by Sam Bowring
The Sprites weren’t like the luckier creatures of the land who had more easily survived the division of magic. The Zyvanix wasps, for example, had always built their hive cities in the arid plains of the north. Their neighbours, the Varenkai, were bronzed farmers, growing food under the sun in open fields. These were folk of the light, and Arkus had always been their god. The Varenkai’s pale cousins, the Arabodedas, lived by the sea in the cloudy south; here, deep water offered up food and life and icy winds drove their robust ships. There were the Vorthargs who dwelled in caves, and the Graka who lived in the storm-laden Bentemoth Mountains. These were all folk of shadows, and their god naturally became Assedrynn. They had made the transition quickly, instinctively.
The Sprites, however, were folk of the forest in whom Old Magic was strong – after all, trees keep their roots in shadow and leaves in the light, relying upon a balance of both. Robbed of balance, the Sprites had died in their multitudes. Only those living in Whisperwood survived, for with Vyasinth’s presence it became the only place in the world where Old Magic could still exist. The survivors weren’t many, and had been forced to interbreed with Varenkai, so their blood had thinned over generations. Soon there had been no true Sprites left, only half-breeds or less, beings who could survive outside Whisperwood. As they had spread out into the land, all vestiges of culture had been lost and no more souls returned to Lady Vyasinth and the Well that was Whisperwood.
In Mirrow, Vyasinth had sensed, for the first time in centuries, almost pure Sprite blood. She had decided it was time to rebuild; her sorrow finally replaced with purpose. She had called Mirrow to the wood, and time had even brought her a suitable mate. When Mirrow’s hair had turned blue with her pregnancy, Vyasinth had guessed that the child would be born special . . . and maybe she could even hope for more than simple rebuilding. Maybe she was to be delivered a champion.
It was then that she had decided to give Mirrow the Stone. She had never told her that it was special, created when the Great Well was broken, retrieved by Vyasinth before she was cast down into the world. It would make a fitting weapon for a blue-haired hero.
And yet others had discovered him too. Now, despite what they had promised her, Arkus and Assedrynn trespassed in her domain.
Two / A Converging in Whisperwood
Two
A Converging in Whisperwood
A Converging in Whisperwood
Battu’s consciousness dissolved from his body and melted down the sides of Skygrip Castle like black butter. He trickled down stairwells and spread over balconies, seeped through cracks and curled around doorways. Sometimes it was useful to travel so slowly and widely. With his awareness diffused, he gathered impressions of all that he touched. In his broadest moments he could feel the castle itself, as if he were a glove over an enormous hand.
Skygrip rose a league into the sky, a cyclopean tower of black stone. At the top rested a globe of rock twice the width of the tower that supported it, from which four stone spikes reached up to the sky. From between the spikes rose a thick stream of vapour like a slow-moving hurricane, feeding upwards into the Cloud. The Cloud, which covered all of Fenvarrow and kept it safe in shadow.
Skygrip had been built by Kryzante, the first Shadowdreamer. Legend said he had carved the castle from a single piece of rock, once called Mount Mokan. What power must he have possessed to shear the slopes from a mountain? To carve the tower and its sceptre peak, to hollow the corridors and caverns within? He must have had help from the gods, thought Battu. Curse their arbitrariness.
He reached the fortifications at the base of the castle and gathered himself together. From there he sped north over the mountain’s old foothills, through the capital city of Mankow in the blink of an eye, and out across the Ragga Plains. Beyond the ringlet of the five goblin cities he found the bulk of his gathering army. Thousands of soldiers marched the earth flat. Teams of engineers moved between smoking war engines. Battu was pleased by the convincing display – it looked very much as if he was preparing for war. The Throne of Kainordas could not help but take notice, even if he suspected it was nothing but an enormous diversion.
Onwards he travelled, to rockier lands. Here a fine mist hung suspended in the air and made the Stone Fields slick. Battu slipped easily through a cobweb of cracks, covering an expanse of nothing much but rock and twig, and came to rest at the edge of his realm.
The border divided the world into perfect halves, from east coast to west and further out to sea. Above Battu the Cloud ended, and during the day a wall of light fell unhindered to earth. The border was harder to see under the moon, but was there nonetheless – a darker line across the ground where the Cloud’s shadow fell.
Only a few shadow creatures made their homes this close to enemy lands. There were huge malformed moths, which sometimes crossed over in pursuit of the moon. There were quick and viscous shadowmanders – lizard-like things that hunted across the border. Battu noticed one now, a blood red flash that slipped from rocks and darted into Kainordas, becoming briefly visible as it wrestled a brown beetle. A second beetle scuttled away in alarm, and the mander leaped to kill it too – though it only brought one back to Fenvarrow to eat. It seemed that shadowmanders killed creatures of light more instinctively than hunger dictated. Battu admired them. If only they were bigger.
Other common but more pathetic denizens of the border were spirit creatures known as the Trapped. These were creatures once born of light, which were now consigned to a different life. Leftovers from the Shadowdreamer Assidax’s war, shaped by the constant panic of being so close to their homeland and yet unable to cross the threshold, they were the slightest of the undead. The best to be said about Assidax, thought Battu, is that she’d caused the enemy such heavy losses. Those who had been resurrected by her would never find their way to Arkus’s Great Well, even once their bodies had rotted off their souls. They were shadow creatures now, and they would go to Assedrynn.
The Trapped sensed Battu’s presence in the shadows and drifted clear of him. One made the mistake of flashing past and he seized it instinctively, as a cat would snatch a flashing object. The thing twisted pitifully in his ethereal grip.
Who were you?
The Trapped couldn’t remember. Its weakness filled Battu with disgust and he focused his power to destroy it. Somehow it felt what was coming and writhed eagerly. It wanted peace so desperately, it would gladly go to the Well of its ancient enemy. If Battu had been in his body, his stomach would have turned. He pushed the wretched thing away, denying it the mercy it sought, and it wailed soundlessly in despair.
Battu spread out along the border like oil on water, searching for a point of safe access into Kainordas. There was none to be found. Despite the storm in Whisperwood, here the skies were clear and the moon shone brightly. He didn’t dare travel into Kainordas on such a night. There was too much risk that a shadowline would break and cut him off from his journey home. He would have to rely on other eyes to know what went on in Whisperwood tonight. He sped along the border with another destination in mind.
•
Alone in his tent, the goblin Turen pored over his maps, wondering where to strike next. As he stooped to place pins in likely targets, chill water from the ice lantern above dripped onto his neck. He straightened to rub it over his tar black skin, welcoming the cool sensation.
Around him were camped several hundred goblins and Arabodedas – the pale men of the south. This was one of six such encampments along the border, all of which had been making forays into Kainordas. Turen’s command had tallied the worst of the damage so far, and he meant to keep it that way.
A dry, deep voice spoke behind him. ‘Commander Turen.’ Fear flushed him with adrenaline, but he managed not to start. In the darkest corner of the tent rose a darker shadow, a man-shaped void with uncertain edges.
‘My great lord,’ said Turen, bowing. ‘You honour me with �
��’
‘Report,’ said Battu.
Turen swallowed, forcing himself to raise his eyes and meet a stare he could not see. ‘I’ve placed scouts and archers along trade routes to Holdwith. We don’t venture within a league of the fortress, but instead harry their patrols and shipments. Six days back they sent forth a sizeable force to scour the countryside, but we retreated across the border and suffered few losses.’
‘New prospects?’
‘The outlying village of Lerinsk is heavily guarded, but I’m confident I can lead a sneak attack against it. I would aim to cull the guards without entering the village, but that would look like an aborted attempt to penetrate.’
‘Do it,’ said Battu. ‘The Throne’s gaze must be retained.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
Battu’s shadow wavered in some unseen wind. ‘I am combining your encampment with those of Golt and Salindy,’ he said. ‘You’ll be in charge.’
Satisfaction suffused Turen, but again he held his emotions tight. ‘As you wish, my lord. Thank you.’
‘I am not overly pleased with Salindy’s efforts thus far,’ said Battu. ‘And although I want no undue risks taken, in battle there will always be risk of some kind.’ His shadow grew larger, creeping up the walls of the tent. ‘Feel free to risk her.’
‘I understand, lord.’
‘Reinforcements will arrive shortly, and war engines from the ringlet. Marshal them as if we are planning for full-scale invasion. Continue to harass in the meantime.’
‘Yes, lord.’ Turen’s curiosity fought with caution and he dared to venture a question. ‘My lord, may I ask . . . do we have the child?’
‘Soon,’ said Battu.
With that, the Shadowdreamer receded like smoke flowing backwards. The tent’s shadows returned to their normal selves. Turen stood a few moments longer just to make sure, then let out a long breath. He turned to his maps and stuck a pin into Lerinsk.
•
Elessa Lanclara broke free of an entangling vine and slid down an embankment. She was a slightly plump young mage with a fair complexion, blond hair and sapphire blue eyes. She wore a white dress of office that had seen better days. As she reached the slippery rock of the gully below, Dakur was waiting to steady her. He was a blade, assigned as her personal guard – a stocky fellow of medium height, with tanned skin, short, dark hair and a square jaw. He wore thick trousers and boots, and a leather vest that did little to keep the rain from his shoulders. At his side hung a long sword with a bronze hilt. The two of them were Varenkai, humans of Kainordas, land of the light.
Once Dakur was certain Elessa had her footing, he turned to frown at the stream that gushed through the gully. It flowed high and fast in the storm, but Elessa knew he worried about things more dangerous than currents. There were many reasons why Whisperwood was known not to be a welcoming place.
On either side of the gully towered the tall grey trees that populated the wood, their crisscrossing branches waving in the wind like a spider’s web. On the gully floor, pale rocks shone where moonlight found them, and reflections of the running water danced across their faces. Elessa shivered, and not because of the rain. She wasn’t quite ready to believe the stories about this place, but nonetheless moved a step closer to Dakur. Maybe she just didn’t want to believe them.
‘I could float us across,’ she suggested.
Dakur scratched at the beginnings of stubble. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We don’t know who else is running about in this accursed wood. You should save your power.’
‘My power won’t be worth much if I’m at the bottom of a stream being chewed to bits by a fisherman’s bane!’ Elessa snapped.
A half-smile flashed across Dakur’s face so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it. ‘We’ll cross by foot,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand upstream. If anything happens, float yourself out of danger before you worry about me.’
‘Dakur –’
‘Banes prefer still waters anyway, I think. We should be safe.’
Locking hands around each other’s wrists, they stepped into the stream. Instantly they were up to their waists in rushing water, struggling against a forceful flow. Elessa scanned for movement upstream, but the water churned too violently to see anything beneath the surface. The undercurrent dragged at her dress and things unseen brushed her legs. She hoped they were leaves and twigs.
Moments later they emerged on the opposite bank, scrabbling across rocks until they stood beneath trees. Elessa realised she was still holding Dakur’s wrist and sheepishly let go. She pulled up the soaked sleeves that clung to her arms and they slid right back down. Despite the determined expression she wore, she was scared. She glanced at Dakur – thank the light he was with her! If he hadn’t been, she didn’t know what she would have done. Found the courage to go on anyway, she suspected begrudgingly. Damn it all! she thought, suddenly angry. There should have been another mage here, and an experienced one at that, not a fledgling like herself! She squeezed water from her hair.
She’d been serving at Indereen, her first posting as an overseer. She’d barely knocked the dust from her bags when a dispute had erupted with the neighbouring town, Ridgeway. The people of Indereen had been clearing a group of crystal trees – so called because their leaves were transparent and brittle like delicate glass. During the clearing, many of the leaves had been shaken free, to drift spinning in the breeze, down the valley into Ridgeway. The leaves had razor-sharp edges, and the streets and surrounding fields of Ridgeway had been covered in dangerous shards. One small boy had lost an eye to a floating leaf. The dispute had been heated on both sides.
In the middle of Elessa’s mediation, a loudmouthed healer had arrived at the town inn. He’d boasted of how he’d travelled alone into Whisperwood – a foolishness compounded when he’d strayed from the path to scour for rare herbs. He’d happened upon a couple living in the wood, something which was strange enough in itself. Stranger still, the expecting mother’s hair had turned blue with her pregnancy. The healer speculated excitedly to anyone who would listen that surely this meant the woman would give birth to a blue-haired child, the mark of the prophesied child of power.
The standing orders from the Open Halls were very clear when it came to the prophecy. The hundred years since its foretelling were almost up. Any hint, rumour or even lie regarding a child with blue hair was to be investigated immediately, and Elessa knew the Halls had chased many of late. Nothing she’d heard of sounded as plausible as the healer’s theory. She’d questioned him herself and it was very difficult to lie to an overseer. It had instantly become her bound duty to ascertain the truth of the claim. She had left Indereen immediately, sending out messages to other mages nearby. None had yet joined her.
If indeed she discovered a child with blue hair, she would take it as quickly as possible to the Halls – no matter what the parents wished. Despite the potential presence of the enemy, it was this thought that worried Elessa the most. Surely, she thought, the parents will see that a child destined to break the balance between shadow and light will be hunted by the forces of evil. It must be protected from the Shadowdreamer. She almost lost her footing as she clambered across sprawling roots. And surely they must already love their child and not want anyone to take it away. As should be their right.
She silently prayed that the Shadowdreamer had no knowledge of this blue-haired woman. Reports said Battu had instigated a series of skirmishes along the border. Many conjectured they were the precursor to a full-scale invasion, stronger than when Battu had attacked the Shining Mines four years before. Mages and soldiers had been sent to the border in droves, which had made it difficult for Elessa to find support along the way. She hoped Battu was distracted with his warmongering and his gaze was far away from this place.
She knew it was a foolish hope. Battu’s net reached far and wide.
She wondered w
hom he had sent.
•
Slashing through the undergrowth, Rhobi’s mood grew fouler as steadily as time passed. He was drenched, but it wasn’t that that angered him – in his homeland, the cold and damp were as common as air. No, it was his commander who made him grind his claws inside his fists, raking furrows into the skin of his black palms. Hiding his hatred had become almost impossible.
Tyrellan was his commander’s name, but if Rhobi had his way it would never be written on any gravestone. The thought made him grin in the dark, and rain pooled atop his black lips. Maybe he could control his hate after all; he just had to remember that Tyrellan was as good as dead.
The rain slated at all angles through the forest canopy. A few paces ahead Tyrellan pulled back a large fern, flinging droplets on himself but making little difference to his already wet stare. He remained silent as he stared off through the trees, his orb eyes as black and still as deep water.
Rhobi struggled to hold his tongue, but his patience evaporated faster than a teardrop on a fire. ‘Anything there?’ he asked, barely managing to keep terseness from his voice.
Tyrellan ignored him completely. Rhobi scowled, his claws curling around the pommel of the sword at his side. He longed to unsheathe it, to ram it into Tyrellan’s back and deliver a blow that would leave him enough time to realise from whom it came. That was important – Rhobi didn’t want Tyrellan’s soul floating away before he had a chance to gloat.
