by J. W. Webb
He’d get a few sly pokes up her arse before the warlock had his wicked way. The Morwellan killer smiled that crooked smile. Smiling—it was becoming a habit of late. The new Hagan, jocular and urbane. In his mind he’d already formed the blueprint to a plan. He would be rich within a month or two. It was all that mattered.
End of Part One
Part Two - Island
Chapter 18: Schemers and Dreamers
Night crouched on Kella like a brooding beast. Nothing stirred. The twisted cobbled streets were deserted. Even the skinny dogs scurrying about for scraps of food seemed furtive.
It was almost tangible, a mood of foreboding lurking and creeping outside the smoke-clogged houses whilst the city folk shivered within. The dark hours were very dangerous in Kella these days. There were things prowling out there in the streets—shadowy things, creatures that even the wildest dogs gave a wide birth. From whence they came no one knew, though everyone suspected.
Out on the walls, the guards paced back and forth, as restless as the rest. Occasionally one of them would glance up at the high tower of Kell’s golden palace and shudder. A sorcerer dwelt there now.
Soft footsteps announced the arrival of the Captain of the Citadel, the newly appointed Lord Perani. Formerly the High King’s champion, he had thrown his lot in with Caswallon and held the city under curfew.
The two guards sprang to attention as their captain’s burly frame emerged from the night. “All is quiet, my lord,” said the nearest man, a slight quaver in his voice. “The city sleeps.”
“That is well,” responded Perani with a growl. The deep voice fitted well with the captain’s ferocious appearance. Perani was a big man, broad of shoulder and strong boned. It was said none had ever bested him with the sword. The heavyset features were scarred from his many fights.
Once, he’d been Lord General of the elite Tigers, but the Tigers were gone, disbanded on Caswallon’s orders after the disgraced Belmarius had fled with his Bear Regiment following the failed coup two years back. Belmarius and Halfdan had both become alarmed at how Caswallon’s influence was clouding all the High King’s decisions. They had approached Perani to gain his support and, after council, the three agreed to act against Caswallon, using their influence to banish him and his followers from the realm. But Perani was already in Caswallon’s pay. He betrayed his fellow generals. The Tigers turned on the other two regiments, and so the coup failed before it even began.
After that, Perani’s first task had been to smash the Wolves, the only regiment still openly defiant to Caswallon. Those Wolves not put to the sword had vanished with their outlawed leader, Halfdan, rumored dead.
Since that pathetic insurrection, Caswallon smelled treachery everywhere. Hence, the “loyal” Tigers were no more. The coup had been quashed under the High King’s orders, but even back then everyone knew who was behind the action.
Caswallon had been cunning, working on Kelsalion’s paranoia until the High King ordered the swift execution of many notable loyalists, his staunchest supporters. So two years later, when Caswallon seized control in Kella, most his enemies were already dead. Perani, shrewd and forward thinking, had made his choice then. Live or die—simple really.
Perani looked up at the high tower, from whence there shone a single yellow light, the only glow allowed in Kella after the midnight hour. Caswallon forbade illumination, as it compromised his alchemy.
Despite his stoic nature, Perani shuddered, feeling the growing menace emanating from that light high above. What transpired up there no one knew, or at least lived to say. Perani shook his head, wondering what price he would have to pay for serving this new ruler. Power always had its price.
“Keep alert!” he snapped at the two men. Relief showed in their eyes as he curtly left them to their cold duty. It had been a bloody business, the remolding of Kella City. Initially there had been a lot of resistance among the noble houses, those still alive after the coup the previous summer.
After the initial shock of the High King’s assassination, many had suspected Caswallon’s involvement. Only a week ago a few of these had sought to bring him down in various ways. They were foolhardy, brave men. They—and their families—had died horribly. There were few of Kell’s noble descendants left, thanks to Caswallon—and Perani.
A scream was cut short somewhere deep in the city.
That’ll be the Groil feeding.
Perani still struggled with the Groil, creatures of sorcery summoned in the depth of night. The city was crawling with them.
But what choice did he have? To remain neutral was no option. And he was ambitious, seeing his own rise to wealth and power written in the new order.
It had been easy, really. Those two great lords of Kelthaine were both far away now and no threat: Belmarius in the south, sulking on the Permian border, awaiting the war with the Sultan that would surely come. With him, the third army of Kelthaine, the displaced Bears. They would die down there in the heat and dust.
Of Lord Halfdan’s whereabouts no one was certain, though Perani suspected he was still alive. The High King’s brother was fox cunning. Perani didn’t go with the rumor of his death and instead suspected Halfdan was walled up in his mountain fortress, Point Keep. Halfdan could hold out for months there, as Point Keep lay hidden in the deep folds of the High Wall itself. Together with its sister castle, Car Carranis, Point Keep guarded the Gap of Leeth in the northeastern frontier of Kelthaine. Both strongholds remained loyal to the dead High King. Halfdan, were he alive, was doubtless plotting revenge with his surviving Wolves.
Let him rot there for the meanwhile—they’d flush Halfdan’s wolf pack out in due course, once Caswallon had dealt with the other rebels down in Kelwyn. Besides, they’d probably kill each other out of sheer boredom.
The Wolves had ever been a band of drunken ruffians, commoners recruited mainly for their violent nature and reckless courage, despised in Kella even before the coup. But during that fight most had died defending their city whilst Belmarius had slunk away and Perani sold out.
Another scream—this one closer. The Groil were busy tonight.
A year back Craggon, the last Lord Captain of the Citadel, had met with an unfortunate accident. Caswallon had given his commission to Perani, together with certain other rewards.
After the High King’s murder, Perani had seized the heads of various noble families and dragged them before the council, claiming they were Permian sympathizers involved in the assassination of Kelsalion—ridiculous notion though that was.
The unfortunates had been swiftly tried, tortured, and beheaded. Those heads still rotted on spikes above the South Gate, a warning to General Belmarius should he rediscover his courage and return.
The nobles’ homes were burned down, those not taken by the sorcerer’s people, and their families were executed or sold into slavery—all save the young girls and boys. These went to Caswallon, whose appetite was large in such matters.
It had not stopped there. Perani had almost lost his nerve when he witnessed Caswallon’s full wrath descending on the city. The memory of that slaughter still hung in the air.
All suspected supporters of the renegade son of Kelsalion were put to the sword, which meant anyone not in Caswallon’s pay. Perani, battle hardened and ruthless, had never witnessed such carnage. His hands were bloodied too, for he’d needed to show his commitment. It haunted him at night. He hadn’t slept much since then.
Regret? Too late, much too late.
Besides, Perani stood to gain much. He had replaced his officers with men as ruthless as himself, the foremost the brutish Derino. Perani adjusted his fox-fur cloak to keep out the night chill. Deep in thought, he continued his walk amongst the granite battlements fencing the troubled city from without.
More screams. Perani turned in time to see three shadowy misshaped figures dragging what looked to be a body down a side passage into gloom. The nearest shadow, as though sensing that Perani watched, turned and gazed up at the walls. Perani sh
uddered when that canine snout snuffled in his direction. Then they were gone, off hunting for yet more flesh.
What choice did he have?
***
The Astrologer’s Nest was the highest room in the tower, a lone chamber hundreds of feet above the main palace. Once, it had been full of maps of strange lands, orbs, crystals, star charts, and other marvelous things.
Like his forbears, the High King had come here often with his councilors in earlier days, before the darkness had seeped into his soul after the loss at sea of his wife and first born. Many times, Kelsalion had stared out on cold nights like this one, counting the stars that surmounted the sky.
That was then.
Now the High King was dead, conveniently murdered, his son fled, feared lost. Like the Palace, this tower served a new master. Those human servants still alive stayed well away from this lofty place unless summoned hence by the sorcerer, or else his chief retainer, the Groil called Flail.
Caswallon glared into the glass orb, another gift form his new “mentor” but one which today awarded small pleasure. He’d been scrying for half hour, seeking the appointed place. At last he found it. Within the globe’s midst Caswallon saw a field, broken stones, and ivy-strewn masonry.
Waysmeet Village.
Staring closer, Caswallon saw the Groil, and his eyes narrowed. Two score lay scattered there, hacked and bloody, strewn about the ruins.
So, she got away.
He had underestimated the rebels. Maybe they had help too, but who and why? Not to worry. There was still the Assassin’s man, Hagan Delmorier—very dependable, so Rael had told him.
Caswallon ran his lean fingers over the crystal surface, and the scene shifted north. He found the cliffs and ocean, but Kashorn was veiled by mist. Frustrated and disappointed by the Groil’s inexplicable failure, Caswallon stood, walked over to the lone window, and gazed out into the night.
A knock on the door, then a scrape and thud. Flail bringing another girl.
Caswallon turned, saw Six Claws drag the half-naked, weeping wretch into the room. The Groil slung her on the carpet, where she remained like a dead thing. She was younger than the last one had been.
Caswallon liked them young—and the boys too, when the mood took him. He ignored her. She was less than nothing. His mind was on higher matters.
He’d always been ambitious, even in the early days when his shrewd council had won him high favor with Kelsalion. He’d risen above his peers, who came to fear the feverish glint in his eye.
As the High King aged rapidly, after his consort’s death, Caswallon saw the change in his ruler, witnessed his ebbing confidence. He fed that doubt, sowed seeds of malcontent among the nobles at court: Kelsalion has become weak, the Tekara’s power is waning were but two of the rumors he started years ago. He could rule better, Caswallon told those first confederates.
The land needed strength. Fresh blood was what was required, a new regime. So Caswallon bought followers with gold and cunning, allies to his cause. He placed them in high places, bidding them watch and listen, keep him informed. Through the years those spies swelled in number. Fear grew, as subtle whispers led to midnight knives.
After Lord Halfdan’s son—the High King’s nephew and only heir—was lost at sea together with his beloved Queen, the desperate and forlorn Kelsalion clung to his chief advisor as though Caswallon alone could put paid to his wretchedness.
And from thence came his rise to power.
The bastard Tarin, mostly ignored by his father, became spoilt and vain, a foolish boy and not popular. Caswallon worked on Prince Tarin, too. He studied the night skies and awaited his chance. And then, after crushing the coup three years ago, Caswallon was strong enough to summon the Dog People out of the dark places.
At first he was terrified. He’d studied the dark crafts for years, learning much of lore, but that didn’t prepare him for that first visit. His mind’s eye had wondered far, yearning for knowledge. And far beneath the earth Caswallon found them waiting, the custodians of all the knowledge he desired.
The Urgolais, they were called. The ancient Dog People, whose blood had been corrupted by the stain of Old Night in millennia past—or so it was said. Caswallon was challenged. The Urgolais leader, Morak, questioned him long and hard in that dark place.
Though long ago defeated and driven underground, Morak’s surviving kin still retained some of their latent power. Morak had been a servant of Old Night during the Second War of the Gods. He’d been burnt horribly during that time, his features twisted and warped and his skull misshapen. The Dog Lord, his enemies called him after that.
A dark soul, Morak craved vengeance on those who had helped his enemies, the Aralais, also necromancers of yesteryear. For his part, Morak, a shadow of what he had been during the bitter war with the Aralais, saw in Caswallon a way of destroying those that had aided his enemies, the descendants of Kell.
So the Dog Lord and his kin made a pact with Caswallon. They would give Kelsalion’s councilor dark new powers in return for service to their cause, the seeking out and final obliteration of the Aralais people and the allies they had, for Morak believed there were Aralais still thriving in the far corners of the nine worlds. And so started the unholy alliance between mortal sorcerer and alien witch lord.
Caswallon turned to the fire, which crackled but awarded little heat from the mantle. He felt tense, nervous. He had delayed this moment long enough. Procrastinating and dwelling on past achievements would gain him nothing. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
Time to summon his mentor. Caswallon prepared his mind for the contact, summoning inner strength and banishing fear to the furthest corner of his mind. It was never easy speaking with the Dog Lord. Caswallon stared into the fire, filtering away any random thoughts. He commenced focusing, channeling…
***
That same night, away north, moonlight spilled on dark shapes, a fleet of galleons one hundred strong, all sailing south, gliding downstream toward a sleeping city. Before now, it had only been raids, but that had changed. Everything had changed.
This was the commencement—the start of it all. The iron-crowned King stood tall on the prow of the leading vessel, two of his sons beside him.
In silence they stood there, until morning rose wet and cold and the city was in sight just ahead. All three grinned as the docks shadowed into view. Minutes later they disembarked—a host of shaggy men, ten thousand strong.
Most would range south east for Car Carranis, but a few would stay put, linger just long enough to leave this proud city in ruins. The King gave the order and the carnage began. Too late the watchtower guards saw them.
At last, after long preparations, the real invasion of Morwella had begun.
***
That night Shallan, first lady of Morwella, dreamt she walked the woods again, the branches creaking and the questing moon patrolling high above. As she approaches the ancient grove, her feet cold and bare, she sees him standing there.
The Horned Man, he of the sad, quiet eyes.
Shallan watches him as the night air tosses her cloak, and cascading leaves float down around her. He is very tall and, despite the icy chill, clad only in leggings of woven dun. His face is ageless yet chiseled by time.
The Horned Man’s skin is nut brown, lined and scarred with those fine tattoos spiraling on forehead and cheek. The horns are long and twisting, thrusting out from the shaggy hair, ashen grey and wild, that tumbled well below his back.
He was broad of shoulder and deep of chest, hirsute and powerful. But it is the eyes that make her wonder. Those huge eyes told a thousand tales. They are the color of oak bark and are moist in the moonlight.
They are watching her.
He is a fearsome sight, but Shallan feels no dread. Rather she feels familiarity, a link from her past. But what and how? Somehow she knows this being is her friend and wants to warn her of something. As before, she tries approaching him, but he shifts back into the trees, furtive and wary, shy e
ven—strange for so fierce a being.
Who are you, what purpose your waiting here?
But even as Shallan speaks in her dream voice, the Horned Man turns away, head bowed and broad shoulders hunched, and walks silently back into the forest, his sinewy frame brushed by gossamer and moonlight.
Shallan knows she can’t follow, not yet.
She woke then.
The predawn grey paled her bare walls and ceiling. Shallan rolled free of the heavy covers and shivered, reaching across for her wolf-skin cloak and then taking a seat by the lone window, as was often her want.
From there, as the wind tossed rain into her face, Shallan gazed out on the city far below. Beyond those glistening roofs, the slatey river showed sluggish and mournful. Shallan saw ships down there, their hulls and masts rocking in the young day’s gale.
Vangaris, a city beset by storms. Morwella, a country on the brink of ruin, overrun by brigands, and threatened by invasion on all fronts.
And no word from Kella City. It was apparent the new ruler of Kelthaine cared not for the fate of its northern bastion. For years Vangaris had kept at bay the Crenise menace and those barbarians out of wild Leeth and beyond.
But now it seemed they were expendable. Once, they’d been the jewel in poor Kelsalion’s eyes, Shallan’s long dead aunt, the High Queen, had been Morwellan, after all. How times change, and this Caswallon was rumored a tyrant. They would receive no aid from that quarter, not now.
A soft knock at the door. Her father—who else.
“I am awake,” Shallan told him without turning her head.
He entered, a small man, neat and precise, garbed in heavy cloak and gilded cloth and with slender blade at waist.
The Duke Tomais, noble and kind, but lost without his lovely wife, her dear mother gone so many years. There was just the two of them now that Shallan’s brothers had set out to put down the uprising in the north, that rebellion caused and fed—Shallan had no doubt—by the brutal renegade Hagan Delmorier.