Cradle of Darkness Read online

  But Etezora had put paid to that. Tayem remembered the shattered egg with a bitterness that burrowed in her gut even to this day. She saw through the lens of memory a dragon embryo lying twisted in the dust, splashed with the viscous remains of its yolk sac. This bitterness was exceeded only by her eventual loathing at the expression she had seen on Etezora’s face: A sadistic joy at the desecration she’d just committed, a look of conspiracy inviting Tayem to join her.

  As these memories flooded back, Tayem felt something like acid burning behind her eyes. Her fists clenched and every muscle in her body tensed.

  “My Queen?” Cistre detected the change in Tayem. She had an uncanny sensitivity to her moods, some would say empathic. Ignoring her Chief Guard, Tayem stood up abruptly and strode to the window. She had to engage in some activity that would break this turmoil within. Through the dragonglass she saw Mahren pacing up the main concourse of the palace. Her form disappeared beneath the canopy of a garbeech, and she estimated her sister would arrive in the next minute or two.

  Tayem’s troubled heart was stilled again, and she exhaled her relief.

  What is wrong with me?

  Turning round, she waved her hand, signalling a call to order. “Be seated everyone. Mahren comes.”

  The clave-members took up their positions in the horseshoe of high-backed, heavy chairs surrounding the royal throne, and settled themselves attentively by the time two guardsmen opened the main doors for the Queen’s sister.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Mahren said and jogged the last few yards to take her seat.

  Tayem neither rebuked nor offered forgiveness to her. “Now the Fyreclave is complete, I would put to you the matter that has troubled me since yesterday’s exactment.” She looked around the six members of the Fyreclave judging their reactions. When nothing conclusive was apparent she continued. “In the last three sols the Cuscosians’ annual exactment has risen from thirty to sixty of our youngest age-comings. Not only does this stunt our people’s growth in stature, but it is also designed to cow us into submission. They teach our young to mistrust their heritage, and they return to us unruly and resentful.”

  Gemain, an overly cautious but trustworthy administrator spoke up. “Your Majesty. This burden on our people troubles me too, but we accepted it at our last assembly with the Cuscosians. We deemed it a lesser of evils compared with the withdrawal of our food supply.”

  Tayem had prepared for this. “I thought this too. But they have included a greater proportion of maidens in their quota of late, and some less than sixteen sols old. This is unprecedented and unacceptable.” Her recounting of the matter brought the itching back behind her eyes.

  “This has preyed on my mind since yesterday’s exactment too,” Ascomb, a mature matriarch said. “If we allow it to continue, the Cuscosians will not stop here. They are testing us. Indeed, I fear they will weaken our bloodstock to the point where we can resist no longer. It is no secret that the Cuscosians covet our dragon broods, and I have no doubt they will be targeted if we allow this to go unchecked.”

  Ascomb had it only half-right, Tayem mused. Etezora didn’t so much desire the dragons — she longed for their complete destruction. “Something else to consider,” Tayem said. “Increasing numbers of our age-comings marry into the Cuscosian populace and never come back. What they have failed to accomplish by outright conquest, they hope to achieve by a slow undermining of our ancient society. I will not permit that.”

  “And what of the sabotage that occurred to our bridge over the Halivern River?” Merdreth added.

  “We don’t know for sure that was the Cuscosians,” Gemain said.

  “Can there be any doubt?” Merdreth shot back. “They take us for fools.”

  Gemain shifted uncomfortably. “What do you propose, My Queen?”

  Resolve burned in Tayem’s eyes. “We should demand our age-comings back.” Gemain looked horrified. “And suspend further exactments,” Tayem added.

  Gemain’s disquiet turned to horror. “Your Majesty, this is reckless. The Cuscosians — ”

  “What is our battle strength, Cistre?” Tayem interrupted him.

  Her bodyguard and Battle Commander stepped forward. “With the current number of recruits, freshly trained, four thousand two hundred and twenty three.”

  Cistre’s attention to detail and knowledge of her troops never ceased to amaze Tayem. “And how many dragons?” Tayem asked.

  “Battle ready?”

  “Of course.”

  Cistre didn’t flinch at the Queen’s impatience. “Forty nine.”

  “I wouldn’t say forty nine were battle ready,” Mahren chose her moment to contribute. Tayem noted her guarded expression. It could mean many things. “At least a quarter have only flown a handful of practice sorties, and five are unruly — kicking against their rider’s goads.”

  “So, essentially some thirty five? It is enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Gemain’s complexion had turned from its natural tan hue to something more pallid.

  “We cannot make demands without the force to back it up,” Tayem said.

  “But the Cuscosians number ten thousand or more!”

  “Most of which are garrisoned at the borders defending them against Outlanders.”

  “A further contingent guard the new mines at Bagshot,” Cistre added.

  “You would mount an assault on Castle Cuscosa?” Gemain exclaimed.

  “A show of force only. Dragons can be very intimidating.” The itching behind Tayem’s eyes increased. A perverse notion surfaced in her mind. If the Cuscosians did not comply she would not baulk at unleashing the fury of her dragon hordes. She dismissed the suggestion but sensed it only retreating to a corner of her mind to sulk. “We need to bring Etezora to the negotiating table with a credible threat. After sols of compliance she will not be expecting this.”

  “The Cuscosian Queen will call our bluff.” This came from Darer, Tayem’s most trusted adviser. He rarely spoke in the clave, saving the most sage advice for private audiences with the Queen. The man’s age was written into features that resembled cracked leather, his wisdom commensurate with his demeanour.

  “Then they will see it is no bluff,” Tayem said.

  This drew murmurings and a gasp from amongst the Fyreclave.

  “Your Majesty,” Gemain said, “this would be an act of outright war. We are not ready for such a conflict.”

  “You have a counter proposal?” Tayem tilted her head upwards, looking at the man with flared nostrils.

  “Diplomacy must always be the first option. Do not forget, we depend on the Cuscosians for food. Our forests do not yield enough nuts, seeds and roots to feed our impoverished people. We should call them to an extraordinary conference, threaten to withhold our supply of ironwood and garbeech.”

  “That would take months to bite. Time we do not have,” Tayem replied.

  “What do you mean?” Disconsolin said. The man looked flustered, obviously dreading a disruption to his passive, ordered existence.

  “You have all heard of the stirrings in the Dragon Ash Hallow. You have seen the skies turn violet. Varchal’s child rises from its cradle. I saw this first hand, but we all know that similar awakenings will occur across the length of the Crescent. Magister Reganum?”

  The remaining Fyreclave member rose to his feet. Silent up to now, always the one for drama, he spread his hands as if revealing an exquisite work of art. Such was the gravity he lent to his pronouncements. “It is true. I have predicted the beginning of the cycle of darkness for many months now, but it has come sooner than expected. We need only look at history to know that great upheavals in the Crescent Kingdoms will ensue. We cannot predict how these will play out, but the Hallows will exert its influence and only the strong and the shrewd will prevail.”

  “You think the Cuscosians are plotting more than a punitive exactment?” Gemain questioned the Magister.

  “Again, history is our guide. The Black Hallows influence will cause
unpredictable consequences. We should be prepared for anything. We can’t be caught unawares.”

  “Surely you exaggerate,” Gemain said.

  “You forget the massacre at Lyn-Harath?” Reganum said, “A defeat resulting in the withdrawal of the Gigantes from the Lowlands? The Reiver ancestors of the Cuscosians decimated their people.”

  This silenced Gemain. He could not deny the reality of the account Reganum spoke of.

  “The Black Hallows will also influence the vs’ shtak,” Darer said. “Do you think our resources will be strengthened?”

  Tayem sensed there were undercurrents to Darer’s statement. “We should expect an empowerment in some form. But, as the Magister has said, these matters are … unpredictable.” Tayem understood this would not satisfy the councillor, but it was substantial enough for her to move toward a conclusion. “Very well, I sense the Fyreclave’s reluctance to overstep the mark, but the time for weak-willed diplomacy is past. Our discussions with the Cuscosians this last sol have been useless porticoes, empty predictions of prophecies, abandoned castles waiting to become finally deserted. I would break our indolence. Therefore my decision is this.”

  She paused, aware that she had lapsed into grand-speaking as her father used to counsel her. It was a habit that came from reading about vs’ shtak ancestry and legends recorded in the many tomes lining the Grand Library’s shelves. It did add to her powers of persuasion however, and the turmoil behind her eyes seemed to augment this ability — she could see it on the faces of all but Darer.

  “Mahren, the Cuscosians will deliver tonight’s Dragon food as usual?”

  “Yes, My Queen,” Mahren said.

  “You will ride to the meeting point early and apprehend the carriers.”

  “Apprehend? You mean take them hostage?”

  “We will not call it so. Consider it our own exactment.”

  “The delivery will be overseen by Etezora’s nephew, Setaeor. We should apprehend him too?”

  “Him especially. As I said, we need to bring Etezora to the point of realistic negotiation.”

  The Fyreclave knew the time for consultation was past. Tayem had made her decision, and she detected her command had been accepted. “I bring this meeting to a close. We will gather at the same time tomorrow. By then, Mahren’s sortie will be accomplished.”

  The Fyreclave members exited, accompanied by no little murmuring and discussion. Only Darer hung back, wiry arms folded and bald head tipped downwards in contemplation.

  Sharp exchanges between Mahren and Cistre drew Tayem’s attention.

  “You questioned my assessment of the dragon host?” Cistre said to Tayem’s sister. She was prodding Mahren in the chest, a gesture Mahren would respond to in kind unless Tayem intervened.

  “You assume too much, Cistre. The royal brood is my domain. You should have deferred to me.” Mahren had taken hold of Cistre’s wrist, forcing it downwards. Cistre’s expression was thunder.

  “Enough!” Tayem said. “You both have important tasks to perform, and I demand you are not distracted.”

  Cistre wrenched her hand from Mahren’s grip. She was a full span shorter than Mahren, but her prowess in combat more than made up for this. Tayem was adamant this rivalry should not spill over in the Royal Hall — or indeed anywhere. “Cistre!” she said.

  The bodyguard turned to Tayem and saluted. “My Queen?”

  “You are to draw up a strategic plan according to a series of contingencies I have in mind. I will need up-to-date appraisal of troops, weapons and supply lines. There is much to discuss. Mahren?”

  Her sister turned to her and also saluted. “Ready the Dragon Riders and brief them. Tonight must see an effective operation. In addition, make ready secure accommodation for our Cuscosian guests.”

  “Of course, my Queen,” Mahren replied, striding away with a scolded expression clouding her face.

  “Cistre — you have something to say?” Tayem said.

  Cistre’s forehead furrowed. “I … no, My Queen. I will attend to your wishes.”

  Tayem nodded and watched her leave. Mahren could be read like a tome, but Cistre’s demeanour often left Tayem perplexed. There was loyalty there, devotion even. But sometimes she sensed there was a hidden impulse.

  Darer approached, a gentle smile playing on his face.

  “Decisive as ever,” he said.

  “You hold reservations?” she replied.

  Darer shrugged. “You have weighed up options, I am sure. But is there something I should be aware of?”

  “Such as?”

  The councillor’s lips stretched thin. “The rising of the Black Hallows is a matter of great import. I gather you had a rather special encounter last night?”

  “Special? In what way?”

  “You were especially persuasive just now. You are also well read in the legends of the Black Hallows.”

  “I learned much from my father.”

  “He was a seeker, but was denied the baptism he sought.”

  “He might have succeeded if he had been given time.” Tayem recognised the melancholy rising but quelled it instinctively.

  “The traditional Hallows lacked potency, but I visited the Dragon Ash site after your summoning.”

  “Did you ..?”

  Darer shook his head. “It reached out to me, but I denied its overtures.”

  Tayem felt a strange relief. But why should she? Darer had as much right of access to the Dragon Ash site as she did. “Do you think I was mistaken to accept?”

  “I will simply say this,” he said, looking out at the burgeoning clouds in the sky. “Proceed with great caution. The Hallows draws some more than others. You possess a steel will and may use the Hallows to your advantage. But many fall foul of its influence.”

  “I understand the risks,” she said.

  Darer nodded. “I am here should you need further counsel.” It was a natural close to the conservation and Tayem knew they had an understanding. But as Darer left, the entity skulked out of the shadows of her mind again.

  You should tread carefully with him, it whispered. He is not free from envy — watch him well.

  7

  Waiting for the nail

  Wobas had another meeting to attend after the unsuccessful liaison with his daughter. He hoped it had a better outcome. His destination was the Gigantes’ village and, though it occupied a lower elevation than his cave dwelling, it left one with a sense of loftiness, as if perched on the roof of the world.

  He passed through a stand of colossus pines lining a promontory of sandstone shrouded in mist. It was a treacherous path for the unwary, to those who sought to breach this realm. One mis-step could send a trespasser plummeting over the bluff to be dashed on the unforgiving shards below, and Wobas wondered how many broken bodies had found their final resting place down there since the Decimation.

  Three turns left and one turn right, he said to himself, finding the hidden trail that only a rock goat would find easy to traverse. It led him down in a zigzag fashion to the hidden settlement nestled amongst the crags.

  Sol-Ar approached its zenith, and the village bustled with activity. These dwellings were where the Minutae lived, the diminutive kindred of the Cyclopes who dwelt in the higher reaches of the village. A woodsman brought his axe down outside one house, whilst the smell of freshly baked sour-bread drifted from another. The turf-covered roofs of these simple dwellings concealed them from above, and also served as homes to dormice, squirrels and an astounding flora of fungi and mountain flowers. As Wobas observed this familiar bustle of life it struck him that, to an outsider, the two races making up the Gigantes were an incongruous mix. Even more perplexing to think they had all sprung from the same ancestors, if the volumes in Ebar’s library were true.

  He skirted around Ginnie the sooth-sayer’s diminutive house and prepared himself for the exertion ahead. Ebar’s house, supported on four great rowspen trunks formed an imposing construction, although this was not the Cyclopes’ intent. T
he Hill-Warden would like nothing better than to retreat into complete obscurity, yet his duties prevented such indulgencies. White smoke billowed from a single chimney pot crowning the pitched roof, and Wobas hauled his aged frame up the large wooden staircase surrounding the property.

  Ebar waited on a blackwood platform, his towering form casting a long shadow across the worm-holed surface. Wobas made to greet the giant but a guttural belch stopped him short. A nar pushed its way between Ebar’s legs, slaver dripping from its fangs, tongue lolling from the side of a cavernous maw. It burped again as it lolloped towards the dream-sage.

  “Barabas!” Ebar admonished, “get back.” The bear-thing snivelled but lumbered obediently over to a basket large as a beer vat, slumping itself down in a huff.

  “Don’t worry, he’s eaten already,” Ebar said, a parabolic smile creasing his weathered face. His voice never failed to remind Wobas of a bough sighing in the breeze, lazily sounding its poems to an unseen audience. Long, ratty-grey braids hung over Ebar’s wizened face, the centre of which housed a single, rapidly blinking eye.

  “That does little to reassure me,” Wobas replied, “I’ve seen that nar devour three deer in one sitting. He has a peckish look in his eye.”

  Ebar let out a guffaw, creating an air current Wobas felt even though a matter of yards separated them. “There’s not enough meat on you to satisfy him,” he said. “Now come, take a seat.”

  The giant beckoned Wobas over to a log bench, fully fifteen spans in length and five high. The dream-seer looked at the Cyclopes sceptically. “Here,” Ebar said, and pulled up a stool enabling Wobas to perch himself on the over-sized seat. Once up, he took a moment to gaze over the Hill People’s land. They chose not to refer to it as a Kingdom. The Gigantes had dispensed with these terms since the Decimation. Such dominions were anathema, and only reminded these gentle people of a tumultuous past, together with unending strife. Although the Hallows violet added a baleful glow to the horizon, it couldn’t dispel the beauty of this land. White fleecy clouds blanketed purple stacks of rock that peeked through like columns in a vast cathedral. The view encouraged a body to worship this land, yet Wobas knew Ebar held his reverence for the spirits of the Dreamworld, not physical idols.