by JW Webb
Caswallon dropped the glass globe in despair as it finally came to him that he had lost and all his careful schemes and plans were for naught. Outside, Morak hovered triumphantly, his legs astride the spear, its obsidian needle pointing toward his enemy’s fragile heart.
Morak smiled. He could feel Caswallon’s heart flutter like a trapped bird with a broken wing. He uttered a brief rune-chant, and Golganak’s acid black glowed and shimmered, unleashing a ray of fear like a cold canker creeping inside Caswallon’s flesh.
“You have failed, Caswallon!” Morak’s mocking voice filled Caswallon’s head like tearing tin. “We gave you so much and yet you betrayed us!” Morak’s face hovered outside the sorcerer’s window. It was a beautiful face—noble and wise, but angry. Gone were the dog snout and burnt scars, replaced by a radiance of dark power.
“You could have been great but instead you are nothing!” Caswallon raised a withered palm to reflect what he knew was coming. Morak, astride the spear, telescoped it forward until its needle-point shredded through stone and glass, reaching inside the Astrologer’s Nest, until Caswallon, eyes screwed shut, felt Golganak’s point chisel into his heart.
He screamed as that insidious metal entered his veins, more poisonous than mercury, more acidic than bile, and he felt himself clawed him down to Yffarn with a million invisible griping fingers.
Caswallon’s head stung from a thousand ant bites. His mortal flesh dissolved, yet Caswallon remained cognitive amid his agony and thus was exposed to He who waited.
“A sacrifice to you, Master!” Caswallon heard Morak’s voice coming from a very long way away. Caswallon’s fetch turned slowly; even his ghost felt like torn paper discarded on a fire, and as he turned a voiceless cry fled his withered lips.
Caswallon stood in a cavern dripping with slime. There were faces all around him, mocking, leering gargoyles and dark nameless horrors that never saw the light of day. Evil visages every one—he recognised the many Soilfin among them almost as friends. The sorcerer in him knew these creatures for acolytes, servants of Old Night, Morak’s only master.
Caswallon’s ghost felt the presence of eyes somewhere below, a gaze far heavier than anvils, pulling him down through the solid wet stone of the black cavern’s surface. Again Caswallon’s ghost-scream went unheard as he was sucked through the floor to emerge in yet another cavern.
This second cave was filled like a chalice with dark liquid that Caswallon knew to be the blood of Old Night. The pull of those eyes was worse than before; Caswallon felt his soul torn apart like a cracked egg on a stove as his petrified gaze was trapped by the ravenous eyes residing inside the huge, severed head on a plinth above him.
The god laughed as He opened Caswallon up and laid him out amid his lies for all to see. Old Night was inside the sorcerer now and Caswallon’s silent screams started again, their intensity so violent several lesser gods and demi-gods felt it nine planets away.
Sorcery has a way of paying back its owner eventually; it comes with an invisible label: “USE WITH CAUTION.”
Such was the fate of Caswallon of Kelthaine, usurper, sorcerer, and murderer, and yet a man once considered the wisest in that realm. But he had dabbled too deep in the dark arts, and thus was he rewarded.
The god slid His heavy essence inside the fragile shell of the sorcerer’s writhing soul. A frail broken thing, but just strong enough to enable Him to reclaim His remaining body parts from the other eight worlds where they had been locked in sealed vessels after His defeat at the end of the Second War against His father, The Weaver.
Cul-Saan the Firstborn watched in dispassion as His head dissolved on the plinth like melting wax, breaking the stone in two. In didn’t matter, for He no longer had use for that head. Now the sorcerer’s fetch would serve as ample conduit, allowing Him to break free of this jail at last and roam the void once more.
Throughout the mountain, Old Night’s creatures chittered and danced on seeing their master returning to the world—albeit in shade format only. Cul-Saan heeded them not. He drifted up from the dungeons below that mountain like an ill wind, His form now taking the shape of a black eyeless owl. Then, with a single sharp bitter cry, the First-born broke free of the mountain prison and shot forth—a reverse meteor—into the heavens above, even as the first lava ash of the exploding mountain levelled the jungle and cities of eastern Vendel, swallowing them whole. Old Night, the great enemy of Ansu, had returned.
All this Morak witnessed as he sat bestride his spear. In slow circles he dropped to the palace below, where Vaarg watched him with greedy eyes.
***
The raven sped north, a black speck above the veins of red below. He flew swift and strong until he found his brother hopping amidst the greying, rime-glistened bodies of the dead outside Car Carranis.
“Uncle is back,” the first raven croaked to his brother. “We need to tell Father.” The second bird cawed agreement and the pair lifted into the sky in unison. Together the birds winged up to where Oroonin sat contemplating an elaborate chess game inside the intricate confines of His multi-layered mind. Oroonin stirred as His ravens found Him and settled amid dark ruffles on His cloak, each picking a shoulder.
“What is it, my children?”
“That which is foreseen,” said the first raven.
“Has come to pass,” added the second, pecking an inch-long space-louse buried within the god’s cloak and consuming it whole.
“Then it is time at last.” Oroonin smiled and clapped His hands with relish. “We’ve waited long for this, my birds!” The ravens squawked and hopped free of Oroonin’s shoulders, and the Wanderer’s hot excited breath steamed like a venting kettle as He strode from His remote sky palace, summoning Uppsalion and His hounds. The third and final war of the gods had begun. But which side would He take? That night, the Wild Hunt patrolled the night skies again.
***
General Gonfalez called a halt ten miles from the ruins of Kella City. Beside him, his men muttered and shook with fear. Gonfalez tried to speak but no words could find his lips. Ahead raged fires, a blaze so horrible the heat reached them where they sat their horses, barely controlling the beasts. The sky to the west was occluded by ash falling like grey snow and blanketing wood and field and hill ahead.
“We must turn back!” One of Gonfalez’s captains yelled in his ear. “We cannot linger here!” Others joined in the cry and Gonfalez nodded.
“We return to Kelthara!” Gonfalez yelled at his troops. “We take that city once and for all! The sorcerer is dead. I rule Kelthaine now!” His men muttered and stared at him, and even Gonfalez wasn’t convinced by his tone. But they obeyed him, for what else could they do?
But as Gonfalez’s army of ex-Tigers turned about they found the silent legions of Groil marching toward them. “What’s this?” Gonfalez shouted. “What’s going on? Surely they’re not attacking? I—”
A racket like a sawmill above had men staring up just as the dragon fell upon them. Vaarg settled in the midst of Gonfalez’s army as men fell from their horses and crashed into each other in terror.
Gonfalez watched with numb lips as a small figure stepped down from the dragon’s back. He appeared as a handsome man, small in build and clad in simple black. He approached Gonfalez in a calm, easy manner.
“I have no need of your army,” Morak smiled as he raised Golganak aloft and Gonfalez voided his bowels, feeling the sudden unleashed horror of that obsidian shaft. “And I have no need of you, soldier. But my spear (he shook Golganak) can always use more souls to drink.”
And so the killing started, as dragon, spear, and Groil (eagerly now serving their true master) fell upon Gonfalez’s men, killing every single one. Once they were dead, the feeding began. Gonfalez’s sightless eyes gazed like a stricken deer as a two-headed Groil rose over his broken body and tore him open with his serrated sword.
That night, as Morak stood alone in the grove at the appointed hour, he felt the shade of his master come visit. “The realm is yours
,” Morak said as the massive presence of Old Night silenced the dark trees.
“YOU HAVE DONE WELL, MOST FAITHFUL SERVANT,” the voice tore through the trees, shaking them and loosening soil so that slimy things broke out on its surface. “THIS WORLD SHALL BE YOUR REWARD, BUT FIRST YOU MUST CLEANSE IT OF THE SERVANTS OF MY LESSER KIN.”
“That won’t take long.” Morak smiled at the shadow creeping through the trees. “I shall break this realm and then move east where most are already my slaves. Dragon and spear shall pave the way!”
“THAT IS WELL. NOW I MUST AWAY TO RECLAIM MY BODY. ONCE I HAVE DONE THAT I WILL AVENGE MY MALTREATMENT BY MY FATHER AND KIN!”
A flicker of deeper dark, then the trees shook again—though this time in relief as the terrible presence of Old Night left the atmosphere and soared up into the night sky.
From his own lofty seat, Oroonin watched the black owl sail between the stars. Big Brother was off to reclaim His severed body parts. Once he had those, or rather the runes and strength locked within them, Old Night would muster his gang and issue challenge throughout the cosmos.
Oroonin know the pattern; after all this was just revisiting old ground. But this time the outcome could well prove different, so best He keep in with Big Bad Brother—at least in the short term. Oroonin smiled as He leaped up into Uppsalion’s stardust saddle and bid the death horse ride out from His halls, and chase the dark speck of His departing brother out into the void.
And so it begins…
***
Queen Ariane watched the distant cloud covering the western horizon, her heart heavy as lead. The enemy had gone, and now they had new friends. She should be delighted but instead her belly shook with sudden dread.
“What do you make of it, my lord?”
Halfdan stood beside her, his face resolute and grim as her own. “I do not know, my Queen. But I fear that whatever is occurring in Kella City will soon fall upon us. We must make ready for something we can scarce comprehend, and by that I mean we must be stout of heart and summon courage we didn’t know we had.”
“I concur,” Ariane nodded and behind her Tarello and Jaan and Valentin all nodded too. “Survival is the key until your son returns from the north.”
“My son—hah! You put too much faith in that one. Corin is a reckless boulder crashing through trees at midnight. I love him and know him to be special, but he is only one man, Queen Ariane. One individual. Despite his destiny. What we need is your wizard Zallerak’s knowledge and skills, but I assume we’ve still no news from that quarter?”
“He’s gone.” Silon joined them and squinted at the reddish dark line on the western horizon. “So Kella City burns and with it our hopes of a new Crystal King,” Silon sighed and rubbed the diamond earring he always wore. “Looks like we need a new plan, people.”
“Corin won’t let us down!” Cale’s pale scared face popped up from nowhere, causing Halfdan glance his way in curious fashion.
“And who might this young pipsqueak be?” Lord Halfdan said.
“Squire Cale.” Ariane winked at the boy who beamed in return. “Despite his perennial impertinence, this one has proved an asset in the main. Cale has a stout heart, my lord, and he’s shrewd for such a ragamuffin.”
“And I approve of your sentiments, Master Cale.” It was Halfdan’s turn to smile. “And hope that you are right. But we need to rethink our moves. I for one suggest we vacate this fortress sooner rather than later and therefore distance ourselves from whatever is happening over there.” Halfdan pointed to the glow now spreading in the west.
“You are right, my lord,” Ariane flashed the former High King’s brother a brave grin. “Kelthara is a city of ghosts. It saps the will of our army and we need to fight on familiar ground. I propose we return to Wynais and make our final stand in the Silver City, where Elanion can intervene on our behalf should she wish to.
“What say you captains mine?”
All agreed, as no one wanted to linger in Kelthara a moment longer, and marching for Kella City was no longer an option. That only left Wynais. Ariane departed from Kelthara that very afternoon, her captains and army riding with her, and Lord Halfdan’s force alongside, and Kethara’s surviving citizens joined them, having no desire to be left behind. The company made for a brave sight that afternoon.
“What about Corin?” Galed asked her as they trotted their horses down the Great South Road towards the Kelwyn border.
“Cale is right. Corin won’t let us down, I’m certain of it. Too much has happened not to believe in him now. This game isn’t over, it’s just shifting its focus, and our job is to stay alive through all the coming chaos.”
“Sorry I asked.” Galed grinned slightly. “But I too believe in Corin, yet I once believed I never would. We live in the weirdest times, my Queen!”
“They’ll write songs about us one day!” Cale piped up alongside his friend.
“I’d rather be alive in a tavern than dead in a song,” Tamersane said quietly and startled faces turned his way. Tamersane hardly socialised these days and instead spent most his time alone with his woman, Teret. “Just sayin’,” the queen’s cousin smiled briefly at Cale, before his face fell wan and empty again.
“How is he faring?” Ariane asked Teret a day later, whilst the gentle woods of Kelwyn displayed the first buds of early spring. It felt warmer than it had been in months and the queen took that for a good sign.
“Better,” Teret replied. The Rorshai healer still maintained her distance when she could, but at least she was less hostile. “But he still has a way to go and I fear will never be the man he was before killing his brother.”
“None of us can return to who we once were,” Ariane replied. “It’s part of growing up. Hard lessons have to be learned.” Her face softened and she reached across and clutched Teret’s sleeve. “Please tell your man I love him, Teret, and know also that I would love you too, as your queen and kinswoman—you have only to request it.”
“I will tell him,” Teret inclined her head stiffly and without further word guided her horse back to join her lover.
“Strange woman,” Silon said; riding close to the queen, he had heard her exchange with Teret.
“She’s strong and faithful—I like her.”
“Me too.” Silon smiled at the queen. “Teret is proud and stern like all Rorshai. They are a strong people, Ariane. Tough and self reliant.”
The queen smiled back. “Is there anywhere in the known world that you haven’t been, master merchant?”
“Ptarni—I’ve never been to Ptarni. And they say Shen is interesting, though I doubt I’ll see that land either. I’m getting old, Ariane. Ready for retirement in Vioyamis should fates allow.”
“You’ll never retire,” Ariane laughed. “You are too much the meddler.”
“Your words, O queen, are sharper than daggers.”
Two days later, the denizens of Wynais were delighted to see their queen’s army emerge resplendent on the road flanking Lake Wynais, along with many other foreign riders. But the joy was short-lived, for the dragon paid call the very next evening.
Chapter 35
The Horned Man
A corpse spun past Rael’s head as he dived under the table. Beside him, Hagan’s eyes were agog as the huge horned figure pierced another warrior with a tusk and split him open from gut to groin.
“What the…?” Hagan followed suit with his ally and took refuge under the table. This wasn’t their fight, and more than gold he wanted to keep the skin on his back.
Noise had erupted in the hall as the king hurled insults at his men, yelling them to bring down the creature with their spears, which most inconveniently were racked outside in the armoury—anything other than eating knives being banned from the hall. This king was not big on trust.
From somewhere outside, a horn blast filled an empty gap in the eruptions in the hall. Shallan seized that momentary distraction. She rolled, found her toes and leapt arrow-swift up at Redhand, head-butting him in the
chin with her skull. Redhand sprawled backwards amid flailing arms.
“Father, I am with you!”
Another horn blast outside, and Shallan smiled recognising her gift from her father. They had come for her—her friends! But The Horned Man was hedged in now as Redhand’s warriors recovered from their initial surprise, and more arrived from outside with the requested spears and swiftly surrounded the tall figure.
“Father!” Shallan screamed as she witnessed a spearman get through his guard and pierce that hirsute hide, stabbing Cornelius in the chest. Another caught him at the back of the thigh, whilst a third stabbed hard into his side. The Horned Man sank to his knees.
“Kill that fucking thing!” King Redhand, nose bloody, had regained his feet and was kicking his way towards the wounded Cornelius. “Wait, let him live so we can kill him slowly!”
Just then another crash announced that Corin an Fol had arrived with Clouter in full swing, and two Leethmen caught in its path were hacked down.
“Who is that?” A warrior blinked and the king punched him to the floor.
“Kill that tosser too!” King Daan was beside himself.
“This is somewhat predictable,” Rael Hakkenon observed as Corin’s shouting announced his presence to the pair of skulkers under the table. “What is it with that Longshanks? He can’t miss out on anything.”
Hagan smiled slowly. “I’m glad he’s come.” The horn blasted inside the hall and Zukei leapt to Corin’s aid. clubbing a warrior with Shallan’s horn whilst slicing a second with her Karyia. Then arrows filled the hall like stinging wasps as Bleyne took aim from a far corner.
“This crew never fail to disappoint.” Rael curled a lip. “I actually think I’m going to miss them.”
Corin saw Shallan hedged in a corner by the King’s fur-lined throne. He made a noise rather like a squealing sow and hacked across to her, taking out three warriors standing in the way with as many sweeps from Clouter.