Cadman's Gambit

by D. P. Prior

  Callixus!

  A black cloud descended over Cadman’s eyes. He tried to fan it away, but his hands wouldn’t move; suddenly felt he needed to breathe, but couldn’t. One, two, three. Oh cripes. Oh cripes, no! The dark fog was inside his skull, eating away at what was left of his brain, rolling down to consume his innards. Oblivion! Not me! Not meee!

  Cadman sat bolt upright. Someone was screaming. Someone was…Oh, it’s me. He shook the fug from his head and tried to orientate himself. Misty black ribbons swirled beside him, coalescing into Callixus. Cadman followed the burning glare of the wraith’s eyes, saw movement in the templum as the smoke began to clear.

  Shadrak crept back to Shader’s body, bent over the face as if listening for breath, then felt around the throat. Probably as skilled at detecting death as I am.

  Callixus drifted past Cadman’s shoulder, heading down the nave. Shadrak glanced up, then hurriedly rummaged through Shader’s pockets. He pulled out something dark and sinuous. Cadman squinted. That had to be the statue, the body of Eingana. It was still smoking, throwing off sparks of amber. Callixus drew his black blade, raised it to swing, but Shadrak managed to thrust the statue into a pouch and throw himself into a twisting backflip in one fluid motion. As Callixus struck air, the assassin darted behind the altar and seemed to be swallowed up by the ground.

  Callixus started back down the aisle, eyes like twin red suns.

  ‘No, you idiot!’ Cadman’s toes clattered on stone as he stormed towards him. Bloody illusion had gone again, and with it every last scrap of security. ‘The statue! Get the sodding statue!’

  The wraith sped back to the altar and dispersed through the floor.

  Cadman sagged and nearly fell. He lacked the strength to resume his fatness. Lacked the strength to go on. What have you done, you stupid, stupid fool? Keep to the shadows, didn’t I always say? Never do anything rash. Just lay low and endure. But now someone else had the power of Eingana, and goodness only knew what that meant.

  Cadman dragged himself as far as Shader’s body, which was lying in a steadily growing pool of blood. He almost felt sorry for the knight. You had to admit, his final stand had been somewhat valiant. But what chance had he had against the Dweller, not to mention a knife in the back? Comes to us all, in time. Cadman bent down on creaking joints and closed Shader’s eyes; didn’t think he could stand back up again.

  Heat radiated from the pocket of his tattered robe, burning away the frost in his bones. Well, it couldn’t hurt, could it? If Eingana wanted to help him in his weakness, who was he to refuse? Just a quick dribble of power and he’d be right as—

  He started at a squawk and slipped in a patch of blood, landing on his bony arse. He looked every which way, heart slapping crazily at his ribcage like there was no tomorrow.

  Nothing. There was nothing there.

  ‘Caw.’

  There it was again, only this time closer, more urgent. He could almost feel something breathing down the back of his neck. The ice in Cadman’s bones chilled a few hundred degrees, sent its necrotic fingers around his heart. The walls of the templum closed in around him, the roof starting to drop like the lid of a tomb.

  Breathe, you silly old sod. Breathe.

  Suddenly the emptiness of the Void was looking like an old friend in comparison to the mess he’d got himself into. Well, maybe that was overstating it. He winced at the tightening in his stomach—psychosomatic of course, like the ghosting the amputees had reported to him back on the front. Back when…Back…

  Too many chances, blast it. Too many actions. Didn’t I always say it would come to this. In for a penny in for a pound, then. Too late to back out now.

  His fingers closed around the amber pieces, absorbing their warmth, accepting their comfort. So what if some antediluvian bird cawed every time he used their power. It wasn’t as if anything bad had happened. Just needed to act fast, that’s what. Decide what to do with all that power and do it quick, before there were consequences.

  The pieces throbbed in his hands, sent stabs of heat into his brain.

  ‘Show me.’ Cadman pressed the eye and the fang together, amber radiating from their contact like a miniature sun. ‘Show me what to do!’

  Blistering flames filled his skull, burning away the fog and indecision. Clear as day, he saw it all laid out in front of him. The Dweller oozing malice, returning to claim its due. A blast of amber so powerful it seemed to burn the world. A face so bloodless it could have been made of wax. The most unnatural eyes of electric blue locked onto him, scrutinizing him as if from the other end of a microscope. Banks of screens flickering between images, row upon row of bat-winged demons staring at them with sightless eyes. Something dark dropping from the sky—a monstrous black spider, legs curling around him. No, not legs, they were fingers. Not a spider, then. A hand, gripping, squeezing, crushing.

  ‘What have I done?’ Cadman sent the eye and the fang clattering to the floor. ‘What have I done?’

  Too late, old boy. Far too late.

  The amber glow cast long shadows about the templum and momentarily lit up Shader’s dead face, formed a halo around his head like the Ancients’ paintings of the Luminaries, or whatever they’d been called back then.

  And then Shader was lost to the dark as Eingana’s light faded and died. For the briefest of moments, Cadman was back in his cot, tiny hands grasping through the bars, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘No, Mama. Please! Don’t turn out the light!’

  He picked up the amber pieces and shoved them deep in his pockets, turned and headed back outside like a diver striking for the surface.

  In for a penny—

  Shut up!

  In for a—

  ‘I said shut…’ Cadman took a deep breath and finished in a whisper. ‘Shut up.’

  Outside, the knights of the Lost waited for him like his faithful children. Only they weren’t. They hated him, just as much as Callixus hated him. Couldn’t say he blamed them, either.

  As he walked towards them they parted, revealing his black carriage at the end of the Domus Tyalae, the driver standing with the door open, chimney-stack hat held to his chest. He’d never done that before, and it quite put the frighteners on Cadman. He stepped inside and the driver shut the door behind him. For one very nasty moment, Cadman had the distinct feeling he was being taken to his own funeral. As the carriage clattered away, he put his head out of the window. The driver’s back was silhouetted against the silvery moon, creating the impression he was frozen in ice. He must have sensed Cadman watching and twisted in the seat to look over his shoulder. Crimson flame flickered from his eyes and he began to chuckle. He turned back to face the road ahead, and the chuckle bubbled up into a full and throaty laugh.

  * * * * *

  THE STORY CONTINUES IN…

  SHADER

  Book Two

  BEST LAID PLANS

  D.P. Prior

  The reavers are swarming and this time their prey is the supreme ruler of the Templum, the Ipsissimus himself. With Shader dead and his piece of the Statue of Eingana in the hands of Shadrak the Unseen, the threat of the Unweaving of all Creation is one step nearer. Dr Cadman realizes he’s in too deep and there’s nothing for it but to go on the offensive. If he’s to survive the coming war for the statue, what better allies could he have than an army of the living dead? As Sektis Gandaw closes in and a clash of cultures threatens the land of Sahul, the philosopher Aristodeus still has ideas of his own that could decide the fate of all existence. But with the passage to the heavenly realm of Araboth covered by the Abyss, nothing is as it should be. Aristodeus knows that even Shader’s death can be turned to his advantage; after all, it’s a long game, and he holds all the cards. But even the best laid plans …

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  About the Author

  Photograph by Theo Prior

  D.P. Prior read Drama, Classics and History at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth. He studied Mental Health Nursing at the University of Sussex and read Theological Studies at the University of Notre Dame, Western Australia. He is the founder of the online discussion community Mysticism Unbound. He works as a freelance editor and author.

  Please let me know what you think!

  You are welcome to contact the author with any feedback at:

  derekprior@yahoo.co.uk

  The Fantasy Works of D. P. PRIOR

  Chronicles of the Nameless Dwarf

  The Ant-man of Malfen

  The Axe of the Dwarf Lords

  The Shader Series

  Cadman’s Gambit

  Best Laid Plans

  The Unweaving(coming summer 2012)

  The Archon’s Assassin (coming winter 2012)

  Rise of the Nameless Dwarf (coming summer 2013)

  A Dark Perdurance (coming winter 2013)

  The Memoirs of Harry Chesterton

  Thanatos Rising

  REVIEWS OF THE Chronicles of the Nameless Dwarf

  “…this is a masterful peek into Prior's style and the world he has created. I recommend it to all fans of fantasy fiction.”

  Five Stars

  --M.R. Mathias, best-selling author of the Wardstone Trilogy

  “This book has a wonderful plot, some great fights, twists and turns plus interesting characters; and maybe most importantly a main character with a dry and cynical sense of humor...a couple of laugh-out-load moments…I can hardly wait for future installments.”

  Five Stars

  --Ray Nicholson, Top 1000 Reviewer Amazon.com

  “…strong and leads the reader on a chase to the ending. There is something for everyone in this tale: some violence, some venality, some bonding of characters and some comic relief. I found this an easy and fast paced read and quickly devoured it. I will be sure to follow Nameless through his Chronicles.”

  Five Stars

  --J.L. Chase, Red Adept Reviews

  “The Ant-Man of Malfen is steeped in the tradition of good old-fashioned swashbuckling fantasy, reminiscent of Robert E. Howard…Prior writes in a style that is both fearless and entertaining, and gives each of his characters a unique voice. This novella was my first foray into this unique universe, and by the end, I was wanting more. Very good read.”

  Five Stars

  --V. Daniels, best-selling author of The Interstellar Age and Fallen Angels series

  “D.P. Prior has a talent for characterization...The plot of this book is dark, filled with sorcery, brutal fights, and more than a few monsters… I also saw just a tad of humor. Prior is a master at imagery. His pen paints a vivid picture of the realms and the characters…Fans of science fiction and fantasy will enjoy The Ant Man of Malfen.”

  Five Stars

  --Readers Favorite

  EXCERPT: THE CHRONICLES OF THE NAMELESS DWARF

  THE ANT-MAN OF MALFEN

  “Told you,” Nils hollered from the top of the ridge. “Malfen.”

  Silas struggled up beside him and looked down the escarpment to where flaming torches hung from sconces around high walls running like a curtain across the pass at the foot of the Farfall Mountains. The mountains rose like gigantic steps into the receding distance, never sheer, their gradient long and gentle, as if the Farfalls had been poured like molten sludge upon the plains between Malkuth and Qlippoth.

  “Look down there,” said Nils pointing at the immense gate.

  Silas squinted. It was more of a portcullis than a gate, probably of wrought iron and virtually impregnable. Shadowy forms passed back and forth behind the grill. It seemed that Malfen never slept, and that it was going to be impossible to enter discreetly.

  “What will you do?” asked Nils.

  Silas was tempted to march right up and demand a meeting with Shent, but something told him that wasn’t such a good idea. His optimism had deserted him, and the scene below was unnerving.

  Malfen looked like a clump of warped and twisted structures that had been randomly thrown together. The alleyways between houses were narrow and winding, giving the whole place the appearance of a spider’s web. Shapes crept through the dark spaces and a reddish haze hung over the town like a cloak of blood.

  Not for the first time, Silas wished he’d never clapped eyes on Blightey’s grimoire. If it hadn’t been for the entry about the planting of the Liche Lord’s staff in a secret place in Qlippoth, nothing would have dragged him within a hundred miles of Malfen. That, and the uncovering of a poem by the foppish Quintus Quincy who’d claimed the Ant-Man knew of every incursion into Qlippoth and had captured anyone lucky enough to escape the lands of nightmare and wrung their secrets from them. Silas had caught up with Quincy in The Wyrm’s Head in New Jerusalem. The old soak had talked like a gossiping housewife once Silas had stood him a few rounds.

  Quincy said the Ant-Man was just a nickname fashioned to terrorise the people of Malfen into meeting his demands—the usual sort of things: protection and extortion.

  Quincy’s source had been the journal of some gold-digging chancer called Noris Bellosh who’d spent a year and a day in Qlippoth before falling into Shent’s hands. Bellosh had served Shent for almost a decade and he believed the Ant-Man knew more about Qlippoth than anyone alive. Shent, he said, had an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the geography of the nightmare lands pieced together from the agonised testimonies of his victims. Bellosh had claimed Shent literally was an ant-human hybrid, but Quincy attributed that to the man’s sensationalism. Bellosh had been offered a small fortune for publication of his journal but hadn’t lived to capitalise on it. He’d eaten poisoned walnut and date bread—his favourite repast—and the journal had disappeared. Quincy had bought it from a man named Albert in one of New Jerusalem’s flea markets.

  Silas shook his head. It had started as a playful quest. He had rummaged around in libraries, visited the most ancient sites of New Jerusalem. He’d spoken with wizards and even flown on a mysterious air-raft with the mad mage, Magwitch, looking for the ancient portals that Blightey’s grimoire stated existed between the worlds. All a wild goose chase, Silas had concluded, but still the book urged him on.

  Finding out about Blightey had proven more or less impossible. As Silas had learned from the diary portions of the book, Blightey was not from Aethir. He came from a place called London, so he claimed. From what Silas could gather from the later entries, the place had subsequently changed names many times. Blightey had later ruled the country of Verusia, where he’d fought valiantly against the despotism of an evil Empire known as ‘Nousia.’ At some point, Blightey had trodden the paths of the Abyss and he’d eventually emerged from one of the gorges of Gehenna into the land of Qlippoth. He’d left his staff there, planted in the loam of nightmares to await the coming of someone Blightey called The Worthy.

  Throughout all his research, Silas had been sceptical; but nevertheless, the more he learned, the more he wanted to know. He studied assiduously, and if he didn’t read through the brittle pages of the grimoire until his head was ready to burst, he couldn’t sleep. He thought of little else, and whenever
he was deprived of the chance to dip into the tome he’d find himself irascible, bordering on frantic.

  “Well?” Nils’s nagging voice cut through the fug of Silas’ pensiveness. “I can’t stand here all day. I got you to Malfen; now you need to keep your side of the deal.”

  Silas sighed and started to weave his hands through the air when he spotted something off to the left at the foot of the slope.

  A few hundred yards out from the town wall, the blackness pooled in a circle.

  “What’s that?” Silas asked, pointing.

  Nils took a step forward and yelped as he slid on the scree. The slope shifted behind him and he was caught in a great tide of slate and rock that carried him all the way to the bottom.

  Silas trudged down after him, surfing the scree in fits and starts, flapping his arms for balance. He hopped off at the foot of the slope and offered a hand up to Nils.

  “Great!” said Nils. “Shogging great! Now I’ve gotta climb—”

  Silas held up a hand for silence as something emerged from the circle of blackness. It was the size of a horse, but with a segmented body and thin articulated legs. Antennae twitched upon a bulbous head and twin eyes the size of saucers shone cyan in the pale moonlight.

  “What is it?” Nils fumbled with his sword and tried to back up the slope. The way the scree slid under his feet it may as well have been a waterfall.