Cradle of Darkness Read online

  Wobas smiled inwardly. Quarry? He was no hunter, despite the feathered predatory form his avatar took. Besides, that which he sought was entirely aware of his presence.

  He swooped lower, tilting his body to avoid burred trunks and prickly branches. He perceived the thicker drapery of chasquite bushes ahead, recognising the potential for the spirit-beast to vanish. Alarm gripped his fluttering heart at the prospect of a convocation denied — as had happened so many times before. This was where the Spirit Guide — part horse, part reptile, part bird — would disappear into the ether, diminishing the hope of a meeting he suspected death would finally extinguish.

  However, this was not to be a normal play of events. Wobas sensed the creature stop, turning on its hooves, waiting.

  He stalled his flight, alighting on a garpine branch, allowing his talons to grip the gnarled bark. The Spirit Guide stood on a floor of leaf litter, observing him with avian eyes, cold, ancient and unblinking.

  At last, the venerated one was to grant him an audience. Yet Wobas dared not speak, despite sols rehearsing his entreaties.

  You take the form of a wise bird, it eventually communicated in dream-speak, breaking the silence, yet you seek greater enlightenment. You think yourself worthy?

  Wobas remained speechless. What words could he utter to impress the guide? The beast stamped on the ground, snorting — a sign of impatience, or of offence?

  Are you insulted that I have sought you all this time? Wobas sent.

  Insulted? The Spirit Guide replied. You are a seeker — a persistent one at that. I respect those that dream the inconceivable then make it a reality.

  Wobas forgot his pre-planned overtures and blurted out the burden on his heart. I seek these things not for myself, but for the good of my people. I know there are those who enter this realm to realise the fulfilment of their own desires, but I have learned the folly of such selfishness.

  The Spirit Guide nodded its eagle-like head. I sense your sincerity, and have observed the refinement of your quest over the sols, like a precious metal purified in the crucible of perseverance.

  Why, may I ask, have you now acquiesced to address me? Wobas sent.

  The Spirit Guide’s beak could not form a smile, yet Wobas sensed it humoured him. Time is short. I know you seek the interpretation of your dreams, that you have detected the onset of the Great Darkness, and yet you are not aware how the scales are tipping even as we speak.

  The Black Hallows? Wobas said, they are upon us?

  Varchal enters the influence of Sol-Ar tonight. It has tracked through the heavens and passed across the last few megiarchs in the blinking of an eye.

  So soon? Wobas said. I … we are not prepared.

  It is as it ever was. The peoples persist with their petty concerns and ignore portents, the lessons of history.

  Wobas protested, I have not turned my eyes from that which was foretold. I simply lack insight. My dreams are without form, allowing me only the opportunity to use them for malign purposes.

  The physical manifestation is so often the grotesque result of the unworthy dreamer’s desire.

  You know that is not my intent.

  No. But I cannot grant you the knowledge you seek. It is beyond even my authority and abilities.

  Then what?

  Advice, The Spirit Guide sent. Your dreams and visions will coalesce once you have an unburdened heart.

  I have reached a plane of enlightenment unprecedented amongst my people!

  And yet there is enmity between you and your seed.

  Milissandia?

  The Spirit Guide nodded again.

  But I have no influence over her, Wobas continued. She is a renegade, estranged from me.

  The creature inclined its head. You must make reparations. Yours is the greater responsibility.

  But —

  We have no more time. You must witness the unfolding of events. There are acts you must perform.

  Surely there is more you can —

  But the creature had already turned and galloped off into the night at a speed even Wobas could not match. He was tired, the intensity of his audience with the Spirit Guide having sapped him of energy. His vision clouded, and he sensed his form returning to the corporeal world.

  He blinked, and when his eyes reopened, he was once more seated cross-legged on the bare floor of his cave. Outside, the heavy patter of rain struck limestone boulders.

  Something was different, a smell of ozone in the air and the sound of crackling energy.

  He rose to his feet, ancient bones and muscles protesting at the exertion, and stumbled outside.

  Below the crag which served as his retreat, a rupture in the mountainside drew his eye, a site of archaic and holy significance. It glowed purple, shadow-hued like venom-vapour reaching out from the rock scar.

  “By the spirits,” he said. “The Black Hallows rise from their cradle.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “It ees beyond a joke!” Gribthore said, saliva dripping from a mouth rendered slack on one side by a childhood disease.

  “You see me laughing?” Magthrum said and raised a pewter tankard to his cracked lips. He quaffed the root-ale, throwing the potent liquid to the back of his throat. There was a time when its pungency tasted rich and satisfying to his tongue, but that time was long past. All that remained was the mule kick it gave him. It was enough. It helped him forget, albeit for an hour or two.

  “Are we going to let the Cuscosians get away with it?” said a squat stonegrabe. Bilespit was his name, and Magthrum trusted him about as much as he did a stone scorpion not to sting the hand that grasped it. However, he had talents, skills Magthrum could use. Once they were exhausted, he could consign Bilespit to the slag pits, or better still — slit his throat.

  “How much, exactly, have they got away with?” Magthrum demanded.

  “Our spies observed cartloads of ore moving out from Bagshot Defile this morning,” put in Gorespike.

  “A new mine? On our side of the divide!” Magthrum picked up an axe and hurled it across the room. It thunked into an ironwood pillar, narrowly missing Gribthore who ducked just in time. “I could chew on that Cuscosian schjek’s throat. If they undercut our price on cryonite we’ll be eating our toenails within a month.” The thought of eating Etezora’s flesh filled Magthrum with a yearning that eclipsed the memory of the hermit’s leg meat he’d just finished.

  “Surely da time for skulkeeng and bideeng our time ees past,” Gribthore said, warily lifting his head above bench height again.

  Magthrum growled in response. He was thinking. The rusty cogs in his former gin-trap mind turned ever so slowly these days, but that did not mean he was beyond resourcefulness. “How have the Dragon Riders responded to the sabotage of their latest construct?” he said, when a strategy did not present itself.

  “The bridge? As expected,” Gorespike replied. “They blame the Cuscosians.”

  “Do they plan retaliation?”

  Gorespike shook his turnip-like head. “In time perhaps. But Nalin did not report any outriding today.”

  Magthrum grunted again. His Kaldoran Rockclave remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt their Fellchief’s thoughts. After several minutes Magthrum cocked his head, listening. “The rain falls heavy above,” he said.

  “It ees a storm that will pass,” Gribthore replied.

  “No. The thunder cracks louder than Belthraim’s hammer and the air seems … electrified.” Even though hundreds of metres of limestone separated Magthrum’s hordes from the open air, his preternatural Kaldoran hearing detected the sounds acutely.

  “To the surface,” he said. “Something is afoot.”

  The sound of tankards slamming down accompanied the Rockclave’s departure from Magthrum’s chamber. They moved as a pack, like rats scurrying through the upwardly sloping tunnels.

  By the time they reached the entrance to their stronghold, a black rain was pounding the rocks with the fury of a stallion herd.

  “See
the sky,” Gribthore said in awe.

  Magthrum observed anvil clouds roiling across a moon turned violet. Sheet lightning flashed across the blackness, illuminating Jagga’s Peak in the distance, and beneath it all he heard a drone-like hum emanating from a gash in the opposite side of the valley.

  “What is it that rises from Spidersnatch Cavern?” Gorespike said, his toothless mouth hanging open.

  As he watched, Magthrum regarded a raisin-coloured vapour reach across the valley towards them. Fear clutched his entrails along with something else — a lust for what that vapour’s tendril seemed to offer. It closed the distance with unnatural speed, permeating the air around the Kaldorans.

  “Retreat below,” yelled Gorespike.

  “Too late,” Magthrum said, breathing in the energised cloud. As he did so, a sensation like that of an irrepressible fist closed over his mind, followed by the lifting of confusion. For the first time in many sols he could think clearly again, yet his cognition seemed tinged by a mischief and cunning beyond anything he’d imagined before, a diabolism even.

  There, on that mountainside, Magthrum imagined at last how his desires could be realised. Kaldora could be great once more. Etezora could crush the Dragon Riders if she wanted, then he would strike at the distracted Cuscosians, and their haujen-queen would become succulent meat for his table.

  2

  On majestic wings

  Heart beats so loud, in my ears,

  Wind blasts my face, cools cheeks,

  Cruel crags loom large, so near,

  Beast’s heat so warm, my thighs,

  Harness so tight, no fears.

  These familiar sensations pulsed through Mahren’s frame, immersive and exhilarating, a charge to her otherwise wearied existence. As Jaestrum approached the knife-edged arête, she applied gentle pressure to the beast’s flank, signalling it to adjust trajectory and bank away from the rock hurtling to greet them. It was a practised manoeuvre, but Mahren loved to see how long she could leave it until Jaestrum pulled out of the dive. It was an unspoken agreement between them. She knew the dragon was aware of its capabilities, and would communicate its alarm if it sensed she pushed them too far.

  The folded, fractured bluestone slid to the side of Mahren’s view as Jaestrum almost grazed its surface. He swept parallel to the cliff face then rolled his body to follow the line of the arête. Mahren shrieked in delight; adrenaline causing a buzz in her brain. This next manoeuvre was in fact more perilous than the hair-raising dive she’d just executed. One rogue air current could cause the dragon to strike the toothed basalt scrolling beneath them and end their aerial exploits forever. It was such moments that made life worth living to Mahren.

  “Are you ready to attempt the lion’s mouth, Jaestrum?” she shouted to her mount.

  She saw the natural arch fast approaching at the foot of the arête, a hole in the rock measuring mere hand spans in diameter. Mahren speculated oft times if it was wide enough to accommodate Jaestrum’s bulk, but she believed if they were to accomplish the feat, they would have to attempt it before he grew too large. The beast hesitated and then lifted his head in affirmation. Mahren’s pulse quickened. A moment of doubt, then she committed them both.

  “Just like we practised,” she said to him.

  They were ten seconds away from a portal to death — or a life enriched by the experience. The outcome rode on Jaestrum’s ability to hold his course unswervingly.

  When Mahren calculated there to be five seconds before reaching the target, a squall gusted over the arête and hit them without warning. It was enough to alter their course and result in disaster. The decision came easily, and she dug her heels into the dragon’s flanks. It responded in an instant and pulled upwards, climbing out of the dive, its claws flicking off fragments of rock from the apex of the arch. Mahren gasped in shock but Jaestrum was not perturbed and compensated for the impact.

  They were soaring above the vale now, rising into a sky turned purple by Sol-Ar, and, despite the breath-taking view, Mahren couldn’t help but feel deflated. The emerald foliage of the Dragon Vale appeared below, and Jaestrum uttered a heaving sigh, resonating with Mahren’s despondency.

  “No regrets,” she said. “There will be another day, another attempt. Tomorrow we will succeed.

  “Mmmm — Gragh!” the dragon responded.

  “That’s the spirit. It is enough for today. We should return and see to your brothers. They need their exercise too.”

  With a further bellow, Jaestrum beat his wings forcibly, accelerating until Mahren’s back pressed into the saddle. She reached down and patted the beast, its scales rough and powdery to her touch. Jaestrum owed his ancestry to the rock dragons of Aegris. They lacked the preening iridescence of the ayku but were more obedient and manoeuvrable — perfectly suited to the Dragon Rider’s needs. Although the fyreblood coursed through his veins, Jaestrum was still too immature to expel fire from his mouth. This phenomenon might never materialise — it was a matter of luck, ancestry and time. One could hope.

  She checked his harness and tightened a buckle. The apparatus was essential for the aerobatics she executed, and although she often wondered if Jaestrum relished the possibility of her dispensing with it, it was recklessness beyond even her daring mindset. Besides, Jaestrum did not mind. He accepted his duty and restrictions not as servitude but as a calling. It was a bond Mahren had nurtured since the dragon’s hatching. Five sols of coaxing and coaching had brought them to such a pinnacle of trust that they would die for each other — without question.

  She glanced up again, noting once more the disturbing hue of the sky. Its appearance sent a ripple of disquiet through her. Instead of the usual azure glaze she was accustomed to at this altitude; it was as if a blanket of rolling, slate-coloured cloud covered the firmament, creating a sense of claustrophobia in the atmosphere. She suspected it was something to do with the previous night’s events. Mahren had obeyed Tayem’s call to arms despite her reluctance. To see the royal household and guard of the Donnephon assembled at that unearthly hour, the torchlight reflecting off their leather armour, made her feel both proud and scared. Tayem formally declared the Teshwan, and Mahren understood the significance of this. She had so many questions. Foremost was why Tayem’s eyes stared at the multitude with a blackness that was both uncharacteristic and baleful. There was more to be said on the matter. Perhaps her sister would reveal all later.

  Her thoughts drifted to the ‘Sanctity of the Dragon,’ an oath repeated upon the occasion of every Air-Sworn rider and their claiming of a mount. She had taken the oath many times, yet the number willing to dedicate themselves in this way was dwindling. If this continued, it would mean the loss of a lineage that extended back centuries; the effective extinction of the Air-Sworn. Such a loss embittered her more and more, compounded as it was with a despondency that afflicted the Donnephon as a whole. Her people seemed to accept the yoke laid upon them by the Cuscosians, as if they were doomed to a servitude impossible to shake off.

  It was not always so, as the relationship with the Cuscosians had always been fragile. Yet matters were not so one-sided before Etezora’s accession to leadership.

  Etezora. The very name left a taste as bitter as gall in Mahren’s mouth — to think Tayem once counted her as a friend. That all ended at the feast of Shaptari, when Etezora had committed an act that would define her for sols to come. Mahren remembered that day with an abhorrence that still sent a hot shaft of loathing through her core.

  She shook her head, unwilling to let such memories further sully her already bleak day. The canopy of bachar trees loomed, and she spied the clearing that identified the draconest ahead. Figures stepping like ants busied themselves in the yard, dragons led from their pens appeared as miniatures feeding on the carcases of boar and deer lobbed to them by the dragon hands.

  Mahren did not need to instruct Jaestrum as they closed in. He intuitively stalled his approach to the landing ground, wings stretched, and beating with increased frequency, se
nding clouds of dust into the air. The dragon grunted as he alighted, then lowered his frame to allow Mahren to dismount.

  She hardly set foot on the sand when Gostrek, a member of the Underguard appeared at her side.

  “My Lady,” he said, thumping an arm to his chest in salute, “The Queen requests your presence straight away.”

  “At this hour?” she said. “Does she not know I have the stud to attend to?”

  “She said it could not wait. The entire Royal Court is in attendance.”

  “Do you know the reason?”

  “No, my Lady. It is beyond my station.”

  She thanked him, taking time only to heave a deer thigh over the fence to Jaestrum.

  It seems I am to learn of last night’s events earlier than I thought, she pondered. The full complement of the Court, though? Surely this is an over-reaction? But as she passed through the fortress corridors and up the steps to the Great Hall, a twist of anxiety and anticipation took hold. She had no doubt that matters of great significance were about to unfold.

  3

  Evil comes to call

  Sometimes Tuh-Ma wallowed in a mood so dark he felt he was drowning in the black sludge of abyssal tar pits. These were times when he would pick up his keen edged flint-blade and place it against his neck. He would stare at his reflection in the seeing glass — a present from his precious Queen — and despair at what he saw there. Tombstone teeth set in a mouth disfigured by a jutting lower jaw, porcupine bristles erupting haphazardly from a skin covering that held more resemblance to a lunar landscape than biological tissue. He was ugly — he knew this.

  His Queen didn’t employ him for his looks, however. He had other redeeming characteristics. He would scan downward to his hands, shaped like spades and tipped with yellow, chipped nails. Instruments of death, Etezora called them. This would bring a smile to his grotesque face. If she valued this talent, then maybe she could one day come to appreciate other qualities about him. He could hope.