He laughed and shook his head, while conferring inwardly with his spirit-wraiths.
“So you would rather indulge in this play-acting,” Calabos said. “This dance of masks amongst the shadows. Forgive me, but I have no desire to take part in your little ritual. Put off your masks and face me, or are truly the Great Nothing?”
The Shadowkings in turn all shook their heads and in unison said, “The insolence of an insect,” then suddenly leaped forward. Calabos lurched backwards, thinking they were coming for him but instead they converged on a spot several yards in front of him. Their forms darkened and grew amorphous, merging as they rushed together into a single, tall figure cloaked in writhing shadows.
You will be consumed, the Great Shadow thundered. The devouring of your flesh will become a new ritual for the Nightrealm.
Again, Calabos felt the panicky, piercing warning and threw himself sideways, just as something burst up out of the arena floor. At first he thought it was a rough pillar as thick as a man, then saw it bend and curve down towards him, black jaws gaping in an eyeless head. Like a grotesque serpent of stone, it undulated in his direction, forcing him to run. The Great Shadow’s laughter boomed around the arena as a second, a third and a fourth erupted from the rubble-strewn floor and began seeking him out. The murky halflight of the cloisters could not conceal him from their pursuit and as he dodged and dashed from their snapping heads, he knew that the moment of extremity was upon him.
To the bound spirit-wraiths within he said — The time is now. Are you prepared?
(Yes, Calabos, but we will need something more to be sure of victory)
What?
(The sword of the mind’s pattern rests in your inner thoughts — release it to us and we will destroy this god for you)
He hesitated for only a moment or two, during which he sidestepped a lunging stone serpent and dealt it a blow with the sword of powers, which merely clanged and rebounded.
It is yours, he said. Go.
As he released them, his senses blurred and he seemed to see himself from several angles at once, crouched behind a tilted section of tower wall. Then the spirit-wraiths glided away from him, their forms vaguely manlike, dark knots of hands holding blazing white blades while all their faces were his own.
In his mind’s eye he followed them as they flew up to where the Great Shadow hovered above the rubble mound and converged upon him there. As battle commenced, Calabos found himself darting madly from the stone serpents who redoubled their savage attacks. They were also more closely co-ordinated, keeping him trapped in the section of the cloisters across which the tower had fallen. Only the rubble and wreckage that was piled on the rampart above the cloister and down onto the arena, offered any kind of refuge. In his minds eye, he could see how the spirit-wraiths had surrounded the Great Shadow, and were attacking him with swift hacking lunges. But his own situation was becoming precarious as the stone serpents began ramming their heads into the sheltering rubble, steadily knocking it away.
The impacts not only peppered him with sharp fragment, they also threatened to collapse the slope of shattered masonry at his back. One of the stone serpents was now visible, its toothless, jaws thudding shut just a few feet away. Calabos watched the encroaching sorcerous beasts with bleak grimness, trying to gauge his chances of ducking past either of them then running for some other more likely bolthole…
Then the fleeting images in his mind went black. An awful sense of dread gripped him before a deafening bellowing came from the stone serpents which thrashed about for a moment before falling to the ground with a massive shattering sound. As the reverberating echoes faded away, Calabos warily emerged from his refuge and looked around at the arena. The serpents lay in broken pieces upon the floor, while a turmoil in the heights above the dreamcourts cast shifting patches of radiance across the now-unchanging nearby buildings.
(Calabos…)
He glanced about this half of the arena and up at the long mound of rubble. Seeing nothing, he trusted to his undersenses and hurried through the cloister to the other side of the arena and saw a tall dark figure waiting there. It made no move as he approached, and as he came nearer he could see that its shadowy bulk was flickering, almost rippling. Closer still, he saw the features of the Great Shadow but his form was now a patchwork of his own funereal substance and the smoky shapes of Calabos’ spirit-wraiths moving in a slow swirl around him.
(Calabos — the Great Shadow cannot be destroyed. The very essence of his being runs through the Wellsource and is bound tightly to the underpinnings of the Nightrealm)
Hearing the spirit-wraiths tell him this with his own face while unhurriedly weaving around the Great Shadow’s darkling form was greatly unsettling, and his heart sank.
“Is there nothing that we can do?” he said.
(Something has already been done — Corlek Ondene...and another, await us at the heart of the White Prison, by the Wellsource itself. The Duskgeneral has been subdued but as with the Great Shadow it cannot last. However, Ondene’s companion insists that there is a solution)
“Which is?”
(Exile. The Great Shadow must be taken to the Wellsource, but we are unable to move him as all our powers are devoted to subjugating him)
Calabos stared at the eerily calm images of his own face drifting around the frozen darkness of the Great Shadow.
“So what are you asking of me?”
(We do not ask — we can only offer the solution. It is for you to decide. In this case, the only way to move the Great Shadow is for you to carry him to the Wellsource yourself. It will be a taxing burden, in many ways)
Calabos swallowed hard.
“To become a host for him, you mean.”
(You will be bearing us too — whatever ruse of deceit he tries to employ, we shall be there to keep him shackled and you safe)
“And how would I do this?”
(Walk forward into this form of his. Your sight will dim for a moment then return. And we must not tarry in this)
Calabos breathed in deeply, then laughed. He gazed up at the shifting high gloom and the huge pillars that rose up to vanish there. Then he glanced at the throne dais and the pale, looming wall of the White Prison. But when he stepped determinedly into that dark embrace it was with eyes closed.
* * *
The shaft leading down to the fount of the Wellsource was like the neck of a bottle, its bright, emerald narrowness widening to a dim, grey cavern. From the very centre of the hard, flat floor the burning flux of the Wellsource rose in a quivering column of power too bright for ordinary eyes. Ondene was standing a few feet away, watching over the sullen, glowering figure of the Duskgeneral-Tauric while the other, spectral Tauric was investigating the Wellsource, studying it up close.
“You cannot win,” the Duskgeneral was muttering. “My master’s essence and power is spread throughout the Nightrealm. It matters not if you bring him here and disperse that which you hold captive, for he will rise again.”
“So you say,” Ondene said. “But since you have nothing to say that I wish to hear, you are only wasting your breath.”
“Unfortunately, he is telling the truth,” said the other Tauric.
Dismayed, Ondene turned to regard him, shielding his sight from the Wellsource’s dazzle, but before he could speak a newcomer descended from the entry shaft and clambered down the rough blocks which bridged the drop to the floor. It was Calabos, attired in the shimmering armour of a Murknight, and carrying a longsword in a harness over his back. Ondene felt a surge of relief and joy but his smile froze on his lips when he saw the drawn and haggard look on the man’s face, the trembling in his features and the scarcely-veiled mortal dread in his eyes.
Calabos took a few faltering steps towards the Wellsource, then blinked and turned away from it.
“Unburden me of him,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now! — I command you!”
As Ondene watched, his armoured form grew blurred as an ashen haze gathered around him lik
e a larger ghostly figure. This enclosing form began to darken and obscure Calabos, and Ondene noticed that strange shapes were also moving in the dense opacity, undulant shapes whose faces were that of Calabos.
Even as a shock Ondene took this in, Calabos himself emerged from the menacing form, almost seeming to force his way out. Trembling and gasping, his face pale, he managed to stagger a couple of steps before collapsing to the ground. But Ondene was already at his side.
“I nearly….very nearly didn’t get here,” Calabos said. “His poisonous thoughts were like a river of vermin washing through my mind — every step was a struggle against savage desires and gross illusions, and that was with my spirit-wraiths helping.” He grimaced in disgust. “And I came close to surrender, to embracing it…”
“My master will embrace you all,” snarled the Duskgeneral. “See! His divine essence surges against your inferior sentinels…throw off these, shackles, Great Shadow, and crush our enemies!”
Shadows writhed about the tall figure and as Ondene and Calabos watched, hints of a snarling face became visible. It took a step in the direction of the Wellsource, and a second, then the spirit-wraiths together uttered a droning song, each with Calabos’ face. The Great Shadow came to a halt but his hate was a palpable thing in the dim cavern, an invisible, choking miasma.
(Soon all of our efforts will be exhausted) said one of the spirit-wraiths (You must decide what to do and soon)
Calabos shook his head. “Since his essence is bound to the Nightrealm, he cannot be obliterated, so presumably destroying him would also destroy this place and everyone in it” He looked Ondene. “So what is left to us? And who is this companion of yours?”
Then the spectral Tauric drifted into the group and smiled.
“Greetings, Calabos, poet and mage — we’ve come a long way, you and I.”
Calabos stared a moment, then chuckled. “So the Sleeping God bequeathed a second gift, hm?”
Tauric nodded sadly. “But more sacrifice than gift, Calabos,” he said. “In this place, fates entwine and doom looks both ways…”
His words were drowned as an insensate bellow of rage shook the cavern. All eyes glanced over at the shadow-wreathed form and Ondene felt a stab panic to see that one of the spirit-wraiths’ faces had turned into a darker, more brutal visage.
(Time is short) sang the others as they converged on the usurper.
Calabos gripped Ondene’s arm as he tried to rise to his feet. Ondene helped, supporting some of the man’s weight with a hand about his waist.
“So what must be done?” the poet-mage said.
“Surrender,” growled the Duskgeneral from where he lay prone upon the cavern floor. “Bare your throats, accept the knife…”
“Exile,” said Tauric. “The Great Shadow cannot be eradicated, therefore he and the Wellsource must be ousted, expelled. The augmented powers of this Wellsource are open to me and together with the spirit-wraiths’ abilities we may be able to turn this cavern into a prison.”
“Will that suffice?” Ondene said.
“No, it will not,” Tauric said. “Once sealed, the prison must be gradually detached from the Nightrealm before its bonds with the vestigial Void are severed, then it must be thrust still further down, into the Void beneath the Void.” He smiled sadly. “But neither I nor the spirit-wraiths are capable of wielding and guiding the Wellsource without a living host — only the visceral essence of living flesh will permit me to override the Great Shadow’s connection to it and create the deepest connection. The Duskgeneral is wholly his creature and is thus irrevocably corrupt…”
“So it has to be one of us, yes?” Calabos said. “Then I’ll do it.”
Ondene stared at him, at the pallor of his skin, at the exhaustion writ so clearly in his lined features. And was suddenly aware that the spectral Tauric was staring too.
Then he and Tauric exchanged a look, and understanding came to Ondene in a wave of clarity and purpose.
“I’m sorry, Calabos,” he said, “but it has to be me.”
The older man drew away from him, forcing himself to stand unaided with a visible effort of will.
“No, Corlek — you do not have the knowledge and skill with these powers, not to mention very many years of experience…”
“But the truth is that you’re at the end of your strength,” Ondene said. “You’ve given so much to get this far, and given almost everything to carry an unbearable burden to this place. You must let me finish the task — after all, the Sleeping God appointed me the Prince of Change.”
There was another guttural roar of fury which was only muted, not silenced.
“There is no more time, Corlek,” said Tauric. “Are you prepared?”
“Yes, but Calabos must be removed to a place of safety.”
“It shall be done.”
“Curse you, no!…”
Ignoring Calabos’ anger, Ondene stood still as Tauric rushed towards him. A moment of misty envelopment….and then that illuminating presence was permeating his thoughts and sense once more. Almost unconsciously he drew on the torrential flux of the Wellsource, lifted Calabos as if he were as light as a child and then rose up through the shaft to the chaining chamber of the White Prison. There were dozens of people there, former prisoners who shielded their eyes from Ondene-Tauric’s radiance as he emerged and carefully laid Calabos on the chamber floor.
“Well,” said the poet-mage, levering himself up on one shaky arm. “I can see that you’ve made up your mind…and nothing will alter it.” He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them again. “There — I’ve told the spirit-wraiths to obey you as if you were I.”
“Thank you, Calabos,” Ondene-Tauric said. “Give my farewells to all the Watchers and the Daemonkind.”
“I shall. Now go — do what must be done.”
Ondene-Tauric turned to one of the onlookers. “This chamber will soon be very dangerous for you all — you must leave quickly, and take my friend with you. Can you do this?”
They nodded wordlessly and some hurried to lift and carry Calabos. As they made for the way out, Ondene-Tauric descended the bright shaft and returned to the cavern. There, the Duskgeneral was crawling towards his master, the Great Shadow, whose form was a turbulent storm of amorphous distortion amid which the spirit-wraiths fought to maintain control.
He wasted no time and swooped down to stand in the full, dazzling rush of the Wellsource. He was about to wrench free the step blocks to block the entry shaft with, when an object came clattering down from above. It was Calabos’ sword of powers, still in its scabbard. Ondene-Tauric smiled and moved it to one side before continuing with the task. Soon the shaft was full of broken blocks being woven shut with webs of verdant Sourcefire. Suddenly the diminishing aperture was closed completely and Wellsource power flooded around the cavern.
After that, Ondene found himself left increasingly to one side as the godlike being within him bean to employ the Wellsource in astonishing and unfathomable ways. He had heard and learned something of the Void during his extraordinary adventuring, and it seemed to him that this cavern was actually the shrunken remnant of this world’s Void, wrecked and curtailed when the Lord of Twilight triumphed — here. And as the Tauric deity worked, the emerald radiance of the Wellsource spread throughout the cavern and across the uneven walls in slow, rippling waves, losing its dazzling glare as it did so, calming and dimming. At the same time a strange, fine haze began to rise and gather like drifting layers of smoke, swirling and thickening. An occasional flash of ruddy light pierced the haze, revealing glimpses of a much wider underground cavescape than Ondene had already seen, as if the cavern had somehow become many miles across.
The Tauric deity ignored this and continued to labour at its tasks, sealing the boundaries of the Great Shadow’s prison and preparing to detach the cavern from the Nightrealm.
In the cavern itself, distance had ceased to have meaning and the glowing mist gave a dreamlike quality to the twilight-softened vistas of
hills, vales, moors and rolling downs which now stretched impossibly all around. Of the Great Shadow and his servant, the Duskgeneral, there were no signs, the raging howls having all but subsided. A tense hush held sway for a while until a single, dark writhing shape came gliding out of the mists, one of Calabos’ spirit-wraiths.
(The Great Shadow comes) it said (War comes)
Then Ondene gasped as the fount of the Wellsource blurred and flowed, becoming a white-walled fortress upon whose ramparts he stood while the battlements teemed with thousands of brightly-armoured fighters, all wearing Calabos’ face. He was himself attired in silver-green mail and a flowing, pure blue cloak.
The end is in sight, said the Tauric deity in his mind. But our Enemy has regained some of his strength and is coming against us with an endless hunger in his spirit and a trembling fear in his heart. You must hold him back until the task is done — you must!
Then barbarous horns blared in the murk-veiled distance and the bellowing of a myriad savage throats shook the air. A moment later a long line of indistinct, opaque shapes appeared in the enclosing mists, then took on solidity and details as they emerged — and this was only the leading edge of a vast horde of glittering black creatures, galloping along on two, four or even six legs. Without pause they charged across open ground towards the Wellsource fortress, urged on by tall armoured knights mounted on grotesque lizard-like beasts with a multiplicity of eyes and mouths. Battle was joined.
In the demented clangour of unrestrained brutality, events seemed to blur into one another. From hand-to-hand combat o the battlements, Ondene went to fighting from horseback within the fortress courtyard, then outside the walls, except that his mount turned into a great armoured beast resembling an ox or a bear. Then it changed again into a massive, golden drakken while the Wellsource fortress became a huge ship surging through stormy waters, an immense dromond with a dozen masts and bristling with war machines. From amidships the glowing stem of the Wellsource poured up to spread across the still-present cavern roof and downward, lighting up the depths.
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