by Liam Reese
It was much as Besmir had left it so many years ago. The disgusting altar still dominated the middle of the room, radiating tendrils of hate and evil. The cages that lined the walls still contained a wooden bucket, the rope handle long since rotted away. The outlined shape of a man was still part of the wall, left by Sharova's body as the stones appeared to absorb him before Besmir freed the man.
The main difference Besmir noticed was the dust. More dust than he had seen anywhere else in the abandoned palace and he looked down to see the tiny footprints as they entered the room, approached the altar and vanished.
“Don’t touch it!” he warned all three as they surrounded the altar. “Whatever you do, keep away from it.”
“What is it, Majesty?” Noralynn asked as she caressed the table with her gaze.
“Some foul thing Tiernon had,” Besmir said. “He used it to drain people’s life force, sustaining his own but...” Besmir paused. “It’s almost as if it’s alive,” he added. “Conscious and aware,” he looked at Keluse, “and hungry. So very hungry.”
Keluse shivered and looked at the floor beneath the shadow where Sharova had once hung. Sadness welled in her eyes as she recalled being brought here to see Ranyor, his corpse cast aside like a used rag once Tiernon had finished with him. A sob escaped her and Besmir appeared at her side, wrapping an arm about her shoulders.
“My King,” Lucian said, drawing Besmir’s attention.
The king bent down to look at whatever the young man had found. Keluse looked too and both she and Besmir saw what he had found. Beneath the altar, jammed under its wooden base was a single small shoe.
Lucian reached for it but Besmir grabbed his arm, yanking it back hard.
“Don’t!” he said. “It’s Joranas’. I’m sure he was here.”
The trio stood straight once more, turning almost as one to see Noralynn reaching towards the silvery symbols laid into the top of the altar.
“Noralynn!” Besmir barked, throwing his hand out towards her.
His warning came too late, however, and the young woman touched the altar, throwing her head back as soon as contact had been made.
Besmir grabbed Lucian to stop him from approaching his partner, wrapping his arms around the guard who roared as Noralynn’s entire body stiffened. Besmir could see the muscles in her arms and neck were rigid with tension, her whole body shaking with whatever horrific power flowed into or out of her form.
“Besmir,” Noralynn said in the same voice of multitudes he had heard in his dream. “I have thy son. Present thyself to me and secure his release, or deny me thy presence and I shall torment him in Hell.” Noralynn’s body shook violently now, her hair flying in all directions.
“Who are you?” Besmir asked as he struggled to stop Lucian.
“I? I am Porantillia, Bane of Gods, destroyer of worlds and devourer of souls.”
Besmir saw Keluse clap her hands over her ears to try and block out the horrific voice that came from a thousand throats, her eyes wide with terror and madness.
“Come to me, Hunter King, or lose thy son’s soul for eternity.”
“Oh, I’m coming,” Besmir said, hurling his guard aside. “I’m coming. And when I arrive, you and I will have a reckoning, whoever you are!”
Besmir had dragged the sword from Lucian’s scabbard at the same time as he shoved him at the door leading to the Hall of Kings. Brandishing it more like a bludgeon than a sword he swung it wildly at Noralynn as Porantillia laughed at him with the young woman’s body. Just before he could hit the guard, however, she hammered against the surface of the altar, her face slamming into the silver inlaid wood with a sickening crunch.
Besmir watched as the color drained from Noralynn’s body, looking as if it flowed into the wood, pulling the skin of her face with it until her features were so distorted Besmir could no longer recognize her. Her body jerked a few times, spasms ripping through it as her life was ripped from her by the vile thing. After half a minute Noralynn’s limp, lifeless corpse dropped to the floor and lay still.
Besmir, Keluse and Lucian looked at each other, seeing their own horror on the other’s faces. Dust flew, filling the air with the stench of powdered bones. Lucian crawled over to Noralynn’s body, shaking her in a futile attempt to wake her lifeless husk. He turned his tear stained face to Besmir, pleading with his king.
“Help her, Majesty,” he begged in a pitiful voice. “Please.”
“She’s gone, Luc,” Besmir said as gently as he could. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“She is like a sister to me,” Lucian said. “What will I tell her family?”
“Don’t worry about all that now,” Besmir said, gently. “We must leave.”
He trotted back down the Hall of Kings and into the throne room where he gathered an armful of the drapes that had once hung behind the chair. Returning, he helped Lucian to wrap Noralynn in order that they could carry her more easily.
Chapter Five
Ru Tarn pushed her way through the crowds that filled the street. Morantine was awash with the mixture of cultures it had become famous for. Gazluthians mixed with Corbondrasi, Waravalians, Ninsians and others. She even saw a pair of Pitcriss tails as they made their way through the throngs of people she pushed past.
Ordinarily Ru Tarn enjoyed the short walk from her ambassadorial residence, formerly Fleet Admiral Sharova’s house. Today, however, her feet could not carry her fast enough and the press of people around her was nothing but a hindrance. The two guards assigned to her fought to keep up as she shoved her way through the crowds earning more than one annoyed glance from people as she pushed past them.
One short Ninsian took more offense than the others and turned from the merchant he had been shoved into.
“Feathered Corbondrasi powhalli!” he cried as she continued.
His comment earned him a few nasty looks from other Corbondrasi who had come to the central marketplace just to do business and he turned back to examine the jewelry the Gazluthian merchant had been showing him when he realized he was surrounded by the feathered people.
Ru Tarn approached the mansion Besmir had taken as the royal residence years ago. The guards at the door recognized her and opened the portals, saluting as she bustled past them. The Corbondrasi almost knocked into an old servant who was in the process of carrying a decanter and several glasses balanced on a tray he held in one hand.
“May I assist you, madam ambassador?” he asked in a self-important voice once he had regained control of the decanter and glasses.
“Must see king,” she said shortly.
“Unfortunately King Besmir is indisposed and cannot be disturbed at present. May I give him a message?”
Ru Tarn drew in a deep breath, puffing out the plumage on her ample chest in a sign that would, in her homeland of Boranash, be seen as a challenge. She fixed the pompous old man with a stern look in her dark lavender eyes and let out a piercing scream that sounded more like a shrill whistle to all those in earshot.
Drilling like a nail into the ears of all around, the note drew out forcing people to cover their ears. The old servant threw his tray, smashing the decanter and glasses, spilling the contents along the wall and across the floor, so he could slap his hands over his ears.
People appeared from doors and rooms as Ru Tarn’s shrill screech died off, all wondering what was going on.
“This is message,” she said to the old man as Besmir himself appeared from a long corridor.
“What in the name of the Gods was that?” he demanded, glaring at everyone.
“The Corbondrasi has gone mad, your Majesty!” the old servant cried, trying to gather up the shattered glass with his fingers. “Insane!”
Besmir turned his attention to her, frowning.
“Ru Tarn?” he asked.
“Ru Tarn is having information,” she said, “about P...P...” she struggled to say the word. “Porantillia,” she finally managed.
Shame, guilt and nausea wash
ed through Ru Tarn’s feathered chest at having to speak the forbidden name but her duty to the royal family came first and she forced herself to quash her feelings.
Besmir glanced from her face to the book she hugged like a precious child, her feathered arms wrapped around it, before gesturing for her to follow him. He led her to an area of the house she had not been in before, a private living room filled with simple, functional furnishings and a few personal decorations.
Furnished exactly as Ru Tarn had come to expect from Besmir, each piece was simply built but well made. The king bought furniture to last, not to show off. His manner of dress was the same. Simple clothing without ostentation but well made and sewn to last, the one nod to decoration was the stag he had embroidered on his chest. Ru Tarn had heard that every stag the king had embroidered on his clothing had been put there by his wife.
Her eyes cut to the queen who sat in a padded chair at the far end of the room, her feet propped on a stool and covered in thick blankets despite the summer heat. She looked pale and worn, the loss of her son had aged her years in just a few days and Ru Tarn’s heart went out to the young queen.
Zaynorth sat at a table by a window, his graying head balanced on one hand as he poured over some massive tome she could not see the title of. His brother, Herofic, stared out of the window, his broad back radiating hostility and rage. Neither brother paid her much attention as she entered but Ru Tarn knew it was not ignorance that made them dismiss her so easily.
“Your Majesties,” Ru Tarn began, “all Corbondrasi suffer same loss. Ru Tarn also offer all resources of Boranash to help fin...” she trailed off as Besmir raised his hand.
“This isn’t a state meeting, Ru Tarn,” he said. “This is my home. Have a seat, have a drink, and tell us what you know.”
The king hooked one of the chairs around the table with his foot, pulling it out for her to sit on. It made a goose-honk as the leg scraped across the flagstone but no one paid any attention. Ru Tarn stepped lightly across the room and folded herself into the offered seat as Besmir began pacing up and down the room like a caged animal. She gently put the book on the table in front of her noting Zaynorth’s eyes flick to it before returning to his own book.
“This Ru Tarn family copy of holy writings given to Corbondrasi by Mwondi at dawn of time,” she said, stroking her soft fingers over the worn cover. “Mwondi being God of hatchlings, of Corbondrasi babies.” Ru Tarn looked at Besmir who was watching her closely. “It mention P…Porantillia. I sorry, name is forbidden to Corbondrasi. Is something no nice Corbondrasi to be saying,” she explained.
“What’s it say?” Besmir asked, uninterested in her explanation of her embarrassment.
Ru Tarn opened the ancient book, hand copied generations before by Corbondrasi scribes. The smell of leather and old parchment rose from the tome along with the subtle addition of dried blood. She stared lovingly at the elegant curls and loops of writing that had been committed to the parchment so long ago, turning each page until she saw the passage she sought.
“Ru Tarn try and translate,” she said as Zaynorth and Herofic both turned their attention to her. “I, Mwondi, abhor the creature known as Porantillia. Be her name stricken from all history, from all...time,” Ru Tarn read.
“Her?” Zaynorth asked in shock.
“She who is destroyer of worlds...destroyer of Gods,” Ru Tarn carried on, reading the ancient Corbondrasi tongue was hard enough but translating it into Gazluthian was even more challenging. “Speak not her name or suffer the fate of Gratallach, the lover who spurned her attentions.”
“This is all wonderful,” Besmir said, “but is there anything in there that can actually help me get my son back?”
Ru Tarn looked up into his eyes, sympathy in her heart and shook her head slowly, her plumage hissing as it moved.
“Writings tell…Porantillia was lover to Gratallach. Gratallach leave her for other. Gratallach and new lover have children. Children are Gods Mwondi, Cathantor, Sharise. Porantillia...take revenge on Gratallach for leaving. Seal him for all time in middle of sun to burn forever.” Ru Tarn felt her mouth dry out. “I sorry, this difficult for Ru Tarn. Corbondrasi taught from hatchlings never to be speaking this words.”
“Why is that?” Zaynorth asked.
“Writings sacred to Corbondrasi, not meant for...outsiders. They teachings of God Mwondi, God of Corbondrasi hatchlings,” Ru Tarn said apologetically.
“Well then, thank you for anything you can tell us,” Besmir said.
“It is because Ru Tarn is friends with king that Ru Tarn do this,” she said, “and because Ru Tarn is liking Joranas.”
At the mention of his name Arteera sniffed, making a strangled, choking sound in her throat that drew both Besmir and Ru Tarn’s attention. The king went to his wife in an attempt to comfort her but she rose, fleeing from the room through a door Ru Tarn had not noticed before.
The Corbondrasi ambassador looked away when she saw Besmir’s expression of despair and the utter self-loathing in his face. Zaynorth caught her eye, his expression one of gratitude that she had not watched Besmir at his lowest point.
“So what can we do?” Besmir asked as he threw himself into a chair beside Ru Tarn, grabbing a goblet and filling it with wine. “How do I get into a plane of existence that, as far as I know, is only accessible to spirits?” Besmir gulped his wine and refilled the goblet almost immediately.
“Corbondrasi shaman,” Ru Tarn said.
Besmir looked at her with a puzzled expression.
“Corbondrasi shaman know more about these writings than Ru Tarn,” she said. “Ru Tarn go with you to Boranash. Ask King grant audience with master shaman. He tell you what to do.”
“I can’t just leave now,” Besmir said, draining his third cup of wine in as many minutes. “What about Arteera? She needs me here.”
Zaynorth slammed the book he had been reading shut with a bang that made Ru Tarn jump.
“We do not seem to have any other ideas regarding what is to be done,” he said. “I have had scholars searching both day and night in the palace archives as well as the university library. There does not appear to be even mention of this Porantillia anywhere in our literature, Besmir, this looks to be the only lead you might have.”
“What about Gazluth?” Besmir asked.
“What about it?” Herofic demanded turning from the window. “What about Gazluth? Does it not owe you? After everything you have done since you ended your uncle, can the people not manage without you for a while?”
Ru Tarn saw his anger, fueled by his emotional pain, turning his lips almost white. His fists clenched at his sides and he shook with the feeling running through his body as he stared at Besmir. The king looked almost afraid, something Ru Tarn had never seen in him since she had arrived almost eight years before.
He rubbed his eyes as if to rid himself of the confusion she saw in them.
“You’re right,” he finally said, “of course you’re right. I’ve got to go,” he added, turning to Ru Tarn. “Please make any arrangements you feel necessary.”
“Look, lad,” Herofic said, sighing apologetically. “I do not wish to be hard on you but if someone needs to give you a kick in the right direction, I will be there with my heaviest boots on.”
Besmir grunted a laugh, wiping his eyes. He stood, skirting round Ru Tarn to embrace the old man.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said. “Now all I have to do is break the news to my wife.”
Joranas became aware of two things initially. First he heard a low whistle as wind blew over a hole somewhere. Second was the heat. Summer in Gazluth was warm and damp, perfect for sustaining the grasslands that fed the thousands of cattle the population owned but this felt uncomfortably hot. Panic gripped his chest at the thought he must be in an oven like the children in some of the stories his mother used to read. His mind thrashed, trying to wake his body but it would not respond.
Maybe I’m dead. Maybe I’m in Hell.
&n
bsp; Eventually he calmed a little, if he were in an oven, or in Hell, surely this would be more painful? Joranas concentrated on what he could feel and hear. A gentle but hot breeze washed over his skin, bringing no relief from the searing heat. There was a gritty feel to the wind as it washed over him and the air he breathed was dry, dusty. Nothing came to his ears save the incessant whine of the wind, a low moan he tried to ignore.
Footsteps!
He could hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel or dusty stone and they were approaching. Finally he would be saved.
Unless…
Someone came close to him, he could feel their proximity, as if they were checking on him, making sure he was alive. A rustle and a sigh. Then breathing. Heavy breaths, long and slow.
Joranas’ mind conjured images of nightmare creatures with horns and impossibly long teeth waiting to rip him to shreds.
That’s stupid. Why would a monster wait to eat?
So it hurts more? So it scares you more?
Time passed and Joranas might have slept. It felt cooler now, so cold in fact he was shivering. Chills shot down his body as gooseflesh broke out. A ticking sound came to his ears and he realized it was his own teeth clattering against each other. Tiredness eventually took him again and he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
His eyes flicked open. Bright, painful light made the backs of them ache and he squinted, dulling the lancing agony. He found himself surrounded by sandy yellow-brown and orange, gritty floor and walls came together to form a cave around him and his mind fought to understand his surroundings as he looked.
His arms felt heavy, his legs ached as if the muscles had been beaten. Joranas recalled learning to ride a horse a few years back, something had spooked the gentle mare he had been on and she had thrown her inexperienced rider to the ground. His leg had slammed into a log with a sickening crunch, aching for days as it did now. His stomach rumbled, hunger gripping him as he tried to move. Joranas just managed to roll over, seeing for the first time his surroundings fully.
His empty stomach flipped as his eyes took in the vastness that stretched off into the distance. He could see for what looked like miles, leagues even. And everywhere he looked all he saw was barren, dry sand. The cave mouth opened onto a landscape unlike anything he had ever seen. Even the brief trip he had made with his parents to the coast had not had this amount of sand. Plus, that had been a light yellow color while now he was surrounded by rusty orange.