Table of Contents
Cover
The Dark Path - Gav Thorpe
Exhumed - Steve Park
The Inquisition - an interview with James Swallow
Phalanx: Chapter Three - Ben Counter
The Rat Catcher's Tale - Richard Ford
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The Dark Path
Gav Thorpe
Fields of golden crop bent gently in a magical breeze as the palace of Prince Thyriol floated across Saphery. A shimmering vision of white and silver towers and dove-wing buttresses, the citadel eased across the skies with the stately grace of a cloud. Slender minarets and spiralling steeples rose in circles surrounding a central gilded needle that glimmered with magic.
The farmers glanced up at the familiar beauty of the citadel and returned to their labours. If any of them wondered what events passed within the capital, none made mention of it to their companions. From the ground the floating citadel appeared as serene and ordered as ever, a reassuring vision to those that wondered when the war with the Naggarothi would come to their lands.
In truth, the palace was anything but peaceful.
Deep within the alabaster spires, Prince Thyriol strode to a wooden door at the end of a long corridor and tried to open it. The door was barred and magically locked. There were numerous counter-spells with which he could negotiate the obstacle, but he was in no mood for such things. Thyriol laid his hand upon the white-painted planks of the door and summoned the wind of fire. As his growing anger fanned the magic, the paint blistered and the planks charred under his touch. As Thyriol contemplated the treachery he had suffered, and his own blindness to it, the invisible flames burned faster and deeper than any natural fire. Within ten heartbeats the door collapsed into cinders and ash.
Revealed within was a coterie of elves. They looked up at their prince, startled and fearful. Bloody entrails were scattered on the bare stone floor, arranged in displeasing patterns that drew forth Dark Magic. They sat amidst a number of dire tomes bound with black leather and skin. Candles made of bubbling fat flickered dully on stands made from blackened iron. Sorcery seethed in the air, making Thyriol’s gums itch and slicking his skin with its oily touch.
The missing mages were all here, forbidden runes painted upon their faces with blood, fetishes of bone and sinew dangling around their necks. Thyriol paid them no heed. All of his attention was fixed upon one elf, the only one who showed no sign of fear.
Words escaped Thyriol. The shame and sense of betrayal that filled Thyriol was beyond any means of expression, though some of it showed in the prince’s face, twisted into a feral snarl even as tears of fire formed in his eyes.
Faerie lights glittered from extended fingertips and silver coronas shimmered around faces fixed in concentration as the young mages practised their spells. Visions of distant lands wavered in the air and golden clouds of protection wreathed around the robed figures. The air seemed to bubble with magical energy, the winds of magic made almost visible by the spells of the apprentices.
The students formed a semicircle around their tutors at the centre of a circular, domed hall – the Grand Chamber. The white wall was lined with alcoves containing sculptures of marble depicting the greatest mages of Ulthuan; some in studious repose, others in the flow of flamboyant conjurations, according to the tastes of successive generations of sculptors. All were austere, looking down with stern but not unkindly expressions on future generations. Their looks of strict expectation were repeated on the faces of Prince Thyriol and Menreir.
‘You are speaking too fast,’ Thyriol told Ellinithil, youngest of the would-be mages, barely two hundred years old. ‘Let the spell form as words in your mind before you speak.’
Ellinithil nodded, brow furrowed. He started the conjuration again but stuttered the first few words.
‘You are not concentrating,’ Thyriol said softly, laying a reassuring hand on the young elf’s shoulder. He raised his voice to address the whole class. ‘Finish your incantations safely and then listen to me.’
The apprentices dissipated the magic they had been weaving; illusions vapourised into air, magical flames flickered and dimmed into darkness. As each finished, he or she turned to the prince. All were intent, but none more so that Anamedion, Thyriol’s eldest grandson. Anamedion’s eyes bore into his grandfather as if by his gaze alone he could prise free the secrets of magic locked inside Thyriol’s mind.
‘Celabreir,’ said Thyriol, gesturing to one of the students to step forward. ‘Conjure Emendeil’s Flame for me.’
Celabreir glanced uncertainly at her fellow apprentices. The spell was one of the simplest to cast, often learnt in childhood even before any formal teaching had begun. With a shrug, the elf whispered three words of power and held up her right hand, fingers splayed. A flickering golden glow emanated from her fingertips, barely enough to light her slender face and brazen hair.
‘Good,’ said Thyriol. ‘Now, end it and cast it again.’
Celabreir dispersed the magic energy with a flick of her wrist, her fingertips returning to normal. Just as she opened her mouth to begin the incantation again, Thyriol spoke.
‘Do you breathe in or out when you cast a spell?’ he asked.
A frown knotted Celabreir’s brow for a moment. Distracted, she missed a syllable in the spell. Shaking her head, she tried again, but failed.
‘What have you done to me, prince?’ she asked plaintively. ‘Is this some counter-spell you are using?’
Thyriol laughed gently, as did Menreir. Thyriol nodded for the other mage to explain the lesson and returned to his high-backed throne at the far end of the hall.
‘You are thinking about how you breathe, aren’t you?’ said Menreir.
‘I… Yes, I am, master,’ said Celabreir, her shoulders slumping. ‘I don’t know whether I breathe in or out when I cast. I can’t remember, but if I think about it I realise that I might be doing it differently because I am aware of it now.’
‘And so you are no longer concentrating on your control of the magic,’ said Menreir. ‘A spell you could cast without effort you now find… problematic. Even the most basic spells are still fickle if you do not have total focus. The simplest distraction – an overheard whisper or a flicker of movement in the corner of the eye – can be the difference between success and failure. Knowing this, who can tell me why Ellinithil is having difficulty?’
‘He is thinking about the words and not the spell,’ said Anamedion, a hint of contempt in his voice. He made no attempt to hide his boredom. ‘The more he worries about his pronunciation, the more distracted his inner voice.’
‘That’s right,’ said Thyriol, quelling a stab of annoyance. Anamedion had not called Menreir ‘master’, a title to which he had had earned over many centuries, a sign of growing disrespect that Thyriol would have to address. ‘Most of you already have the means to focus the power you need for some of the grandest enchantments ever devised by our people, but until you can cast them without effort or thought, that power is useless to you. Remember that the smallest magic can go a long way.’
‘There is another way to overcome these difficulties,’ said Anamedion, stepping forward. ‘Why do you not teach us that?’
Thyriol regarded Anamedion for a moment, confused.
‘Control is the only means to master true magic,’ said the prince.
Anamedion shook his head, and half-turned, addressing the other students as much as his grandfather.
‘There is a way to tap into magic, unfettered by incantation and ritual,’ said Anamedion. ‘Shaped by instinct and powered by raw magic, it is possible to cast the greatest spells of all.’
‘You speak of sorcery,’ s
aid Menreir quickly, throwing a cautioning look at the apprentices. ‘Sorcery brings only two things: madness and death. If you lack the will and application to be a mage, then you will certainly not live long as a sorcerer. If Ellinithil or Celabreir falter with pure magic, the spell simply fails. If one miscasts a sorcerous incantation, the magic does not return to the winds. It must find a place to live, in your body or your mind. Even when sorcery is used successfully, it leaves a taint, on the world and in the spirit. It corrupts one’s thoughts and stains the winds of magic. Do not even consider using it.’
‘Tell me from where you have heard such things,’ said Thyriol. ‘Who has put these thoughts in your mind?’
‘Oh, here and there,’ said Anamedion with a shrug and a slight smile. ‘One hears about the druchii sorcerers quite often if one actually leaves the palace. I have heard that any sorcerer is a match for three Sapherian mages in power.’
‘Then you have heard wrong,’ said Thyriol patiently. ‘The mastery of magic is not about power. Any fool can pick up a sword and hack at a lump of wood until he has kindling, but a true woodsman knows to use axe and hatchet and knife. Sorcery is a blunt instrument, capable only of destruction, not creation. Sorcery could not have built this citadel, nor could sorcery have enchanted our fields to be rich with grain. Sorcery burns and scars and leaves nothing behind.’
‘And yet Anlec was built with sorcery,’ countered Anamedion.
‘Anlec is sustained by sorcery, but it was built by Caledor Dragontamer, who used only pure magic,’ Thyriol replied angrily.
He shot glances at the others in the room, searching for some sign that they paid undue attention to Anamedion’s arguments. There was rumour, whispered and incoherent, that some students, and even some mages, had begun to experiment with sorcery. It was so hard for Thyriol to tell. Dark Magic had been rising for decades, fuelled by the rituals and sacrifices of the Naggarothi and their cultist allies. It polluted the magical vortex of Ulthuan, twisting the Winds of Magic with its presence.
They had found druchii sorcerers hidden in the wilder parts of Saphery, in the foothills of the mountains, trying to teach their corrupted ways to the misguided. Some of the sorcerers had been slain, others had fled, forewarned of their discovery by fellow cultists. It was to protect the young from this corruption that Thyriol had brought the most talented Sapherians here, to learn from him and his most powerful mages. That Anamedion brought talk of sorcery into the capital was a grave concern. Saphethion, of all places, had to be free of the taint of Dark Magic, for the corruption of the power in the citadel could herald victory for the Naggarothi.
‘I am glad you have found us,’ Anamedion said with no hint of regret or shame. ‘I have longed to shed our secrecy, but the others insisted on this subterfuge.’
The mention of the other mages broke Thyriol’s focus and he took in the rest of the faces, settling on the blood-daubed features of Illeanith. This brought a fresh surge of anguish and he gave a choked gasp and lurched to one side, saved from falling only by the burnt frame of the doorway. He had been disappointed but not surprised by Anamedion’s presence. Seeing Illeanith was one shock too many.
It was as if daggers had been plunged into Thyriol’s heart and gut, a physical agony that writhed inside him, pulling away all sense and reason. The mages who had come with Thyriol began to shout and hurl accusations, but Thyriol heard nothing, just the arrhythmic thundering of his heart and a distant wailing in his head. Through a veil of tears and the waves of dismay welling up inside of him, Thyriol watched numbly as the sorcerers drew away from the door, adding their own voices to the cacophony.
‘Everyone but Anamedion, leave me,’ Thyriol commanded. ‘Menreir, I will call for you when I am finished. We must discuss the latest messages from King Caledor.’
The mage and students bowed their acquiescence and left silently. Anamedion stood defiantly before the throne, arms crossed. Thyriol put aside his anger and looked at his grandson with sympathetic eyes.
‘You are gifted, Anamedion,’ said the prince. ‘If you would but show a little more patience, there is no limit to what you might achieve in time.’
‘What is it that you are afraid of?’ countered Anamedion.
‘I am afraid of damnation,’ Thyriol replied earnestly, leaning forward. ‘You have heard the myths of sorcery, while I have seen it first-hand. You think it is perhaps a quick way to achieve your goals, but you are wrong. The path is just as long for the sorcerer as it is for the mage. You think that Morathi and her ilk have not made terrible sacrifices, of their spirit and their bodies, to gain the power they have? You think that they simply wave a hand and destroy armies on a whim? No, they have not and do not. Terrible bargains they have made, bargains with powers we would all do better to avoid. Trust me, Anamedion, we call it Dark Magic for good reason.’
Anamedion still looked unconvinced, but he changed his approach.
‘What good does it do us to spend a century learning spells when the druchii march against us now?’ he said. ‘King Caledor needs us with his armies, fighting the Naggarothi sorcerers. You speak of the future, but unless we act now, there may be no future. For seven years I have listened to the stories of horror, of war, engulfing Tiranoc and Chrace and Ellyrion. Cothique and Eataine are under attack. Must the fields of Saphery burn before you do something?’
Thyriol shook his head, fighting his frustration.
‘I would no more send lambs to fight a lion than I would pit the skills of my students against Morathi’s coven,’ said the prince. ‘There are but a dozen mages in all of Saphery that I would trust to fight the druchii in battle, myself included.’
‘Then fight!’ Anamedion demanded, pacing towards the throne, fists balled. ‘Caledor begs for your aid and you are deaf to his requests. Why did you choose him as Phoenix King if you will not follow him?’
Thyriol glanced away for a moment, looking through the narrow arched windows that surrounded the hall. He did not see the greying autumn skies, his mind wandering to the ancient past. He saw a magic-blistered battlefield, where daemons rampaged and thousands of elves died screaming in agony. He saw the most powerful wizards of an age holding back the tides of Chaos while the Dragontamer conjured his vortex.
His memories shifted, to a time more recent but no less painful. His saw Naggarothi warriors, skin ruptured, hair flaming, falling from the battlements of Anlec while he soared overhead atop the back of a pegasus. Depraved cultists, dedicated to obscene sacrifice, wailed their curses even as lightning from Thyriol’s staff crackled through their bodies.
War brought nothing but evil, even when fought for a just cause. Shaking his head to dismiss the waking nightmare, Thyriol returned his attention to Anamedion, his heart heavy.
‘Your father thought the same, and now he is dead,’ Thyriol said quietly.
‘And your cowardice makes his sacrifice vain,’ Anamedion growled. ‘Perhaps it is not Dark Magic that you fear, but death. Has your life lasted so long that you would protect it now at any cost?’
At this, Thyriol’s frayed temper finally snapped.
‘You accuse me of cowardice?’ he said, stalking from his throne towards Anamedion, who stood his ground and returned the prince’s glare. ‘I fought beside Aenarion and the Dragontamer, and never once flinched from battle. Thirty years ago I fought beside Malekith when Anlec was retaken. You have never seen war, and no nothing of its nature, so do not accuse me of cowardice!’
‘And you throw back at me accusations that I cannot counter,’ Anamedion replied, fists clenching and unclenching with exasperation. ‘You say I do not know war, yet condemn me to idle away my years in this place, closeted away from harm because you fear I will suffer the same fate as my father! Do you have so little confidence in me?’
‘I do,’ said Thyriol. ‘You have your father’s wilfulness and your mother’s stubbornness. Why could you not be more like your younger brother, Elathrinil? He is studious and attentive… and obedient.’
‘E
lathrinil is diligent but dull,’ replied Anamedion with a scornful laugh. ‘Another century or two and he may make an adequate mage, but there is no greatness in him.’
‘Do not crave greatness,’ said Thyriol. ‘Many have been dashed upon the cliffs of their own ambition, do not repeat their mistakes.’
‘So says the ruling prince of Saphery, friend of Aenarion, last surviving member of the First Council and greatest mage in Ulthuan,’ said Anamedion. ‘Maybe I have been wrong. It is not battle or death that you fear, it is me! You are jealous of my talent, fearful that your own reputation will be eclipsed by mine. Perhaps my star will rise higher than yours while you still cling to this world with the last strength in your fingers. You guard what you have gained and dare not risk anything. You profess wisdom and insight, but actually you are selfish and envious.’
‘Get out!’ roared Thyriol. Anamedion flinched as if struck. ‘Get out of my sight! I will not have you in my presence again until you apologise for these lies. You have done nothing today but proven to me that you are unfit to rule Saphery. Think long and hard, Anamedion, about what you want. Do not tarnish me with your vain ambitions. Go!’
Anamedion hesitated, his face showing a moment of contrition, but it passed swiftly, replaced by a stare of keen loathing. With a wordless snarl, he turned his back on his grandfather and strode from the room.
Thyriol stumbled back to his throne and almost fell into it, drained by his outburst. He slumped there for a moment, thoughts reeling, ashamed of his own anger. Righteousness contended with guilt, neither winning a decisive victory. What if Anamedion was right? What if he really was jealous of the youth’s prowess, knowing that his own existence was waning fast?
Closing his eyes, Thyriol whispered a few mantras of focus and dismissed his self-examination. The fault was not with the prince, but with his grandchild. For decades he had known that there was something amiss with Anamedion, but had turned a blind eye upon his deficiencies. Now that Thyriol had finally given open voice to his doubts, and Anamedion declared his own misgivings, perhaps the two of them could move on and resolve their differences.
Hammer and Bolter - Issue 2 Page 1