by A W Tinney
“I have come,” he stated, after a further moment of stillness. “As requested.”
The shaman said nothing, but simply blinked its gleaming eyes once.
Hrothnar clicked his tongue. “What would you have of me? I have not got long. It will soon be dawn, and my absence from the city will be noted.”
Again nothing. Another blink.
“If you are going to sit there and gawp, then I will leave.” It was a pathetic threat, but the hobgoblin felt he had to say something. “Well?”
Still, silence. No blink.
“Very well. Have it your way. I’ve wasted enough time with the likes of you.”
He turned, heading to the door, when the fire suddenly flashed. Streaks of blue flame sailed over his head, barring the exit. Hrothnar swallowed, checked himself, and looked back over his shoulder.
“You wish to speak then?” he asked.
The shaman rose, ponderously. Hrothnar could see by the low light of the burning fire a ravaged body, warped and twisted by pain. A rasping breath echoed from a canine maw, misting before the fire. Slowly, the ar’kan drew itself to full height, a hands width taller than the hobgoblin. Though withered and fragile in movement, the Void creature dominated the room, cloaking all in its shadow.
“The Balar born is gone?” Its voice was hollow, both a shrieking squeal and a hurried whisper all at once.
Hrothnar nodded, careful never to take his eyes from the sinister being. “She is. Gone hunting in the swamps. You have a few days at the least before she returns.” It was happy chance that the god-warrior had fallen for his double bluff, but he knew she would return. His plan was to have left Calefort to its demise long before that Octavia learned of his treachery.
“She will return?” There was concern in the voice. Concern and anger.
“Can’t see a crew of gnomes and a Knight take on a Vigilant and win.”
“You would be surprised, mortal. All things change.”
Hrothnar shrugged. “Perhaps they do.” He took a step forward, attempting to appear dominant. He doubted his success. “Nevertheless, the Vigilant his gone. I have done what you asked. I’ve come to strike the deal. Protection, when you and yours come to take the city.”
The ar’kan grinned, revealing a double row of onyx fangs set in its maw. “You are a curious one, mortal. So quick to sanction the destruction of your own city, without pause for regret, or a desire to protect what is yours.”
“I care not for the city, or its worthless inhabitants. What I do care for is my own hide, and the hides of those in my employ. The deal remains the same.”
At that the smile vanished. “I am afraid not.”
Hrothnar resisted the urge to draw his sword. It would do no good, and he knew the Void creature would have his soul before his hand even reached the hilt. “I should have known not to trust you, beast. Curse you, and your god.”
The ar’kan laughed. “The Shadow Witch is your god too, mortal. You simply don’t see it.”
“I have little time for the gods.”
“Yet Morigana has time for you. She has blessed you. Guided you to this moment.”
Hrothnar laughed. “I doubt it.”
“Your power is shadow, creature of the midlands,” the ar’kan said.
“My power is my own,” Hrothnar insisted. “I earned my place. Through blood and a damn good business head. It was no god got me to where I am.”
The ar’kan laughed, a guttural yet light sound. “Your power is shadow,” it said again. “You rule through fear, and fear is a fickle thing. One moment there, and the next…”
The shaman flicked his wrist and the azure fire conflagrated. Hrothnar screamed as the flames engulfed the room, writhing over him. He expected to feel instant pain. To see his flesh slough from bone.
Instead there was nothing. A hollow wind rippling across his skin. Nothing more. The flames continued to burn on him.
“Behold the might of Shadow,” the shaman said. “It is illusion. Through fear, it gains power. Through deception, strength. You have done the same, in your shady deals and underhand workings. You have warped and distorted what is known, what is accepted. You saw how the game of power was played and you changed it to win. You even twisted a Vigilant to your will. Your skills have not gone unnoticed by the Shadow Witch. She has changed your path.”
With a flick, the flame returned to the hearth once more. Hrothnar panted. His mind swam. “What is it you want?”
“You,” the shaman said, and took a deep breath.
When he exhaled, mist came from his nostrils. It was not the mist of the marshes, nor the mist of the north. Rather it was something else, something ill that shimmered and swallowed light simultaneously. It seeped towards Hrothnar, and before he could even recoil in horror, the foul fog enveloped him. He felt it, creeping into each pore and muscle, invading his mind and body. It consumed him, warping his existence, and yet in a mere second that sensation passed, and he was as normal once more.
“What have you done to me?”
“Blessed you with the power of the Shadow Witch,” the ar’kan said. Its voice was clearer now, Hrothnar found. More pronounced. Clearer, as if the haze and growl had been coughed away. “You are now one of her servants. Like me.”
Hrothnar spat. “What if I didn’t want to be? You brought me here, shaman, with an offer of a deal. That when you march your army into Calefort, you will leave me and mine alone. Instead I come here, and you breathe all over me and tell I’m blessed by a god?”
“All things change, mortal.”
“I have no business with the gods.”
“You do now. Rejoice, for the Witch has chosen you.”
“And what if I don’t want to be chosen?”
At that the ar’kan roared. It rose, impossibly, and filled the entire room with its presence. It barked at Hrothnar in some malign tongue, words that should have been foreign to the hobgoblin now scathing with horrifying clarity.
“You are chosen by the goddess. She has deemed you worthy and yet you spit in her face? Do you know what gift you have been given? What power has been bestowed upon you. She has cloaked you with Change. Made you a wanderer of the Thousand Paths.” A sudden flash of light beamed and from it sprang a shimmering mirror, edges seeping with smoke. “Gaze into the mirror and see the true potency of her blessing.”
Hrothnar looked, and saw not his face, but the face of the bard, Gondolin looking back at him. He cocked his head, and the bard did likewise. “This is a trick,” he said.
“It is power,” the ar’kan corrected. “Think on another.”
Hrothnar did and suddenly he grew, surpassing the height of the ar’kan. Now the towering form of Svet glowered back at him. Hrothnar opened his mouth. The image of Svet did the same. Hrothnar waved. As did the reflection. The reflection had two hands…
He tried others. A toad-guard. The tavern owner on Mire Lane. The wench he had become fond of in recent moons…
“This is impossible.”
With that the mirror dissipated and the ar’kan slunk back to its sated position. “This is a gift, mortal. Do not waste it. It will not be with you forever. All things change.”
“The deal? What of the city?”
“The city shall fall. We shall wrap all in the embrace of the Shadow Witch. I would suggest you do not get lost in the fight. Use what I have given you and use it wisely.”
Hrothnar felt for some obscure reason, that he should bow. He did and felt awkward. “What should I call you?” he asked.
“Is that important?” the ar’kan laughed.
“I have never entered a deal without knowing the other parties name. I would not like to break that habit now.”
The ar’kan sighed and shrugged. “I have many names, many lifetimes and many souls. Such are the blessings of the Shadow Witch.” He pondered a moment. “You may call me by the last name I held when I walked this world.”
“Which was?”
“Tchensar,” the beast thunder
ed. “You may call me Tchensar.”
6
She woke to the irritating prodding of a reed staff against her cheek.
“Up, gorrt,” thundered a voice.
She did not comply. Instead she lay there, dully becoming aware of her surroundings. There was damp. There had always been damp in recent days. It clung to her cheek, her breasts, her stomach. Why could she feel it on her stomach?
She realised with sickening fear that it was the first instance in a very long time that Kasela had been without her armour.
The next thing she felt was a sharp kick against her shoulders. “I said up, gorrt.”
She snarled and rose, arms flailing, intent on assaulting whomever thought it wise to strip and provoke a Knight of the Iron Thorn. Her hands were clasped by slimy cool fingers, that drew her face to face with the most repulsive creature imaginable. Thick wafts of swamp breath blew over her as the wart-ridden toad-guard mewed at her. “Try that again, and I’ll snap your arms off.”
He cast her aside as if she weighed little more than a wheat sack. Kasela groaned, and found her body slow to react. Her vision was blurred too, though whether that was from the beating or the poison coursing through her bloodstream she did not know.
“Get up, gorrt,” the toad-guard said again. “You have an audience with the queen.”
“The queen? What queen?”
A deep cackle. “You’ll see soon enough. Up, gorrt.”
She rose, slowly, feeling her muscles ache with each move. Kasela covered her exposed breasts with her hand, thankful that a shift of linen still cloaked her groin. She staggered from her cell, which she discovered was little more than a minute shack barred with thick reed stalks. Immediately outside was a banking, against which a river flowed. A raft waited, bobbing in the soft current. On deck, black-eyed, bruised and sinister, was a familiar face.
“Eresor, you’re alive,” she said.
The toad-guard kicked her again, his powerful legs propelling her off the damp bank and onto the slippery timbers. “No talking,” he warned.
Eresor growled, and she noticed his hands were bound, and a fresh scar bleed freely above his forehead.
“Where is Selvar?”
“I said, no talking, gorrt.”
“What have you done with my steed?”
The toad kicked her again, this time snapping her head back, so she fell against the deck. Blood trickled from her nose. She spat. Eresor grunted and shook his head. A warning. Do not provoke them.
“You’ll pay for this,” the Knight rasped.
The deep chuckle again. “We’ll see, shiny one. We’ll see, gorrt.”
The toad-guard leapt onto the raft, his girth causing the rickety construct to shake. Stagnant water splashed Kasela and she coughed an invasive mouthful away. Using a length of sturdy reed wood, their jailor pushed the raft from the bank and guided it down the river.
The mist enveloped them once more, shrouding the entire journey in silver gloom. Kasela lay on the deck shivering, mucus flowing from her nostrils with the chill. Her wound ached, deep lines of blue lancing through her leg muscles as the sensation of poison still pulsed. Though the fire of Goannus flared in her blood, granting her skin the shimmer that characterised an eastlander and the hardiness of a warrior, Kasela was still a mortal and prone to the elements and toxins of nature. It did not help that she suffered her trials near naked.
Eresor was stripped too, with only a shift cloaking his modesty. For the first time, the Knight of the Iron Thorn noted how old the gnome looked, his grey skin wrinkled and scarred from a lifetime of adventuring. He was stout and muscled, though not as powerful as he once was, evident by the sporadic instances of saggy flesh under arms and around the waist. A red wound ringed with creeping black veins lined his shoulder. Where he had been poisoned and evidence of the foul toxic still in his system. He caught her staring and turned his back, shivering with the chill.
The sounds of activity reached her, emanating somewhere from beyond the fog. The toot of a panpipe playing. The deep rumble of crackling flame. Children laughing. Then singing came, along with the raucous commotion of folk in their cups.
“Where are you taking us?” she demanded.
“I told you not to speak, gorrt.” The toad-guard gave her a glare, and made to kick her, but held back. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
The sound of the festivities grew louder and Kasela noticed twin pillars appear at their flanks as they sailed by. An entrance, the Knight guessed. The toad-guard hauled the raft, slowing her until she thudded against an unknown source, more water lapping onto her deck.
“Up,” he croaked. “Come on.”
Kasela gave Eresor a look, half expecting the sky-gnome to spring into action and attempt an escape. Instead, the grey skinned captain hung his head and rose, following the bulbous jailor off the raft. Clenching her teeth, Kasela followed.
“You do not speak, gorrt,” the guard commanded. “You do not look. I will do the talking, and when it comes to your turn, you will provide blood or your life.”
“Our turn?” Her answer was a swift kick to the gut.
“No talking, gorrt.”
They were marched through a town. Well, it should have been a town. Instead it was a mired collection of ramshackle buildings inhabited by bleary eyed and sneering marshlanders. The source of the noise came from the centre of the village. A great fire set atop a tower of driftwood dispelled the immediacy of the mist. Revelry abounded, with rush pipes playing, reed flutes tooting, and eel skin drums rattling. Marshlanders danced jigs and intricate kicks over crossed spears on the ground, whooping when someone managed to conclude without tripping, and groaning when someone disturbed the prone weapons. In the centre of it all was a pit, two body lengths deep, that was empty save for the occasional flicker of ivory.
Bone, Kasela realised. The pit is littered with bone.
Then to her left she caught a shimmer of onyx fur.
“Selvar.”
She managed to dodge the toad-guard’s swipe and race to the reed cage where her steed was being held. Selvar pacing frantically. His jaw was muzzled, tied with thick cords so nothing other than a low whine seeped through his lips. His claws swiped out at sharpened stakes, their tips glistening with poison, all jutting inward to pen the panthra in. Each swipe cut a fresh gasp in his paws, making him recoil in pain, a stifled roar hissing from his covered maw.
“Stop it, you’re hurting yourself.”
The panthra made eyes with Kasela. There was no hint of recognition.
“What have you done to him?” she demanded.
The response was a swift kick to the back of the head. “Lucky the damned thing is still alive, gorrt. Took out five of the queen’s best men. Still, it makes quite the spectacle when it fights, gorrt. And quite the mess.” He let out what passed as a laugh from his quivering jowls. “The queen has something special planned for it, gorrt.”
Selvar hissed. Kasela, noticed the scars on his flanks, deep gouges made by spears and puncture holes from arrows. The Knight reached out with a hand, and swore she saw a tear form in the panthra’s eye before it howled once again.
The toad-guard hauled her off, and led Kasela and Eresor both to a dais, upon which sat a trio of figures. One, the most prominent, was sat on a throne like chair fashioned from reed stalks that flared behind her like a crown. The queen, Kasela guessed.
The crannog queen sat cross legged, and arms folded, her face set like stone and painted with daubs of blue warpaint, granting her a sinister countenance. She was a marshlander, and her gills throbbed at the sight of the toad-guard, yet it was one of her companions that spoke first.
“Beivor,” said the second dais occupant, a male marshlander, well-aged and shaking with muscular spasms. He leaned on a cane of gnarled swamp bark and was equally painted as his mistress. “You come bringing more worthless wretches, I see.”
The toad-guard grunted. “I assure you, Gresden, these two are fighters, gorrt.”
&n
bsp; “Fighters?” the hunched steward sounded sceptical. “I highly doubt it. This one,” he said, pointing to Eresor, “could barely reach high enough to scratch my arse. And this one,” the finger moved to Kasela, “looks very pretty, indeed. Why she shimmers like the jewel in some god’s crown.”
“The eastlander bears the mark of her people well. She was atop the cat beast when I found her. Fights like a true Goannus born, with fire in her veins. You have my word.”
“Had she steel clothing?” the queen asked suddenly.
“Majesty?” the steward piped.
“Had she the steel clothing? The armour that they are so fond of making in the east?”
“I had, until this worm stole it,” Kasela said, and was brutally silenced by a swipe to the cheek. The toad-guard was wearing a ring, and it sliced her skin, drawing blood.
The steward laughed. “Oh, she has a fire all right, Beivor. Most acceptable.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded Eresor. “What of the halfling? Can he match the easterner’s spirit?”
At that Eresor barked. “I am Eresor Cloud-Render, Captain of the Fire Dawn, commander of a crew of thirty-three sky-warriors. I am not a halfling.”
He too earned a slap with the ring hand.
The steward clapped his ancient palms. “You have indeed brought fighters this time. This will prove most entertaining.” He turned to his mistress. “Majesty, are they to your satisfaction.”
“They are,” the queen answered. “Throw them in the pit.”
“Mummy, wait,” squeaked the third and final figure. From the shadows behind the queen came a squat marshlander, whose belly was round and bulging. The youngling possessed a puffer fish face and gills that struggled visibly with the strain of keeping his corpulent mass operating. In one chubby hand an eel was held, the poor thing still wriggling with fear, while in the other, the dripping entrails of its half-eaten companion spilled from a chewed body. The youngling gawped at Kasela and Eresor like they were his next meal.