Cradle of Darkness Page 9

  Within the glades and mangroves of his destination lay the Shrine of Knowing, or so it was told. From Wobas’s study of Ebar’s books, he knew the sacrarium was forbidden to all wurunwa ith, but how well was this enforced?

  His eyes and ears remained in a high state of alert. The Spirit Guide was nowhere in the vicinity. Neither was the wolf.

  He emerged from the forest, his wings beating more rapidly now he was traversing across open grassland. In the Near To world he had walked the plains only once. Here in the Dreamworld, the terrain was totally unfamiliar. He had only the references and landmarks he had read about in Ebar’s tome — and that was over ten sols ago.

  Seek out the Trignal Rock.

  His route brought him to skirt the Barrow Mounds, and a fell wind whistled through their passes, buffeting his flightpath. He compensated, and in so doing recognised the beginnings of fatigue.

  Two more periarchs and then I can rest.

  He concentrated on the sky to take his mind off how slow his progress was. It did not rain in the Dreamworld, but the clouds and mists were of an alien hue — browns, russets and umbers. This was something he had grown accustomed to, but tonight there was a heliotrope tinge on the horizon. With a creeping dread he recognised the encroaching of the Hallows’ rekthi.

  The Dreamworld resists it, but for how long?

  Glancing downwards he saw moonlight reflected off sporadic ponds and lagoons. Grassland gave way to moss groves and marsh reeds, then up ahead, silhouetted against the purple glow, a rock outcrop appeared, split into three as if a claw reached for the heavens.

  The Trignal. I am close.

  He beat his wings down more forcibly, and cleared the formation, swooping down onto a lower elevation. The wall of mangrove trees took him by surprise, and he had to bank his flight to avoid a battering by gnarled trunks and tangled branches. He expected an oppressive gloom, but found that here under the drooping canopy an uncanny luminescence lit his way. The source of this light seemed to be an exudation on the bark of the trees, but he also observed dancing fireflies and what seemed like airborne medusae billowing in clusters.

  He was now completely at the mercy of his instincts. Ebar’s tome had not described the shrine, other than that the Augur inhabited it at the centre of the grove.

  As the scops, he exercised an unerring sense of direction and topography, so he knew the bearing he took should take him across the midpoint of this swampy abode. Yet would he recognise the place if he saw it? Would he even be permitted to lay eyes on it? If entering the shrine was forbidden, then it would hardly be prominent amidst the landscape.

  Fatigue overtook him now, and he alighted in a cleft between two entangled sterrath trunks. As his avian heart subsided to a steady beat, he thought he heard a whisper on the night. It was an enticing sound, reminiscent of long forgotten childhood memories; intense feelings of innocence, yet expectations of possibility. He often yearned for such an existence again — free from responsibility and the burdens of the world. To have this again would be such bliss. The promise now appeared to him like a cascade of water over garden stones, its appreciation lying in the crevices where the water flowed.

  The whispering intensified, and he took to his wings again, following the beckoning call.

  You will find a bridge between a place that no one ever leaves and another that no one ever approaches.

  The message was a riddle written in the tome, but as Wobas wove his way deeper into the grove, he thought he saw a construction ahead. As he glided closer on silent wings, he made out a single wooden arch rising from the rooted tangle of mangroves, spanning a murky fissure. Then he understood it was not so much constructed by the hands of men but a living thing, having germinated and grown across the chasm. He darted across it, fearing to gaze into the shifting shadows below and quested deeper into what lay beyond.

  Then he was upon it. A mossy hollow, at the centre of which grew a bulbous tree with a bole that must have measured at least fifty spans diameter. A narrow vertical fissure extended from the base of the tree up to where the first lichen-covered branches began. From the crack in the bark, luminescence intensified, and Wobas had an irresistable urge to enter. He looked upwards. The hollow nestled below a break in the mangrove canopy and the sky above was clearly visible. The usual Dreamworld fog mixed with Hallows purple from above and formed a smoky column extending upwards from the higher branches of the tree.

  Is this what I sought? Why have I not met with resistance? And why does it beckon me so?

  There was a sense of impending downfall when Wobas saw the Hallows invasion of that place, but the silent evocation was impossible to resist now. He had to enter.

  The crack was just wide enough in the middle to admit his flying form and he entered, the tips of his wings just grazing the grey bark of the aperture’s edges.

  Inside he found himself in a home of sorts. He had little time to absorb much detail, except for a table with chairs and a dresser against one wall.

  It was a challenge to remain aloft in this enclosed space and he had to find somewhere to perch.

  Over there on the pedestal, something said in silent communication.

  The mind-voice came from a ginger cat, sat in bread-loaf fashion on a rough-hewn table in the centre of the room. Startled, Wobas considered flying straight back the way he had come. No good could come from encountering a harroc di wurunwi such as this.

  Settle yourself, the tom said. Have you come this far simply to turn tail and run? I pose no threat to you.

  Wobas was weary, and the harroc had offered him a resting place. He chose to trust the creature — for now.

  With a clattering of wings he reluctantly landed on the pedestal with little grace. You are he who dwells here? He sent to the cat.

  It looked around, almost lazily, and communicated to Wobas in thought-speak. It is a humble abode, but serves me well.

  I had expected an augur to take a different form, Wobas sent.

  Expectations — such things can undo a man.

  Wobas scrutinised the cat. He owed the Augur reverence, and yet …

  You had more expectations in seeking me out, did you not? The cat continued.

  I … I seek answers, true, Wobas sent. But I am wary of the atmosphere that surrounds this place. It seems to speak to the darkness.

  You mistrust the Hallows? What if I told you it is the only way to receive what you desire?

  The Spirit Guide told me —

  A spirit guide? What is this? The cat looked genuinely puzzled.

  You do not know of Memek-Tal?

  The tom lifted a paw and licked between the toes. Not all who inhabit the Dreamworld converse with each other. Not unless our paths are destined to converge. But, never mind. What did he tell you?

  That I must make amends with a certain person before I received the key to unlocking the curse of the Cyclopes.

  Ah — so that is your desire. A noble one. But there are so many other things the Hallows could bestow.

  I am sure. But —

  Let me show you.

  The cat pointed with its paw at a looking glass on the wall. Tell me what you see.

  Wobas looked where the cat pointed and viewed a small reflective surface surrounded by a frame of witch-hazel branches. I see my reflection, of course.

  Anything else?

  As Wobas gazed longer, his feathery features seemed to blur at the edges. As he watched, the beak gradually morphed into a nose and the feathers became skin. Soon the transformation was complete, and he viewed his wrinkled human visage.

  What is this? He sent.

  Keep watching.

  Wobas looked again. The view zoomed out to a position where he saw himself standing and looking to the skies. His features had lost their aged form, and he appeared middle-aged again. Yet the wonder did not stop there. As he continued to watch, the face filled out a little. It lost its wrinkles and his frame became more muscular. In addition, he felt his aches subside and a new vitality fill
him.

  Do you feel it? The cat sent.

  Yes. I had forgotten the vigour that comes with such a tender age.

  This could be yours if you invite the Hallows in.

  The temptation was significant. Wobas felt a pull that was difficult to resist, yet his extended lifespan had given him wisdom and he gave a considered reply to the cat. Such a thing must carry a great price.

  The cat narrowed its eyes and nodded. Of course it does, but it is not a price beyond your means.

  Whatever it is, the treasure is unworthy.

  The cat’s pupils dilated. You desire something more honourable.

  I have told you what I seek.

  The Cyclopes?

  That, and a way to protect the Gigantes people.

  The Hallows can only augment gifts already present in the supplicant.

  Wobas shifted his position on the perch and blinked several times. I have often felt on the brink of discovery in the Dreamworld, yet answers have always eluded me, seemed to be just out of reach.

  The Hallows will give.

  Then why did the Spirit Guide warn me about them? Wobas asked.

  Perhaps he was speaking from his own place of fear and ignorance. I cannot say.

  Wobas was not convinced. Something still held him back.

  I can tell you are vacillating. There is no compulsion to receive, but remember, it was you who sought me out.

  I cannot deny this but …

  Let me show you one more thing, the cat sent. It lifted its paw and pointed at the mirror.

  Out of the shimmering, Wobas saw his daughter. She approached a man, and Wobas thought it to be one of her many lovers, but as he looked more closely, he realised it was himself. She was holding out her hands, embracing him. The sight of such a thing would have been wonderful enough but, as before, it was enhanced by an intense stirring of emotion in his heart.

  How did you know this troubled me? He asked the cat.

  I did not. The sacred augur mirror simply reveals what the observer wishes to see.

  Wobas found himself on the cusp of a decision. Surely, this is what I have sought all this time, he pondered, his thoughts veiled from the cat. Yet I cannot help feel there is something I am not being told.

  He turned to the harroc once more. I take it you have drunk of the Hallows yourself?

  Indeed I have, it said, and I have had no reason to look back.

  What if I refuse?

  The cat lowered its head. Alas, the Hallows does not take kindly to rebuttal. You will suffer no harm, but the opportunity will be gone — and you may never know the fulfilment of your desires.

  Wobas stared at the cat, weighing up the options. I have one more question.

  Ask.

  What price did the Hallows exact from you, Augur?

  It narrowed its eyes again, and for the first time Wobas noticed the yellow of the cat’s sclera and the snake-like pupils. Behind those eyes he also glimpsed something else. Something the cat was trying very hard to conceal. It was as if it held back its true spirit form, a shape redolent of crimson orbs, of tentacles and of a vast leviathan body. It sent a shudder down Wobas’s spine and broke him out of his trance.

  That I cannot tell you, the cat sent.

  It was Wobas’ turn to lower his head, feeling all of a sudden as if the chamber of the Augur was closing in on him, asphyxiating and smothering.

  There are too many unknowns, Wobas sent. I must take my leave. He did not wait for a reply, did not even look back, fearing what he might see. And as he fluttered out from the Augur’s tree it was as if some gravity pulled at his dream-body. Looking at his wings he observed purple vapour clinging there.

  He beat down with greater force and, with every muscle straining, willed himself forward. For a moment he feared he would succumb, but then the vapour lost its grip and he accelerated into the night, leaving behind the faint groan of an entity denied its quarry.

  ~ ~ ~

  Zodarin, in the form of the ginger tom, jumped down from the table and entered an adjoining chamber to the main living space. On the floor lay the blasted form of the Augur. A blackened crater in its torso still dripped with fresh, green blood, the expression on its gnarled face frozen in anger.

  “I give you this,” Zodarin said, “you showed me no fear. A pity you also showed me little of what I sought. You were stubborn — much like Wobas.”

  Had it been a mistake not to put an end to the shaman here and now? Zodarin rose and stretched himself, arching his back and yawning in feline fashion. He was more than weary, and the transformation back to wolf form would require still more reserves of energy. To have attempted an outright attack on the scops would have carried great risk, and perhaps Wobas might yet have his uses.

  He kicked the corpse with contempt. “Still, one thing was proved tonight. I can remain concealed even from a wurunwa ith, and that is to my advantage. I bid you farewell, Augur. The centipedes and worms of this place will consume you, and I doubt whether any will mourn your passing.”

  It would be a long journey back in wolf form; he had not yet mastered transformation to that of a bird, but he anticipated it would not be long before he could. What he had learned tonight, what he had extracted from the Augur, would ensure that.

  13

  Time for tea and treachery

  ‘To be of use’ — that was Nalin’s father’s motto. It was his single most valuable contribution to Kaldoran culture and the family legacy. He’d devoted the rest of his short life to consuming ale and beating seven hells out of his disappointing son.

  “Krut his soul,” Nalin muttered as he waded through a bank of reeds shielding a small plantation of jarva shrubs. He had cultivated the crop carefully under the Cuscosian’s noses for several sols now, the merchants assuming he imported the intoxicating weed from the desert lands of the East — a myth he did nothing to dispel. After all, it ensured the price stayed high if they imagined it was grown in exotic lands and transported over two hundred periarchs.

  It wasn’t only narcotics he provided for his adopted people, however. Etezora’s father had enthusiastically acquired his engineering and technological skills, and within his first sol of employment, Nalin had overseen the construction of an aqueduct system to provide fresh water from the nearby Queenswater for the royal household. As was their wont, the Cuscosians had not extended this benefit to the great unwashed of the wider city and surrounding villages, but that was their affair.

  After hailing this project a success, he had been given leave to design and build a regiment of chariots and fleets of carts employing a unique wheel mount containing rings of tiny steel balls lubricated with shale oil. These extended the times between servicing and provided smoother running without the joints glueing up with mud and dust. From there he had built two new war machine prototypes and advised on the development of further fortifications surrounding Castle Cuscosa.

  Of course, each device he was responsible for had inbuilt design flaws an enemy could exploit if they had access to the knowledge. Nalin kept records of these weaknesses locked away in a chest hidden in his underground workshop. Usefulness brought him privileges from the Cuscosians, whereas his position made him an invaluable source of intelligence to his true Lord and Master — Magthrum.

  Such progress and standing had come with a price, however. His constant industry and attendance to the Cuscosians’ every whim meant he rarely enjoyed more than three hours of sleep. Such a lifestyle required chemical stimulants to sustain it, and jarva pods fulfilled this need.

  At first, his horticultural accident had provided a welcome source of income to feather his increasingly expensive nest, but a fateful ‘quality control’ sample had led to him overindulging one evening — and from that time on he was hooked.

  Nalin was an addict. Something he would not articulate in words, even to himself. But like any dependency, shame fostered denial, and it became his best-kept secret.

  The going was boggy in this stretch of unwelcoming terra
in — a useful deterrent to trespassers but a nuisance for gaining access. I must consider building a concealed walkway, he told himself, but he knew such a fabrication would risk drawing attention to his plantation. He would have to put up with it for now.

  Beyond the reeds lay a band of alders, clogged with treaclegrass and grosbriar. Nalin had established a narrow clearway from his regular forays along this route, but he still emerged from it with sticky-seed bobbles clinging to his breeches and the faint foxy smell of forest weeds hanging in his nostrils.

  A final screen of underbrush concealed the plantation beyond, and Nalin paused to drink in the sight of some fifty or so prime jarva bushes of the rare Skillia variety. They sprouted through the fertile, dragon manure-enriched soil in regimented lines. They could accurately be termed his pride and joy, representing as they did the only pocket of such highly sought after specimens. Most notably, they possessed both stimulant and depressant narcotics within the same plant. Leaves for bringing you down; roots for lifting you up, he thought with a smile.

  Nalin kneaded one of the tan-coloured leaves between his fingers. Sniffing it, connoisseur-like, he determined the crop was ready for picking and drying. Smoke released from the shredded leaf contained a potent mix of thallocybin and maratoxin, sure to induce feelings of mellowness and euphoria in the partaker. Nalin would carefully select two sacks of leaves and hang them out to dry later that morning.

  In the meantime, he had a more pressing matter. Sweeping past a line of jarva plants in full bloom, he approached a wooden hut and pulled open the sedge-mat door. In a drawer below a rough wooden bench he found what he sought — a box of nut-size gummy balls. These spheroids were rolled out of the milky exudation from dried jarva-flower heads, and when heated produced a vapour that charged the user’s brain with renewed vigour. They also had the additional benefit of fuelling Nalin’s imagination with fresh ideas for further ingenious designs. This morning, however, he would content himself with the immediate sizzle of rapture released from the drug.