by Tom Lloyd
‘Beyn, take this with you - and only to be used when absolutely necessary.’ He handed over a small wrapped object.
Beyn frowned at it for a moment before taking it. He disliked surprises. Inside the leather wrapping he found a large hooked claw.
Doranei felt a flicker of pleasure at the confusion on his supercilious comrade’s face. ‘Something Endine prepared for us,’ he said by way of explanation.
Tomal Endine was one of King Emin’s most trusted mages; while his magic wasn’t particularly powerful, his knowledge and skill had few rivals in the whole of Narkang and the Three Cities.
‘Is that supposed to fill me with confidence?’ Beyn muttered, turning the claw over to see the sigils that had been scratched into its surface and filled with silver, the substance best suited for magic. ‘Are these the wyvern’s claws?’
Doranei nodded. ‘One for you, one for me. If you’re desperate to send me a message, trace it out on your arm - or any piece of bare flesh. As long as I’m carrying the other claw it’ll scratch out the message on my skin.’
‘Sounds painful,’ Beyn said before a dark grin crept across his face.
‘Don’t even think about that,’ Doranei warned. The same thought had crossed his mind too. ‘Anything that’s not urgent, you’ll be getting a nice long reply, I promise.’
Sebe sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Sounds dangerous. What if this ends up in the wrong hands - Ilumene’s, for example? If tracing over the skin is enough to scratch, what happens if he pushes it into the flesh? How far would he need to go before he hits your artery? Remember the state of his hands? Bastard wouldn’t even hesitate.’
‘It won’t work like that,’ Doranei said, raising a hand to stop Sebe. ‘The claws came from our wager in Scree; the only people who can use them are those who were part of that wager. It’s how Endine managed to bind the spell, so he says.’
‘The three of us and Coran, then?’
‘That’s the lot. Coran’s got the remaining claw, messages go to both.’
‘Will we be hearing from him tonight?’ Beyn asked, suddenly grave.
Doranei grimaced and felt an unexpected urge for a strong drink. He thought for a moment. Morghien had visited their agent in Tor Milist a few weeks back, and been summoned to Narkang with all haste.
‘Probably not. If he’s lucky he’ll be there by now, but the king’s too cautious; he’ll wait until tomorrow evening at the earliest. I’d guess there’s some preparation required and this isn’t something you want to screw up.’
Beyn and Sebe looked at each other; the others just looked puzzled. The king had many secrets, and not even the men of the Brotherhood got to hear them all.
‘Not something I’d want to do at all,’ Sebe muttered. ‘Piss and daemons, there are some enemies you just don’t want to make.’
Doranei didn’t reply. He was painfully aware of the hard look Beyn was giving him. Gods, he’s right too. Might be I’ve already made that enemy. ‘Any of you got any brandy?’ he asked, pulling his coat tighter around his body. ‘Think the night just got colder.’
There was an orange smear across the eastern horizon as the fading sun dropped behind a crown of clouds. From one of the silver-capped towers of King Emin’s palace Morghien had an unparallelled view of the sunset. For a minute or two he followed the progress of a local mage illuminating each of the night spheres in the wealthier streets, leaving stepping-stones of pale bluish light in her wake.
‘Is it time?’ called a tired voice from within the tower.
Morghien checked the sky again and turned back. ‘Close enough to begin.’
King Emin was sat on a three-legged stool, the only seat in the room. The open arrow-slit windows meant it was freezing in there and Morghien felt a pang of sympathy for his friend, wrapped only in a white linen sheet in anticipation of the ceremony to come. He at least had his heavy leather coat and gloves to ward off the cold. Beside the stool was a bundle of clothes and a long pair of iron tongs Morghien had brought from the fireplace in his room.
The king was hunched over, hugging to his stomach a smooth, rounded object. He looked as tired as he sounded. Sleep had become a rare thing with Queen Oterness nursing a month-old son, and the touch of the Skull of Ruling only dulled the constant growl of anger at the back of his mind.
Morghien felt his fingernails dig into his palms. The Skull’s reputation was not a pretty one and this close to it he could well believe the rumours. It had been made to endow Aryn Bwr’s heir with the strength to rule after his father’s death, but the Skull felt like a wild force to Morghien. Just being in its presence made his skin crawl, and that wasn’t normal - nothing like that happened when he was with the young Lord Isak, who carried both Hunting and Protection.
Covering much of the centre of the room were two circles marked in chalk, one inside the other. Between the two Morghien had drawn the sigils of each of the Gods of the Upper Circle: Death, Karkarn, Nartis, Tsatach, Amavoq, Belarannar, Larat, Ilit, Vrest, Inoth, Kitar and Alterr. He skirted the circles, treading carefully to avoid disrupting the chalk, and removed the augury chain from around his neck.
He pulled off the jewelled coins and placed them in turn on the corresponding sigil. The last two, the Lady and the Mortal, went into a pocket. That done, he opened a small ivory-inlaid box and withdrew a handful of dried, blackish-green leaves.
‘Deathsbane?’ Emin said with a frown. ‘Is that wise?’
Morghien gave a sour bark of laughter. ‘Do you mean, “Will it only antagonise him further?” ’ He scattered the leaves liberally between the two circles, not waiting for an answer.
‘I mean that it’s usually only used in necromancy, or so I understood.’
Morghien shook his head. ‘My friend, what we are planning to do will win us no commendations for piety; deathsbane is used in necromancy because it is effective. Healers use it often in poultices and brews; they don’t tell people because there’s always some fool who will use any excuse to tie you to a stake, but it’s not heretical.’
‘Very well,’ Emin muttered, shivering a little. ‘What now?’
‘Now you sit in the circle, carefully.’
Lifting the edges of the sheet so they did not smudge the chalk markings, Emin positioned himself by the side of the circle, squatting down to leave most of the space empty behind him. The only light in the room was a single oil-lamp, turned down as low as it could go to leave just a glimmer.
Without the trappings of state, Emin looked to be a similar age to Morghien now. Emin had aged noticeably in the last year; both men had lined faces and greying whiskers now. While he retained his slender physique - all wiry strength, like a Harlequin - at that moment his majesty appeared diminished. They had first met when Emin was a carefree young man, but even then he had the bearing of a king. Now he was just a careworn, middle-aged man.
‘Time to begin.’ Morghien crouched at the circle’s edge and began to mutter words so softly they were barely sounds at all. A little magic slid from his fingertips and followed the paths of chalk around in both directions. As they met and sealed the circles, Morghien felt a flash in his mind and reeled backwards as the magic barrier snapped open again.
‘What happened?’ Emin demanded.
Morghien took a moment to clear his wits and let the stinging in his head recede. ‘I . . . Ah, I’m not sure.’ He paused as he felt a stirring at the back of his mind: Seliasei, the Aspect of Vasle that inhabited his mind was making her presence known.
‘Of course,’ Morghien said aloud, ‘it’s the Skull; I’m trying to contain it within the circle as well as you.’
‘And that is a bad thing?’
Morghien forced a smile. ‘The Skulls are repositories of vast power. They constantly draw in and put out energy from the Land around them. I cut off that flow with the barrier, but it was like holding back a river with a sheet of paper - the current simply tore a hole and broke the barrier.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Thank you,
my friend, but no. I used very little magic, just enough to seal the circle and create the binding on anything inside. Circles have a very specific prominence in the magical realm: you don’t need to use a lot of power to make them effective. But the bond is inward-facing. Forces entering from outside it are not subject to the same constraints.’
‘What do we do about it?’
He held out his hand. ‘Give me the Skull. It won’t disrupt the ceremony outside the circles - in fact, it might make it easier.’
He recommenced the ritual, sealing the circle again and then standing over the king, speaking arcane words he’d learned a century before. The Gods were traditionally at their weakest at twilight, when they would withdraw a little from the Land, so magic involving them always worked best in that halfway time. The ritual itself was simple, and began with a very gentle summoning. The use of force would come later.
The memory of his first teacher in magic, the father of the infamous Cordein Malich, appeared abruptly in Morghien’s mind as the soft syllables slipped from his tongue, leaving a coppery tang in their wake.
‘Some see magic as a man’s art, where directness and bold action will always triumph. They’re the fools you need to watch for; the ones who puff themselves up like tomcats without a shred of caution. This art we borrow from Gods and daemons, creatures that could swat us like flies should they wish to. Immortals do not appreciate bluster; a little humbleness never goes amiss.’ He sighed as he thought, A shame your son never appreciated your lessons, my friend.
Morghien sensed the light grow a little dimmer. The shadows were already deep, with the lamp turned right down, but the change was enough to notice. He took a long breath.
Humble? I’m trying, master, however ill-suited I am to it.
He repeated the words of summoning, holding back the flow of magic as much as he could without breaking it. He wasn’t often glad of his lack of personal power, but this time it was a good thing, for a full summoning would draw an entity and drag it into the real world. With luck what he was doing was nudging it forward at a time when its reach was slightly weakened.
He nodded to Emin and the king let the sheet slip from his body, spreading it out behind him, taking great care not to let it break the circle. Now Morghien held up the lamp to reveal Emin’s shadow on the sheet as he repeated the summoning, slowly, softly. If he was too insistent, the summoning might work too well; they were already running a great risk. This was by no means the first time he had performed a sundering, but King Emin’s presence meant the chance of being noticed was far greater, and therein lay the danger.
The shadow on the sheet gave a slight twitch. Morghien watched it carefully. King Emin kept perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Morghien as he waited. The shadow twitched again, then turned its head to look around the room.
Excellent. He reached out and placed a hand up against the invisible barrier cast by the circle. It was intact; everything was going according to plan. At twilight the Gods withdrew a little from the Land, but a tiny fragment of their selves was imbued in each of their servants who took holy orders. King Emin had done that years ago - albeit for reasons more practical than pious. The summoning was aimed at the only part of Lord Death available to someone of Morghien’s strength at twilight - that sliver within King Emin.
He turned the lamp up and watched the darkness behind Emin as it strengthened and solidified.
‘I imbue,’ he said aloud, allowing the flow of magic to increase and run forward towards the circle. The shadow trembled. ‘I imbue,’ he repeated, summoning the image of a hammer falling in his mind. Morghien had seen a mage-smith work his trade once, and had noted the directness required to weave magic into steel or silver, where the rhythm of the blows and the repetition of the words were as crucial as the strength of the wielder.
‘I imbue,’ he said a third time, pushing out as much magic as he could while signalling to Emin. As Morghien began to speak the words for a fourth time, Emin rose smartly from his crouching position and stepped out over the circle to join Morghien on the other side. The shadow lurched forward to follow, but was caught on the edge of the circle and rebounded, shuddering, as Emin wrenched himself from its grip. It stilled to a dark stain on the linen sheet.
Morghien blew out the lamp and plunged the room into near-darkness.
Both men blinked to adjust their eyes.
‘It worked then?’ Emin said, looking at the sheet. The shadow looked like a stain of some sort. Emin thought he could make out the top of the head and one arm, but he wasn’t certain.
‘It appears so,’ Morghien said cautiously as he placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Don’t break the circle yet, just in case.’
The two men stood watching the sheet in silence until Emin seemed to remember he was naked and started shivering again.
‘Can I get dressed yet?’
Morghien nodded, his eyes not leaving the sheet. ‘The circle must remain until after the sun is fully down.’
Emin unwrapped the bundle of clothes by the stool and quickly pulled on the breeches, then the boots. He was reaching for the shirt when Morghien suddenly stumbled sideways, as though he’d been struck in the shoulder.
‘Morghien!’ Emin shouted, grabbing his friend by the arm to stop him falling.
‘Shit,’ Morghien whimpered, supporting himself on the wall with one hand, ‘He comes.’
Emin turned towards the circle and saw the air shimmer and prickle with tiny bursts of silvery-green light. A crashing sound came from nowhere and echoed through the small tower-room, sounding like the fall of a tombstone. Both men clapped their hands to their ears, wincing, as a second crash reverberated through their bodies. In the blink of an eye a tall, cowled figure appeared in the circle. The force of his arrival knocked them both backwards, but it was Emin who recovered his wits first. He dragged Morghien down to one knee.
‘You think to bind me?’ Death rumbled slowly.
The eight-foot-tall God towered over them both. His body was hidden by a long robe; in one hand He held a golden sceptre. With His free hand Death stroked the invisible barrier of the circle, His emaciated bone-white fingers and pitch-black, pointed fingernails leaving a trail of light in the air where they scored the barrier.
‘No, my Lord,’ Morghien gasped, flinching every time those fingers touched the barrier he’d created, ‘I would never presume such strength.’
Death looked down at the sheet on the ground inside the circle. His face was hidden in the shadows of His cowl but Morghien felt His gaze burning like a flame.
‘You presume too much.’ There was a growl of anger in Death’s voice and Morghien felt a flicker of panic. ‘I see a traitor before me.’
‘I had no choice,’ Emin said, feeling the God’s focus alight upon him. He chanced a look up and felt pulsing anger radiate over him, as Death’s power had once burned in his veins. ‘What was done in Scree was an abomination, but it was done to provoke a reaction; to undo the damage it did I must be free of its influence.’
‘And so you betray your God,’ came the booming reply. ‘Traitors to my name are heretic and there is only one punishment for that.’
‘My Lord,’ Morghien repeated, ‘can you not see the damage your wrath has done?’
‘I have killed unbelievers. They are of no consequence.’
‘The deaths are poisoning the Land against you, and Azaer exploits that.’
‘Azaer is a shadow, nothing more. I fear no God, no mortal - and certainly no mere shadow.’
‘That is what it is counting on,’ Emin insisted, a feeling of desperation welling up inside him. ‘It has made its weakness a strength. It goes unnoticed and unchecked.’
‘You have no need to fear the shadow,’ Death growled. ‘You need fear only me. You have walked away from the vow you took, and that makes you my enemy.’ It appeared to the two men watching that the figure looked off into the distance over Emin’s head. ‘You - and your blood; perhaps my punishment should be the son y
ou watch over at night.’
‘No!’ Emin shouted, but before he could say any more, Morghien had plunged his hand into the pocket of his jacket.
‘We are not your enemy,’ he roared, rising. ‘You are blinded by what has been done to you, and you cannot see the danger emerging from the shadows!’
‘Kneel before your God,’ Death snarled, his voice crashing against their ears with savage force. ‘Kneel, or I shall strike you down and consign your soul to Ghenna.’
‘You will do neither,’ Morghien snapped, ‘and nor will you threaten a newborn out of pique.’ His fingers closed around the Skull in his pocket and a surge of energy flooded his body. ‘Our war is with the shadow - whether or not you see the threat, I will not let you stand in our way.’
‘You threaten me?’ Death roared, raising his sceptre.
In response Morghien pulled the Skull from his pocket and held it in the air between the chalk circles. ‘You are weakened, diminished by what happened in your temple in Scree. I have felt the Reapers in Lord Isak’s shadow. They are broken free of your grip and the loss has wounded you gravely. I may not have the strength to defeat you, even with this Skull, but you know the hurt it can cause you. To kill me will cost me more than you can afford.’
‘You declare war on your God? Such foolishness shall be your damnation.’
Death’s reply was considerably quieter. Morghien could feel His attention fixed firmly on the Crystal Skull. For creatures of magic, fighting from within a containing circle would be like an army fighting up a mountain slope, with every step requiring huge effort. The power of one of the Crystal Skulls would be like a river running down that slope.
‘I do not,’ Morghien said as calmly as he could with magic coursing through his body. ‘You are the Lord of Final Judgements and no mortal can deceive you. So I say this: I believe we serve your interests. I believe we do what must be done and that if we fail, so will our Gods. For this reason I must threaten you, for I cannot allow even you to stop us.’