Cradle of Darkness Page 8

  Vanya began the piece by striking the bottom string once. The resonant note rose in the air and echoed off the ironwood vaulted ceiling, acting as a prelude to the song that followed. Her voice was a soothing alto, fitting for the subject matter of the lyrics. As she began, the courtiers suspended their conversation, anticipating delight at hearing a masterful performance.

  Daughters of Dragonia weep,

  Let your lamentations wail upon the wind.

  For our people are enslaved,

  Cowed under the foot of the conqueror.

  Our chains were forged with links of treachery,

  Cast in the moulds of dark Hallows magic.

  A conspiracy woven with spider and worm,

  To grind proud Dragonia into dust.

  Many sorrows and dismal throes

  Marked the passing of the age.

  The enemy’s assaults defeated not our brave warriors.

  Tho’ blood poured from the mountains,

  And strong limbs fatigued in the heat of battle,

  Still we prevailed.

  From whence did the rains cease?

  No one could comprehend.

  Starving children, fathers cried,

  Mother’s hearts did rend.

  Recorded in a book of brass

  At the passing of the age.

  They cleaved the heartwood of our kingdom,

  By censor of the heavens.

  Thus the Cuscosians brought us low,

  In a tide of clashings and groans.

  We worked the fields from long ago,

  Let the soil bring forth its yield.

  Land of plenty, reaped and sown,

  Become chaff cast into the dismal deep.

  Shrill was the trumpet

  At the passing of the age.

  Cold flesh of clay,

  Lying on bones heaped high.

  This was our legacy —

  Confiscated lands and a people indebted.

  Our lathes and chisels now create their adornments,

  Our looms erected for their benefit,

  Shuttles pipe shrill thro’ the listing threads,

  Their bounty handed to the Overlords.

  Pneumafire suffered to decay,

  In the passing of the age.

  We sing our silver-throated songs,

  And play our many-corded lyres,

  Declaring that our day will come.

  A day when Cuscosia’s deadly black will disperse.

  They reign amongst tarnished jewels and unseemly titles,

  Sapping our people with their exactments.

  So fill their flagons with mandrake,

  Team the salvers with wormwood.

  Bring in the coming of the age.

  The dragon will wake from slumber,

  And the heavens will crack open.

  We will tear the spider web apart,

  And divide their city asunder.

  May their monarchs dine with death,

  And their catafalque procession fill the streets.

  We will shout with vindication in our hearts,

  And thus will behold them no more.

  So begins the coming of the age.

  Vanya allowed the final bass note to sound for several moments before damping the strings gently. Applause would be inappropriate, but a nod from Tayem told the bard she appreciated her offering. As she encouraged the other musicians to strike up a more rousing piece, Tayem reflected on the content of the song. It summed up the history of her people, laid bare the reasons for their enmity with the Cuscosians. Its rendition roused her, and increased the resolve to carry through her edicts. The now familiar voice within roused itself, muttering its accord.

  Cistre’s appearance in the room stilled its susurrations, however. The head guard conferred with Coren, no doubt sharing anything of pertinence to the hand-over of duty. After she had dismissed the sergeant, Tayem beckoned to Cistre.

  “What news of Mahren?” she asked.

  “I have heard nothing,” Cistre replied.

  “It is taking too long. Something has happened.”

  Cistre offered no words of consolation. She knew Tayem was not one for platitudes. “There is one matter to report,” she said instead.

  “Speak.”

  “The town guard apprehended a villager named Singarin. They said he was raving and out of his mind, causing a disturbance of the peace.”

  “Why are you troubling me with this?” Tayem said.

  “It seems he trespassed on the Dragon Ash grounds.”

  Tayem’s face clouded. “What other symptoms did he present?”

  Cistre looked puzzled. “Why, nothing My Queen. Except that where once was a respected weaver, there now remains nothing but a lunatic.”

  “That is … sad for him and his family. We should place guards around the perimeter.”

  “Already done, my Queen. But it raises the question of …”

  “What, Cistre? Speak your mind.”

  “You drank a strong draught from the Hallows last night. Are you sure you have suffered no ill effects?”

  “Do I look like I am deranged?”

  “Why no. I did not mean to suggest — ”

  Cistre’s response was cut short by a commotion outside the chamber. Mahren appeared at the door, a sheen of sweat and grime streaked on her skin. She saluted and stepped toward the dais.

  “What has transpired?” Tayem demanded.

  “My Queen,” Mahren said, breath coming in heavy gasps. “Disaster — our dragons have been poisoned.”

  11

  Lord of dreams

  The meeting with Eétor had been successful as far as Zodarin was concerned. The man made for a formidable conspirator, but at the same time he possessed malleability — a perfect tool for the wizard’s uses. He had no doubt the Praetor was capable of his own machinations, but these were nothing Zodarin could not anticipate or handle.

  He slunk along the battlements of Castle Cuscosa, conscious that any errant gaze from soldiers he passed were quickly turned away by his mere appearance. Small wonder. His sunken eyes and sheer stature were enough to dissuade any mortal from staring, let alone lingering too long in his presence.

  He could not claim immortality. In truth, his lifespan was not indefinite, but it dwarfed those that surrounded him. Only one had ever come close to guessing his origins. That man had called him ‘Off-worlder.’ Such knowledge should have exacted a swift end to his life, but circumstances had intervened; events that Zodarin was too humiliated to dwell on — even now, after so many sols.

  He arrived at the foot of his tower. It could not claim to be the tallest turret adorning the edifice of Castle Cuscosa, but it was the most imposing — and the most shunned. None save Etezora and Eétor had ever set foot in it, and even they had not dwelt long. Before entering, he took one more look around at the sprawling structure that the Cuscosians had constructed barely two hundred years ago. The limestone blocks had been imported from Kaldora, an economy that had served them well in the short term, but the stone had weathered poorly and already showed signs of crumbling. It was like everything accomplished by Cuscosa, born from expediency and the desire to impress; but compared with Wyverneth, for example, it marred the plains of Cuscosia like a carbuncle.

  He climbed the helical staircase, the loose grit crunching under his doe-skin boots. Ephemeral phantasms guarding the sole entrance recognised his presence and receded in obeisance. They would exude themselves from the stonework again within moments, forming a haunting security more robust than any physical defence.

  The circular chamber topping his tower had become overly cramped with the passing of sols as his library and collection of artefacts and potions expanded in size.

  One day the royal chambers will be at my disposal, he thought. That day was still distant, but it would come.

  In the meantime he had to attend to matters of import. He stoked the fire and threw on another two logs, then sat himself down on an elaborately carved dais, pre
paring to meditate.

  Of late, he had engaged in shape-shifting to accomplish his ends. No one knew of this talent — not even Eétor. As Oswald the cat he walked undetected by the local populace. His feline form became a regular visitor to Hallow’s Creek where he witnessed conversations and interactions that the unwitting townsfolk thought veiled in secrecy. Yet nothing could be kept secret from Zodarin.

  Reflecting while he stilled his mind, a broad smile creased his face as he contemplated the simplicity of life his feline alter-ego enjoyed. Tonight was not a time for simplicity, however. He needed to pass through to the Dreamworld. Indeed, he craved its embrace.

  These contemplations were a restless sea, not compatible with the state he required. He reached over and dropped a pinch of odiferous powder into the censer lit specifically for this purpose. As peacefulness descended, he closed his eyes, slowed his pulse and breathing, and then succumbed to the night.

  He was harroc ini thurkear — hunter by night. More than this he had become harroc persvek wurunwi,’ a hunter in dreams. As a matter of necessity, as well as pleasure, Zodarin awaited the thrill of wurunwa vargachic,’ the dream battles.

  He flew astrally through the boundary that separated the Near To world from that of the Far Beyond, experiencing sensations familiar but nonetheless immersive. Tonight he would kill, not man or woman — that particular ecstasy he would deny himself for now. Instead, he would content himself by tracking down animals or perhaps birds, singling out any beast that brought uncertainty to the Dreamworld. That was his intention, anyway.

  The trance deepened, and he transformed to wolvern form, a harroc on the scent of a small calf. He quietly stalked the unsuspecting bovine, staying downwind so as not to betray his position. There was no compulsion to hasten the attack as he had the ability to hold himself motionless for hours if necessary. On this occasion he did not need to wait overly long, however. Recognising his opportunity when the beast turned away, he struck, rolling the calf onto its back and staring into its startled eyes. What is this? Someone I recognise? He looked more closely at the calf’s features and identified the face of a creature known to him. It belonged to one of the infuriating Kaldorans. They annoyed him more than any other species as they had a habit of interfering with his carefully laid plans. This one would interfere no more.

  In reality, the Kaldoran would be asleep or caught in a moment of nightmare reverie. But here in the Dreamworld, the seeds of death were sown. He could not determine the time of the Kaldoran’s death. It might be days, weeks or, more rarely, a whole sol — yet always within an uneven number of days. Recognition of the victim occurred by a variety of means. It might be revealed in the cry of the prey as it died, or perhaps the way the animal walked. More often it resulted from a purely intuitive process that Zodarin was not able to fathom.

  If the harroc only wounded its dream-prey, then the person it represented would meet with an accident rather than death. But this prey would not escape so easily. The wolf regarded the quarry one last time then sank his teeth into the calf’s throat, a killing frenzy taking over until the animal fell limp in Zodarin’s jaws.

  He released the animal and contemplated eating its flesh, but killing by the harroc was a symbolic act, perpetrated in the realm of dreams. The spirit had now been severed from the body. In due course the corporeal form would inevitably follow. The levethix di wurunwi — wizard of dreams — recognised that tasting the calf’s flesh would only satisfy some prurient instinct, and Zodarin considered it beneath him. His only regret was the likelihood he would never hear of the Kaldoran’s death in the Near To. The thrill of this Dreamworld hunt would be enough for now.

  He scanned the surroundings and recognised the rolling downs surrounding Hallow’s Creek — familiar territory. He knew every pasture, mountain slope, cave, pool and stream.

  Hunting near water came naturally, it being the haunt of dangerous spirits, those belonging to the dead who had not atoned for their sins. These invariably conspired with other harroc di wurunwi — potential rivals. It paid to be aware of these entities, even to eliminate them whenever possible.

  He determined to venture over the next rise where he knew such a stream existed, tumbling its way from the foothills of Dragonia. It could have been restlessness, but he sensed a disturbance in the ether, and he needed to set his mind at rest. The Dreamworld usually gave him peace from the irritation of petty Cuscosian politics. Yet there it was again — a ripple in the air. Another was abroad tonight, one whose essence touched the periphery of his memory, a kindred intellect that reached out inquisitively toward him. It resided over the hill his paws now trod, down by the water, the source of iniquity. Did it recognise him? The presence of the interloper found him unprepared, and it was imperative he marshall his resources.

  Zodarin’s eyes opened, and he rapidly emerged from his trance-like state. Thirst assaulted his mouth and gizzard, and sweat beaded his face. He looked at his hands. They trembled.

  Was this fear? He stood up, unsure if his legs would support him and stumbled towards the turret window. Outside, the Hallows purple appeared as a haze, tinged with a hint of carmine on the horizon. It spoke to him of blood, but whose?

  The Dragonian Vale drew his gaze, which then moved towards the mountains of the Imperious Crescent. Peaks towered like a bulwark of mystery, hiding their secrets in darkness, concealing the presence he had detected in the Dreamworld.

  “Wobas,” he said. “Is that you I sense, old friend?”

  No answer. Not that he expected one. Does the shaman still live?

  Zodarin wiped sweat from his brow and stepped towards the embers in the hearth, thinking, always plotting.

  Perhaps this would not be the only foray he undertook tonight. Perhaps he should confront the Augur before the other harroc found it. This was forbidden, but he needed to glean from the entity what he could. Perhaps the Augur might give him what he wanted.

  But, if not …

  12

  The temptation of Wobas

  Wobas woke with a suddenness that wrenched him from the Dreamworld and left his spirit worn and ragged. Mere seconds ago he had been soaring over a brook as the night scops in search of the Spirit Guide. He had come to rest on a knotted tree stump and immediately become aware of another. He’d rotated his head a full half-turn and seen bright, blood-red canine eyes glaring in his direction from the nether-darkness of the hillside. The malice implicit in that gaze was palpable, yet he couldn’t be sure the wolf — or whatever it was — had seen him or not. It seemed to scan the copse in which Wobas was perched; then just as quickly as the eyes appeared, the wolf was gone.

  Was the levethix di wurunwi’s appearance significant in terms of the Hallows, or had it always existed here? The latter was hard to believe given Wobas’s perpetual sojourns in the Dreamworld. Whichever was true, the intrusion had jolted Wobas so severely it displaced him from the Dreamworld and left his physical form shaking with fear and apprehension. He waited for his breathing to return to a steady pace, but struggled to find a point of equilibrium. Every time he attempted to pacify his mind, the image of the wolf’s eyes burned into his consciousness. He could not even move his leaden limbs.

  After what seemed like half an hour of torment, Wobas twisted his body with a surge of effort, forcing himself off his meditation dais and onto the floor. The activity was enough to break whatever spell had bewitched him. With a gasp he rose to his feet and wobbled to the cave mouth, desperate to drink in the cool evening air.

  The rain still fell. It had begun at dusk as heavy droplets, and continued unrelenting, swelling streams and coursing over the rocks surrounding Wobas’s home. He regarded again the Hallows scar, a periarch distance on the opposite side of the valley. It spewed its purple energy into the night, the vapours meeting with overburdened clouds as if entreating them to release their load.

  Gigantes lore was vague regarding the Hallows, as were indeed all scripts in any tongue. Yet Wobas had an increasing sense they exerted their
influence far across the Imperious Crescent. Four sites existed that he knew of; but there might be more, and after this last venture into the Dreamworld he was certain they had touched even that sacred realm. How else to explain the presence of the wolf?

  An involuntary trembling began in his legs at the memory. Fear of such harrocs was his enemy, but he couldn’t let it stop him from finding answers. Now more than ever, he needed to acquire the requisite knowledge. The Spirit Guide had warned him about the Hallows and then dismissed Wobas from his presence. Now he had failed to make reparations with Milissandia, he had a duty to extract the wisdom to restore the Cyclopes by other means, bypassing the Spirit Guide perhaps. However, with this ‘other’ now skulking in the Far Beyond, the task was more perilous.

  Rest. He needed it desperately. Afterwards he would try again.

  Knowing malicious entities roamed abroad at least put him on his guard, and he would be doubly cautious.

  He slept, and when he awoke the water clock revealed three hours had elapsed. It was still dark, and though he was far from ready he stirred himself, adopting the nwosu position with legs crossed and hands clasped upon his knees.

  Despite a gripping apprehension he allowed his inner spirit to transcend to a state of Wurunwa Ith — Dream Lord. The dislocation of transition lasted only a moment, and once more he flew with the wings of the scops. His keen hearing detected nothing but denizens of the night, crawling under leaf litter and scuttling amongst the tangled undergrowth of the forest. A habitual foray would have seen him aspire to harroc ini thurkear, a hunter of the night, but his goal now was more exigent. It would require a long flight, longer than he had ever attempted in the Dreamworld. It would take him beyond the forest, his natural habitat, and through the swampland known as Nish. If he had the ability, he would have transformed into a buzzard or an eagle, but such a capability was beyond him. He had known only one who had such accomplishment — and he was long gone.