by David Hair
He stepped inside the circle, careful to leave one foot anchored outside, because he wouldn’t have put it past Huriya to try and seal him inside too, then caught Toljin’s chin in one fist. ‘Keep still,’ he snarled, letting his full menace show. He’d always known how to scare weaker men, and Toljin was certainly that. He quailed, and though he clearly wished to spit it out, he took the small mouthful of potion meekly and swallowed.
‘It will begin to take effect inside two hours,’ Malevorn reminded him. ‘After that, it’s up to you. You must stay conscious, no matter what. Fight to stay alive. This is your test, Toljin. Succeed, and you will be with us when we conquer the world. Fail, and, well . . .’
Toljin nodded mutely.
Malevorn stepped out of the circle and Huriya raised her hands. A web of light arose from the etched circle, becoming a hemisphere that quickly faded to invisibility. Within the circle Toljin groaned with fear, looking about him wildly as Malevorn and Huriya retreated to either side of the chamber. There was a flask of wine on a low table, but neither wanted to be impaired in any way when the moment came. They settled down to wait, and even Adamus Crozier’s eyes grew attentive: this was something he’d surely longed to see – the actual transformation of a man to an Ascendant.
The first hour passed slowly, with only Toljin’s increasing discomfort to mark it. He flushed a deep red as his blood began to race, his face turning almost purple, and his breathing became increasingly ragged. Then as the second hour began, he began to babble, first begging Huriya to free him, shrieking that he loved her, that only he loved her, that everyone else meant her ill. Huriya listened with blank contempt.
Then Toljin turned on Malevorn, spewing hatred. As his vitriol peaked, he thrashed violently, the poisons beginning to take effect. Then his breathing slowed, and this frenzied energy drained away. They saw the dregs of his gnosis engage – they’d deliberately not allowed him to replenish his powers, in case he might find ways to delay the onset of the potion. They saw him burn away his reserves in seconds, and still the potion gripped him and he went on dying.
Then it happened: he coughed violently, his chest thudded as if breaking open from inside, he thrashed for a few seconds . . . and then fell motionless.
Malevorn found he was holding his breath. The air was cloying, and he heard faint whispers with his gnostic senses, the voices of aetheric spirits, envious of life. He kindled Necromantic wards and drove them away. Seconds crawled past. Toljin needed to show signs of recovery within a couple of minutes or he was lost, but still he lay unmoving.
Then he coughed.
Huriya squealed delightedly, and Adamus swore. Malevorn clenched a fist triumphantly, and opened his inner eye wide. Toljin’s head fell sideways, and his whole body jerked once, then again. His eyes flew open. Then he vented a scream that shook the dust from the stones.
Malevorn seized his periapt, because he could sense some kind of impending arrival, like giant wings beating and a shadow descending, while his gnostic senses cried a warning. He kindled fresh wards, specific ones he remembered from his Arcanum training, because he’d felt this sensation before. Toljin was breathing fast now, muttering incoherently. His eyes refocused and found Malevorn, and he looked at him with pleading in his eyes. Then something struck the penned man and he fell to the stone.
There was no response, but he caught the sense of a presence, powerful but disorientated. He quickly withdrew his mental probe.
‘What happened?’ Huriya asked sharply. ‘I felt something.’
Gnosis use created a sensation, something like the feel of wind and the sound of distant thunder, that other magi could sense. If the spell was of a specific Study, it was easiest to discern by those who also used that Study.
We’re all Wizards in this room . . .
He moved too late.
One moment, Toljin was lying contorted on the stone, still pinned in place by the chains.
The next he was upright, his chains broken and dangling from his wrist like flails. His eyes flashed indigo and his mouth opened, filled with darkness like a void as it stretched and stretched. He stepped through the protective circle and shattered it while Malevorn was still reacting, then the chains flashed and wrapped around the throat of the nearest person: Adamus Crozier.
He wrenched the clergyman to him and snapped his neck, almost pulling his head off as he kissed away his soul. Gnosis-energy kindled bright scarlet and coursed through Toljin’s veins, then he threw the limp body away and stalked toward Malevorn, grinning fiendishly.
‘Huriya, get out!’ he shouted, terrified she’d be slain and trigger his own heart’s demise. He conjured wizardry-gnosis, pulling a bolt of midnight-blue light into his hands and blasting it at Toljin. The Dokken staggered, shrieking in alarm, a sound amplified as if he had a hundred throats all howling in unison. He countered with a kinesis-infused mage bolt that threw Malevorn backwards into the wall.
Combat reflexes took over. Malevorn propelled himself upright as his blade leapt into his fist. Chains lashed; he swayed away from them and began to circle. From the corner of his eye he saw Huriya run for the door, but Toljin gestured and the door shimmered with light.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Toljin rasped at her. ‘I’m going to gut this pus-ball of an Inquisitor, then I’m going to finally do to you what you deserve.’
Huriya shrank against the wall, eyes huge and face pale. Malevorn tried to get between her and Toljin and nearly lost his legs as the chains flashed out. He danced out of reach and gathered himself for another try.
‘I’m going to turn my cock into a serrated horn,’ Toljin told Huriya while sending a torrent of sordid images at her to freeze her in her place. ‘I’ll tear you apart with it.’
Huriya resisted firmly, surprising Malevorn as he charged again, but Toljin’s arm-chains flashed out, entangling his sword-arm. As Toljin closed in, Malevorn pulled his dagger and slashed – and the Dokken’s left hand flopped wetly to the ground. He yowled as blood fountained from the stump, but it lasted only a second before a fresh hand, taloned and leathery, burst from the stump and raked at Malevorn. Beside the door, Huriya tried to blast through the seal, but Toljin reinforced it, making Huriya gasp and back away. Toljin had matched her strength.
Because he’s now an Ascendant.
But he’s not Toljin any more.
Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929
17th month of the Moontide
The ambrosia tasted bitter, and spread through Alaron like ice-water in his veins, slowing everything but his heart, which began to labour. Every sense was dimming, the concerned faces about the cot fading away. Corinea was twitchy and apprehensive; Master Puravai grave and analytical. But he really only saw Ramita, drinking in her face as if it was the last thing he would ever see. When she too faded into the throbbing silence he tried to tell her that he loved her one last time, but couldn’t say if he’d managed to speak.
Then there was just himself, falling through space in slow circles as the darkness closed in. It might have been hours but maybe it was seconds. Corinea’s warnings echoed in his head. ‘First the poison slows your body, but your heart will try to keep pumping. It may hurt.’
It did, and more with each passing moment. Each heartbeat was a blow striking his ribcage from within, while his sluggish blood seeped through him in weak pulses. He felt as if his heart were a child trying to be born. The pain peaked, but as it faded he could feel his consciousness slipping away, until there was just a small candle-flame of light and awareness before him, and voices speaking dimly.
Alaron? Alaron? Is that you? What’s he doing?
Cym? Ramon? At first he was puzzled, because the cot was inside a circle, warded from the spirit-world. There shouldn’t have been any way for ghosts to reach him, yet here they were, his two most beloved friends . . .
Who else would it be? Cym’s acerbic voice
cut through the fog, and suddenly he could see her face, just as she’d been when he last saw her. We’re with you, through thick and thin.
Ramon smiled sardonically at him. Hey, amici, what are you doing lying there?
I just had a drink of—
A drink! Cym snorted. Never could hold your drink, could you! She and Ramon reached down and pulled him upright. Ramon was in his legion battle-mage robes, just as he had been on the day he flew out to join the army. Alaron’s eyes stung to see them.
I love you guys! he told them fervently. If I’ve never said it before, I’m saying it now. I love you both!
Definitely been drinking, Ramon chuckled.
Alaron ploughed on, despite the dizziness that slurred his words and mashed his thoughts. I’ve met this girl! She’s so brave and steady, like a rock, but she’s tiny as a mouse and . . .
A stone mouse? Cym giggled. You’re hopeless, Al!
How are you both? It’s been so long. I thought you were dead, Cym . . .
His two closest friends looked at each other, then back at him, their expressions sad. I am dead, Cym told him. I was killed at the Isle of Glass.
I’m dead too, Ramon put in conversationally. The Inquisition thought I knew where you were, so they tortured me to death. I screamed for a week.
Alaron had just known this was what had happened. I dragged my best friends into this and left them to die . . .
He watched as they stopped moving and became desiccated skeletons that collapsed slowly into a pile of bones and were gone in the mists that closed in around him.
Then his father was there, in his old bedroom in Norostein. Vannaton Mercer looked exactly as he had on the day he’d left for the Moontide; hopeful, worried to be leaving his estranged wife and his son behind, but filled with purpose to do what was needed to keep the family fed and housed.
Da!
Hello, Son. Vann took his hand. Easy there. Don’t cry: everyone dies.
But they were the best friends I’ve ever had . . . He looked up, heart in mouth. Da, are you . . . are you also . . . ?
Vann nodded gravely. The Inquisition were looking for you, and they found me. They were asking about the Scytale of Corineus, of all things! You should have warned me, so I knew to take precautions.
Tears stung Alaron’s eyes. I’m sorry! I know I should have told you, but we didn’t think we’d ever truly find it . . . we didn’t really believe in our hearts that it was all real.
You always were a fool, Alaron. Vann’s face hardened. I’m disappointed in you. Leaving your mother to die alone. You’ve let everyone down. You failed us all.
Sudden pain jabbed through Alaron, a knife that skewered his heart like meat on a spit, and he hung in the air, turning in agonised limbo while his father watched without sympathy.
Everyone dies, Son. Now it’s your turn.
The Valley of Tombs, Gatioch, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929
17th month of the Moontide
Malevorn tried to intervene as Toljin launched himself at Huriya. He was sure she’d go down instantly, but somehow she held up, forcing the daemon – for Toljin was surely in the thrall of some kind of spirit – away with kinesis. Her shields held despite flashing deep red, buying them both time. She tried to attack it with her mind, but Malevorn knew mesmeric-gnosis wouldn’t work. The strongest daemons, those the Wizards avoided, were a collective mind, dozens or even hundreds of souls bound together in the aether, too complex to duel mentally. But they were still vulnerable to Wizardry, the Study dedicated to binding and controlling them.
And it just so happened that he was well-honed in that particular Study, Turm Zauberin’s star pupil. He lashed Toljin across the back with a spectral whip, designed to hurt the soul, not the body, and the daemon screamed, its back arching as it staggered, then it turned on him. Huriya scuttled along the wall like a rat seeking its hole. Toljin’s shapechanger body grew scale and horns, the jaw elongated and nails sprouted as the daemon got a grip on the body’s capacities. His knee-joints reversed with a sickening meaty crunch and fire kindled in his clawed hands as he stalked towards Malevorn . . .
. . . and stepped into the circle Malevorn had burned into the middle of the floor.
Malevorn shouted aloud and poured fresh energy into the circle, rekindling it with wizardry-gnosis, spells that were this time for confining a daemon, not a man. Then Huriya joined him, feeding the spell; Sabele had been a Wizard as well, and her aid tipped the scales. The circle lit up, and the daemon was confined.
Toljin hurled himself at the invisible boundaries, rebounding as if from a stone wall. He tried again and again, until he realised that he was truly penned there. Then he fell silent, and glowered at them both in turn. Malevorn could feel him mentally probing the circle.
Malevorn exhaled slowly while Huriya put her back against the far wall, panting and gasping, her eyes huge and frightened. ‘What went wrong?’ she asked. ‘Was it the ambrosia? Did we get the dose wrong?’
‘It’s possible, but I don’t think so.’
‘You can’t be sure!’ she declared, her voice impassioned, and he knew why: if the ambrosia potion had been right, then it couldn’t be blamed for this failure.
Which means that perhaps the ambrosia can’t cure Souldrinkers.
Huriya looked shattered. ‘This was our great hope . . .’ she said in a broken whisper. ‘How can it not work?’
Malevorn ignored her, his mind having gone beyond that particular question. Never deal with what might have been, his tutor once said. Deal with what is.
There might be no cure for what I’ve become. My family may never be restored. He almost screamed, but he made himself go on thinking. So what have I created instead?
A daemon had possessed Toljin during his transformation: he knew about daemons . . . They had secret names that could be used to bind them and enslave them. His eyes widened, and so did his horizons, until they were limitless. They’d hoped to create a willing ally, but instead had created a slave: an Ascendant Dokken daemon slave.
A slave is so much better than an ally . . .
And if he could duplicate this experiment, he had the means to make many, many more . . .
Huriya was sitting blankly on the floor, as shattered as her dreams. The Dokken would never be welcomed as equals by the magi. They would never be other than what they were, and the hopes of all her many lifetimes were ash before her eyes.
She never saw his blow coming: a kinetic fist that left her senseless on the floor.
I know exactly what to do now, and I don’t need her to do it.
This is . . . utterly . . . perfect.
*
Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929
17th month of the Moontide
‘ALARON!’ the voices chorused together, his name like a slap on his face, bringing him back from the very verge of oblivion.
His father’s voice. Cym’s and Ramon’s. The earlier conversation melted from his mind as he realised that he’d not been talking to their ghosts, but their memories. Alive or dead, I know they love me. His mother’s voice spoke a warning, Ramita’s too, and he wrenched his awareness back from the brink: a dark shadow was diving at him, a venator, with Malevorn Andevarion on its back, a lance tipped with gnostic-fire gouging the air as it flashed towards him.
He rolled clear and came upright, saw a vast space open before him, teetered and regained balance. He was standing on the edge of a continent above a massive cliff. The sea was raging below. Beside him a waterfall flowed in a torrent, white water roaring into the void. Then he stared, for beneath the churning waves he could see the moon, its vast bulk sparkling copper and silver, close enough to touch, yet far beyond reach, warping his perspective. He stared at it as it rose through the water.
Then the shriek of the venator brought him back to the now as Malevorn hauled the winged reptile around in a spiralling arc, then dived towards hi
m again, spears of light flashing through the air at him. He engaged shields and saw the light shatter against them, the blows shaking him, staggering him so that his heels hung over space, the emptiness behind him roaring, reaching—
He blasted back, but the venator came on and on, its jaws widening, and he shouted in fear and alarm as the edge of the cliff gave way and he was falling, spinning towards the moon as it rose from the waves in a vast cascade of water and light and . . .
. . . someone touched his hand: a small hand with tough skin and a strong grip, surer than the stones.
The moon burst like a bubble as he fell through it and then he was floating, soaring through the night sky, flying his Seeker beneath the stars towards the rising sun. Ramita was in the prow, her arms spread wide like the wings of a bird, and when she turned back to him she was laughing for joy.
Then she was gone, and there was someone else, larger, wrapped in a creamy-coloured robe, cowled and faceless. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted.
The man dropped his hood, revealing an ancient face, shaven-skulled, with an iron-grey goatee. ‘Are you worthy of her?’ the man asked in a penetrating voice that shivered through him.
It’s him . . . Meiros . . . or how he imagined the man from Ramita’s descriptions.
Alaron set his jaw. ‘I’ll try to be.’
Unexpectedly – or not if it was his own imagination – the old mage grinned. ‘Fair enough. See that you are.’
Alaron’s heart began to pound again. ‘Sir! Is any of this real?’
Meiros snorted. ‘Of course not. It’s all in your head. But that doesn’t mean you can’t die here.’ He looked at him intently. ‘You’ll never be more than my shadow, lad.’
Thanks for the vote of confidence, Subconscious. ‘I’m still going to do my best!’ he retorted.
‘Good for you, son,’ Meiros said. Or was it his father?
Then he was alone in the skiff, soaring at incredible speeds right into the heart of a rising sun. He had no control of Seeker, could only ride onwards as the heat kindled his clothes, wreathing him in smoke – and then the skiff caught fire. He yowled as the fire roared around him, caught in his hair, his clothes, his skin, as he soared on, a living comet that blasted into Sol’s core and exploded in a storm of white light and fire.