by Luke Scull
‘Sasha? What of her?’ the White Lady snarled. Even through the heat of his anger, Cole had to admit it was a beautiful snarl.
‘You had Fergus experiment on her. She barely survived, and what’s left of her...’ He trailed off, feeling sick all of a sudden.
‘I did no such thing,’ the White Lady said, sounding outraged. ‘If Fergus disobeyed me, he will answer for it.’
‘Fergus is dead. So are his assistants.’
The silence that followed Cole’s announcement could have chilled molten iron.
‘I needed him,’ the Magelord said, an edge of hysteria in her voice. ‘Without him, I cannot produce more Unborn. I cannot defend my city.’
‘Alassa—’ Thanates began, but the White Lady was already storming out of the chamber. Cole clutched Magebane tight to his body, anticipating a magical assault, but the Magelord ignored him, not giving him even a single glance.
Cole was left alone with Thanates. He cleared his throat a couple of times and fiddled with his belt. Thanates coughed and pretended to frown at something on the ceiling. Neither man spoke for a long while.
‘Look,’ Cole said eventually, realizing straightaway that it was an inauspicious way to begin. ‘I trusted you. She hanged you from her city walls. A crow pecked out your damned eyes because of her!’
Thanates sighed, his chest heaving. The scars from the torture he had endured five centuries ago were still vivid on his skin. ‘We loved each other once.’
Cole shook his head in disgust. He was as tired of love as he was of being manipulated and shat upon by seemingly every wizard in the north. ‘She’s a cold-hearted bitch.’
Thanates frowned again. ‘Perhaps not so cold-hearted. Not always. Love and hatred are strange things, Davarus Cole. Fixate on either for too long and it can become indistinguishable from the other.’
‘Not for me,’ Cole spat. ‘I know all about hatred.’
Thanates rolled from the bed and began searching about for his clothes. For all his magical power and forbidding countenance, there was something tragic about this mighty wizard-king running his hands over the marble floor, unable to see the discarded clothing right there beside him. Cole hesitated and then gathered up the mage’s trousers and tattered overcoat.
‘Here,’ he said, thrusting them at Thanates with a big sigh. ‘Get dressed.’
*
Derkin’s dilapidated little hovel in Thelassa’s undercity was part of a cluster of ancient buildings that had survived the razing of the holy city of Sanctuary centuries ago. More recently it had emerged unscathed from the partial collapse of Thelassa during the White Lady’s duel with Thanates. It was easily reached via one of the many cellars that connected to the ruins from the city above. Derkin had shown Cole his home weeks ago, when the young assassin had first returned from Tarbonne and descended the ruins in search of his friend. He’d needed someone to talk to and the hunchback was the only person in the city other than Sasha whom he could trust. It was remarkable that a man who had dismembered corpses for a living and who was so horribly disfigured on the outside could possess such a good heart, but if there was one thing Cole had learned from recent events it was that both heroes and villains came in the most unexpected forms.
He knocked on the door, which hung from a single rusted hinge. Suspicious eyes followed his every move. There were others in the makeshift community; the very dregs of society who had been banished from the city above on account of past crimes, incurable disease or simply grotesque physical appearance. The pitted face of a plague victim stared at him from the shadows. A one-legged woman hobbled by, a wooden crutch in one hand and an old cloth bag overflowing with spoiled food in the other. Despite serving a useful purpose in recycling the city’s waste, Cole had learned, those exiled to the undercity faced dire consequences if they dared venture into Thelassa above.
There was no answer from Derkin or his mother. Growing concerned, Cole tested the lock and saw that it was so rotted with age he could likely break it open with his bare hands, or else simply tear the door off its sole remaining hinge and toss it aside. He doubted Derkin would appreciate him showing up and tearing his house apart and so instead he reached into a pocket and withdrew a lock pick. No sooner had he inserted it into the keyhole than the lock clicked open. Nervous at what he would find, Cole pushed open the door.
Sasha was still lying on the table where he’d left her. Bending over her, silver fire dancing around her manicured nails, as out of place in this hovel as a platinum ring lost in a dung heap, was the White Lady of Thelassa.
‘What are you doing here?’ Cole demanded. Derkin and his mother were cowering in the corner of the room. As the White Lady’s purple gaze narrowed and she moved away from Sasha, Cole saw exactly what the Magelord had been doing.
Sasha’s skin was a healthier colour, though it still carried a greyish tinge. The blood was gone from her eyes and she was breathing more easily.
‘I have healed her wounds,’ the White Lady announced. ‘I do not know how the Fade implants will affect her when she awakes.’ The Magelord clicked her fingers and the silver fire wreathing her hands winked out.
‘Fade implants?’ Cole repeated, aghast. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Fergus inserted tiny machines fashioned by the Ancients into her body. I dare not try to remove them lest she dies in the attempt.’
Cole stared at the White Lady, a whirlwind of emotions raging within him. ‘You came here to help her?’ he managed at last. ‘I don’t understand you.’
There was a small flurry of movement on the floor nearby and suddenly Midnight was meowing and pawing at his leg, her claws digging painfully into his skin. She was no longer a kitten but a cat, fully grown.
The White Lady stared beyond Cole, her expression unreadable. ‘Does a newborn babe understand its mother? It cares not who she is, or what she must do to support it. Only that she does.’
Cole wanted to demand how the White Lady could live with herself after the things she had done. He glimpsed the exquisite pain in the Magelord’s purple eyes and knew then that she couldn’t.
She’s the most powerful woman in the world, an immortal mage without peer. And she hates herself.
For the first time, Cole found himself pitying the ruler of Thelassa.
The Magelord blinked and the pain was gone, serenity restored in an instant. She turned to Derkin and his mother, who hadn’t said a word since Cole’s arrival. ‘I understand you have some aptitude for nursing the wounded,’ the White Lady said. ‘The Consult could use your skills in the conflict to come.’
‘Us?’ Derkin said, his bug eyes blinking in confusion. ‘We’re not welcome up above. Are we? I mean, look at me.’
‘These are times of war. I will use whatever I have to help protect my city. Whatever I have.’ The White Lady turned to Cole. ‘My handmaidens attempted to stop you reaching me and were overruled by your will alone. Thanates informs me that the Abandoned called you “Father” when you encountered them on your way to the Hall of Annals. You are stronger in the Reaver’s divinity than I first thought.’
‘I want nothing to do with the Reaver!’ Cole snapped back, though he knew that was a lie. He felt so very weak now. Pulling Sasha back from the brink of death had taken everything he had.
‘The decision is not yours to make,’ the Magelord replied. ‘The lingering remnant of the Lord of Death resides within you, as his heart still beats within these very ruins. Perhaps it is time to see how the heart of the father responds to the child. If you wish to master your hunger you must first learn its source.’
Cole wanted to refuse, but what choice did he have? If he didn’t get help soon he himself would perish. Either way, he had a feeling this wouldn’t lead to anything good.
Then again, when did it ever?
*
The sanctuary of the Mother that had once served as the Shards’ base of operations was a sorry enough sight, but even that paled in comparison to the desecration of the temple Davarus Cole
now found himself in. Five centuries ago it would have been truly magnificent – a monument of unsurpassed grandiosity. Now, marble statues depicting the Mother in her many forms lay broken on a carpeted floor, almost hidden by dust and other detritus. Huge, stained-glass windows that must have cost thousands of gold spires and taken the efforts of the best artificers in the land to craft were shattered beyond recognition.
However, the most damning evidence of the temple’s fall from grace lay in the pulsating thing suspended above the ruined altar.
It was a shocking sight to behold: breathtaking and hideous in equal measure. The heart was the size of a horse, a throbbing mass of rotting tissue, dark purple in colour. Such was the stench that a few months ago Cole would have vomited at the first sickening waft to reach his nostrils. He had grown more familiar with death and its sights and smells since, but nonetheless it still made him queasy. Beside him, the White Lady’s mouth twisted in distaste.
‘The Reaver’s heart was discovered in Deadman’s Channel in the years following the Godswar,’ said the Magelord. ‘I thought it ironic to have it brought to this place. Death taking up residence in a temple that once celebrated the nurturing of life. It pleased me to spite the memory of the goddess I once served.’
A vast network of tubes surrounded the heart, running all the way up to the city above. Cole could see dark blood being forced up the tubes with every slithering beat.
As he stared at the great disembodied organ, he felt something stir within him. An unexplained desire to get closer. He took a few steps until he was standing just below the heart.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded the White Lady, concern in her voice.
He reached up. The heart felt dry and spongy, utterly loathsome. He was about to withdraw his hand when a familiar voice boomed in his skull.
Child. You have come.
He leaped back, shocked at the clarity of the Reaver’s words. Only while dreaming or in the midst of a killing spree had the god ever spoken to him so clearly. Yet even as his hand left the heart, he felt stronger for the brief contact. He had an overwhelming desire to feel that power coursing through him again.
‘It speaks to you, does it not?’ said the White Lady. ‘Even after five centuries, the Reaver’s consciousness refuses dissolution. Perhaps death knows itself too well. Step away, child. The god is too strong for you.’
Cole hesitated – and then, ignoring the Magelord, he reached up and touched the heart again. His skin visibly coloured, the aching in his bones disappearing like mist on a hot summer morning. He took a deep breath, revelled in the restoration of his body. He felt renewed. Rejuvenated. Alive. The heart began to pulse wildly and several of the tubes were torn away, spraying dark blood everywhere.
Embrace what you are, boomed that voice in his skull. You are the key that will unlock the door to our return. The Pattern will be restored but this time without the first Decree. The gods will return – and we will walk among men.
‘Enough. You are damaging the apparatus.’
The Magelord’s hand touched his shoulder and he spun, ready to drive his dagger into her neck. Her purple eyes went wide and she uttered a word. Suddenly she was on the other side of the temple, a hundred yards distant.
The Reaver snarled, the world throbbing red, the woman’s heartbeat thundering in his ears. The hunger raged within him, demanded that he slaughter her, absorb her immortal soul and feast upon it. The world was fire but he was shadow as he flowed towards her. He was vaguely aware of strange words being uttered, the dagger in his hand burning his flesh. The pain only sharpened his ravenous appetite, yet more fuel to the furnace of his hatred.
Just before the Reaver could reach her, the woman suddenly melted into thin air. He howled in fury. She reappeared beside a pile of rubble fifty yards to his right and he sprang at her again, desperate to kill. Once more she disappeared just before his dagger could sink itself into her sweet flesh, rematerializing near the altar.
Primal rage filled him and he screamed. He hurled his dagger at the woman in unthinking fury, wanting to see her reduced to a corpse at any cost. Somehow she danced out of the way of the spinning blade. He launched himself at her and again she uttered a word—
Silver fire wrapped itself around his wrists and ankles, jerking him back, holding him fast.
‘Regain your senses. Return to yourself or you will die here.’
He spat, thrashed wildly, but no matter how he struggled he could not free himself from his magical bonds. The anger began to dissipate, the burning rage within him sputtering and dying as the shadows wreathing his body fell away. Another minute passed and then Davarus Cole found himself gasping for breath, sweat pouring down his brow. ‘I’m sorry,’ he panted. ‘It’s me. You can let go now.’
The White Lady’s own face was covered in a sheen of perspiration. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘it is best not to repeat this experiment.’ For perhaps the first time in five hundred years, the immortal White Lady of Thelassa – the greatest living wizard in the north – had come within inches of death.
The silver fire that restrained Cole dissipated harmlessly away and he collapsed to his knees. He blinked a few times, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Initiating physical contact with the Reaver’s heart had allowed the dead god to get a hold on his mind almost instantly. This time, it had taken a Magelord to stop him. There was no telling what carnage he might have unleashed in the city above if the White Lady hadn’t intervened.
He stared at the giant heart suspended above the altar. The severed tubes were still pumping foul blood all over the temple pews. Cole got to his feet and went to retrieve Magebane, suddenly aware of just how badly his hand had been burned as a result of the dagger heating up while absorbing the White Lady’s magic. He was weighing up whether he should ask her to administer some healing magic when Thelassa’s ruler jerked as surely as if he had just plunged Magebane into her breast.
‘What’s wrong?’ Cole asked.
‘My magic is failing,’ the White Lady replied, her voice thick with disbelief. ‘The barrier around the city has been breached.’
‘Breached?’ Cole repeated. ‘I thought even the Fade weapons couldn’t pierce it.’
The Magelord ignored him. Instead she raised her arms and spoke. Silver fire rose to envelop both her and Cole, and, though it didn’t hurt, he felt the world shift.
The next thing he knew he was standing on the docks, staring out over the water towards Deadman’s Channel. Ahead of him, the great silver barrier that encased the city in a protective mantle shimmered in the late afternoon sun.
A terrifyingly huge warship was anchored just outside the magical barrier. At the prow of the great metal ship stood two impressive-looking Ancients. Cole squinted against the sun, trying to see their faces. The white-haired Fade looked strangely familiar. With the aftermath of his transformation into the Reaver, and the White Lady’s teleportation spell still confusing his thoughts, it took Cole a moment to recognize the Fade from the living memory on the wall back in the ruins.
Their commander. The monster-slayer. The bringer of genocide. The general.
His counterpart, the golden-haired and golden-cloaked Fade with a circlet atop his head – a prince? – was holding something before him. It looked like a great sceptre. A brilliant white beam poured from the tip of the sceptre, and where it struck the White Lady’s barrier there was an explosion of sparks. The Fade prince directed the beam along the barrier, cutting out a great door in the Magelord’s magic.
There was a tense moment in which Cole could see the White Lady’s distress visibly growing. Then a huge rectangular section of the magical barrier simply fell away, breaking into a thousand shards of silver energy that faded from existence moments before striking the water.
Like a harbinger of doom, the Fade warship drifted through the massive gap that had just been opened, heading straight towards Thelassa’s docks.
‘They are here,’ the White Lady said, her voic
e husky with grief. ‘The Fade have come. And I cannot stop them.’
Arrivals
✥
SASHA OPENED HER eyes and screamed.
She caught a glimpse of movement above her and there came a thudding sound, followed by a pained grunt.
‘Babykins!’ exclaimed an elderly female. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I’m fine, Ma,’ said a reproachful voice that seemed familiar. ‘I asked you not to call me that in front of my friends.’
The world slowly pieced itself back together. She was lying on a rickety table covered in several old blankets that had been folded to provide support for her back. She felt strange: her entire body tingled and there was a dull thrumming sensation in her brain. The last thing she remembered was a sinister face smiling down at her, a sharp prick in her arm before darkness claimed her...
She sat bolt upright and stared around wildly, utterly disorientated. ‘Where’s Fergus?’ she panicked.
‘Fergus?’ repeated that familiar voice. A bizarre but kindly face appeared above her and she recognized Derkin, Cole’s friend from the Blight. The little fellow pushed her gently back down to the makeshift bed and gave her a comforting smile. ‘I don’t know anything about him. Ghost – I mean Davarus Cole – brought you here. He said you’d been involved in an accident.’
‘Where am I?’
‘We’re in the undercity. The Mistress herself saw to your wounds. It seems you have friends in high places.’
‘Cole?’ Sasha asked. She could hear faint sounds from the city far above – shouts and screams and something else. Something harsh and percussive that stirred up memories of the night of fire, when Dorminia had come under attack from rebels hurling alchemical explosives.
Cannon fire. Are the Fade attacking the harbour?
‘He’s up there,’ Derkin said, nodding at the wooden ceiling. There was a loud bang from somewhere hundreds of feet above and the little hut shook, dust raining down. ‘The Ancients are here,’ the hunchback said, confirming her worst fears.