Cradle of Darkness Read online

  “Refreshment?” Ebar intoned.

  “That would be welcome,” Wobas said. “My last host was less than hospitable.”

  Ebar avoided commenting and shouted through to his wife inside the house proper. “Shamfis? Do me a favour and pour some of that figberry juice for us, would you?”

  “On its way,” came the reply.

  Ebar reached into his well-tailored garbeast robes and pulled out a pouch, opened it and offered the contents to Wobas. The shredded jarva-leaf was a potent herb, and Wobas declined. “Thank you Great Ebar, but I need a clear head to find my way back over Camber Crag without tripping into its cloudy embrace.

  Ebar nodded and withdrew a pinch that, in his gargantuan fingers, constituted a handful to Wobas. The giant chewed on it, closed his eye and savoured the heady cocktail of chemicals it released in his mouth. Wobas knew better than to interrupt the giant’s pleasure and waited patiently.

  Before long, Shamfis appeared with a tray upon which stood a wooden jug and two different sized goblets. “I brought you Djabi’s baby cup,” she said to Wobas. He thanked her, noting, as always, her cheerful expression framed by dreadlocks tied back in a bun. She left them to their conversation and busied herself preparing the family meal. He heard the clatter of pots and the shriek of children, loud as bear cubs, sounding from the interior.

  “You understand why I signalled to you?” Ebar said at last.

  “I can guess.”

  “The cycle begins early.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You know what this means.”

  “I know very little. That’s the problem.”

  Wobas and Ebar’s friendship, if it could be called that, spanned many decades and although their words were sparsely issued, a lot of meaning lodged between them — much like wallets of insight in a coat of many pockets.

  “What are the portents from the Dreamworld?” Ebar enquired.

  Wobas exhaled heavily. “The Spirit Guide granted me an audience.”

  The giant turned to him, his eye blinking twice in rapid succession. “That is significant.”

  “The most important turn of events to emerge in my humble lifetime.”

  “Dare I ask what it said?”

  “It was evasive, said I had to make peace with my daughter before I could gain the knowledge I seek.”

  Ebar’s mouth turned down. “Well that’s that, then.”

  “Alas, yes. But not for want of trying.”

  “You paid her a visit?”

  “I did.”

  “The Spirit Guide might as well have asked you to sew a garment made of sand.”

  “I’m sorry I have reached an impasse. I share your burden in the Cyclopes’ search for release from this curse.”

  A smile returned to Ebar’s face. “We all have our burdens to bear. Things could be worse.”

  “How long?” Wobas asked, sadness creeping into his tone.

  “Sixteen hundred and twenty-two days. Thankfully, Shamfis has much longer. But who knows of the children? Our eldest is still seven sols from her revelation.”

  “Revelation? That seems a wrong word for it. It must be akin to observing your coffin and the number of nails to be hammered into the lid.”

  “It is an apt thought. Yet we are denied the knowledge of what transpires beforehand.”

  “Have the predictions always held true?”

  “You know they have.”

  “Then, there must be a way to lift this unbearable curse.”

  “There might be. But it seems your daughter holds the key.” Wobas sighed, and the giant gently patted his back. “Don’t take that as an accusation. It’s not my place to apportion blame.”

  “It is a paradox, though, is it not? My devotion to seeking an answer to your plight has cost me the means by which to achieve it.”

  Ebar laughed loud enough to stir his dozing nar. “Sometimes I think we are playthings of the spirits.”

  It was Wobas’s turn to smile. “Still, there is yet more wisdom I seek. This change in the depths and the southern sky brings challenges all of its own.”

  Ebar grew sombre once more. “I have had my ear to the ground and my eyes in the air.”

  Wobas looked up and regarded two circling raptors, the sun reflecting off their tawny undersides. They looked innocuous enough, but how many were aware they reported to the Hill People. “And ..?”

  “And the news is not good. There is activity in the Kaldoran mines.”

  Wobas’s brow furrowed. “They’re always digging — seeking richer deposits of cryonite or jewels of even greater value.”

  “This is different. The sounds are more like rumblings. They cause landslips in the valleys, and this is not all; Brownbeak saw a large sortie of dragons take to the air just now.”

  “Where were they headed?”

  “They circled the Dragonian Vale and soared on the heights for an hour. Then they returned.”

  “A flexing of muscles, or a show of strength?”

  “No one else was observed. The nearest Cuscosian regiment is barracked at Fort Gorriund.”

  “Sounds to me they were rehearsing for something. What of the Cuscosians themselves?”

  “Nothing obvious, but purple vapours hang over the Edenbract knoll.”

  “There is a Hallows there is there not?”

  “Yes — very similar to the one south of your hermitage.” The giant turned and stared intently at him. The eye was bloodshot at the perimeter — probably a result of the jarva-leaf he was chewing, but the pupil fixed Wobas with a clarity he found perturbing.

  Wobas nodded. “You are right to enquire of my dealings with the Hallows. I have not ventured close to the Scar, you can rest assured of that.”

  Ebar sat back and placed his hands behind his head, looking more relaxed. “I thought as much, but I had to ask. Still, the Black Hallows may impinge on the Dreamworld too — they seem to be having an effect everywhere else.”

  “You think the activity your emissaries have witnessed are connected to the Hallows?”

  “Co-incidences happen, I suppose.”

  Wobas took a sip of figberry juice. The treacly liquid invigorated him considerably. “The Spirit Guide did not say, but I have not returned since last night, so I do not know for sure.”

  “You don’t need me to tell you that it pays to be be watchful. Other factions might entertain what the Hallows have to offer, but there is always a price to pay.”

  “What do the rest of the council think? Have you met?”

  “We will — this afternoon, and I am going to counsel caution, a waiting game. Our people had a heavy toll exacted on them as a result of the previous Hallows cycle.”

  Ebar’s speech was growing slurred and his voice took on a droning quality, and Wobas knew he would get no further cogent insight from the giant. He only hoped Ebar would sleep off the jarva haze before his meeting with the rest of the council. He took his leave, saying a quick good bye to Shamfis and the children, then made his way back up to the bluff.

  Just before entering the mist corridor, Wobas took one last look at the purpling sky on the far horizon. “Do you also inhabit the Dreamworld?” he asked, as if the Black Hallows was some entity that could be addressed. Although the risks were great, he would fly through the sacred realm this night. If he could not reconcile himself to Milissandia, then he had no choice but to embark on the forbidden way and seek an audience with the Augur. Perhaps in this there might be a way to tame the Hallows.

  8

  Ambush at the crossing

  Bilespit held the scryer to his jaundiced eye and adjusted the focus. “Ten wagons,” he said, “they’ve upped their production even more.” Above the usual stench of unwashed Kaldoran flesh, he detected the subtle smell of anticipation and — yes — fear. Like all the stonegrabes, Bilespit abhorred natural light. His warband were swaddled in thick, drab-brown wrappings that covered them from head to toe. This afforded them some protection from Sol-Ar’s harmful rays but, despite the
recent Hallows darkening, Bilespit could barely tolerate the brightness above ground.

  “How many guard the train?” A dumpy Kaldoran said, leaning on his maul.

  Bilespit lowered the scryer and regarded the foot soldier. “Don’t you mean ‘How many guard the train, Sir?”

  “You are only captain for this one mission,” the other replied, “we all know you’re operating on a trial basis. So don’t get ideas beyond your station.”

  Bilespit considered his next words carefully and then decided to dispense with them. Quick as a stone-serpent, he caught the stonegrabe on the side of his head with a granite fist. It wasn’t enough to cave in his skull, but still struck with enough force to send him sprawling into the dust. “You mentioned my ideas? Well, that’s what I think,” Bilespit said, looking through the scryer again.

  The wagon train rolled along a hard-packed road, flicking clouds of graphite-coloured powder into the air. Bilespit counted fifteen foot soldiers and five horsemen, a goodly number, but unlikely to consist of Cuscosian elite. His warband could take them, not least because they had the element of surprise.

  “Someone give that little krut a slap,” he said, nodding at the unconscious figure. “We’ll need every stonegrabe battle-ready if we’re to overpower the Cuscosian scum.”

  While two burly stonegrabes brought their comrade back from sleepland, Bilespit assessed his warband’s strength: twenty-five in number, armed with mauls, axes, slings and bows. The archers weren’t particularly adept, but then the arrows were only there for effect, to lead the Cuscosians up the garden path as it were. Bilespit barked his commands and the stonegrabes obediently took up their positions, eager to avoid the fate of the recovering Kaldoran.

  The wagons would soon reach the ford below, where the shallow waters of the Queenswater River tumbled loudly over a jutting line of rocks that marked the shallows. The depth of the water, though diminished, would still slow the wagons down, and the Cuscosians would be exposed in the middle of the waterway. Odds I like, Bilespit thought. He observed the stonegrabes bearing slingshots together with a number of archers climb to higher ground, while the axemen and hammer-weld took cover in willows bordering the riverbank. Now, as long as the motley bunch of rock scuttlers followed orders, the operation should proceed smoothly enough. Hopefully it would all be over in a few minutes. Then again, the chaos god could always fart in your face and upset the most carefully laid plans. Bilespit had come to learn this.

  The Cuscosians were close enough for the stonegrabes to see their features now. The gar oxen harnessed four at a time, plodded a steady rhythm as they pulled heavy wagons laden with cryonite ore. As well as sowing mischief, this raid would garner the Kaldorans some valuable resources. The first wagon entered the water without missing a hoof-fall, and it wasn’t long before half the train were up to the oxes’ knees in water.

  Just a couple of moments more.

  Bilespit cupped his rock-encrusted hands over his mouth and made a sound part way between a squawk and a rattle, the call of the pied wrathwing. A signal his stonegrabes understood.

  A whipping sound accompanied the release of a volley of pebbles loosed from Kaldoran slingshots. Each found its mark, striking a Cuscosian horseman full in the face, despite their protective helmets. Four riders fell from their mounts, either unconscious or dead. The Kaldorans loosed several arrows also, although most struck the water. A lucky pair pierced the hides of two oxen — to little effect. It would take more than longbows to bring these beasts down, and the Kaldorans would need them to cart the cryonite away in any case.

  To his credit, the mounted Cuscosian leader responded quickly and rallied his remaining soldiers behind the wagons. The wagon drivers were armed only with shortswords and would not pose that great a threat, Bilespit assumed.

  “Fire the second volley,” he shouted. Another hail of stones and arrows came at the Cuscosians, but bounced uselessly off the wagons or stuck into the tarpaulins covering them. They would not pick off any more without a drawn-out siege, and the Kaldorans didn’t have time for that.

  “Break cover,” Bilespit cried. “Charge!”

  Those stonegrabes concealed beneath the weeping willow boughs exploded forth with a battle-cry on their lips, jogging with high steps through the water. Two fell, skewered in the chest by javelins thrown from the spearmen. Bilespit had set up the ambush to catch the Cuscosians in a pincer movement. While the defenders gave their attention to the first onslaught, Bilespit’s second wave caught them by surprise when they closed in from further down the bank, thus flanking the Cuscosians. Two more fell beneath mauls wielded by the second Kaldoran wave, their long shafts making up for the stonegrabe’s shortness of stature. The remainder met the stonegrabes bravely, bringing spears and swords to bear with practised precision. The Cuscosian captain alone had decapitated two of Bilespit’s horde.

  “Krut — the tide could turn in the Cuscosians’ favour at this rate,” Bilespit cursed. The captain had to be brought down. The honourable course of action would have been to engage the captain in one-to-one combat, but Bilespit wasn’t honourable. Still in his position of concealment, he tapped the stonegrabe standing next to him and pointed at the captain. He raised the slingshot, took aim and loosed a specially forged iron ball, moulded with cruel spikes. The vengeful sphere found its target and passed through the captain’s cheekbone, spinning the man round and exposing his flank. The missile didn’t kill him, but the blow from a Kaldoran axe did. Bilespit recognised the stonegrabe that had insulted him and decided not to throw him into the slag pits upon their return to the Kaldoran stronghold. His slaying of the captain was a turning point. Three minutes later the Cuscosians fell back, some tripping into the water as Kaldorans swarmed over them, hacking and beating them with their weapons.

  Bilespit chose this moment to join the fray. He hopped down the hillside, jumped on top of a wagon and swung his maul down upon an unarmed wagon driver. The men were easy pickings and, once dispensed, left him time to assess the rest of the melee. “Take them all,” he yelled, “gut every last one of them. Leave no survivors.”

  One minute later, the last Cuscosian had fallen in the water, his skull caved in by a Kaldoran mace.

  Hakrish, Bilespit’s second in command, waded over to him, blood dripping from both ends of his warhammer. He panted and perspired with exertion.

  “How many stonegrabes did we lose?” Bilespit enquired.

  “By the looks of it, seven. Eight wounded, but not mortally,” Hakrish replied.

  Bilespit nodded with satisfaction. “Right, the job’s not finished. Have the archers loose more arrows into the corpses from further back, and unload those sacks of dragon mord on the far bank. Make it look natural.

  Hakrish shook his head. “I doubt if the Cuscosians will fall for it. Since when have the Dragonians coveted cryonite?”

  “Since now,” Bilespit replied. “Look at Sol-Ar and the sky. See how even now the heavens grow darker — and it’s only early afternoon. The Black Hallows puts things in the minds of men they wouldn’t usually consider. All we need to do is nudge the Cuscosians in the right direction.”

  Hakrish shrugged. He was a footsoldier not a tactician and was happy to follow orders. It wasn’t his place to question.

  “Colon. Akath,” Bilespit shouted. “Take eight others and drive these wagons back up the Eastern Road. We must cover fifteen periarchs before nightfall, and we don’t want a Cuscosian counter attack to befall us.”

  The stonegrabes carried out their duties, loading their wounded and dead onto the wagons before setting off. Bilespit considered taking one of the whinnying horses to make the journey back more comfortable, but he wasn’t a horseman and didn’t want to risk a broken collarbone. No, he contemplated, there are things Kaldorans do well, and others not so well. Killing and treachery were their stock in trade. Elegant pursuits such as equestrianism were just unseemly — and Bilespit would be cursed if he was going to appear unseemly.

  9

  Und
er the mask

  Eétor glanced impatiently at the water clock. This was not a characteristic state of mind for him, but then events could wear away at a lifetime’s virtue, he reflected, and the advent of the Black Hallows was such an event.

  He needed to talk to Zodarin, consult with the man. Man? Zodarin was many things: magician, sorcerer, wizard, and soulsearcher. To describe him merely as a man was to underestimate him, and Eétor suspected he hid many of his talents. It was therefore prudent to weigh the man’s capabilities carefully.

  Could he be trusted? Up to a point. The House of Cuscosa was a nest of writhing vipers, so to give anyone your total confidence was a mistake. Yet the sorcerer had aided him in Eétor’s most nefarious of atrocities — the murder of his parents.

  Sometimes the Praetor of House Cuscosa imagined it was some other that perpetrated this deed. He wasn’t proud of it, but to say he was full of guilt or remorse would misrepresent him. The justification was a way of distancing himself from the distasteful but necessary machinations of statesmanship. Yet sometimes he wondered whether his seemingly impervious shell was all he had constructed it to be. It was at moments like this, when he was on his own, that spectres of the past would sometimes haunt him. He circled his small, spartan anteroom looking for a distraction to pass the time. As a result of his searching he came upon the decorated dragon wood jewellery box his mother gave him.

  It had been the occasion of his twentieth natum day. Eétor was a frustrated man even then, his father having ruled nine sols of his allotted tenure. Eétor would assume the throne in a sol’s time according to Cuscosa’s accession rules. Not a long period to wait, but too long if he was to enact his bold plans.

  “I know you are discontented with your father, my dear Eétor,” his mother said, “but your time will come.”