by A. Evermore
Chapter 6
Hameka
BAELTHROM roared. A terrible sound Kilkarn had only heard come from a demon in torture. The Immortal Lord reached deep into his own magic, the Under Flow, the source of his power that came from the Dark Rift, far beyond Maioria. Willingly it obeyed and surrounded him in a shield of red fire. Swiftly he turned his attention to the other magic that assaulted him and focused upon the Flow.
There is ancient magic at work here, and yet it is new, I have never felt it here before. Like following a cord of string in the dark he followed the magic’s signature, searching for the source of the power. Much could be learned from the feel and essence of magic for it, like all energy, held information. But right now all he must do is find the source of it.
For thousands of miles Baelthrom projected his mind, following the vibration of the strange magic to its source until finally he drew near to it out in the open ocean, far beyond the west coast of Frayon.
‘Keteth is dead,’ Baelthrom said in a trance-like state. His voice was so deep it was more vibration than sound and it echoed around the chamber. His eyes shone a myriad of colours, like an aurora rolling across a night sky, as he stood in deep concentration.
Kilkarn dragged himself up from the corner of the room where he had been gasping and cowering and stepped towards his Lord.
‘This is of some interest but surely no concern, Lord Baelthrom,’ Kilkarn puffed, still trying to catch his breath.
‘His pitiful prison of souls is broken,’ Baelthrom said, not hearing the dark dwarf as he continued to decode the magic. ‘And all their magic, all their power, has been returned to the world… but not to me,’ Baelthrom’s voice became a low sizzling hiss.
The dark dwarf hesitated mid footstep and tiptoed backwards a few.
‘There is no danger here, Lord Baelthrom,’ Kilkarn’s voice was barely a squeak.
Baelthrom continued to immerse himself in the Flow of the new magic. It moved around him like a thick, watery, flowing mist which appeared only as a faint glimmer to physical eyes. He moved closer to the source but then he struck a wall of magic that prevented him from getting closer. He circled all around searching for a way through but could not penetrate the soft silvery magical mist. And then, as if in response to his probing, two huge eyes formed upon the swirling surface before him and slowly opened.
Blue-green eyes looked straight back at him trapping him in their gaze. He stared back, unable to pull away, and in their glassy surface he saw himself reflected there. It was him, with his three-peaked helmet and black iron armoured body. Only now his body was wilting and shrivelling, crumbling away to dust, like he had seen the lifeless dead decay until they were nothing. In those eyes he saw that which he feared most; his own death.
A choking fear swept over Baelthrom, grabbed him by the neck and squeezed. Great rolls of sweat ran down his body, and not for the first time he detested his physical form. Then the eyes snapped shut, releasing him, and he was flung back against the wall of his chamber. Kilkarn shrieked and ran to him.
‘Lord Baelthrom,’ the dark dwarf snivelled. Baelthrom shoved him aside, sending him rolling back into the altar. But the dark dwarf only jumped up again, unfazed, and ran back to his side.
The choking fear began to retreat. Fear turned to anger; anger became rage. He clenched his fists until the dark veins on his grey skin stood out like rivers painted on a map. With a shove of his tail and beat of his wings he flung himself to standing and roared. His voice shook the chamber and Kilkarn cowered behind him. The echo seemed to last for hours until there came finally silence and stillness and the chamber was dim once more.
‘There is no danger here, Lord Baelthrom,’ Kilkarn repeated. His voice slowly filtered down to Baelthrom through that swirling magic. The magic trail was gone and there was no way he could try to follow it again.
The dwarf is right, Baelthrom thought, he was not under attack, there was no danger, and even if there was it should be no cause for worry, nothing could defeat him. He withdrew his focus from within the foreign magic, released his hold upon the Under Flow, and let his ball of fire flicker and go out. He folded his wings back down against his wide back and relaxed.
‘Indeed. Who would dare come here?’ Baelthrom agreed, finding confidence in his own power. Kilkarn always knew the right thing to say, which was why he was still alive and at his side. The dwarf came forward now, emboldened by his Lord’s words.
‘Nothing can brave the Immortal Lord’s fortress deep within the wastelands of Maphrax,’ he said and laughed, a short monkey-like chuckle that stopped abruptly when Baelthrom growled.
‘We must act quickly…’ Baelthrom turned to the iron ring and it flared into life. ‘Our closest armies to the source of that magic are positioned upon the Isles of Kammy. The Feylint Halanoi do not know this and soon we will be ready to attack the unguarded western Frayon.’ As he spoke a cluster of islands came into view, barely visible in the darkness of night.
‘I shall send them all. Find me Dromoorai,’ at Baelthrom’s command the image in the iron ring drew closer to the largest island.
Red lights of huge flaming braziers lit up the main port. All around were the scorch marks of Dread Dragon fire and Kilkarn did not need daylight to know the carnage and destruction they would have wrought there. From what he could make out little remained of the port but blackened earth and crumbled walls. At the entrance to the port on the end of the harbour pier, a huge shape came into view. Nothing more than a great black shadow in the darkness.
The image brightened to reveal a sleeping Dread Dragon. It looked like a statue, unmoving and sat back on massive haunches, tail curled around its front legs, head raised but still, like a mountain against a starlit sky. The Dromoorai rider slept mounted upon its back, flaring red eyes now finally dark behind the three-peaked helmet. The reins of the Dread Dragon held firmly in gauntleted fists. The Dromoorai slept ready for battle.
‘Awaken,’ Baelthrom breathed. The dim amulet about the Dromoorai’s neck flared into red light. The Dromoorai’s eyes opened and matched the red light of the amulet. The Dread Dragon opened its eyes but all that was detectable were gleaming pitch black orbs.
‘Take all the ships and all the Dromoorai to the edge of the Shadowlands immediately,’ Baelthrom forced into the Dromoorai’s thick skull the location of where he had found her. ‘Find the one who has destroyed Keteth before it is too late. Use all magic to fuel speed and spare none. Bring her alive.’
‘Yes, Lord Baelthrom,’ the low voice that spoke was like a weaker version of Baelthrom’s own and yet still it rumbled through the ring and about the chamber. Baelthrom turned away from the Dromoorai.
‘Find me the necromancers.’
The iron ring dutifully obeyed and this time drew inland towards the keep of a castle. All the ramparts surrounding the courtyard had been destroyed and blackened by the fire of Dread Dragons but some of the greater structures, the towers, the bailey, the castle itself, still remained relatively intact. Into the castle the image focused, down winding stone stairs lit by small braziers and into the dungeons below ground. Here the necromancers always chose to work, away from the painful light of day, busy with their black death magic extracting the Elixir of Immortality.
The skinny dirty arms of people hung listlessly out through the cold iron bars of their prison. The image within the iron ring moved swiftly past them, through a thick wooden door and into a torchlit room. There the image settled upon a tall, black-robed and hooded figure. Impossible to tell whether male or female. Pale white chin, nose, and long thin white hands were all that was visible.
‘Obey,’ Baelthrom commanded.
With necromancers and dark dwarves Baelthrom needed no Shadow Stone amulet through which to communicate. The initiation into his service, the wilful imbibing of the Sirin Derenax, and the mark of Maphrax at the base of their throat, was all that was necessary to find them in the iron ring.
‘Yes, my great Lord,’ the voice was airy, a
lso impossible to distinguish whether male or female, and pleased to hear Baelthrom’s command.
‘The Dromoorai are ready. Leave now, take all ships to the edge of the Shadowlands.’ He placed an image of what he had seen in the necromancer’s mind. ‘Find the one who has defeated Keteth. Use all magic to get there, spare none. Go now!’
Baelthrom didn’t wait for a response as he ended the communication and the image blurred to grey. He released his clenched fist. They could get there in time. They could trap her, she could not outrun their ships or Dromoorai sped on with their most powerful magic. All he had to do was wait. But he hated waiting… He stood deep in thought, considering what else could be done.
‘I must reach all my spies,’ Baelthrom breathed. ‘The harpy witches have a Shadow Stone. Find me Harpy Dereever,’ he commanded the iron ring to find the harpy queen.
Harpies were one of the few races of Maioria in league with Baelthrom and they had their uses. They were easy to control with promises of fertile young men and they made useful spies. Though all things upon Maioria hated harpies, they could fly anywhere and not raise the alarm of the Feylint Halanoi.
Darkness swirled in the great film of the iron ring and then the low glow of a smouldering fire revealed hundreds of dark round shapes. Harpies sleeping, slick feathers gleaming in the light. The pale face of a harpy dominated the view. Long black hair framed a tanned face. Thick red lips smiled revealing pointed black teeth. The smile never reached her all black eyes that seemed set permanently in a cruel sneer. Three white scars clawed across each of her smooth high cheek bones and a shining onyx stone set atop her brow marked her as the Harpy Queen.
‘My Lord,’ Dereever hissed and inclined her head ever so slightly.
‘Keteth is dead. Where is your brood? What has occurred there?’
The harpy hissed a low laugh, ‘We are hidden deep within the cliff caves of south-west Frayon, Lord Baelthrom,’ her voice was high-pitched and crooning. ‘Nothing has occurred here but there has been strange magic felt on Celene, which is why we spy on the goddess’s isle. We smell unrest there and our magic reveals one who might be… turned. But we have not discovered how useful this High Priestess might be yet.
‘Go there, now. Give this priestess the Shadow Stone. I shall see to the rest. You will receive another Shadow Stone when you have done this successfully,’ Baelthrom commanded.
The Harpy Queen hesitated and scowled a little, as if she would prefer to do other things such as sleep, but he knew she would not dare disobey him.
‘Time is of the essence and you will be rewarded,’ Baelthrom added, his eyes darkening dangerously.
The Harpy Queen’s scowl turned into a greedy smile.
‘My Lord,’ she inclined her head.
Baelthrom ended the communication and stood silently again for a moment, staring into the empty ring.
Kilkarn watched his Lord unblinking. It was certainly an eventful day today and he didn’t want to miss a thing.
Baelthrom focused his will upon the iron ring and spoke.
‘Hameka,’ Baelthrom breathed, suddenly keen to see his second in command, a man that had, as yet, never failed him. Aside from the dark dwarves few chose Baelthrom as their Lord willingly and only one sane human ever sought him out purposefully, only one with his mind clear and clever and his will hard as iron.
A metallic liquid film spread within the ring as if a pool of water had formed vertically once more. An image appeared as the liquid stilled and on that wavering silvery surface a long thin gaunt face stared back at Baelthrom. Hameka’s hair was dark grey and a deep widow’s peak accentuated an already large forehead. Thick eyebrows shaded intelligent but emotionless grey eyes. He looked to be in his early fifties, though Baelthrom knew he was several hundred years older.
He would not have aged past the young man of twenty-five that Baelthrom had first met if he had accepted immortality then. Exceptionally, Baelthrom had not forced him, preferring to let the man feel those first signs of age creeping into his bones, his flesh slackening and wrinkling just a little, his muscles weakening. Only then had Hameka accepted a taste of the Elixir of Immortality, but only the tiniest amount, enough to significantly prolong his life and delay ageing, heal his wounds and ailments faster, but not enough for immortality.
Hameka knew the Elixir would change him forever. He had said he did not want to jeopardise their war efforts, and only when Frayon had fallen and the Feylint Halanoi defeated would he take it. Until then he needed his human anger, his human hatred of the Feylint Halanoi, it drove him on, gave him strength.
So Baelthrom forgave Hameka for not taking the Elixir, though he had bound him to his word. Besides, back then the Sirin Derenax still needed much work to create something that was not brain dead and deformed. They still kept the old stock for the prisoners, always they needed the immensely strong but otherwise stupid Maphraxies that formed the vast bulk of the Maphraxian army. The purer elixir was expensive to create, taking a score of young untainted souls to form it, years to distil it, and was reserved only for the necromancers.
Even without The Elixir of Immortality Hameka had quickly proved his worth. With a cunning clever mind he had swiftly led them to victory on the battlefield again and again. Advancing Baelthrom’s agenda far quicker than he had hoped. Indeed, before Hameka there had been none that had led the Maphraxies to so many a victory.
The man was brilliant, a true master of the art of war.
‘My Lord Baelthrom,’ Hameka replied in his usual low voice, inclining his head in respect as he stared into the Shadow Stone.
Within that blood-red stone the tripartite helmet of his Lord appeared, behind which his face was permanently sealed. Only his eyes were visible and they glowed a dark and dangerous red that matched the colour of the bloodstone itself.
Aside from Dereever, Hameka was the only non-Dromoorai to wear a Shadow Stone. But his was more than just a Shadow Stone, it was the Shadow Key, a unique and special gift bestowed upon him, a mark of trust and responsibility as Baelthrom’s right hand man, and he wore it with great pride. The Shadow Key was the only blood stone that had the power to communicate back to the Shadow Master and to all of the other Shadow Stones. He could see in any place at any time and still command Baelthrom’s orders as he received them.
The vast power that Baelthrom wielded, a being come from the Dark Rift and beyond time itself, even his very dominating awesome presence, all spoke of one that was far more than the mortals of Maioria. Because of this Hameka believed deeply, as did the dark dwarves and all the Maphraxies, that Baelthrom was the one true god come to lead them and give them the power that was rightfully theirs.
Hameka could not wish for more in his Lord; cold, logical, infinitely powerful, not given to bouts of emotion or rage. Baelthrom had said many times that they were a great army delivering the peoples of Maioria from the terrible annihilation of death and giving them back strength and power in an otherwise weak and decrepit world. They were angels bringing salvation from an inept absent goddess. It didn’t matter to Hameka what they were, as long as he could serve beside his Lord and enjoy such powers as only Baelthrom could give.
‘It pleases me to see you, my Lord, for not moments ago a force of strange magic from some unknown source flared through the Necromantic Chambers.’
Hameka shivered, his skin still crawled and his stomach still churned since that awful force had rippled through him. ‘For a moment the necromancers were forced out of the Under Flow. Something few have ever experienced.’
Baelthrom nodded thoughtfully, his helmeted face giving nothing away, but over the years Hameka had, to some degree, learnt to read his Lord’s thoughts depending on what colour his eyes were. They had turned mid-blue and that was always deep thought.
‘Indeed, that is interesting. Perhaps then it will be of no surprise to you to know that Keteth has been slain, but by what I could not determine.’
Hameka was surprised and he raised his eyebrows, wondering what,
if anything, the death of the white slug meant. ‘The death of Keteth ultimately means nothing, but what killed him does,’ he decided.
Baelthrom spoke swiftly of what he had seen and where he had followed that strange magic to. Images of the sea and a location on a map flickered through the Shadow Stone. Hameka listened patiently, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He should be used to speaking with Baelthrom after so long, but he was always filled with nervousness whenever he did. He wasn’t sure if the anxiety came from within or was placed there deliberately by Baelthrom to instil obedience.
However, these days Hameka rarely saw the Immortal Lord; and it was only through the great iron ring that they communicated for he was based thousands of miles away from Maphrax in the cold northern province of Drax. And if this was summer then he dreaded winter. He shivered again despite the sweat on his forehead.
‘I have already sent Dromoorai and our ships from the Isles of Kammy to investigate the situation. As we speak harpies are searching Southwestern Frayon,’ Baelthrom ended. Hameka considered everything his Lord had told him.
‘Is this interesting event linked to the power you have felt growing in the West? The harpy witches have reported no more since we last spoke a week or so ago,’ Hameka asked, unable to conceal his scowl. The harpies were disgusting allies as far as Hameka was concerned, but they had wings and when sent as spies they were much more inconspicuous and far more expendable than Dromoorai. As such he was forced to concede that they made useful spies.
Harpies inhabited the cliff caves of Ostasia, a land long since ruled by Maphrax that was mostly uninhabitable swamp dotted with huge chunks of grey rock, where the harpies lived. Baelthrom had given them a Shadow Stone and it was through the Shadow Key that Hameka himself had ordered the harpies to investigate Southern Frayon. Harpies did nothing without bargaining for their petty needs and so in return they were promised a handful of young men from the Maphraxie prisons. That was all it took to send the whores skyward.