the prince. “Illeanith and the other sorcerers will not be so easy to defeat. There will be more of them than we have seen. The war has finally come to Saphery.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Aaron Dembski-Bowden is a British author with his
beginnings in the videogame and RPG industries. He was
the Senior Writer on the million-selling MMO Age of
Conan: Hyborian Adventures. He’s been a deeply
entrenched fan of Warhammer 40,000 ever since he first
ruined his copy of Space Crusade by painting the models
with all the skill expected of an overexcited nine-year-old.
He lives and works in York, UK. His hobbies generally
revolve around reading anything within reach, and
helping people spell his surname.
Prior to becoming a freelance writer, Gav Thorpe
worked for Games Workshop as lead background
designer, overseeing and contributing to the
Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 worlds. He has
written numerous novels and short stories set in the
fictional worlds of Games Workshop, including the
Time of Legends “The Sundering” series, the seminal
Dark Angels novel Angels of Darkness, and the Last
Chancers omnibus. He lives in Nottingham, UK, with
his mecha
nical hamster, Dennis.
Scanning and basic
proofing by Red Dwarf,
formatting and additional
proofing by Undead.
[Chapbook 2009] - Shadow Knight & The Dark Path Page 4