Only when the last soldier succumbed did the flies stop swarming. Then they began to land, crawling over each other, building up into a pile the shape of a tall figure.
Clanitâr shook the dead flies from his robes and strode out of the banqueting hall.
‘Enjoy hell, Commander.’
The final rays of the sun spilled through the palace window in Stormhaven. Six men in military attire sat round a table, talking in hushed tones.
‘She’s going to want answers.’
‘We don’t have any.’
‘You had better think of one.’
The door opened. Queen Burgrün Kürskle, an olive-skinned woman with greying hair, wearing a cream gown and carrying a sceptre, walked into the room, followed by three attendants struggling to keep pace with her. She made her way to the head of the table.
The attendants snapped into action; one pulled back the chair while the others moved her gown to the side, holding it until she was seated.
She sat and looked at her generals, her lips pursed.
A clang rang out around the chamber as she slammed the sceptre down on the table, letting them know that pleasantries were not on the agenda.
‘What exactly is happening…’ she said in a low tone, ‘…in Pinedale?’ She screamed the last word.
The men shifted in their seats. Seasoned veterans of the woman’s moods, they were lost for words until one plucked up the courage to provide an answer.
‘We are not exactly sure, Your Majesty.’
Queen Burgrün had reigned over Pholôs for thirty-nine years. In a realm where infighting and civil unrest were commonplace, this reign had been the longest in three centuries. This had come at a price, however, and the stress of ruling was now taking its toll on her ageing body. Yet, despite her physical frailties, she had the will of a despot.
The queen blinked several times and cupped her hand to her ear.
‘You are not exactly sure? “Not exactly sure” what happened to the entire population of the town of Pinedale or “not exactly sure” what happened to the soldiers who were sent there?’
The general cleared his throat. ‘No soldiers have come back. We have sent messengers and carrier pigeons to find out what has happened, to no avail.’
Queen Burgrün sat back in her chair.
‘Am I to assume that the population of this town has vanished, is that right? Perhaps the town itself has disappeared. Should I ask the royal cartographers to remove it from the maps?’
The generals looked sheepishly at each other.
‘By all the gods, is there anyone who can tell me what is happening in Pinedale?’
A knock came and a lady-in-waiting tentatively entered the room. She edged around the door.
‘Can you not see that I am busy?’ Queen Burgrün snapped.
‘Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but there is a man here to see you. He says he has information about the goings-on in Pinedale.’
‘Show him in.’
The door was opened to reveal a young man in a monk’s habit flanked by two royal guards.
‘Who are you?’ the queen demanded.
‘My name is Brother Delevé, and I am a monk from the realm of Delathorn.’
‘And how, might I ask, do you know what is happening in Pinedale?’
‘Believe me when I say; the town has fallen under the spell of an individual who goes by the name of Clanitâr Novastus. He used to be part of the monastic order to which I belong.’
‘Pinedale has been bewitched by a monk?’ the queen sneered.
‘He is no longer a monk, Your Majesty. Clanitâr left our order many years ago; it is believed he became involved in demonology and the occult.’
The queen sat in silence, watched by everyone in the room.
‘How do you know this?’
‘A member of my order received a vision and travelled to Pinedale to see if this vision was true. The town was deserted and the stench of death hung over it like a malignant evil. The bodies of farmers lay in the surrounding fields, maggots feasting on their flesh.’
‘What kind of malevolent sorcery are we dealing with?’
‘Clanitâr uses magic to spread plagues and diseases. You will only be able to deal with him successfully by keeping him at arm’s length. Does Stormhaven have pyromancers?’
‘The best in the Northern Realms,’ the queen said haughtily.
‘If your men get too close, Clanitâr will blight them with his pestilence. I fear this is the fate that has befallen your soldiers. My suggestion is to use catapults and send pots of fire against him, from a safe distance.’
‘The whole town will be burned to the ground,’ one of the generals exclaimed.
‘He has more than likely infected every living thing in Pinedale, General. You have lost the whole town already.’
The queen looked out of the window at the sun disappearing behind the mountains, in deep contemplation. Glancing at her generals, she could see the expectancy on their faces; she was never one to shy away from the difficult decisions.
Clanitâr strolled through Pinedale. The sickly sweet stench of corpses filled the air and the only sound in the streets was that of squabbling crows.
Perfect, he thought.
In less than a month, he had transformed the town from a bustling hub of trade and activity to a ghostly hamlet of death and disease. Clanitâr always took pride in his work but this time he had really outdone himself.
He meandered down the avenue through the mist, rats scurrying underfoot, and began to whistle a low drawn-out melody. Whistling helped clear his head and sooth his mind.
As he descended a flight of steps that led to what had been Pinedale’s marketplace, Clanitâr heard something unexpected: someone else was whistling.
He stopped, looking around for signs of movement.
The whistling ceased.
What in the name…? he thought. Surely everyone was dead?
He began to whistle again, in a lower key. The other person responded by whistling back, in the same key. Clanitâr followed the whistling, stopping every few yards and looking for the source. The sound seemed to be coming from a milliner’s shop.
He approached the shop and looked through the window. The glass was grimy, but he detected movement. He barged inside.
A young girl with blonde plaits, who looked no more than seven years old, stood in the middle of the room trying on hats. Seeing Clanitâr she put down the hat she was trying on and waved.
Clanitâr glanced at her in wonder. ‘Why, hello, little girl,’ he said, approaching her. ‘Clanitâr Novastus, at your service.’
Stooping down, he held out his hand to the girl, who was less than half his height.
‘You have really big hands, Mister Clanitâr,’ she said, grabbing it and shaking his hand.
Clanitâr waited for the insects and arachnids to emerge. There was no sign of them.
The young girl let go of his hand and went back to trying on the hats, of various shapes and sizes, while whistling the tune that he himself had often whistled.
Clanitâr stared down at his hand; he looked up his sleeve – nothing – then waved it around – nothing.
‘Where did those blasted things go?’ he muttered. ‘And you –’ he turned his attention to the child – ‘where did you hear that tune?’
‘I’ve been hearing it for a while,’ she said, trying on another hat.
‘And have you been here on your own?’
‘I’ve been here with Claude. He’s my hamster. Would you like to see him?’ The little girl put her hand in her pocket.
‘That will not be necessary,’ Clanitâr said, seeing movement in the pocket.
He raised his hand. ‘I fear that I cannot prolong your departure from this world any further, my rotten little apple. Now is the time that
I must bid you farewell and wish you good fortune on your final journey.’
He placed his hand on the girl’s head. Again, nothing happened.
‘Ooh, where am I going? Can Claude come?’
Clanitâr pulled back his hood and stared at the girl in disbelief, his gaze darting between his hand and her.
‘What the hell is going on? Why are you not on the ground, dying?’ he snapped.
The girl giggled. ‘You know, your head looks really funny. Why is it so long?’
‘Now is not the time for pointing out personal discrepancies, my impudent little cherub.’ He put his hands out, trying to summon a plague wind.
The little girl was running around him. ‘You’ve lost your shadow, Mister Clanitâr, like me.’
Clanitâr dropped his hands. The girl was right. Up until that point, Clanitâr’s mind had been elsewhere: now that he realised what this little girl was, she was getting his undivided attention. He grabbed her as she ran round him, lifted her up and sat her on the counter of the shop.
‘Why, so it seems, my curious little angel.’
‘Why do you keep calling me funny names?’
‘Only because I do not know your real name.’
‘My name is Sulwenn. Sulwenn Dargräve.’
‘And what a glorious name it is,’ he said, kissing her hand. ‘Sulwenn Dargräve, it is an honour and a privilege to be in the company of one as refined and elegant as you.’
Sulwenn giggled and knocked her heels against the counter.
‘You use big words.’
‘A magnificent observation, Miss Dargräve, if I do say so myself. Now, let me get a look at those big beautiful eyes.’
Sulwenn’s irises were pure black. She had to be the daughter of Dhalfire, the God of Death. He stood back in awe. Looking at Sulwenn, he grinned and rubbed his hands.
‘Oh, this has got to be my lucky day. You are definitely a keeper, young lady,’ he said, playfully tapping Sulwenn on the nose.
‘I am?’
‘Forgive me, I have been uncommonly rude. Tell me your tale of suffering and gloom so that we may wallow in the misery together.’
Sulwenn stared at him.
‘My hamster eats corn.’
‘Splendid. Now, what I mean is: where do you live normally?’
‘I live on a farm with my daddy. And we have sixteen pigs and we have twelve cows and we have…’
‘A fascinating narrative and no mistake,’ Clanitâr interrupted. ‘But at risk of sounding stale; how did you get here?’
My daddy came to Pinedale and didn’t come back, so I came looking for him. But I can’t find him. My daddy’s a farmer and he said he would be back soon, but I got hungry. I know where there’s a cake shop with lots of cakes; I can show you. Where are all the people?’
‘On holiday. So you were raised on this farm, by your mother and father, yes?’
‘Just my daddy. I don’t have a mummy. My daddy said she had to go away when I was born. My daddy always says bad people will come and take me away if I go too far from my daddy’s farm, so I always stay inside. But I like playing outside.’
‘Quite right too. Fresh air is good for the soul. So tell me, little Miss Dargräve,’ he said, getting closer and speaking in a hushed tone. ‘What is your power?’
‘Power?’
Clanitâr paced the shop floor, scratching his head and thinking how he could put it in terms Sulwenn would understand.
‘Powers… abilities… magic? No? All right, what can you do that no one else in the entire world can?’
Sulwenn cupped one hand in her armpit, making a sound like someone breaking wind. She giggled uncontrollably.
‘Not quite what I had in mind,’ Clanitâr said. ‘Come now, this is not the time to be trite, Miss Dargräve. There must be something that happens in your everyday life that strikes you as being extraordinary or abnormal. Has your father not remarked upon it?’
Sulwenn was stretching her neck, seemingly trying to look over Clanitâr’s shoulder. He clicked his fingers in front of her face.
‘Focus, my tainted little lamb.’
‘That man outside is dressed funny. Like you.’
Clanitâr dashed to the window and pressed his nose to the glass. A man in black robes was walking down the street, towards the milliner’s shop.
‘Amrodan,’ he hissed.
General Volhárk stood on the hill, using a small telescope to look at the town of Pinedale. Down the hill, sappers used levels and rods to measure the distances between sets of points within the town, calling out readings to assistants who wrote them down.
The town looks unoccupied, the general thought.
He closed up the telescope then looked at his siege artillery. Row upon row of catapults lined the ridge, loaded and ready to fire. A team of carpenters stood beside each one; they were primed for action should anything go wrong.
The men have done well, he reflected; even if they had to cut down half a forest in the process.
Just then a sharp pungent smell filled his nostrils, causing him to gag.
The pyromancers had commandeered the tent normally used as a war room to concoct their mixture, which was the source of the odour. On the large table on which the general normally kept a map of the battlefield or terrain, glass tubes and flasks were now piled, filled with powders and liquids.
They called it dragonfire for a reason.
Their current creation was a malodorous liquid that they poured slowly into glass containers. These were then lit immediately before firing, and exploded when smashed.
Watching the pyromancers gently load the glass spheres onto the catapults, he could not help but think that they were unhinged. Each man had an intense look in his eyes. Furthermore, none of them possessed eyebrows.
General Brenikín of the Queen’s Cavalry came riding up the hill, weaving his way between carpenters and sappers.
‘What news?’ General Volhárk queried.
‘We have received a letter from Brother Delevé. The target has been identified. He is in the centre of Pinedale. We have the town surrounded.’
‘Commence the bombardment.’
‘Who’s Amrodan?’ Sulwenn asked.
Clanitâr grimaced. ‘Remember when your father told you that bad men would come and take you away? Well, he is one of them.’
Sulwenn began to tremble and chew her lip.
‘What do we do, Mister Clanitâr?’
‘Stay here and avert your eyes from this miscreant. I will deal with him.’
Amrodan walked through the mist-filled streets of Pinedale, seeing rats and crows wherever he went. The remains of people and animals littered the roads and footpaths, and green and yellow spores grew on the buildings. The smell of death hung heavily in the air. He could sense Clanitâr’s energy. Feeling a tingling sensation in his hands, he glanced down to see sores on them. Clearing his mind, he took out the stone of Versentí and muttered a litany. Holding his hands in front of him, he watched as the sores disappeared.
The sound of clapping filled the air. A tall, gaunt figure emerged out of the mist, still applauding.
‘What is next, Clanitâr? Spiders? Flies?’
‘Which would you prefer, Amrodan?’
‘I would prefer not to be insulted by your cheap parlour tricks.’
The men stopped a few yards apart, staring at each other.
‘As you wish, old friend,’ Clanitâr replied, holding out his hand. ‘It has been a long time, no?’
The wizened grey skin had dark purple veins, and the nails were black.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Amrodan slowly circled his adversary, moving to the doorway of a cooper’s shop. Cockroaches scuttled across the cobblestones, maggots spilling from every rotting carcass; even the e
xterior of the buildings were infested with woodworm and beetles.
‘This town was home to thousands of innocent people. Now look at it; you have gone too far,’ Amrodan said.
‘Do you like what I have done with the place?’
‘No,’ Amrodan snapped. ‘I am appalled.’
‘Ha,’ Clanitâr scoffed. ‘This is nature. Men have had their time in this town. I am here to provide Pinedale with the opportunity to return to the substratum from which it came. Do not mistake me for some banal agitator, purely bent on causing mischief and mayhem. I am a catalyst, here to restore the natural order and balance.’
‘Through spreading disease? You are insane, Clanitâr.’
‘On the contrary, I have never been sounder of mind. And to think I once envied your enlightenment, my dear fellow. You always did portray yourself as the bringer of hope and shaper of dreams,’ Clanitâr said with a smile. ‘My plagues are the symphonies of discord and my pestilences the melodies of distress; I am merely the conductor.’
Amrodan could tell by the vacant stare in the other man’s eyes that there was nothing left of the monk with whom he had lived with for so many years.
‘Leave this town or be prepared to pay the price.’
Clanitâr held out his hands in mock-supplication.
‘What are you going to do, Amrodan? Arrest me? Incarcerate me in one of the cells beneath the Black Monastery? But wait, if so, then you risk a malady of epidemic proportions. It could wipe out the Shadow Council and kill the population of Rith. Then what will you do?’
Clanitâr scratched his head. ‘You want to stop me, but you cannot.’
He clicked his fingers as if he had received an epiphany. ‘I know, why not send the dragon to do your dirty work?’
Amrodan narrowed his eyes.
‘Send the dragon to kill me, now why did I not think of that sooner? But hold on, did you not try that before? You did, you veritable scoundrel. I infected it with dragonblight and almost killed it. How is it? I hope it made a swift and full recovery.’
Shadowless Page 55
