Orr replied without hesitation. “WolfStar has the potential to be far more terrible, Axis.”
“But why would WolfStar train us both?” Axis said. “Why?”
“Because he is already manipulating both of you, Axis. For whatever foul purpose he has.”
But what purpose? Orr asked himself. Revenge? Is that why WolfStar has come back to haunt us?
“Orr,” Axis asked, “what is the connection between WolfStar and the Prophecy of the Destroyer? If WolfStar is manipulating both Gorgrael and myself, then is he also manipulating the Prophecy? Or is he being manipulated by the Prophecy?”
Is WolfStar the traitor the third verse of the Prophecy warns me about? Axis wondered.
“Orr, this is news that I must take back to MorningStar and StarDrifter. Perhaps, somehow, we can discover where he is. Why he has come back. But there is one more thing I must do within the waterways. One more thing. I made a promise.”
“What?”
“I must return FreeFall SunSoar from the dead,” Axis said, staring the Ferryman in the eyes. “And you are going to help me.”
26
GORGRAEL MAKES A NEW FRIEND
Gorgrael stared at the frozen grey sludge. It was the remains of the SkraeBold Belial had killed outside Gorkenfort and Gorgrael was determined to do something with it.
He had his Skraelings and he had his Ice Worms, but Gorgrael wanted to create something special for his drive south. He was rapidly building his forces for the winter push south through Jervois Landing, or even, perhaps, the WildDog Plains.
What Gorgrael wanted was something that could fly. Something that would turn Axis’ face grey with worry. Something that could destroy the Icarii in the air.
Now, let me see, Gorgrael thought, surveying the grey matter before him. Dragons? When he was but a child, his Skraeling nursemaids had whispered stories to him about great dragons that had once flown the sky. Beautiful dragons, vicious dragons, dragons that had carried off creatures as large as whales. But dragons were too gaudy, and far too large to make from what he had before him.
What, then? Gorgrael shifted from foot to foot, his claws clicking sharply on the floor.
“Gorgrael,” the loved voice said behind him.
“Dear Man!” he cried in delight. Two visits in such quick succession—he was blessed!
The Dark Man emerged from a darkened corner unlit by the failing fire, his heavily cowled head and figure almost indistinguishable from the shadows about him.
“You are going to recreate?” the Dark Man asked.
“Yes,” Gorgrael said, and indicated the grey sludge in front of him. “It was the SkraeBold who failed me. I had thought to cast his remains to the crows, but that—”
“Would have been a waste of such good building material,” the Dark Man finished thoughtfully.
“Precisely,” Gorgrael said, suppressing the edge of triumph in his voice.
“And what did you think you would make from this, Gorgrael?” the Dark Man asked. “What creature would you make to work your will?”
Gorgrael couldn’t answer. He glared at the grey sludge as if it were at fault in this.
“Demon-winged,” the Dark Man suggested, sliding his gloved hands into the deep sleeves of his cloak.
“Demon-winged,” Gorgrael repeated. Yes, that was good.
“Ogre-bellied.” Now the Dark Man’s voice was louder.
“Ogre-bellied.” Gorgrael nodded. “Yes. Yes, I like that.”
“Grave-jawed.”
“What creature is this, Dear Man?”
The Dear Man tipped his head to one side and regarded his protégé. “Can you not yet recognise it, Gorgrael?”
Gorgrael shook his head in frustration.
“Dragon-clawed,” the Dark Man prompted.
A dim memory of ancient nightmares stirred. “Blight-eyed!” Gorgrael cried.
Underneath his cowl the Dark Man smiled. “It will cry with the voice of despair.”
“Gryphon!” Gorgrael shrieked, triumphantly.
They waited, each on edge, unsure of how their enchantments had worked. The Gryphon was to be a creature that could thrive, not only in the snow and ice of Gorgrael’s homeland, but in the warmer climes of southern Achar. It would have to soar in the air thermals above Grail Lake, and penetrate to the very heart of Axis’ command. It would be a creature brave and committed, single-purposed.
“You will be my vanguard,” Gorgrael said. “My herald. Your voice shall be mine, and it shall be the voice that the forces of the StarMan shall hear as they die. Despair.”
The working of the Gryphon had been fraught with worry. The Song of Recreation was hard and dangerous when worked with the Dark Music. The power of the Dance of Death had flooded through both Gorgrael and the Dark Man as they wrestled with the Song. But the Dark Man, Dear Man, was a master, and he had managed to control the Dark Music as it threatened to rope out of control through their bodies and about the room.
They had both sung, both waited as the grey sludge firmed and warmed and writhed beneath their touch. As the Song had wound to a close, Gorgrael, almost in ecstasy, plunged his hands into the all-but-dead fire in the fireplace and seized two coals, still smouldering bright. Ignoring his own burning flesh Gorgrael had carried the coals to the writhing grey sludge on the floor and plunged them deep into its mass. As he withdrew his clawed hands the Song finally died, and the Dear Man pulled him back a safe distance.
“Now we must wait, Gorgrael,” he said.
The grey sludge darkened, became even more ill-defined, until Gorgrael could see only a quivering, black mound that absorbed what little light the room held. Deep within glowed two spots of red. Every so often it jerked, and every time it jerked it doubled its size. Soon both the Dark Man and Gorgrael had to step back to avoid being absorbed by the growing creature.
“Something is wrong,” Gorgrael suddenly hissed. “We did not sing the appropriate music. We missed a phrase, a beat. We did not twist enough power through for a successful making.”
“Patience, Gorgrael!” the Dark Man barked. “You were ever too impatient!”
Gorgrael subsided at the criticism, his contorted face coiling into a frown, wondering if it was past time he asserted his own power over the Dark Man.
“Ah!” the Dark Man gasped. “It will be born!”
His moment of rebellion gone, Gorgrael dropped his eyes. The round black mass, now the size of a small boulder, had a dark membrane stretched over it. Something roiled within, as if it struggled to be free.
A slight perforation suddenly appeared in the membrane and, an instant later, the membrane split down one entire side. A sleek head emerged, twin eyes glowing with the promise of death. It blinked, looked about briefly, then it opened its beak and shrieked with the victory of birth.
It had the head of a massive eagle.
Gorgrael whimpered in glee. They had sung aright!
The creature turned its head and ripped viciously at the rest of the membrane, freeing itself in only three or four movements. It stepped forward, regarding both the Dark Man and Gorgrael curiously, then it sank into a crouch before Gorgrael, resting its head on its front paws in a spontaneous act of submission.
Gorgrael bent down and stroked the Gryphon’s gleaming brown head feathers. The Gryphon closed its eyes and grunted with gratification. It knew its master. Gorgrael ran his hands over the rest of its body. From the shoulder blades and spine extended graceful wings, feathered in the same glossy brown of its head. But the Gryphon’s resemblance to a bird stopped with its feathers. It had the muscular body of a great cat, its tawny coat short and thick and designed to stay the claws or arrows of enemies. A long, tufted tail swung behind. It rested on short but thickly muscled legs that ended in massive paws. At each stroke of Gorgrael’s hands, the Gryphon sheathed then unsheathed its dreadful claws.
It was, overall, a frightful beast.
The Dark Man was also well pleased with the Gryphon, and, indeed, with Gorgrael.
Gorgrael had worked hard to rebuild his forces, and even now the Dark Man knew that the Skraelings and the IceWorms, under the leadership of SkraeBolds determined not to fail their master again, massed just south and west of Hsingard. It would not be long before an offensive could begin again.
No stranger to death himself, the Dark Man looked forward to the fighting and the slaughter that would ensue.
It gave him satisfaction.
“Gorgrael, my friend. I wove something extra into the Song of Recreation. Thrust a little more meaning into the Dark Music as we folded and directed it to our purpose. Gorgrael, the Gryphon is female. Feel her belly.”
Gorgrael slid his clawed hands either side of the Gryphon’s body and felt her belly. He frowned.
“My friend. The Gryphon draws close to birthing nine pups, exact replicas of herself. In a day or so, perhaps less, you will have ten of the creatures. In a few months, as they grow and mature, you will have a pack to rival no other. And the nine will breed as well, Gorgrael. All will be born female—and all will be born pregnant.”
The Dark Man thought he had done well. He thought he had woven the music of the Gryphon’s making so that the breeding would stop when the nine whelped. Unfortunately, he was wrong.
“She will be a good creature. Obedient, like the best hound,” the Dear Man said, stepping back. “But deadlier, far deadlier.”
Gorgrael stroked the Gryphon for a moment longer, then abruptly strode over to his chair by the fire. “Come,” he said, and snapped his fingers.
The Gryphon rose obediently and padded over to the chair, sinking down at Gorgrael’s feet. Gorgrael looked back to the Dear Man with shining eyes. “Will you sit with me a moment?” he inquired, indicating the empty chair across the other side of the hearth.
“A moment only, Gorgrael. I am required elsewhere shortly.” The Dark Man sat in the empty chair, and waved his hand impatiently at the fire so that it flared bright.
Where else shortly? Gorgrael thought to himself. He had never discovered where the Dark Man lived, how he lived, in what form he lived, once he left Gorgrael’s presence. Perhaps he simply faded into nothingness until he was required again.
The Dark Man grunted in amusement. “Oh, I live elsewhere, Gorgrael. I have work to do, tasks to perform, music to sing.”
“Have you heard of Axis lately, Dear Man?” Gorgrael asked. “How goes my brother?”
“I have not seen him, heard of him, for some time,” the Dark Man finally said. “It is as if he has disappeared from creation.” He grinned underneath his hood.
“Dead?” Gorgrael asked, although the thought caused him disappointment. He looked forward to tearing his brother into shreds.
The Dark Man laughed. “No, not dead, Gorgrael. Very much alive—his death I would have felt…as would you. But I do have news of Borneheld…and Faraday.”
Gorgrael sat up. “What?”
“Borneheld is now King,” the Dark Man said reflectively. “It is said that Priam died a crazed death. And if Borneheld is King in Carlon, then Faraday sits by his side as Queen. A tastier morsel than ever now, Gorgrael, a much tastier morsel.”
“Tastier,” Gorgrael echoed, his thoughts on the woman so far to the south. Queen. Faraday.
27
THE STRIKE FORCE LANDS
The last of the Icarii bound for Sigholt left Talon Spike on the third to last day of DeadLeaf-month. The Crests and Wings of the Strike Force had been gone some ten days and the last of them would have arrived in Sigholt. Small groups of Enchanters had left each day since.
The final group included MorningStar and StarDrifter. RavenCrest was reluctant to leave the security of Talon Spike for an unknown world; until Axis had won Tencendor back the majority of the Icarii would stay in Talon Spike. As he stood on the flight balcony watching his mother and brother disappear over the southern Icescarp Alps, RavenCrest had to fight a wave of depression from swamping him. The fate of the Icarii had been taken from his hands. Was this the beginning of their long-hoped-for pilgrimage back to their homelands or a journey towards the death of all their dreams?
“By the Stars, Axis,” said RavenCrest, the wind ruffling his black neck feathers, “do not squander the hopes of the Icarii in your battles with Borneheld and Gorgrael. You promised to lead us back into Tencendor. Make sure you do it.”
No-one who had just left Talon Spike missed the significance of their flight south. For the first time in a thousand years the Icarii flew for Tencendor rather than just winging their way about the Icescarp Alps or the Avarinheim. None thought the path would be easy, and all understood that some would die in the attempt. But Icarii spirit had been rekindled. They were finally taking active steps to regain their heritage.
Several hours after they left Talon Spike the group found a thermal which lifted them high into the atmosphere, and for more than an hour they spiralled upwards, only very slowly moving south. The view was stunning. Far below, the Icescarp Alps ridged and plunged their way south towards the Icescarp Barren and east towards the Avarinheim forest. To the east the Widowmaker Sea glinted in sunlight. As she tilted a little in the thermal MorningStar caught a glimpse of the Nordra, silver from this height, as it wound its serpentine way through the Avarinheim. The river was a life-giver, both to the Avarinheim and to the bare plains of Achar, and the Avar worshipped the Nordra almost as fervently as the sacred Earth Tree. MorningStar smiled a little as she half closed her eyes against the glare of the sun. How fortunate that Gorgrael’s clouds did not cover the Avarinheim. The forest canopy waved green and black, almost like a sea itself, and MorningStar hoped that she would live long enough to see the first trees replanted in the plains beyond the Fortress Ranges.
Above her, StarDrifter waved the group further east. The flight would take three or four days and they would rest each night within the Avarinheim. The Avar had established three camps just inside the protecting walls of the Fortress Ranges, keeping the Icarii who used them supplied with food and fire at night. Willing enough to help the Icarii, the Avar waited for Faraday before they would actively move to help Axis.
As they flew further south, MorningStar remembered her mother speaking of the sacred sites lost to the Icarii. Would she live to see Fernbrake Lake, the Mother, and the Island of Mist and Memory? She let herself dream a little, hope a little.
Azhure approached the circle of Icarii and Acharite warriors quietly, so as not to disturb them, especially those who fought in the centre. The majority of the Icarii Strike Force had been here almost three weeks now, and their intensive combat training with Belial’s soldiers continued apace.
FarSight CutSpur, true to his word to Axis, had surrendered the Strike Force to Belial’s overall control. He had no regrets in doing so. Any decision Belial took regarding the Icarii he made sure to discuss with FarSight and his Crest-Leaders. Indeed, FarSight and his two senior Crest-Leaders—HoverEye BlackWing and SpreadWing RavenCry—had been included in Belial’s inner circle on an equal footing with Magariz, Arne and Azhure. FarSight respected Belial greatly. He was a good man, and a capable commander; Axis had chosen well in his second-in-command.
The Icarii had been dismayed by their lack of combat skills when compared to the Groundwalkers, despite Axis’ earlier warning. Over the past three weeks they had done almost nothing but work on their hand-to-hand skills with Belial’s soldiers. To begin with, the Groundwalkers had been able to best the Icarii easily, and many an Icarii Strike Force member had spent long hours of the night rubbing soothing salve into abrasions and bruises or soaking in the rejuvenating hot waters of the Lake of Life. But, driven by their deep-seated pride, the Icarii had learned quickly. In fact, so determined were they to put a stop to their embarrassing losses, that over the past few days a growing number of Icarii had come out victorious from their combat bouts with Belial’s men. SpikeFeather, in particular, had earned their respect.
Azhure crept around the edge of the circle of watching warriors until a gap appeared in the tightly packed bodies. Sh
e shouldered her way through.
EvenSong was battling with a soldier from Arne’s unit, a brawny, ginger-haired, experienced campaigner from Aldeni called Edowes. The Acharite soldiers had quickly learned that the female members of the Icarii Strike Force were just as determined as the male. Now, as the two grappled in the centre of the circle, it was obvious that Edowes was giving no quarter.
Ever since SpikeFeather had shamed her in front of Azhure and the other members of her Wing, EvenSong had put all her efforts into becoming an asset to the Strike Force. Today was the first time she felt she had a good chance of besting her practice partner, but the actual “kill” was proving frustratingly difficult.
Azhure glanced about the circle. Arne stood to one side, his arms folded, his posture relaxed, his emotions hidden behind his usual expressionless mask. Only the jerky movements of the twig he was chewing showed he felt any concern about the outcome of this bout. A few paces from him stood SpikeFeather TrueSong, commander of EvenSong’s Wing. His wings were held tense and tight against his back, and his fingers convulsively flexed at his side, as if he wanted to leap into the ring and help EvenSong.
EvenSong and Edowes both wore light armour, but both had collected more than their fair share of bruises during the bout. Suddenly EvenSong grunted and fell to her knees, caught by a particularly heavy blow to the ribs by Edowes, her stave slipping from her fingers. Azhure’s stomach twisted, and she only just managed to stop herself from leaping forward and pulling Edowes back.
Edowes raised his stave to shoulder height for the final blow. But he had badly misjudged his opponent. EvenSong’s fingers tightened and shifted on the stave and, her face twisting with determination, she brought the stave upwards with all her might. Straight between Edowes’ legs.
Every male within the circle of watchers whimpered in sympathy as they heard the sickening crunch. Edowes howled, dropping his stave and falling to the ground, clutching at his abused manhood.
Enchanter Page 25
