Cradle of Darkness Page 11

  Tayem reached out and stroked Jaestrum’s neck. The beast groaned his appreciation, but his breath continued to come heavy and Mahren saw that his neck artery pulsed rapidly. “I am sorry. I know you feel their pain more than most,” Tayem said.

  “I am not the only one. At least Quassu was spared this indignity.” Mahren nodded in the direction of the adjacent pen where Tayem’s royal mount stood alert, confused by his brothers’ and sister’s suffering.

  Tayem twitched her nose, a sign she was thinking. “What is Rusior’s opinion? I understand he examined each of the dragons last night and administered his potions. Will they survive?”

  “He thinks so,” Mahren said, “although how long it will take is uncertain.”

  “Has he ascertained the nature of the poison?”

  “He was surprised,” Mahren said, leading the way out of Jaestrum’s pen. “He said it wasn’t so much poison as an intoxicating drug.”

  “Which one?”

  “Jarva leaf.”

  Tayem raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t that the hash Easterners smoke in their long pipes?”

  “Yes, but it would seem it does nothing for dragons — quite the opposite.”

  “So, are the Cuscosians forging links with those from the Exotic Lands?”

  Mahren shrugged. “One thing’s for sure, this was deliberate. Whoever dosed the cattle carcases with this drug knew exactly what would happen if the dragons consumed the meat.”

  “It is unforgiveable,” Tayem said, and for the first time that morning Mahren saw Hallows fire spark in her eyes.

  “There is something more,” Mahren said in the hope she could distract Tayem from another outburst.

  “Surely there is enough bad news already,” Tayem replied.

  “Would that it was the case. Come — see.”

  Mahren led the way to an internal enclosure, Cistre taking the cue and following on behind Tayem. At the door, Mahren picked up some clean cloths from a basket and handed one each to the others. “You need to tie these over your mouths and noses.”

  Cistre and Tayem looked at each other quizzically but followed Mahren’s instruction. She walked apprehensively past several empty pens. Then, towards the end of the enclosure she stopped. “Do not go any further,” she said and pointed at the pygmy dragon sleeping in the corner.

  “Does Gathel suffer from the same drug?” Tayem asked.

  Mahren shook her head. “Look at the skin under her shoulder.”

  Tayem leaned forward and then gasped. “Those scales, blackened and gangrenous. Is it …?”

  “Rusior confirmed it this morning. Dragon blight.”

  Tayem reached up to the cloth covering her face and tied it more securely in place.

  “Where could she have picked it up from?”

  “It’s impossible to say. Gathel roots around a lot when out exercising. She may have contracted it from a dead lizard or snake, but we know so little about this terrible disease to be sure.”

  “Is she suffering much?”

  “Just a mild itch, but the disease will spread over the next weeks. Then her torment will increase as blood poisoning takes hold. Human victims tell of an endless crawling sensation beneath the skin — as if a thousand ants are burrowing.”

  “And a cure?”

  Mahren shook her head. “Poor Gathel is doomed. It is just a question of how long.”

  “Then perhaps we should end her suffering before the disease fully takes hold.”

  “You know the statutes of vs’ shtak — none may slay a dragon. For any reason.”

  Tayem remained motionless, a tear forming in one eye. She was not prone to showing emotion in this way, and Mahren saw that the dragon’s plight weighed heavy on her heart. “I wish I didn’t have to share this news with you, but we will need to put in place certain practices to ensure the disease is contained. If it should spread to the people — ”

  “Then it will accomplish more than any Cuscosian treachery,” Tayem finished her sentence for her. “Quarantine this compound and restrict Gathel’s care to one dragon-hand.”

  Mahren nodded, and then considered carefully what she was to say next. “Are you still minded to put in place a reprisal for this Cuscosian mischief?”

  “I would mount an attack today if I thought it would accomplish something, but we need to gather more intelligence.”

  “Disconsolin?”

  “He has appointed a coterie of spies to infiltrate Hallow’s Creek at my request. In the meantime I sent an official dispatch to Etezora demanding a meeting.”

  Mahren pursed her lips. “Etezora does not take kindly to demands.”

  “Indeed she does not, but it will be interesting to see how she responds. We must exhaust diplomatic channels, to satisfy Gemain if nothing else.”

  Mahren sighed inwardly. At least her sister would not initiate something rash. She shared her sister’s ire towards House Cuscosa, but she had other reasons leading her to counsel restraint regarding outright war. The Cuscosian populace were as much victims as the Dragonians and when it came to conflict, it was always the innocent who suffered most.

  “I suppose it will give us time to prepare for the worst,” Mahren said.

  “Yes, and I will increase patrols along the outskirts of the Vale. Cistre is already drawing up plans for a possible offensive should the diplomacy fail — as I fear it will.”

  Mahren’s previous relief turned to apprehension again, but she held her tongue. However, she resolved to visit Hallow’s Creek herself. There was one she needed to confide in, and it had been a whole week since they last met. It would be difficult slipping away with the heightened security, but she would find a means.

  15

  One eye above, one below

  Davof Calti. That was what they would have called him in Oldspeak. Sounds so much better than ‘tomcat,’ Zodarin thought as he stole amongst the alleyways of Hallow’s Creek. It was one thing to inhabit the Dreamworld in another creature’s body, but to achieve this in the real world — well; he had the Hallows to thank for that.

  Having the heightened senses of Oswald the cat was at first exhilarating, but here in this rat-infested back street he began to wonder. A cocktail of refuse, rotting food and human excrement wasn’t the most inviting of scents, and to think he was stepping in the stuff!

  Gorram! How do these people live like this?

  A sucking of air through pursed lips drew his attention to a doorway. “Here little puss, you on the prowl for a fine juicy mouse — or even a rat?” It was Petter Proudson, the Innkeeper. He stood at the back door of his tavern, The Boar’s Head, stooped over a keg of ale.

  Oswald looked up at him. CommonDiggod! Zodarin formed the words in his mind but they came out as a Miaow, uttered in a rather pathetic tone.

  “Ah, so you are hungry then? Not having much luck with the rodents tonight, eh? I’ll get you something, don’t you worry.”

  Proudson rolled the wooden keg effortlessly back inside and emerged a minute later with something silvery on a plate. “Here,” he said, throwing the leftovers at Oswald, “put yourself round that.”

  Oswald sniffed at what turned out to be the remains of an undercooked trout and, despite his human sensitivities, he licked the tasteless flesh with apparent relish.

  “Thought you’d like that,” Proudson said, “but I mustn’t dally. There are thirsty throats to quench in the tavern, and hungry bellies to fill. An Innkeeper’s work is never done.”

  Peasant, Zodarin thought. Miaow, Oswald said. I suppose the locals think him to be a charitable soul, the wizard mused, all the time wishing he was in his wolvern form; then he could show the Innkeeper where his charity got him. You’re either predator or prey in this world — or indeed any world.

  The thought brought up echoes of his past; a time of great travail and cataclysm. His species, the amioid had been old before Varchal’s races had even emerged from the primordial swamps of the South. They had travelled from beyond the heavens in a fantastical winge
d ship, a vessel that had come to rest in the vaults of the Everscorch Mountains, far beyond the Southern Wastelands. He remembered very little of this time as a young amioid, other than long treks through inhospitable lands, being hunted by the races they encountered … and the hunger — always the hunger. In the end it was just his birther and he who remained. Somehow she had wrought a great magic to transform his physical body from what it was, a form that he only inhabited now (if he chose) in the Dreamworld. Their pursuers had slain his birther, found him — a mere youngster — unconscious in the hollow where she made her final stand. The hunter tribe assumed the monstrous beast had abducted him, and adopted him as their own, little knowing the nature of the creature in their midst.

  Many sols had passed since those formative events, and Zodarin had witnessed the previous manifestation of the Black Hallows. It had taught him much in terms of who he was, who to trust, and who not to trust. At first he had found the Dragonians a welcoming people. They had made use of his talents and he had almost traced what one might call a ‘righteous path.’ But events have a way of turning even the most deep-seated of beliefs, and events amongst the Dragonians had overtaken him. He didn’t like to dwell on the humiliation of those times, but suffice it to say, he had been let down, disappointed — by one in particular.

  Spurned by the people who had once welcomed him, he inveigled himself amongst the Cuscosians — a fitting, duplicitous people he could infiltrate and influence. Now he was reaping the harvest of three hundred sols’ patience, and it filled him with unbridled exaltation.

  This sally into the township was more than just a mere frolic in the wilds, however. True, he wanted to test the bounds of his new abilities, but there was a greater purpose. He had heard rumours of discontent in Hallow’s Creek. For sols now he had advised Etezora to moderate the burdens she placed on the Cuscosian populace at large. One could satisfy one’s lust for power and delight in coercion while, at the same time, ensuring the commoners saw fruit from their labours. It was a matter of simple politics he had observed in the more successful civilisations he had dwelt amongst during his long lifespan. To deny the people a means to progress or even the ability to exist beyond a state of subsistence was to court the possibility of dissent and even revolution. But Etezora had not listened.

  The denizens of Hallow’s Creek were suspicious of strangers, and this had limited the intelligence House Cuscosa could glean from conventional espionage. But Oswald was not human, and his presence would not be questioned — as long as he could gain access to the tavern. This proved to be a simple thing. An open window on the ground floor provided an entry point. He left the skeleton of the stinking fish in the alleyway and leapt up on to the windowsill. Inside, the warmth of a log fire beckoned and the hubbub of a dozen conversations filled the room. The smell of ale soaked into softwood tables filled his nostrils as he sniffed the warm air. The odours mingled with pipe smoke and a rather peculiar human scent that was somehow indefinable.

  He leapt down to the sawdust floor and wove his way between the carousers, inviting the odd stroke and fuss from those who noticed. He rubbed himself against legs both human and wooden, acting out the part of the perfect domesticated feline. It made him want to retch, but he calculated such behaviour would help him blend in. All the time, he kept his ears open.

  “… and we’ve hardly enough food to feed our own families, let alone deliver wagon-loads of crops to the Dragonians …” a farmer said, while sat at an oak bench.

  “… problem with rats? I’ll deal with them for a mere twenty silbet,” a leather-hatted, wiry individual boasted. His appearance was reminiscent of the animals he professed to exterminate.

  “Let me sing you a quaint melody, good Sir; a tale from the Kaldoran legends that’ll leave you wondering and awestruck,” a rather comely bard was saying.

  These were all fascinating conversations, but not what Zodarin sought. It was amongst a group of young men ensconced at a corner table that he finally overheard a more likely exchange. They spoke in whispers while quaffing the contents of their tankards.

  One of them, clearly the leader, spoke. “If we are to organise and collectivise, we must capture the hearts and imaginations of the people. Only then will our numbers grow large enough to overthrow the tyrants.”

  “But Brethis, how can we achieve such a thing?” a red-haired man asked. “The people complain, but they’re not willing to step out of line or raise their heads in protest. Small wonder, did you see how they treated Ragenthorp and his family last week — just for holding back one sheaf of corn from the tithe so he could feed his family? Now they have no home and beg on the streets.”

  “Aye, who would want to protest if that’s the punishment you get?” said another.

  “But, don’t you see?” Brethis continued. “This austerity will only get worse if we take no action. House Cuscosa may have the weapons and the authority that comes with a company of soldiers, but we the people have the numbers.”

  “That may be true,” said an older, weatherworn countryman, “but we are dispersed and demoralised. Who is to lead the kind of uprising you speak of?”

  Brethis looked down. “If no other will arise, then I will do what I can to rally the people.”

  This remark was greeted with considered expressions from Brethis’s drinking partners. Not exactly disapproval, but a heightened sense of doubt.

  It fell to the countryman to speak for the others. “No offence, Brethis, but you have very little influence and your — shall we say — idealism tends to rub some people up the wrong way.”

  Brethis sighed. “I’m aware of people’s opinions. I’m also aware there is no other who would take on the role, none to my knowledge anyway. But why do we have to think in terms of a single leader? That’s exactly what’s wrong with Cuscosia and all the other kingdoms. Power lies in the hands of just a few of the privileged. What if our movement made use of everyone’s talents?”

  The red-haired one, a man named Oathair, posed a question. “That’s a strange way of thinking, Brethis. How would it work?”

  The bard had struck up her song and a small but boisterous contingent of the tavern joined in the chorus, making it difficult for Oswald to hear. So he jumped up onto the bench next to an unassuming young woman who had, up to this point, said nothing. He proceeded to wash his paws, inviting a rub under the chin from her. It was a risk, but no one bade him any attention, and it meant he could take in the entirety of the conversation — something he did with increasing interest and alarm. Brethis, obviously a zealous individual, was waxing lyrical about his imagined new order. A utopia in which people voted in their leaders and wealth was distributed equally amongst the peoples. He was pragmatic enough to understand that such a re-balancing required a revolution, an uprising — and blood would inevitably be shed.

  Oswald was about to dismiss the rantings of this idealistic rabble when something Brethis said made him prick his ears up.

  “ … it will take careful planning and a co-ordinated effort, but I have gathered the resources we need, and enlisted help from men trained in siege warfare.”

  “Who?” the countryman asked.

  Brethis looked around and lowered his voice. “I have a Dragonian friend who has access to certain men.”

  “Dragonians?” said Oathair, “you’ve been consorting with — ”

  “Shush!” Brethis said. “Keep your voice down. You don’t know who might overhear.”

  The girl next to Oswald spoke up. “Can we trust outsiders, Brethis? This could be just a ruse to allow the Dragonians to usurp power. We might end up with that she-tyrant, Tayem Fyreglance ruling over us instead.”

  “I trust my friend completely,” Brethis said.

  “So,” Oathair said, “if we can depend on these allies, and if we can come up with a good plan, then what’s the target for your plot, and what will it achieve?”

  “There are some matters I have to put in place first before I reveal that. But you can be sure it’ll b
e something to make Etezora take notice. We’ll strike right at the heart of her regime. In the meantime, we need to find more allies, enlist the people. They’ve had enough of Etezora’s harsh rule. They just need a movement to unite behind. What I’m planning will show that they can be overcome.”

  “It won’t be enough to just strike once,” the girl said, “we need to plan a campaign of attacks.”

  “And there will be reprisals, you can be sure of that,” Oathair added.

  “That’s why you need to give me time to put more of my plan into place.” Brethis looked around the table with earnestness in his eyes. Oswald thought it was more than earnestness — it was zeal. He’d seen it in the eyes of religious fanatics before. “What I need to know is — are you with me? Can I count on you?”

  Hesitantly, the girl nodded. “I have reason to hate Etezora more than most. I haven’t got anything else to lose, so I’ll gladly lend myself to the cause.”

  One by one, the others grunted or nodded their approval.

  “One thing I would say before we leave tonight,” continued Brethis. “What we are about to begin will involve sacrifice, perhaps even our lives. So, if you have any doubts, it is best you say so now.” He met the solemn gaze of all present but none spoke against what he proposed. “I must away. I have a lot to do. We should meet again at the same time tomorrow night, when I will have tasks for each of you.”

  “Here again?” the countryman said.

  “It served our purposes for tonight,” Brethis replied, “but we need somewhere more secure. Our numbers will grow and this will attract attention.” He went on to relate an out-of-town meeting place, and Oswald made a mental note of where it was.

  The group lifted themselves off the bench, the cat jumping off with them and disappearing through the window he had entered. He waited a few minutes outside the front door and watched as the conspirators left one by one. He chose to follow Brethis and before long learned where the young agitator lived. The man was the eldest brother in a family of five. He greeted them and settled down to an extended conversation. Oswald couldn’t ascertain the details of what they said, but soon decided it was of no consequence. He had learned enough for now, and this intelligence would help put him in Etezora’s favour. Perhaps get her to trust him more.