Cradle of Darkness Page 13

  Ebar was old, even in Gigantean terms, the sols of his existence seeming like the passing of seconds. Yet he was unable to erase the Decimation from his memory, despite the intended talisman of Ever-forgotten. How could he forget? He had been there, witnessed the fields drenched in blood, the burning of the forests and the lamentation of the bereft.

  So despite every effort to cast the memories aside, Ebar’s mind wound back like a coil to that night …

  The Hillman who came to be known as Ebar the Great stood motionless in the dark, moss-lined entrance to his abode, located on the edge of Mereshan, the Gigantes’ sacred grove. Something had awoken him from his meditations. But what? He thought. A premonition or a warning perhaps? He spent seconds like that, transfixed in horror at what he now detected on the wind. A faint stench of burning flesh, distant screams of terror, portents of a doom that should have been foreseen.

  A shout from nearby broke his stillness. “Ebar, we are under attack. Narchen has summoned the gifted to his house. He says we must combine our individual strength to resist the invaders.” It was Scorfleet, a Gigantes three spans taller than himself and imposing in girth.

  “Under attack? Who?” Ebar’s senses reeled.

  “We do not know, but the West Reach has already fallen and a vast army approaches. It is the barbarous Cuscosians. No time for further words now, accompany me.”

  The youthful Ebar followed Scorfleet, racing through the sweeping mallowdrift fronds until they came upon the elders, circled around Narchen — the Gigantes they considered their leader. It was a title he only reluctantly accepted.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Narchen said to the assembled, settling them with a natural authority. The leader stood tall in the night, face lined with concern yet possessing an undercurrent of stoicism. “We have little time, and we must save our people. The Cuscosians have formed an alliance with the Kaldorans and invaded the borders of Lyn-Harath. Already they have destroyed Waithros and trodden down the Rayhan meadows. They advance upon our sacred grove and will be upon us within the hour.

  “Those who have survived are fleeing this way, and we have only one hope of redemption. We must combine our strength and summon the Mists of Confusion. It is a feat never attempted on this scale, but it might buy us enough time to gather our populace and escape.”

  “To where. Narchen? Where will we go?” It was Torthen, wise-woman of the Gigantes and mother to Ginnie.

  “Through the Whispering Hills to the north. We must take to the mountains, disperse, and lose the desecrators in the passes. We will regroup at Herethorn — those of us who can survive.”

  The pronouncement carried a bleakness uncharacteristic of their leader, and there were some who baulked. “We should strike back,” said one. “We are stronger than they,” shouted another.

  Narchen raised his weathered hands and calmed the dissent. “The path of Carnos is alien to us. We are not a war-like people, and though these invaders are like rats beneath our feet, even vermin can overcome us with sheer weight of numbers — and their count is thousands.

  “Now, will you join with me and take part in the summoning? We must act now or we shall be overrun.”

  So it has come to this, Ebar thought. Would that his friend, Wobas was here. Instead, he had been sequestered in the Dragon Vale, aiding them in their plight. Yet what peril loomed greater than this? How the Gigantes might have benefitted with help from Thorshil Fyreglance’s dragons. But there was no time to enlist their aid.

  Ebar had little in the way of Sygist energy at his disposal. His talents lay elsewhere, but what he had he would freely give. He could only hope it was enough. Already he heard Cuscosian drums in the distance, and the rattling of Kaldoran mauls on their shields.

  “Link hands,” Narchen exhorted them.

  Ebar felt Scorfleet take his hand, the Sygist flow already apparent in the Gigantes’ touch. Another to his right, followed suit and the circle was complete. Narchen began the incantation, and within seconds the Sygist crescendoed. Experiencing this infusion of power was a wonder to Ebar, yet it was accompanied by a sense of disquiet. At once, he knew he would never be a worthy vessel. Perhaps Wobas could live with the strangeness of this remarkable conduit of power — the desideratum of his sallies in the Dreamworld. But to Ebar, it seemed there must be a cost to this agency, and it was one he sensed he would not be willing to pay.

  “Túl ana us — este leir lumenn’ o maure,” Narchen’s voice rose in volume, the Oldspeak impelling and elevating his speech with gravitas. The Gigantes added their mantras to the invocation and to Ebar it was as if the earth and the trees resonated in harmony with this unprecedented benediction.

  “Meneth i holui ensorcel tob — ammen,” the head Gigantes intoned, and as he uttered the last words, hairline cracks opened in the forest floor beneath them. As these lengthened, a silver mist emanated forth to form a dense blanket that swirled around them.

  “Flee, my brothers and sisters,” Narchen cried. “The enemy are at our door and they will show no mercy. Hide yourselves and your families in the mists. Let the light of the Sygist be your guide and, with grace, we may meet again at our destination.”

  Those were the last words Ebar ever heard from Narchen. Of the Gigantes who stood in that circle, barely ten survived and only a few dozen from without made it through the Whispering Hills.

  Ebar never fathomed why he was chosen to survive what followed. Perhaps no reason existed. He had no family, and so was not encumbered as some were, so he helped those that needed aid. Yet to this day, he felt it was a meagre effort. One whom he aided was a young girl called Shamfis. He saw the Cuscosians bring down the rest of her family, young and old alike with their heavy iron crossbow bolts. As they fled through the Northreach they passed the fallen, looks of horror contorting features that all their lifetime had been pictures of peacefulness.

  The mists had simply bought them a little time. There was one amongst the Cuscosians, one whose cloaked appearance sent dread through the Gigantes’ souls, an off-worlder, dread Harrowbane shapeshifter. He … it had guided the enemy alliance through the enchanted shrouds, called down a hail of arrows on the fleeing Gigantes, exhorting the troops to slaughter and mutilating the fallen. Ebar remembered looking over his shoulder as he lumbered into the lower slopes of the mountains, all the time thinking he was a coward for not turning back. He remembered seeing a dark shape silhouetted against the torchlight, a shape invisible to its own minions. It was indescribable, perverse, an entity that invaded his dreams even to this day.

  As far as anyone knew, the bones of the Gigantes still lay in those desolate fields. Their blood soaked deep in the earth still cried out to him. But for what? Vengeance?

  Revenge was not a path the Gigantes trod.

  Ebar shook his head. Yes, to forget must be a blessing,but it is not one granted to me.

  Ironic that, apart from the lost scrolls, the razing of Lyn-Harath had not benefitted the Cuscosian-Kaldoran alliance in the way they lusted for. With the destruction of that sacred habitat and the murder of its inhabitants, the inherent lore and blessings disappeared like thistledown on the wind.

  And so they had come after many days to Herethorn, a cold and uninviting place, yet one that few knew existed. Though young, the dishevelled remnants of the Gigantes had looked to Ebar for leadership, and he had known at once that this place would not harbour them long without protection. He had summoned Wobas using Brownbeak’s mother to seek him out, and though he had been reluctant at first, the shaman had entreated the denizens of the Dreamworld, the spirit guides, to grant them magical aegis. Wobas’ request was heard, and over the decades the Gigantes had enjoyed the sanctuary of the hidden realm.

  Perhaps the Cuscosians thought them completely annihilated, for that was their aim. Yet Ebar had his doubts.

  The price they had paid to the spirit guides for concealment was great. Why they exacted the penalty seemed cruel beyond words, but the Gigantes had accepted it, for the sake of survival. For what
price was too high to avoid extinction? Yet to know the date of one’s death was a heavy burden.

  Ebar removed carefully selected scrolls from the wooden cylinders that occupied the shelves of his meagre library — all that remained of a once voluminous archive. The rest had been stolen by the Cuscosians or destroyed by Magthrum’s vulgar horde.

  They should have foreseen the Decimation, just as they should have predicted the early advent of the Black Hallows. The judgement of the Council meant a delay, yet could they afford such a thing? Though it was not the primary consideration, he was also cognisant of sands slipping through the hourglass. As a Cyclopes, he was acutely aware of the sixteen hundred and eighteen days left for him to walk this land. Was it vain of him to think of his contribution to these events in such elevated terms? Perhaps. Yet the converse argument weighed heavy on his heart. He was responsible. The Gigantes looked to him for leadership, and Wobas relied on him as a friend.

  Ebar emerged into the light and unrolled the first of his scrolls. What was it Wobas had asked for on his return visit? Knowledge of the Augur? That had been one thing, but there was also lore relating to the ‘relinkur’ — changeling. Why did the mention of that name bring back such dark memories?

  Brownbeak’s arrival interrupted his reverie. With a screech and a fluttering of staunch flight feathers, Brownbeak grasped the perch bar on Ebar’s platform with his talons and squawked again.

  “What is it, Lordling of the Skies?”

  The raptor communicated with a blinking of its eyes, almost imperceptible gestures and changes in body position. After a few minutes of the exchange, Ebar’s already melancholy mood had turned grim.

  Questions arose in his mind. Cuscosian troops massing on the borders of Kaldora? Platoons marching to the North-West also?

  The council had voted for a cautionary approach. The kingdoms of the South were not their concern. Survival was. Yet as Ebar pondered Brownbeak’s report, he wondered if the time for waiting was past. Maybe if they held back too long they would be overwhelmed when they least expected it — just like at Lyn-Harath.

  Although he tried to resist it, once more the memory of a dark, slithering, shifting shape invaded again. Whatever it was, Ebar had become increasingly anxious it was still out there — even after all this time. Waiting, anticipating.

  18

  Trysts and collusions

  Mahren pulled the hood over her head, looked both ways at the exit to the alleyway, and then hurried into the main street towards her rendezvous. She had only walked five paces when a sound from beyond the town outskirts brought her up short. It was a curious blend of mewling and rumbling that travelled across the intervening distance.

  Krut — Jaestrum. Can you not keep quiet for a second?

  She’d tied the beast up in a briar copse to the north of Hallow’s Creek, hopeful that he’d stay restful until her return.

  Perhaps he’s not as well trained as I thought. Or maybe he’s upset at what happened with the poisoning. He’d certainly been more than a little sluggish on the flight down from the Vale, and Mahren had felt a certain amount of guilt about riding him so soon after his affliction. But the pull of Hallow’s Creek was too great to resist.

  She considered returning to the dragon and settling him down. He had flown only a couple of periarchs short of Castle Cuscosa after all, right under Etezora’s nose, and the Queen had her surveillance methods. But Mahren had been sure her low-level approach to the township had gone unnoticed under cover of the dark, and she yearned for this meeting.

  She looked to the moon as it peeked its head out from behind a cloud. It was tinged with Hallows Purple, matching the now familiar indigo shades of Sol-Ar. Indeed a malaise seemed to have crept over her since the events of a week ago, an oppressiveness that created an itching in her brain and a perpetual dull headache. Did the others feel it too? It was as if no one dared mention it, yet the Dragonians had become restless as a people, constantly looking over their shoulders, bickering at the slightest provocation. Even Sheldar had refrained from cracking as many of his jokes in the Dragon Keep.

  A leviathan has awoken in the land,

  A monster that moves invisibly among us.

  She remembered the lyrics from one of Vanya’s songs. She forgot the name of the ballad and had not appreciated the significance of the words. But now, they seemed to ring true of this malign intrusion — and to think this might last for decades! How will we bear it?

  Are all kingdoms of Varchal affected in the same way?

  Keep focused on the now, she told herself. You must not be caught trespassing in this place. Tensions are rising high enough already.

  She began to walk again, mindful there were few on the streets. Those that were present tended to consist of the city guard. She kept to the shadows and was relieved when she entered the suburbs, the traffic of pedestrians and the occasional horse-drawn cart easing off as she did so.

  “Psst!” she heard from a ramshackle outbuilding. “Over here.” Although the tone was sharp, she recognised the voice, and a tingling passed over her skin bringing it out in goose bumps.

  She stepped closer to the rotting structure, caution still preventing her getting too close. “Brethis, is that you?”

  “No, it’s the Emperor of Nettlebroth,” the voice came back.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, suddenly fearful.

  “Of course it’s me, silly,” Brethis said, his head appearing in the sole window.

  Mahren puffed out her cheeks and exhaled, meeting him as he opened a door that hung from one hinge. Inside, a candle provided limited illumination, and what it revealed made her wish it was even more limited. A dankness hung in the air, consistent with the decaying logs and rough-cut timber leaning against the walls.

  “I’m sorry about the decor,” Brethis said, “I haven’t had time to furnish the place yet.”

  “You live here?” she asked.

  A wink from Brethis told her he’d caught her twice already, one of several traits that attracted her to him in the first place.

  “Are you sure it’s — ” Her words were cut off when Brethis pressed his lips against hers. Not for one instant did she consider resisting, although in the courts of the Dragon Riders such an affront was punishable with incarceration. Instead, she surrendered to the moment, enjoying the sense of abandonment, of not caring about responsibilities. Gone was any notion of royal etiquette or decorum. She found her muscles losing tension, the irritation behind her eyes soothed and her headache seemed to evaporate. As Brethis’s kiss lingered, she noticed her heartbeat. It pulsed in her ears, drumming out the rhythm of her desire.

  Then all of a sudden, he pulled away. “I needed that,” he said, “now, we have much to talk about.”

  “But, I thought …?”

  “There’ll be time for that,” he said with a smile that dimpled his face. “Business first.”

  He brushed down a rickety, three-legged stool and pulled it up for her, turning round another one so they sat face to face. “I met with the others last night, and they have agreed to mobilise support. We are getting together at the twenty-first hour, where I will lay out details of my plan.”

  “Hold on, Brethis,” Mahren said. “You’re speaking too quickly.” It was true. Mahren saw the fire in his eyes and understood he was in a state of hyperactivity. “You can tell me everything. But you need to relax — so do I, and I have just the remedy.”

  She rose from the stool and leaned over him, tilting his face upward and meeting his open mouth with hers. This time, he didn’t interrupt and soon they were laid out on the ground, a rough horsehair blanket their only comfort against the woodcutter’s floor. Neither noticed the time pass as they explored each other, his lips blazing a trail of liquid fire across her smooth skin, she returning his attentions as if drugged. It was a spell of time to be savoured, made all the more precious because of its transitory nature. She wished that it would never end.

  They spent further moments lying side by side,
a cool breeze entering through the open window and caressing their naked skin.

  “What do you imagine will happen to us?” she said after a while.

  “What do you mean?” he replied, raising himself on one elbow.

  “It all seems so unlikely, doesn’t it? I mean here we are, you a Cuscosian — ”

  “I hate that word, and I refuse to be associated with it,” he said rather curtly.

  “However you wish to be known,” she said, “I am a member of the Dragonian royals. If my family were to know about this — well …”

  Brethis laughed. “I know. It would turn that poe-faced expression of your sister’s to a look more sour than lemon.”

  Mahren shoved him over playfully. “Don’t make fun of her. She has the weight of the kingdom on her shoulders.”

  “Then if it is too heavy a burden to bear, she should give over the reins of power to the common people.”

  It was Mahren’s turn to laugh. “There you go with your idealism again. And how long do you think it would be before the kingdom was bankrupt, and the people left starving as they squabbled amongst themselves over who should have their say? Nothing would get done.”

  “It would seem both royal houses have made a good job of achieving that already.”

  “You paint my sister with the same brush as that schjek, Etezora?”

  Brethis held up his hands. “Of course not. Etezora is a tyrant, and all the more so since this change has come about in the skies. Your people may be arrogant, but they are not intent on oppressing all who inhabit the Imperious Crescent.”

  Mahren looked at him with an inscrutable smile.

  “What?” he said.

  “Dragonians and Cuscosians? Maybe our troubles would be over if we could find a way to agree. Perhaps only a union of the two houses could force the issue.”

  “A union? You mean …” He pointed a finger at her then back at himself. “Ha! You think I am royalty? More than this — you think I could father your children?”