The fight went on against waterborne attackers as well as those diving from above. Ondene was just leading an assault on a flotilla of boat crammed with armoured predators, when an ominous rumble sounded and a great shudder shook the cavern.
The prison leaves the Nightrealm, and descent has begun, said the Tauric deity. Down, further down into the Void beneath the Void we are plunging, drawing taut the Wellsource’s ties to the Nightrealm, drawing forth the Enemy’s poison until finally the bonds will part…
A bestial howl of fury ripped through the air and the waters erupted with monsters, coiling, writhing horrors that flung themselves against the flanks of the Wellsource dromond…..
Which changed again, becoming a high-walled citadel even as the heaving, thrashing sea froze into a desert of wind-sculpted dunes and outcrops of worn rock. Around the foot of the walls, enemy legions swarmed, raising scaling ladders that were living serpents creatures. But the quivering continued in the cavern, which Ondene felt underfoot as he steered his golden mount down to the citadel ramparts and dismounted. He glanced up at the high, glowing roof then out at the hazy distance, hoping that Calabos had found a safe place after throwing his sword down the Well shaft, hoping that all this was helping the defenders back in Sejeend and Besdarok….
We descend — the Void beneath the Void beckons and the knot of fates tightens!
Then the desert gaped and the Great Shadow rode up from darkness on a serpent-headed horse, at the head of an endless army which poured across the desert like a dark tide. Ondene felt the stonework quake beneath his feet, then cried out in surprise and fear when the approaching horde rose in the air on blurred wings like a vast stormfront and bore down on the citadel….
But the cavern shook from ceiling to floor, from wall to wall and darkness fell for a moment like a great eye closing…
Everything…..
…..pause….
And when the darkness lifted, the cavern was how it had been at the beginning only now the flow of the Wellsource was a diminishing spout of radiance while the entire cavern trembled and vibrated. Before the fitful, fading emerald light, a roaring dark figure fought with a pale, ghostly one. Ondene, feeling dizzy, forced himself upright and staggered towards them a pace or two, not sure what to do. Then his foot knocked against something on the floor which clattered and looking down he saw a sword lying bare and gleaming on the uneven, shaking rock. Calabos’s sword of powers, he thought as he quickly snatched it up and moved towards the struggling gods.
All is done, said Tauric in his thoughts. The last bonds have been severed and the Wellsource is but a candle guttering out its last. We will fall through the Void beneath the Void for eternity and our essences will gradually slow and dissolve into the slumbering sea from which Fate draws its catch. Are you prepared, Corlek?
“I am,” he said. “Just let me strike one last blow!”
And the Great Shadow, once Lord of Twilight, once the five Shadowkings, threw a glare of limitless hate over his shoulder at the oncoming Ondene.
“I will devour you both!” he snarled.
“I care not,” Ondene cried as he drew near. “For after us, you will feast only on nothingness!”
And with a straight-arm thrust he drove the sword of powers into the Great Shadow’s upper chest. The Enemy, still grappling with Tauric, gave a harsh, despising laughter but that soon turned into a shriek of surprise and agony as the swordpoint speared into the dense, ragged vapour of his form. Releasing the god Tauric, the Great Shadow recoiled from Ondene and the sword of powers, the wound in his chest leaking black smoke, and then lunged towards the flickering, failing fount of the Wellsource. And as he reached for it, the waning glow died. Corlek Onden heard him utter a single, senses-shattering howl of fear and loss…then the indivisible darkness of finality fell and he knew no more of the light.
Epilogue
There are no endings,
Only a river of beginnings,
Rushing onwards for ever.
—Mogaun proverb
As the cavern of the Wellsource began its descent into the Void beneath the Void, the first visible effect elsewhere was on the soldiers of the Black Host. In Oumetra and Adnagaur, or rather the grey, blighted plains where those cities had stood, the Host’s patrols out into the lands beyond became less frequent and kept closer to the Blights deathly borders. In Alvergost, where the Host was under concerted attack by a determined Carver army from Anghatan, the black-armoured troops pulled back to within the Blight itself. At the Great Canal, by the Blight-smothered Isle of Besdarok, the companies of the Black Host broke off from pursuing Mogaun warriors and retreated to the town of Belkiol where they clashed with the Imperial remnants under Jarryc’s command, now allied with the local Mogaun.
At the half-effaced city of Sejeend, the battle that raged all along the banks of the Valewater faltered and the Black Host fell back to the cliffs while their archers staved off attacks by the Daemonkind. And in the gloomy precincts of the Nightrealm, Byrnak’s siege army broke through the gates of the Citadel of Twilight, even as the ground underfoot trembled ominously and the Overseers launched ferocious, near-suicidal attacks from above.
Then at last, the cords of power that joined the Wellsource to the Nightrealm were stretched too far in the pitiless gulfs of the Void beneath the Void, and gave way. As the cavern of the Wellsource became a true prison and fell unhindered into oblivion, a string of consequences were taking place. The Blight darkened and began to visibly shrink, splitting and cracking as it withdrew from the lands and the cities that it had consumed and shrouded. But more dramatic were the reactions of the soldiers of the Black Host — some stopped in mid-motion and fell lifeless to the ground, while others screamed and collapsed in convulsions. Still others broke apart into sections of armour as the very substance of their beings turned to oozing, black vapour. Also, roughly a third were unaffected yet abandoned their positions and fled back to the Shattergates, seeking to return to the Nightrealm.
A handful, however, threw down their weapons and cast of their enclosing helms, revealing men and women whose memories was of life in the Nightrealm prior to their recruitment into the Black Host. None of them showed any desire to return there.
In the Nightrealm itself, entire legions of the Black Host rebelled against their commanders while the Murknights to a man perished where they stood. And with the Overseers either fallen in flames from their towers or hiding in inaccessible refuges, the chieftains of the chapters and militias were fighting for what advantage they could. Tremors and quakes shook the Nightrealm from end to end, yet Qothan and the other two Daemonkind kept their vigil at the top of the Citadel of Twilight, hoping that Calabos would still appear. The Great Shadows dreamcourts had become a bizarre maze of buildings and streets frozen in mid-change, an insane vista of twisted, distorted walls and roofs. They had already ascertained the whereabouts of the Shattergate portals, four being distributed among the ten cliffside bastions, with the fifth located on the Citadel’s 30th level.
Then at last Calabos emerged, carried on an improvised stretcher, as a long, crowd of people also came forth, thousands of weary-looking men and women. But when Qothan suggested that he and the Daemonkind start immediately for the nearest gate this was rejected — Calabos was determined to see that all his fellow escapees reached some kind of sanctuary, for they were most of the former captives of the White Prison and thus deserved peace and protection.
And it was achieved. As Viras and Yostil guided parties of them down through the citadel, Qothan sought out Kerna and Nilka who agreed to help the former prisoners find a safe refuge away from the fighting. Almost three days later the last of them left the Citadel, and Calabos had begun to make a good recovery. Three days on from the imprisonment and exile of the Great Shadow — as well as Corlek Ondene and the god Tauric — the terrible quaking had waned to just the occasional tremor, and the quality of the light was changing, brightening. Even the air was starting to smell fresher.
Th
ree days on, only the Shattergate in the Citadel remained open so Calabos agreed that it was time to go, wondering if three days here was still only a matter of hours back in the world that was his home. From the platform on the Citadel’s roof he gave the Nightrealm’s vast cityscape one last look and raised a hand in farewell before following the Daemonkind down into the Citadel of Twilight to find the way back.
* * *
When the Daemonkind Besarl and his three companions landed in Belkiol’s town square less than a day after the destruction of the Blight and the Black Host at Besdarok, Tashil Akri had asked after Calabos’ friend, Coireg, but they were not forthcoming.
“What little we know,” Besarl had said, “we have sworn not to reveal, lady. Not even to our brothers and sisters aboard the Stormclaw shall we relate our experiences — our vow is a sacred one.”
Which Tashil had to accept and although the curiosity gnawed at her, she had other matters on her mind, namely the reunion with her family. Seeing her aunts and her father among the captives in the temple, their necks and limbs bound with rope, had been a soul-wrenching moment when all her fears had turned to relief amid bursts of sobbing. In the hours afterwards, when the Black Host returned to Belkiol and terrible fighting ensued on the northern outskirts of the town, she had all but made up her mind to stay with her family should she and they survive.
But just one day after the rout and dissolution’s of the invaders, he father declared that the Akri family would be leaving for northern Khatris without delay. But when he asked Tashil to go too, she had looked about her at the wrecked town and the houses and halls full of refugees and the wounded and knew that she had to remain. The knowledge of Atemor’s death had also come to stand between them and Tashil had found it easier than she thought to say farewell.
Once her family had departed Belkiol, Tashil turned her attention to helping where she could with the healers or with the temporary shelters, or with translation for Jarryc as he strove to forge a working relationship with the Mogaun chiefs and elders.
But two days later, she had word from Dardan and Sounek in Sejeend, asking if she could return quickly to attend a council called by several nobles to determine the succession. Ilgarion and Tangaroth had died without issue, so the stage was set for a potentially ruinous power struggle which the Watchers and High Steward Roldur hoped to stall with their own candidate for the crown, Count Jarryc. Thus it was that on the morning of the third day after the end of the invasion, Tashil was being carried through the icy sky towards Sejeend by Besarl and his Daemonkind brothers.
It was mid-afternoon under a clear blue sky when the winged group finally alighted on the fortified ramparts of Hubranda Lock. Dardan and Sounek were waiting for her, the former trying to look stern while the latter were an unabashed grin.
“At this rate,” Dardan said, “you’ll be rushing off to join the Daemonkind on their ship,” Then a smile broke through the gruff exterior. “Don’t reckon they’d be able to handle you, m’self!”
Tashil laughed. “Ser, I have many important tasks to complete here before I depart for other lands, like guiding you into the embrace of a good tailor!”
“He’ll join the Carvers before he gives up that forest cloak of his,” Sounek said. “Good to see you back, lady — your presence and the substance of your personal account should add weight to Count Jarryc’s stature in these nobles’ eyes.”
She nodded. “Of course, if Calabos were here, we would be on firmer ground.” She smiled at them both, concealing her blackest fears. “So, has anything been heard from him?”
Dardan and Sounek exchanged a look and a sly smile that made hope leap in her.
“There has been word,” Sounek said. “About an hour ago two Daemonkind emerged from the ruins of the palace, from the Shattergate there which is still apparently open — unlike all the others. They said that Qothan and Calabos were following on, but so far the sentries watching the place have reported nothing.”
Tashil thought this over, remembering with perfect clarity Calabos’ vow to return.
“I am sure that he will be here,” she said.
“He’s a tough old fox,” Dardan said. “I know he will.”
“When is this council of nobles due to commence?” Tashil said.
“This evening,” said Sounek.
“Good — then there’s time enough to cross the Valewater and see what remains, yes?”
To which there could only be agreement. And as they left, Tashil noticed Besarl and the other Daemonkind altering their forms, shrinking back to the appearance of tall, stern people.
From the main gates of Hubranda Lock they walked downhill towards the riverbank. Every street bore the scars of conflict, fire-blackened doors and windows, floods of water from burst tanks and pipes, families tugging belongings from the rubble of their homes. However, there were also many soldiers present, helping to clear away piles of wreckage or patrolling watchfully while labourers and artisans worked to shore up walls or repair roofs. There was misery aplenty to see, which made Tashil feel almost helpless with sorrow, but there was also the selfless compassion of ordinary people striving to help each other while refusing to break under the burden of grief.
Yes, she thought. I belong here, where there is work to be done.
A few moments later they passed into the dockside district and Tashil got her first proper view of the east bank since the disappearance of the Blight. From the air she had had a glimpse of a dark, featureless swathe of ground stretching from beyond the cliffs and the north curve of the bay all down the bank, south along Gronanvel. But this close it resembled acres upon acres of tilled earth, blank except for a few jutting remnants of heavily-constructed walls. Tashil felt that her sombre mood was shared Dardan and Sounek as they all hurried across the sole restored bridge, feeling the new timbers shift and rattle underfoot.
On the other side, a few huts had been erected and a dozen guards in city livery were keeping an eye on a gang of labourers who were digging into the riverbank in search of wharf foundations. Sounek had a word with the guard officer who nodded and let them pass unhindered.
A muddy path led up a steady incline towards the main level on which this part of the old town had been built, and thence off in the direction of the great notch in the cliffs through which the river Kala had poured. Tashil could only stare about her in silence, remembering street after street of ancient buildings while her eyes gazed upon nothing. Then a shadow passed over the ground before them and the great winged form of a Daemonkind swooped down to land before them. Tashil’s sudden alarm turned to elation when she saw that it was Qothan.
“Friend Qothan,” she said. “It gladdens my heart to see that you are in good health. May we assume that Calabos is also hale and hearty?”
As he folded his wings, Qothan regarded her with a vague amusement. “Honoured Calabos is well, friend Tashil. He suffered greatly during his struggle with the Great Shadow and gave more of himself that he will admit, such that he lacks the strength to greet you with farspeech. Thus I offered to fly ahead to announce his arrival and explain this silence on his part.”
Tashil glanced at Dardan and Sounek and saw her own worries reflected in their expressions.
“What of Corlek Ondene?” she said.
Qothan shook his head. “We know only a few details, those at least that Calabos mentioned — he was there at the heart of the Great Shadow’s dreamcourts and saw what had transpired before Corlek Ondene and the Sleeping God imprisoned themselves with the Enemy and his servant, the Duskgeneral, before sending that prison off into the infinite depths of the Void beneath the Void.” The Daemonkind was sombre. “They gave everything.”
For a moment or two all were silent.
“So Calabos knows what happened,” said Sounek. “I don’t imagine that he’ll feel like giving a detailed account today.”
“I take it that he is descending the Kala gully,” Dardan said to Qothan.
“I offered to fly him down from the cli
ffs,” Qothan said. “But he would have none of it.”
“That sounds like him,” Dardan said. “We’d best move along smartly, then, before the old fool breaks a leg or something.”
As they hastened up the muddy track, Qothan explained how strange the return had been, how slow compared with the outward journey and how gruelling it had been for both of them. They were climbing to the elevated ground where Hojamar Keep had stood, and listening to Qothan’s descriptions of the Nightrealm, when she heard Dardan curse. Looking up quickly she just saw a half-naked figure disappear into the opening of the Kala dale.
“Who — ” she began to say before Dardan cut her off.
“Bureng!” he said. “That pirate vermin, I recognised him with magesight — come on!”
As they dashed forward, Qothan leaped into the air and hurled himself towards the notch in the cliffs. Anger and fear lent Tashil an almost limitless vigour, and also filled her mind with a river of images. Bureng! — she remembered how the deranged Bureng had led an army of the undead up from the wharves, and recalled that ghastly battle on the night-bound, rain-lashed workshop roof. Everyone had assumed that he had died either in the fighting or when the Blight later overwhelmed the eastern half of Sejeend, but now her mind was creating the worst of speculations.
When the three Watchers reached the narrow, brown waters of the Kala they found themselves to be involuntary spectators of a harrowing, tensely balanced situation. On the opposite bank of the rushing river, the pirate Bureng, wearing only a loincloth, had Calabos on his knees with a long dagger held to his throat. The pirate was grinning nastily at Qothan who stood several yards along the same side, his hooded eyes filled with a level fury, his clenched, taloned hands gleaming with silvery, deadly radiance.
“Ah, Dardan, Sounek and Tash,” Calabos said hoarsely. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you…”
“Cease your prattling, host,” said Bureng. “None of these insects can come between my pretty blade and your neck. But if they bow down to me, I may make them into useful pets, even the winged one…”
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