How had she beaten him? He had twenty years of dedication to Dark-magic, ten of which he had served in Xirik’s black cult. He could dissolve flesh with a flick of his wrist, could drink the very essence of his victim’s being. He was within a finger’s breadth of the Gift, the ultimate accolade for the practitioner of the Dark-magic.
The Gift: the sacrifice of the eternal soul, the transformation to a ghast. Then such wounds, unless delivered by silver or magnate would never trouble him again.
She had been trained, that was obvious. But by whom? He had seen the seeds of Wild-magic in her that night in Coonor four years ago. She had slid through the wall like it was smoke and into the arms of that Netreptan ranger. It had remained in his mind as nothing more than a curiosity; as far as he knew she was to go under the watchful eye of Inkas-Tarr, an old adversary of his.
The hate had kept him alive through the pain and the shock. The hate and the Dark-magic—its black energy sustaining his empty heart as he fled across Bulia and sought refuge.
The sound of boots in the alley outside the room jolted him from his thoughts. He dropped the cloth in the bowl and tightened the dressing on the stump. A golden funnel was on the table next to the bowl.
The door opened and a scrawny man entered. His eyes danced across the room and his nose curled in distaste.
“Haven’t you shifted them bodies yet, Utrok?”
“Obviously not. It may have escaped your attention, Redern, but I only have one arm. Besides, I pay you for such menial tasks as waste disposal.”
“I’m an entrepreneur, not an assassin. The Silent Knife does that business in Azagunta.”
His eyes were flitting about between Utrok, the corpses and the window. Droplets of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Did you find her?”
“No. There’s no sign. Seems this girl—Emelia is her name—is an apprentice to a Thetorian called Hunor and his partner Jem, a Wild-mage. They are well connected with the Northridge guild.”
“The petty machinations of the theives’ guild are of little interest to me. Where have they gone?”
“No-one knows. Perhaps underground? Why do you want the girl? I know where you can get...”
“Idiot! I do not sully myself in carnal weakness. It is not your concern why I am interested in her. Now have you secured me passage?”
Redern licked his lips and began rummaging in his tunic. “Sure, sure. There’s a ship leaving for Thetoria at high tide in an hour. I’ve sorted a berth for you...”
A gold coin clinked on the table. Redern’s eyes widened.
“An Eerian guilder...” Utrok said.
Redern bolted for the door but Utrok was too quick. A shadow flew from his hand striking the thief in his back. A cloud of vaporised flesh erupted as he tumbled to the filthy floor.
Utrok was upon him, pressing his serrated knife at Redren’s throat.
“Who gave you that, you little worm?”
“Oh...gods...please, Utrok,” he sobbed. “I had no choice. It was a Fire-mage, an Eerian. Please don’t...”
Utrok slid the knife across Redren’s neck. The blood splashed on the floor followed by Redren’s head.
A bloody Fire-mage earning his sash by hunting down Dark-mages; that was all he needed. Utrok grabbed his funnel and made for the window. He had to flee Bulia tonight and get across to Ligor in Thetoria. He needed blackest sorcery to regenerate his absent arm.
And then he would find the girl, wherever she was in the world, and make her pay.
***
To their credit the two black-armoured knights hardly flinched as Xirik and Vildor emerged from the shadows of the dungeon. The knights bowed and one moved to fetch their captain. The second stood awaiting orders.
“The druid, where is he being kept?” Xirik asked.
“The end cell, m’lord.”
Xirik nodded and he prowled with Vildor down the corridor. They passed a half-dozen cells along the corridor. Vildor stopped abruptly and peered through a grill into an empty cell.
“The Artorian tracker and the Fire-mage—where are they?”
Xirik turned and slowly approached Vildor. “Master, I thought you knew. They...they escaped, not long after you came to the dungeons...just after your Return.”
“I know when I came down here!” Vildor yelled. “Of all the prisoners to lose. Where is the captain of this dungeon?”
“M’lord?” a voice said behind Vildor.
Vildor turned, his dark cloak swirling. A knight stood before him trembling.
“How did they escape?”
“We...we are not certain, m’lord. There was some animal down here that killed several knights. We have sent a party after them—with a craven hunter.”
“Why the concern?” Xirik asked.
“I had much planned for them, Xirik. Get them back.”
Xirik nodded and indicated for the captain to leave. Vildor stood head lowered, grinding his teeth.
The captain had managed three steps before Vildor struck. His arm punched out into the captain’s back and the metal screeched as the pale hand ripped through it. Vildor lifted the captain into the air, blood pouring down his arm, then tossed him across the floor of the corridor. The captain jerked several times before becoming still.
Vildor stalked off down the corridor, little pools of blood marking his path.
The druid was slumped in the corner of a cell, heavy manacles around his neck, wrists and legs. His face was a mush of bruised and bloodied tissue. The spiral tattoos were interrupted by burns and cuts over his torso and belly.
The knight pulled him to his feet as Vildor and Xirik stood silently. A few slaps brought the druid back to consciousness.
“Druid—you have a name?” Vildor said.
“Farsan, fifth tier druid. You waste your time if you think I’ll tell you anything, ghast.”
“Oh, words are not the only way to discover what I wish. Why were you in the Wastes, near the Ebony Tower?”
“Go to the Pale.”
“It’s on my list. But I have been away for such a long time that I have one or two things to sort out first. One or two little mysteries to solve.”
“You speak madness,” Farsan said. Blood dribbled from his swollen lips.
“I am madness! Sanity is overrated, it limits one so. My mind has travelled to the fell niches of this world, contemplated sights that would drag your feeble intellect into gibbering lunacy. But my query is rather rational, all told. Xirik tells me that you spied in the shape of a stag?”
“It is the gift of Nolir to the blessed. A divine power...”
“Yes, yes, Blah, blah. Praise be to the saggy breasted harlot of nature. How can you utilise magic, as a human, without a gem of power?”
“It is a matter of faith. It comes from the soul, the heart...”
“The heart you say,” Vildor said. He drove his hand into Farsan’s chest, the bone fragmenting like glass. A spray of blood coated Xirik as Vildor ripped the beating heart out.
Vildor rolled it in his blood-soaked hands, watching as the beats faded. He put it to his mouth and began to chew it, the strips of muscle dangling down his chin.
“Master?” Xirik asked.
“There is something different, Xirik. A subtle taste, like an old friend. There is much more to this druid paradox than meets the eye. But we digress, my disciple. My dreams tell me our attentions should be directed east of the Khullian Mountains...to Thetoria. Tell me what young Garin has been plotting these last few years...”
Chapter 9 The Necromancer
Blossomstide 1924
Time had little meaning for Aldred in the secret chamber. He sat regarding his bloodied knuckles, slumped against the sealed door. Smears of blood on its surface marked his efforts to escape.
Aldred rubbed his sore eyes. His tears had eventually dried, much in the same way they had when mourning for his mother. The room was as silent as a tomb.
“Come on, Aldred,” he said. “This is no way for a true
Thetorian to act.”
He got to his feet to explore the chamber further. On the tables were a selection of blades and sharp instruments. He picked one up and weighed it in his hand.
“Well that’ll be a lot of use against Quigor, won’t it?” Aldred said. “Steel against a necromancer. As useful as sand in a desert! Come on! Think less impetuously and more logically.”
A chill came with the thought of being discovered by Quigor. It was much the same as that feeling of trepidation one would get as a child when you had broke some expensive parental possession and awaited the wrath of discovery.
He dismissed the fear and continued ferreting through the chamber. The numerous shady alcoves that bordered the rooms were a good choice for concealment.
“Let’s hide some of the evidence first, eh?” he said to himself. His voice gave the room a sense of life.
His first move was to clean the silver bowl he had vomited in. A rudimentary sink was tucked in an alcove with a tarnished tap, presumably piped from the castle well. It creaked alarmingly as it sputtered water into the bowl.
“No point starving before Quigor arrives is there? Let’s hope this is really wine.”
Sipping from the goblet he strolled around the shelves, reading the grisly jars. A myriad collection of fantastical labels sent his mind spinning: ground Troll’s teeth, gullet of Craven, hair of maid, heart of a spurned lover, breath of a fresh grave. A long trestle table held a collection of jars, tubes and bottles, full of brightly coloured liquids.
He had wandered to the plinth the book sat upon. Aldred realised it was bound with skin, stretched taut over the thick pages. The language was completely alien to him, its runes written in blue ink. The yellowed paper was decorated with unsettling illustrations: twisted representations of humans being tortured by tall blue creatures. There were pictures of corpses rising from graves and black beams pouring like liquid night from the hands of sorcerers.
Such was his fascination that he almost forgot to replace the open book to its original page. It depicted a blue stone held aloft with a dotted line passing to a body with all its organs showing.
“Oh father, what in Mortis’s name are you letting Quigor do?”
He left the plinth and slumped in an alcove. The wine made him feel weary. He rested his head against the stone.
He had perhaps had a transient nap when he heard the click of the door opening and to his credit was instantly alert. His hand gripped the dagger he had taken from the table.
From his hiding place he saw Quigor enter the room, the reddish glow lighting his greasy face. Across the chamber he could see the door wide open.
Quigor seemed preoccupied and walked straight past his plush chair and diminished cheese board. He took a large jar from a shelf and placed it beside his alchemy bottles on the table. He pulled out two eye balls, a severed nose and a long tongue, and then placed them on the table.
Quigor stepped back and held out his hands. Strange words came from his mouth, macabre and convoluted.
The collection of pickled flesh began to glow a purple colour and then rose into the air. Aldred stared in fascination. Although he had met a number of mages socially at the prince’s functions he had never seen true spells and as a consequence it was a greater shock when the floating eyes, nose and tongue began to speak.
“You have responded promptly to my message, Quigor,” it said, the sounds slurred.
“Naturally, master, the voice was especially strong. I must commend your ability at dream-speak. I confess I am perturbed as to what warrants such a drain on your powers. Surely a black-hawk is more traditional?” Quigor said.
“This is true and less conspicuous than you rising at such a dark hour for the missive. However circumstance forced my hand. Word has come from Master Xirik that the Darkmaster himself has taken an interest in you.”
Quigor grasped the table and his voice croaked as he spoke.
“The Darkmaster? Surely he has greater concerns as he heals from the Return than I? I mean, of course I am honoured, Master Garin, but...confused.”
“The Darkmaster’s reasons are ever his own, as are Xirik’s. Suffice it to say that his attentions focus in part on Thetoria and on the crystal that you experiment with.”
Quigor eyes darted about the chamber and Aldred wondered whether the horrible face could see this.
“Master, you know that the infernal crystal is resistant to every charm I have utilised to establish its true nature. It may be simply a lucky charm crafted to entertain some vacuous Eerian noble.”
The face stared at Quigor, its bobbing eyeballs unrelenting in their observation of him. Aldred could see sweat trickling down the mage’s forehead.
“Charm or no, the command is clear. I know not how the Darkmaster learnt of our experiments nor why he is interested in you and not Ligor in Thetoria City or Ajacre in Nulor. You assured me that your tracks were well concealed those years ago.”
“Indeed, Master. I sent assassins to silence the guildmaster we had utilised for the procurement of this crystal and the other four blue stones. He was overseas in Azagunta, far removed from me. It was foolproof. I don’t understand.”
“No matter, it may yet play to our advantage. Xirik commands great support but such a service for the Darkmaster may swing things to our favour in the new order.”
“But to take the crystal now? After all this work I have performed here to determine its nature. I will struggle to get the baron to allow me to have it. He keeps it well hidden and close.”
“There can be no mistakes, Quigor. He commands you take the Elixir of Thrall so that he may sense your progress.”
“The Elixir? Well, of course, if that is the command.”
Quigor bowed whilst the magical glow around the floating pieces of flesh faded and they fell with a splatter onto the table.
Aldred emerged from a daze as the grisly spectacle ceased. He slipped from the alcove and moved towards the door keeping low behind the cabinets.
He was ten feet from the door when the treacherous avian cawed loudly once more. Aldred’s blood froze as Quigor whirled and stared in disbelief at the young Thetorian. Aldred bolted for the open door.
He never made it.
A flash of purple light engulfed him and it felt as if every nerve on his body was washed in acid at the same instant. He tumbled to the stone floor, skidding into the wall with a thud.
An instant that may have been an eternity passed before the excruciating burning stopped. Aldred found himself staring at the smiling Quigor.
“My lord, if you had given me a little notice I would have tidied up. I’ll confess I did wonder where you had wandered off to yesterday but naively assumed you had gone searching for another celebration with your vacuous comrades. It would seem I underestimated you.”
“You devil,” Aldred said and clambered to his feet, his dagger glinting.
“I see four years in the big city haven’t improved either your manners or your Thetorian temperament,” Quigor said.
He gestured and the dagger in Aldred’s hands transformed into a red snake. Aldred screamed and dropped the creature and it slithered to Quigor’s feet then up his black robes.
“Now please be seated.”
Aldred felt his body sear with pain. Tears sprang to his eyes as he staggered to the chair and collapsed into it.
Quigor leant against one of the stained tables, rubbing his pale chin. His dark eyes bore into Aldred’s.
“I will assume you were party to my communications with the master...which does now present a certain dilemma.”
“Damn you and your slippery words, Quigor. My father will have you executed for this sorcery in our house.”
Quigor laughed and shrugged.
“My dear little lord, how touching your trust in your father is. No—no—he is more than aware of my talents. That is why he asked his cousin to arrange my coming.”
Aldred flushed, a creeping sense of dread arising in his gut. “The Pale take your lies
and deceit.”
“The Pale has an ample supply already, Aldred. Did you think your father such a saint? Ah, the faith of children. No, your father required me here to assist him in a spell, one he found transcribed in the ogre tome of sorcery. It’s a vile book, you should read it. Bits of it make even me cringe!”
At that instant Aldred hated nothing in Nurolia the way he hated Quigor. If he had had his chance he would have risen and throttled the last breath from the sorcerer, savouring every last gasp and gurgle like the finest liquor. The fuel for such disdain was the simple fact that Aldred believed him.
“He would still never allow anything to happen to me.”
“Indeed not. No, he still has love for you, although every look at your face drives a dagger into his heart. He sees your mother in every fibre of your being. None the less his desire for this magic is near total and I think he would not be distracted too long by your accidental demise. Well perhaps long enough for me to secure the crystal.”
Aldred realised Quigor was pondering the method of his death.
“Quigor, please don’t. I won’t tell, I promise. I...I...”
“Sshh, don’t fret, little lord. It won’t be too painful. It’s not something to rush into. I need a modicum of planning to make it appear an accident. Make peace with yourself and your god. When I return, you shall die.”
The Azaguntan swirled his hand and muttered words of power. Black sorcery flowed from his robes through the air and onto Aldred. He shouted in panic as the oily substance flowed around him then solidified into bands of jet-black metal. It bound him to the chair as reliably as chains and manacles of iron.
The dark mage lifted down an hourglass from the cluttered shelf. He turned it over with a chuckle and the dark sand within it began to hiss through.
“When all the sand has passed, then I return.”
Taking a small vial from the shelf as he strode past, the mage left the chamber.
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