City Of Night: Book Two of The Hand of Fire

by James Wolf

  ‘The Naliven are weak,’ Logan said harshly. ‘They must be destroyed without mercy.’

  Hirandar glanced around to see her company were shaken, so she said warmly, ‘But take heart, friends. For take comfort in the knowledge that the Dark force of Nalveous is opposed by a force of greater good. The Light, the maker of our world, will not see its great work undone.’

  Macen glanced at Logan, and Jvarna and Ragad, and saw the dubious looks in their eyes. They did not have the same level of belief as the old Wizard.

  ‘But, why?’ Baek quivered. ‘Why does the Dark One hate us so?’

  ‘The evil of Nalveous is beyond our reasoning,’ Hirandar said, as Forgrun hurried to make the Shielding Sign. ‘No doubt the Dark One enjoys such a position – that he perceives shows his superiority – but in that lies his vulnerability. For the Dark One’s great weakness is he knows not of the pure good emotions of love, valour and honour. He does not understand them. Take encouragement in this, for with the acts of good people the Light will forever endure.’

  ‘Can Dark Servants come back to good?’ Drual asked.

  Drual’s question raised a few puzzled eyebrows, although Hirandar did not seem to mind. Logan watched the rogue with wary eyes.

  ‘No soul can fall so far into Darkness that it cannot be brought back to the Light,’ Hirandar quoted the old saying. ‘Before death, a Dark Servant may repent their sins, and relinquish the Dark promises of the Black Pledge. If they renounce evil with conviction, the Light will fight Nalveous for their soul. Nevertheless, even if a Naliven renounces evil, their heinous past acts cannot be forgotten, and most deserve death for their crimes. But at least with confession, they can meet the Light with a cleared conscience. If the Light will not take their soul, however, they will meet Nalveous in hell.’

  One of the company quaked with terror, when he thought of what awaited him in death. Although, fortunate for the Naliven traitor, none of his companions noticed. His shroud of deceit prevailed.

  ‘And,’ Hirandar went on, ‘even if Dark Servants live after they’ve renounced Nalveous, their old fellows of the Naliven will seek them out, see they go through unimaginable agony before the end. You see, Dark Servants are many times worse on turncoats who switch back to the Light. Traitors amongst themselves, are dealt with even more brutally than the torment the Naliven would inflict on anyone else.’

  ‘Let us talk about something more cheerful,’ Balthus suggested what everyone was thinking.

  Macen knew it was essential to know such things, but they did not make for comfortable listening – even out in the bright sunshine of a warm summer’s day.

  ‘What be it like ter be a king?’ Forgrun eagerly asked Balthus.

  ‘Well,’ Balthus said, ‘it can be both the hardest and the most rewarding job in the kingdom. The greatest king I have ever known once told me, A king exists to provide his people with freedom and justice.’ Balthus smiled at this.

  Macen was watching Ragad, but the Croma did not even flinch – even though he too was going to be a king, and must have seen his father rule the kingdom. Macen did not know why Ragad was so evasive amongst friends. But if the Northman did not want to say anything, Macen was not going to betray his trust. Then again, Macen realised, he was keeping secrets himself. The secret of the true nature of his sword.

  ‘For the Sodan,’ Logan said, ‘the way of the king is in close kinship to The Way of the Sword. The goals are the same, the path similar. King Aswan is an honourable man. ’

  ‘Yes,’ Balthus said happily. ‘A man of vision and compassion. A man who created his dream of a land of justice.’

  ‘I do not see the freedom and justice,’ Drual snarled at Balthus, ‘that you grandly speak of, in the slums of Dolam! Or even at the royal court!’

  Drual stormed off away from the company.

  ‘What do ’ave him riled?’ Forgrun said sourly, and Macen could see Baek, Jvarna, Logan and Ragad all looking at Drual with disapproval. Macen thought Drual had no manners. Balthus was genuine and open, and he had killed many Krun, and fought many battles against evil. Perhaps Drual was jealous. Balthus’s popularity had quickly risen in the group, and the Lord of Dolam had eclipsed Drual’s position as the centre of conversation.

  Jvarna hesitated at first, but went over to see why the rogue was sulking.

  ‘The hardest thing I have found,’ Balthus rolled his head in the rogue’s direction, ‘in kingship and in life, is that it’s impossible to please everyone all the time.’

  ‘What troubles you?’ Jvarna asked Drual.

  The rogue stared out over the Lost Realms, holding silent for a while before speaking.

  ‘A great many things.’ Drual said pensively. ‘What am I doing here? It’s not my style. Risking my life for good? For the Light? But yet, somehow, it feels right?’

  The rogue turned to look at Jvarna, and he noticed how her blue eyes sparkled, and her hair caught the sun. No! Drual scolded himself. You fool! Drual Dhagren needs no one. But he saw the kindness in Jvarna’s face, and he knew she was a good person. Given that, Drual knew he would only end up letting her down.

  Drual was unsure whether to tell Jvarna of his misgivings about Balthus or not, but something of his old self held him back. He just did not trust that sly fox. And Drual was scared no one else would believe him, that they would all side with the King of Grantle against him.

  ‘What?’ Jvarna said coyly, ‘What are you staring at?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Drual glanced away.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jvarna smiled, ‘the goodness of others can rub off on someone, even a rascal like you.’

  ‘You know, I think you might be right,’ Drual grinned mischievously. His mind was made up. And this fierce Shacainian did have a fantastic smile. Drual had known more women than he could remember, but he had never met one with Jvarna’s spirit.

  ‘Come on,’ Drual said, ‘Looks like Logan wants to leave.’

  ‘You’re a strange one Drual Dhagren,’ Jvarna murmured, as they walked back to the others. ‘Beneath all the bravado there’s a good person, isn’t there?’

  ‘Of course,’ Drual smirked. ‘The pure white character of Hirandar Firefist or Logan Fornor is greyed by the shining integrity of Drual Dhagren,’ the rogue gave a sweeping bow.

  Jvarna laughed out loud.

  ‘You need to learn to sit in the saddle before you can gallop,’ Jvarna said flatly.

  ‘Perhaps, however and nonetheless,’ Drual mimicked Hirandar’s sagely tone, ‘I would therefore conclude, the only way we can move, undoubtedly and irrefutably, is one step at a time.’

  Jvarna raised her eyes skyward, ‘It is unbecoming to ridicule your betters.’ She glared at Drual.

  ‘Oh, would you calm down!’ Drual shrugged. ‘Just try relaxing, for once.’

  Jvarna crossed her arms and grimaced.

  ‘Okay, listen,’ Drual held up his hands. ‘The old woman is the finest person I’ve ever met. And it was wrong to… if you must know I look up to the Wizard… she is kind, and she is a good person. Well, you know… she is someone who genuinely cares, and that’s a rare thing these days…’

  Jvarna smiled at the rogue’s honesty.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Drual smirked, with the dangerous glint back in his eye, ‘I wouldn’t want to be too good now, would I? Where’s the fun in that?’

  Jvarna shook her head and sighed, as they rejoined the rest of the company. Drual was an insufferable tease, but yet, despite all her reservations, Jvarna could not help finding him charming with it. She knew it was just plain stupid to feel for such a man, but why was Drual so afraid of letting people get close to him? Whenever anyone was trying to be thoughtful, Drual got uncomfortable and threw up his arrogant shield that hid who he really was. Did he think to trust someone was to risk being betrayed? Or was he hiding something? The rest of the day passed swiftly, as Jvarna wondered about the mysterious rogue.

  That night saw the company to the edge of the eastern mountains. By the following day, they
were walking through the woodland of the Lost Realms. There was no trail anymore, so the Hand of Fire followed the stars, the sun and the compass. Drual proved to be an indispensable aid, always chipping in useful comments from what he had experienced on his previous journeys to the City of Night. Macen reflected on how, perhaps, Hirandar’s faith in the rogue would be proved right after all.

  Always, the company moved carefully in these wild lands, and continued to post sentries throughout the nights. But the Nargs seemed long gone. The Hand of Fire followed the path of a river as it crossed the grassy plains. Ever cautious, ever watchful. These were Krun lands, and all the companions knew they were in incredible danger. The tribes of Ugurs and Kruns would be furious if they found trespassers in their territory. One region they crossed was littered with giant boulders and, that night, they camped in the relative safety of a cave. Lucky for them they found a roof that evening, as it rained all night and straight through until morning. The company passed ancient ruins; so old that the forest had grown around and inside the old towers and walls. Often, the Hand of Fire saw signs of Kruns, but always Logan led them away from the direction of the tracks.

  Since the company had left the mountain trail, they had not seen a single sign of Isornel and his Dark company. Unlike in the mountains, however, there was no set route to follow to the Nakramilis, and Isornel’s company must have passed a different way.

  The warriors of the Hand of Fire talked as they walked, and conversed around their nightly campfires, but never any louder than a murmur. Drual’s irritation at Balthus had not resurfaced, and the group were forged into a closely-knit company.

  One afternoon, as the companions travelled through a forest, a lone Krun hunter crossed their path, and Baek put an arrow through him from fifty yards.

  ‘I was fortunate the wind was with me,’ the Aborle said modestly, as the others complemented him on his incredible bowmanship.

  The Krun hunter never knew what, or who, had hit him. The company hid the body in some deep undergrowth, and hoped the corpse would not be found by his fellow Kruns for a long time, if ever.

  On the eighth day since the mountains it was sunny and cloudless, yet Macen shivered as a strange wind whistled through the trees of the forest. Others would have thought nothing of that wind. But Macen was Sodan, and he sensed foreboding on the air.

  The company emerged from woodland to see – two miles away to the north, across open ground – the Nakramilis. Finally, their destination was close. But Macen was on edge. He felt the lifelessness of this place. For miles around the Nakramilis, the earth was dead. Nothing lived or stirred. There was no grass or trees, no birdsong or rabbits. It was deadly silent, bar from the hissing breeze, as the Hand of Fire crossed the ashen desert.

  A massive sandstone wall, thirty yards high, extended in a perfect square box around the City of Night. Macen gasped, in awe and dread. In the exact centre of the huge city, a colossal sandstone pyramid rose up, towering over the city walls. He saw Drual, Jvarna and Forgrun cower away from the shadow of that monstrosity. That pyramid exuded menace. It was the biggest structure Macen had ever seen – one hundred yards high, at the very least. It dwarfed the Rock of Dolam and the trees of Borleon Forest, dominating the landscape for miles around. There was something unnerving about that grand pyramid – all the warriors knew that. It was a great monument, with a dark side that held the promise of terrible power, hidden within its smooth surfaces.

  ‘Decu be shieldin’ us,’ Forgrun muttered.

  Macen saw how the masons of long-ago had placed great emphasis on geometric precision. Everything in the desolate city was centred in relation to everything else. Even the city streets and buildings were laid out in a precise grid, of perpendicular angles and parallel lines, all centred on the pyramid. The wary company crept up to the enormous black doorways, thrown open in the middle of the sandstone city walls, inviting anyone who dared to enter. Despite the wind, Macen smelt the air was old and stale, like a cave. Or a room that had spent the whole summer with its windows barred shut. He could hear nothing. No birds calling, no animals foraging, no trees swaying in the wind, nothing.

  ‘What does the Key-Piece look like?’ Jvarna broke the hushed silence, as she watched the city gates. ‘Remind us again.’

  ‘We are searching for a triangular pyramid,’ Hirandar murmured, ‘small enough to fit into the palm of your hand, and the colour of the blackest obsidian. It is inset with precious stones, and its edges laced in flowing gold metalwork. It’s made of Gentian. Which, at first glance or touch, may seem like kiln-fired clay, but this material is unbreakable.’

  ‘Weapons out,’ Logan commanded, as the Hand of Fire stood on the edge of this city of ruins.

  The rustle of metal blades on leather whispered across the silence. Macen watched the ominous ruins beyond the forbidding gates.

  Logan stared into the city, ‘We’ll hide our packs inside the gates. Stay together. If we get separated, meet back at the packs at sunset, no later.’

  With that, Logan crossed the threshold into the dead city, blade in hand and senses on a knife-edge. The rest of the company followed, emboldened by their dauntless leader. The place was quieter than a tomb. No sign of life. Macen shivered as he felt the pervading death. Not even vermin lived amongst the city ruins. Nothing moved but the companions. Their footsteps barely registering in the overwhelming silence.

  In the darkness deep below the city, a lingering evil – as old as the stone itself – roused as the living once again encroached on forbidden ground. The cursed dead were awoken, and they were ravenous. Ages had passed, but still they endured. Not in life, but a woeful half-death where the evil hunger, and hatred for the living, was all they knew. These things drove the undead mad in their otherwise empty minds. They were filled with an insatiable need to devour warm flesh, and kill any that walked in their City of Night.

  Chapter 9 – Ancient Evil in the Deep

  The sun felt warm on the back of Macen’s neck, as it climbed overhead, baking the lifeless soil in which nothing grew. The company crept on through the desolate streets. The city was deserted. Macen’s gaze darted around the ruins. He perked up his ears, straining to hear anything untoward. All was silent bar the shrill whistle of the wind, as it cut between the old sandstone ruins. He shivered at the doom and death that hung heavy over this ruined city. But Macen found some comfort in the reassuring weight of Estellarum in his hands, the feel of the soft leather hilt, the way sunlight glinted along the blade. Whatever endured in this dark city, he knew the Starblade had the power to destroy it.

  The adventurers searched into the dark buildings and shadows of this wasteland, advancing to the pyramid at the city’s centre. They knew the sunlight should keep whatever skulked in the cursed city back, but all made sure to be vigilant. Forgrun shot Macen a dubious glance. The Rhungar felt uneasy in this place, but Macen knew Forgrun was brave. Macen was glad the bold Rhungar was by his side. Macen noticed Drual was ice cool, as he walked at the front beside Logan. How had the rogue become so composed? Macen presumed it was because Drual had been here before, but he was startled to see the rogue so… focused. It was as if his true self had been hidden by a mask, and only now was he revealing himself.

  This City of Night was haunted by worse than spirits, and the eerie presence felt as if it were lingering just behind Macen all the time. He felt a chill shadow fall over his heart. Often he turned, expecting something fearsome to be right on his shoulders, but there was never anything there. There was only emptiness, and that made Macen shiver as well. Evil permeated this city. It was so oppressive it seemed it might suffocate him. Make him forget to breathe. The air itself was dead. Macen looked around at his companions, and he knew this dark place was making his friends as apprehensive as he. Baek and Jvarna seemed jittery as they swept their weapons from side to side, whilst Hirandar, Ragad and Logan surveyed the encircling ruins, calm yet aware. The Wizard had an intent look on her face, and Macen was sure she must have been preparing magic
spells to unleash.

  Macen knew his companions were all courageous warriors though, capable of overcoming their fear. He saw they all had a determined gleam in their eyes, and none more so than Balthus. Balthus was keener than all of them to find the Vokra first. Since Balthus had joined the Hand of Fire, there was one thing that drove the Lord of Dolam on, revenge.

  Macen heard no voices penetrate the quiet, only the softest steps on the barren soil, as the companions crossed the silent city, heading towards the monstrous tomb. That pyramid was a malevolent entity, rearing up over the city, dwarfing all the other forsaken shells of buildings hundreds of times over. Macen shuddered as he realised that, somehow, the titanic Nakramilis had escaped the ravages of time, unlike everything else in the ancient city. The huge pyramid was unadorned in any way, except for the single imposing doorway that led inside, into the darkness. Although lying at an angle, its four exterior sloping walls were as smooth as sheets of glass. The massive sandstone blocks used to construct the pyramid were all cut at the angle of the slope. It was a feat that would have taken the lives of thousands of slaves, in those ancient times.

  ‘This place be evil,’ Forgrun whispered to Macen, as the Rhungar held his great axe close to his body.

  ‘A cloud of darkness lingers over that,’ Baek looked up at the pyramid, and Macen saw the dread in the Aborle’s eyes.

  ‘Stay close together,’ Macen nodded to both of his friends, ‘do what Logan and Hirandar tell us, and all will be well.’

  The Hand of Fire crept to the pyramid’s base, and Ragad lit all the lanterns and torches they had brought with them. Macen caught Ragad’s stony gaze as the Croma passed him a torch, and the Sodan saw a rare emotion there. There was no fear in Ragad, only eagerness. Perhaps the Northman would find what he was searching for within the sinister pyramid?