“The Lightgifter’s legacy!” Kirjath mocked as he took notice of the spell-scrolls he had heard them discussing. He lifted them from the fat lady’s lap. He pretended to peruse them.
“Aggressive, for a Lightgifter. Tell me, how do you cast a spell if you can’t speak, or if you’re dead?”
He put his ear against the girl’s soft cheek, pretending to listen.
“Yes, quite right. You say nothing. Nothing! Because it’s impossible, isn’t it?”
The fat lady was going pale in the face. She had the look of desperate appeal, like the runt of a litter about to be drowned. Beads of sweat were collecting on her upper lip. Fear had a delicious effect on women.
He eased some of the Dark out of her body. It wouldn’t do any good to kill them now, and cheat the Morgloth of its promised meal. He threw the scrolls to the floor.
“No one should know the tricks your mother used,” he told the girl, “and no one should have the Ring she stole, no one but me. Where is it?” He could feel it was not on the fingers of the twisted hand. He wove a thick spell of Despair and sent it into her ear.
Let her feel the full agony of her end. Let her be crippled by hopelessness.
He waited a moment for the Despair to take effect. He didn’t want her trying for the carriage door again.
When he felt her proud shoulders slump, and saw her head drop, he knew the Dark spell had lodged deep within her. He shifted his body over hers, and released the twisted hand to find the other, where she surely wore the Ring. She writhed beneath him. There was a whistling sound, and he caught a glimpse of wood, an instrument held in her left hand, swinging up toward his jaw.
He jumped, but the surprise blow clipped him nonetheless. The wood was as hard as iron. His head rang with a full chord. He grabbed her arm and wrestled the weapon from her hand. He searched her fingers for the Ring.
He found it on her middle finger; a hard, cold band, smooth as ice. He wedged her arm between his legs, then pulled hard on the Ring. His fingers slipped without dislodging it.
He tried again, then again. It was like trying to grasp a greased pip. “Why won’t it come off!” he shouted. He gripped her wrist tight, lifted her hand to his face.
If it won’t be pulled off, I’ll bite it off.
He stuffed her middle finger into his mouth, and closed his teeth on the base. He felt the Ring against his tongue, and tasted its numbing, metallic tang.
Wham! … fizz.
The world vanished.
He lost everything. The Morgloth. The spell patterns he had engaged. Even his feeling of victory was erased. For an instant, there was nothing but clarity, like an empty limitless pool.
* * *
He was sitting on a bench in a carriage. A girl faced him. She had a bright hand, sprites of the wretched Light collected there. She was holding a paper in the other, speaking words which he didn’t understand.
A Lightgifter. The girl.
The Ring! It came rushing back to him with a thunderclap. He launched himself at her just as the sprites were bonded, just as her spell was completed. He hadn’t expected her to have any command of the essence—she didn’t appear to have a Lightgifter’s orb, but maybe she wore it under the high collar of her tunic.
The flames which burst against his body were made of Light.
The heat consumed him. Every inch of his skin screamed, the memory of fire was all too fresh. He fell upon the girl and grasped her throat. He squeezed her throat hard. If he could damage her vocal cords, it would save him essence. The fat lady cried out. He renewed the Silence spell on her.
The fire was rampant.
He summoned more motes and wove a quick Web to protect himself from the worst of the heat. He didn’t have the time or the essence to quench the flames—the girl’s Flameburst spell was everywhere. Fire ate at the curtains, consumed the wood panelling, burned on the floor. Smoke coiled against the ceiling in an acrid cloud.
Let them burn!
He had been in command a moment ago! It was now desperate chaos. He kept the girl in a strangle-hold, he could take her with him, but he needed assistance to escape.
He had to find the Morgloth. With the strange jolt that the Ring had given him, he had lost contact with the beast. The Morgloth had been with him so long that he had become accustomed to the headache, the place in his thoughts where the other mind raged against its containment. Now that it was gone, he felt a worse pain, somewhat like the agony of finally dropping a fire-iron that should not have been picked up—the absence of the branding-rod allowed the burned flesh to scream. He searched in that ravaged place in his thoughts, and found a glimmer of the Morgloth’s spirit.
The demon’s mind returned to his, wild with impatience. The Morgloth was in the place where Kirjath had left him, hidden in the yard in Stormhaven.
His command of the demon was frayed by the distance between them.
Fly, you evil, fly! I need you here!
He felt a surge of familiar fury. The Morgloth would screech as it took to the air, an enraged bellow of animal hunger, but it would leave the alley and Stormhaven behind on its powerful wings. Kirjath watched through his sharpening mind’s eye as the City Gates passed below, complete with the upturned, gaping faces of the populace and sentries. The beast issued a chilling cry.
Behold my beast, my power, my mastery!
The Morgloth followed its master’s summons along the Kingsbridge. The demon was furious, rebellious, frustrated.
Soon, my servant, soon you will gorge yourself. Fly fast!
Kirjath directed the beast down to the sloping rock beside the Kingsbridge, where the approach of the black wings would be concealed by the glistening obsidian.
The carriage was filled with dense, acrid smoke. His eyes smarted.
He grasped the girl’s wrist, twisted it again, found the Ring in a fierce grip. With the crippled hand, he reached inside his cloak, where he kept his knife. He hooked the weapon out with some difficulty.
He placed the blade against her flesh, just above the Ring. The girl croaked like a Morrigán when he plunged the knife down on her finger. Her vocal cords were too damaged to issue a scream. But the handle slipped in his weak right hand, and he knew he hadn’t severed the bone.
The coach came to an abrupt halt, and he was thrown to the front seat. The wood was burning. The bloody finger pulled from his grasp, and with it, the Ring.
The fat lady fell onto the floor.
The girl kicked against the door, and it flew open. He grabbed for her, and caught hold of her clothing. She began to strike him with the hard instrument again, then she was pulled from his grasp by someone beyond the door.
When he heard the rasp of swords being drawn, he knew that he needed his beast more than ever.
A man jutted his head through the smoke.
Kirjath felt the rush of wind over his dark wings.
The man stepped up on the running board. His sword lanced for Kirjath’s throat.
He swept over the edge of the Kingsbridge, and swooped for his target.
The Sword’s second thrust missed again, because his balance was upset.
The Morgloth wrenched the man from the carriage door. The Sword uttered a brief scream as he was lifted into the air by his neck. Horses squealed out on the Kingsbridge.
The taste of blood. A rush of life-force so heady, it took him down, despite the pain that kneeling caused him. He saw the Kingsbridge through the eyes of the Morgloth.
Three chargers bucked their riders to the ground.
The carriage lurched off, the horses squealing and galloping.
The driver shouted as he fell past the door.
Kirjath was vaguely aware that the temperature was rising. He drew the Dark essence tight, but the flames bit through his protection. And yet, it didn’t seem to matter. He had a hunger, and sating it was more important. The lust controlled his mind.
A blade flashed against his black talons, glanced off without effect. He grasped the second soldi
er by the head. The bite was swift. The pleasure raged through his body, pleasure and pain, pain and hunger again. His blood pounded in his temples, his breath short and shallow. He opened his eyes to check the progress of the fire, but the view of the Morgloth remained. He was swooping down from the sky, aiming for the back of a fleeing rider.
He panicked against the vision, but the Morgloth’s view remained. The beast was vital, its power filled him with lust and wild strength. He arched as he struck the fleeing horseman. He felt the death-bite directly, as if inflicted with his own teeth, the fresh blood in his own mouth.
He shuddered.
Three down, three to go.
Pain seared through his ecstasy. The flames were killing him. He couldn’t breathe. He had to get out.
The urgency of his panic brought some of his awareness back to him. The carriage was an inferno. The fat lady was gone. She must have jumped from the carriage.
He dived through the door, spread his arms to swoop away, and discovered that he was not a Morgloth. His face slapped against the hard-packed surface of the Kingsbridge. He rolled and tumbled, and finally came to a stop in a heap. As he stood, he stumbled, and that weakness saved his life.
Hooves thundered past him, and a blade howled over his head, missing him by a hair. A nasty screeching blade, one he remembered. A tall armoured man reined his steed in hard, and turned to renew the charge. The Swordmaster.
He turned, and ran.
The way was blocked by three Lightgifters. He avoided their first assault of essence, a scattered spell as bright as lightning. He summoned Dark essence, but it was a pitiful supply, and not enough to retaliate with. He had only enough to strengthen a defensive Web.
The Swordmaster bore down on him. He feinted to the left, then jumped right. The charge went wide—a wind struck him, nothing more. The Swordmaster dropped from the saddle. Kirjath fled, but the footsteps at his back closed fast. He knew the Web would not be enough to turn the blade that came for him.
The Morgloth broadsided him with such a force that it snapped ribs. His breath was driven from his lungs, his vision burst into a thousand stars. He was well clear of the Kingsbridge when he regained some sense of what had happened.
The Morgloth had acted on its own. He was clutched in its talons, they were flying, clear of the Swordmaster, clear of his pursuit. It had saved him. But it had acted on its own, and that meant he had lost command. The Morgloth’s thoughts burst through his mind, brutal, invading, striving to conquer all of him.
He fought against the domination. They could not leave the Kingsbridge, not yet. He did not have the Ring.
Return. Return! he tried to command the Morgloth. I must have the girl.
He felt, rather than heard the answer.
[Too many men. You would die.]
He argued in images, clawing a little authority back from the beast.
The girl is further back on the bridge. There. You kill her, I need only her hand. Then we escape.
The Morgloth turned, and Kirjath delighted as its course became a diving descent. He was the master again. On the Kingsbridge below stood the girl with the lyre, face upturned, alone. The Morgloth would do his bidding.
There was just one thing that didn’t make sense. Why had the beast saved him?
The Morgloth answered without being asked. With horror, Kirjath realised that their thoughts were pooled. There was no division between them. His control was an illusion.
[You are my Gateway. If you die, I cannot feed.]
* * *
The winged creature turned, and aimed towards Tabitha. The Shadowcaster was still caught in its legs. She could only guess the Morgloth had gone mad and turned on its master. Now it came for her. She watched with detached fatalism. The horror of the beast’s appearance had terrified her so much she had passed beyond fear into a stunned fugue.
She had almost fainted from pure fright when the soldier who had helped her from the carriage had been attacked by the Morgloth. His head had been ripped off in front of her. The beast had drunk his life away. She had crawled away from the horror, gagging on her bile and the agony of her crushed throat. The nightmarish legend was real—it had come to the Shadowcaster’s aid, and it killed with greater zeal than the wildest rumours she had ever heard told. She had known then that it was only a matter of time, before the beast would chase down all the other prey, and come for her. With the augmented clarity of the Ring, she saw every detail of the Swords’ deaths. Now she looked into the face of her own.
Its black wings rippled in the wind of its dive. It dropped the Shadowcaster as it levelled out on the far side of the Kingsbridge. It would take her unhindered. Tabitha didn’t know what to do, she was rooted to the spot by the inevitability of her own impending death.
She knew Glavenor and the three Gifters were charging down the Kingsbridge, she had seen them arrive, but she knew they would not reach her in time.
And what would they do, against this dreadful beast?
Its jaws were wide. Teeth stained red. Hunger in its eyes.
Time slowed, and the last few moments before impact seemed to stretch out forever.
She did the only thing she could. She let out a desperate scream, of the highest pitch. It lasted a scant moment, for the damage to her throat turned the rest of the scream into a grating screech.
The Morgloth tossed its head, and faltered in the air. Its wings tilted, it tumbled, and swept toward her suddenly out of control. It slammed into her, knocking her flat, but it spun clear, and ended a few paces beyond her on the road. Its cruel, hell-fired eyes locked onto Tabitha the moment it regained its feet. Evil oozed from the Morgloth’s slick black skin. She could sense its hunger, its emptiness which yearned for her spirit.
But she was sure that her scream had made it falter. The Morgloth had winded her, but she drew a wrenching breath, hoping against hope that she could fill her lungs in time.
If you face death, remember to shake and shiver.
The Riddler’s strange warning suddenly held meaning. She reached higher with her voice, and screamed again. But her injury split the sound into a scattered pitch. The Morgloth tossed its head. It made to cover its ears with its wide wings, then shook itself as soon as Tabitha’s shriek ended. It didn’t only look hungry then, it looked angry as well. Muscles rippled beneath its skin as it tensed for attack.
A surge of Light rushed over her, cast from the Lightgifters. Pain shot through the points where the Dark had frozen her flesh, but the pain subsided where the fire had scalded her, and her throat was infused with sprites. The result was a sensation of shifting, being transformed. Then it passed, and she felt healed. The Lightgifters couldn’t know how much she had needed it. They were galloping toward her, with Glavenor running in the lead, closing on the Morgloth. The beast suddenly turned, and sank, ready to leap on the Swordmaster’s advance.
May I sing like the Goddess Ethea.
She plucked the lyre once. She knew before she sang that her note would be true. The Ring gave her clarity. It was more than a glass that would shatter with this singing of the ascent of the Glee of Genesis. The Shiver pierced the air.
* * *
The girl sang the highest note, and Kirjath truly understood. His mind exploded. His every nerve was scraped raw, every sense was assaulted by jagged glass. The sound penetrated all of his thoughts, it surged through the space he shared with the Morgloth in an instant. The fundament of his being was attacked, assaulted, blown away. They were paralysed, he and his demon both, and Kirjath watched with horror as the fluted blade of the Swordmaster sliced down through the air. The sword screeched with that horrible note as well—it was identical in pitch, only harsher than the girl’s voice. There was something about the note that drove fear through his soul, agony through his mind, and paralysis through his body. It was the Morgloth’s nemesis, the answer to the beast of endless hunger, the antithesis to the creature of evil.
He was still inside the demon’s mind when the Swordmaster’s dea
th-blow struck. He was trapped in a psyche which resonated with a torturous note.
Felltang scythed through black flesh. The demon fell to the ground, and its life poured upon the stone. With a final surge in the singer’s voice, the Darkstone on Kirjath’s neck shattered.
Kirjath Arkell knew absolute pain.
It was not a conscious decision that urged him to action. His mind was a wasteland of shattered images, his thoughts as broken as slate pounded by a thousand hammers. He ran to escape his own thoughts. He was mad.
Splinters of light drove their way through the jelly of his brain. Screams, laughter and an endless wind chased each other, and he felt as if he was running on bare feet through twisting labyrinths of blades. Lightning crashed behind his eyes, then blood, then darkness, then lightning again, as if he was witnessing the beginning or end of creation.
He leapt from the edge of the Kingsbridge. For a brief moment of sanity, he knew it was impossible to clear the sloping rock before reaching the water. Then he forgot about the leap, for he believed himself to be a bird. Then a stone, then a man once more. Madness scattered him in all directions.
He believed the impact to be from a giant horse’s hoof. He bounced from the rock, broke the surface, and sank through the sun-shafted waters of the Amberlake.
He was a rock.
He was a fish.
24. LOVE AND LIES
“At the heart of a riddle
lies truth, truth lies.”—Zarost
The ringing sound continued in her ears. Tabitha realised she had been sitting on the shoulder of the road for some time since her legs had given way from relief. The youngest of the three Lightgifters was speaking to her, but his words made no sense at all. The Swordmaster was still patrolling the rocks below, his unsheathed sword glinting. The rocks were steep where the Kingsbridge met the water. Garyll Glavenor picked his way along the uneven terrain like an egret searching for a tick.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 37