“You have one well to regain body control so soon after an expulsion,” the apparition said.
“So — are you ready to tell me just who you are?” Ondene said through gritted teeth.
“You know who I am,” came the reply. “On the towertop at Nydratha, amid the perpetual storm, the Sleeping God looked deep into you and examined your every thought, and laid bare the possible threads of your fate. And I did so, too.”
Ondene struggle to understand. “When I was trapped in the Shadowking’s shadow chains, I felt that there was some kind of spark in there with me, one small flame in the dark — was that you?”
“It was merely the bond that joined me to you, one weak enough for the Shadowking to pass over yet strong enough to survive all his casual brutalities. Thus I am here.”
“And who are you?”
The ghostly youth smiled faintly and shrugged. “You may call me Tauric, thought name is to me as the seed is to the tree.”
Ondene stared, scarcely believing it. “And I brought you all the way from Nydratha?”
“You brought the bond,” Tauric said. “Is this sufficient for you because we have little enough time left for what has to be done — the battle between Calabos and the Great Shadow is about to begin.”
“And what is our task?”
“We are to free a few prisoners,” the spectral Tauric said as he led the way out of the chain-adorned chamber. Ondene followed down a short, plain passage beyond whose end he caught sight of a pale wall mottled with shadows. Then he emerged from the passageway and beheld the White Prison.
A wall of foggy, frosted grey stretched up and up and up, becoming lost in the ice-black heights of the Nightrealm. It loomed to the right, almost to where the rear wall of the courts met the cliff-edge fortifications; to the left it extended to the stepped incline of the massive throne dais and beyond. But everywhere upon its deathly, opaque surface was proof of its countless captives, be it jutting, frozen limbs and heads, or faces gazing wide-eyed and softly blurred beneath the surface, or the uncertain dark shapes of those buried deeper.
Ondene approached the wall, his thoughts gripped by a kind of fascinated dread as he contemplated the people trapped within it. Here was a bearded man in his middle years, frozen in the act of clutching a book to his chest; next to him, a young man dressed like a farm hand but holding a broken sword in his hand; there, a matronly woman shielding a boy child with one arm and holding out the other; further along, a warrior in battered armour, his fists held clenched at his side,
“Here are all the vanquished,” the ghostly Tauric said. “The courageous and the foolhardy, all determined to overthrow the Great Shadow, and all doomed to fail. Places like the Nightrealm are founded on the wild exercise of power and gods are the manifest dreams of power. Thus in this place, only a dream can defeat a dream.”
Ondene gave a wry laugh. “You?”
“So I hope,” Tauric said. “But speaking as a dream, I cannot do this alone.”
Ondene reached out to touch the wall of the White Prison, and snatched his hand away from the raw bite of bitter cold.
“How can we free them from this?”
Tauric drifted closer. “By waking them from the dream.” And so saying, he raised one hand and lightly tapped Ondene on the shoulder.
A wave of singing coldness flashed through him and he staggered forward with surprise, put out a hand reflexively…and gasped when it passed through the opaque surface unimpeded.
“Step into it,” Tauric said. “I will lead you through this ice-bound dungeon, but be ready for strife — the enemy awaits us at the prison’s heart.”
The pale Tauric then calmly glided into the grey wall and after a moment’s hesitation, Ondene walked after him, closing his eyes just before his face met the opaque surface….
….opened them to find himself drifting amid numberless, frozen prisoners, looking up and down and seeing them in their hundreds, receding into foggy murk. Tauric was above him, a gauzy figure beckoning, so he looked in that direction and began floating up. Together they wove in and among the captives and as they did so Tauric touched this one or that with the stroke of translucent fingers across a forehead or a tap on the shoulder. Blank eyes filled with emotion, heads turned and limbs jerked into life, and when Ondene glanced back he saw a string of them following…
Quite soon a long channel of brightness appeared out of the gloom and several moments later Ondene emerged into a shining, glassy corridor lit by tiny lamps whose silvery radiance reflected from every surface. Ondene could see that the passage’s far end opened out into some kind of chamber drenched in an emerald glow, and when he pointed that way Tauric nodded.
“You will need strength and purpose for what is to come,” he said. “And much else besides.”
Then suddenly he was flying away towards the end, and when Ondene gave chase he discovered that the ice of the White Prison was hard underfoot. When he reached the chamber he saw that it was a large, glittering concavity lined with frozen faces, and with a wide round hole at the centre encircled by a low wall. A flashing green refulgence poured up from it, spreading bright highlights all around the chamber and casting an emerald hue upon Tauric who was standing by the open hole, staring across it at a figure clad in dark, highly ornamented armour which encased him from head to toe.
“Welcome to the chaining room of the White Prison, shortly to become your new home.” The figure made a sketch of a bow. “I am the Duskgeneral, guardian of the Nightrealm, commander of the Black Host.” His visored helm turned towards Tauric. “I know someone dangerous was approaching but never imagined that it would be you. It must disappointing for you to discover how weak your allies are.”
The ghostly Tauric shook his head. “Oh no, not disappointed, but I am surprised at how insecure you seem to be. Your vast armies, your towers of Overseers, your Citadel and even that armour you’re wearing — it all suggests that both you and your master feel very precarious indeed. Surely you have the courage to at least show us your face.”
For a long, tense moment there was no response, then as Ondene watched the Duskgeneral made a small gesture and the faceguard of his helm melted away to reveal the pallid features of a young man who in every respect resembled Tauric. An ugly hate filled the eyes, even though the lips smiled sardonically.
“Ah, smug sanctimony, a long absent but not entirely forgotten miasma,” he said. “You sound like one of those Rootpriests — I’m sure you remember how well they fared after the destruction of their sorcerous powers. You should ready yourself for a similar fate.”
“You should be more concerned about your own fate,” Ondene said. “When Calabos defeats your master….”
The Duskgeneral-Tauric directed a contemptuous glance at him. “What is this that you’ve brought to this place? What capering pet?”
“This, my dear Duskgeneral, is the Prince of Change,” said the pale Tauric. “His your doom.” He then turned to the glittering curved wall and made a beckoning gesture. At once, a translucent female figure emerged from it, bowed briefly to him then glided smoothly over to Ondene, arms outstretched. Ondene stared fearfully at her approach, flinching when she reached him, and as she slipped into his form he heard a voice say, “Greetings, Corlek — my name is Ffion…”
“Enough of this infantile masquerade,” the Duskgeneral snarled. “Let’s have an end to it.”
He drew forth a curved, black sword whose ridges and grooves captured the green glow of the Wellsource. Then he came round the well towards Ondene who backed away, looking imploringly at the ghostly Tauric.
“How can I….” was all he go out before the Duskgeneral was upon him, swinging his vicious warblade down towards his neck. Crying out, he instinctively raised his arm to ward against the blow, catching the edge on his upper arm….
The blade shattered, hot green traceries of power flaring from the pieces as they flew. Ondene felt the shock of the impact but no wound or pain, only the force of it which threw him a
nd the Duskgeneral backwards. At the same time, he heard a fading cry from within, the woman Ffion he was certain. In the next instant, a second apparition, male this time, detached himself from the wall and swooped down towards him. And Ondene heard;
“Greetings, Corlek — my name is Shaleng.”
The spectral Tauric spoke to him as he swayed upright.
“You are the Prince of Change, Corlek — you are the weapon that will master him…”
“My hands will do what my sword could not,” growled the Duskgeneral-Tauric who charged, mailed fists flailing.
Ondene locked his own hands together, ducked the swinging arms and slammed a mighty blow into the centre of that armour chest. The Duskgeneral was knocked off his feet with such force that he turned over to land on one side. The clashing impulse only made Ondene stagger but still he heard a faint, expiring shout in his mind…and again, a misty figure flitted down from the chamber wall, whose frozen faces now seemed to look on with a desperate intensity.
“Greetings, Corlek — my name is Avalti.”
And in his mind the ghostly Tauric said — “Fight him — your every blow will erode his godhead.”
Thus with each successive clash, Ondene became more confident while the Duskgeneral grew steadily weaker. And a procession of fleeting presences came to Ondene, sacrificing themselves so that he could continue the battle.
So at last the armour was cracked and ruined, and the face was bruised and bloody yet still the Duskgeneral fought to rise. As Ondene watched, he seemed to gain a little strength as the Wellsource’s radiance pulsed brighter in the icy chamber. Then the ghostly Tauric was by Ondene’s side.
“ The conflict between Calabos and the Great Shadow hangs on a knife edge,” he said. “Yet we must trust that it will go our way, and prepare for that eventuality.”
“Are we going to try and destroy the Wellsource, as before at the end of the Shadowking war?” Ondene said.
The pale Tauric shook his head. “There is no Void here which could absorb or heal the ravaging consequences of such an act. No — the only course open to us is to seal the Wellsource off from this world for ever.”
Then he drifted forward, enveloping Ondene with his mistlike form for a second, then his presence was there in Ondene’s thoughts like a river of song.
“So, let us prepare.”
Ondene understood his intent and purpose, seized the feebly-struggling Duskgeneral and hauled him across to the low wall around the Wellsource. Just inside, a series of narrow steps spiralled down into the dazzling depths and without hesitation he climbed over, dragging the Duskgeneral with him.
* * *
Calabos’ campaign to quell the spirit-wraiths with the sword of the mind had turned into a running battle throughout the vaulted heights and crumbling crypts of his thought-palace. They soon understood the nature of this new threat and began to act in concert against him, then started to join together, unifying into larger ones…
All while the dark arena progressed towards the huge throne dais, and odd silhouettes and glimmering shafts of silver chased each other across the dirt floor. As Calabos snatched the occasional glance of their destination, it seemed that there was a tall dark figure, cloaked in writhing shadows, standing up on that dais, beckoning…
Within, Calabos took the fight to the largest of the spirit-wraiths which, in his mind, took the form of a squirming, many-tentacled horror not unlike the seagod Grath. With the sword of the mind he hacked off tendrils and long, coiling cables and wove a web of white symbols about it. The spirit-wraith tried to escape by dividing itself but could not achieve such an act of self-dismemberment. Then the symbol-net flashed and the spirit-wraith was his, its voracious desire broken, its will bound to his own. And when he turned it loose on its lesser brethren, they soon succumbed to the potent stealth of the sword of the mind.
When opened his eyes upon the arena, its smooth passage was slowing to a halt and the leading edge of its structure was transforming into tall ceremonial arch as the foot of the throne dais stairs came nearer, ever nearer. Still grasping the sword of powers, and with the cowed spirit-wraiths poised and obedient in his mind, he got to his feet and saw a dark, cloaked figure coming down the stairs.
I know all about you, Calabos, said a mountainous voice. I know all about the sword of powers and the flensing of the original Byrnak — unfortunately, your singular weapon cannot harm me since I cannot be expelled from myself. I am whole and indivisible — I am the master of all ritual, I create beginnings and endings.
The Great Shadow deliberately descended the last few steps then stalked through the ceremonial archway and into the arena. The deepest shadows seemed to condense about him like the ragged tails of a huge cloak, with only half-glimpsed details of heavy barbaric armour, and the merest suggestions of a face, the dull, emerald glitter of an eye, the grained ivory of teeth bared in a snarl. The rest was swamped in darkness.
Calabos casually hefted the sword of powers and balanced it over his shoulder, almost striking a pose of theatrical audacity. I don’t know if bombast and swagger is of any use at this crux, he thought. But they certainly feel right and besides, I am after all my own audience!
“Know this, o mighty pestilence,” he said. “I have come to cast down your throne and break your crown, and I have not come alone.”
As he said this, the tame spirit-wraiths in his mind were preparing several thought-cantos and even discussing among themselves possible tactics.
There is a thin line between defiance and insolence, the Great Shadow said, his voice rolling like thunder around the arena. But I am not unforgiving — bow down before me, pledge your undying loyalty and I shall withhold my burning need for retribution. You would prove valuable to my growing dominion — I could give you a new name, the Dawngeneral, perhaps…
Calabos uttered a disdainful laugh. “The captain offers passage aboard his sinking ship,” he said. “How generous, how oblivious to your encroaching doom.”
You should awake to the reality of what surrounds you, Calabos — you may have defeated that crippled image of myself, but do not imagine that his broken fragments offer a way of doing me the slightest harm. You are at the heart of my realm, embraced by peril — all that remains is for me to decide the manner of your passing.
The dark shifting shape of the Great Shadow had come to a halt near the centre of the arena so, smiling, Calabos began to pace leisurely around him.
“What made you do it, I wonder?” he said. “You have and entire world here in which to stage your every whim and fancy and a population open to every machination of compulsion and persuasion. Yet through the veil of time and happenstance you have tunnelled to lay hands upon my world — why? What reason could prompt such an aggressive outbreak?”
The Great Shadow’s laughter was deep and wide and full of menace.
What reason do I need besides the guiding star of my divine inspiration and the rule of might?
Calabos’ smile widened a notch. “Ah yes — what you can reach you can grasp; what you can grasp you can take.”
Exactly — all else is either subordinate or a distraction, much like you.
The tall figure then raised an arm into the air, and ragged shadows rippled up it like hungry smoke, coalescing into the shape of a heavy, double-headed battle-axe, its black surfaces elaborately etched, its haft weighted with a large, silvery jewel. As Calabos watched, the upper tines of the axe blades began to glow with a hard, white radiance and the Great Shadow spoke.
I am the source of beginnings in this place, and also the father of endings — here is yours!
He swept the axe down to level it at Calabos. In that instant, Calabos felt fear and an intense alarm from senses stretched wide by the protective activities of the spirit-wraiths within. Afterwards, he was not sure if it was his own instincts or theirs which saved him, but there was a reflex urge to leap backwards and swift casting of the thought-canto Ram to carry him further than his legs could manage. There was a dark
ening of the prevalent gloom and a sound like a thousand mouths sighing in the moment before —
Before something immense came crashing down on the spot where Calabos had been standing. It was a building, a tower of some kind that struck the ground at an angle, spire first. Calabos landed near the pillared cloister just an instant before it did and even as he rolled he felt the gigantic impact and heard the shattering din. The tower broke and the crushing, collapsing weight sent cracked masonry flying in all directions. On hands and knees and still holding the sword of powers, Calabos scrambled behind one of the cloister columns as chunks of stone banged and thudded to left and right. A large spinning piece struck the third column along from his position, smashing it into splintered debris.
At last the roar of destruction faded to nothing, a silence disturbed by the click and rattle of small fragments seeking rest.
And footsteps.
Calabos rose from his crouch, turned and moved out from the cloister shadows. The fallen tower lay across the arena in a long mound of rubble around which a fine haze of dust was settling. Of the Great Shadow there was no sign but there were others there instead, five others whose names he knew all too well.
“Ah, our brother,” Thraelor said with a languidly cruel smile.
“Our lost brother,” said Kodel, regarding Calabos thoughtfully.
“Our treacherous brother,” growled Ystregul, the Black Priest.
“Our reluctant brother,” Grazaan said grimly.
“Our enemy brother,” said Byrnak. “Come to break thrones and crowns, to pit himself against us and ultimately to fail. Concede the futility of your task, brother, and join us.”
Calabos stared back at the face that was so like his own, then surveyed the rest. All five Shadowkings were arrayed in a curve before him, all attired in fabulously intricate suits of armour seemingly fashioned from a gleaming opaque substance, each with a different colour, gold, crimson, jade, amber, and blue. And each bore a long-hafted, double-headed battle-axe.
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