by William King
Balthazar sensed its attention on him and felt the thrill of vulnerability. If he made a mistake now, the Umbral would devour his soul.
He chanted a new phase of the spell, invoking binding runes, looping chains of spiritual energy around the creature. Too late it realised what was happening and tried to struggle free. Balthazar sensed its eerie, inhuman rage. It thrashed as it tried to break the spell holding it. By the Shadow, it was strong. Sweat beaded Balthazar’s brow as he sought to hold the creature within mortal reality, to drag it all the way through the portal, to bind it to his will.
The terrible tug of war was no less exhausting for being fought entirely with magic. He willed the beast to come through. It sought to remain where it was, all the while gulping down greedily the mortal essence of the sacrifice and drawing strength from it.
Slowly, with enormous effort, Balthazar pulled the Umbral through. It was like wrestling a python but he exerted his trained will to the utmost, and the Shadow demon was drawn into the mortal world. The air above the spasming sacrifice grew darker still. Balthazar’s breath clouded.
Were the Umbral’s struggles getting weaker? It felt that way, but it was difficult to tell. Perhaps it was a trick. The demons often tried that, attempted to seem weaker than they were so they could break free when their overconfident summoners relaxed their vigilance.
The Umbral thrashed as it made one final desperate effort to break free. It was all Balthazar could do to hold it in place within the circle, but slowly its efforts lessened. Being present in the mortal world without a host form was weakening it, as he had known it must.
The shadowy being flowed completely through the gateway. The tentacle connecting it with the corpse pulsed and the dead man’s form began to thrash. Its mouth opened and an inhuman wail emerged. The body jerked upright as the Umbral sought to gain control of its new host. After about ten heartbeats it settled.
A ripping breaking sound came from within, the sound of bones being broken and organs tearing. White ribs poked out through the red meat of the man’s chest as it opened like an oyster. Blood sprayed outward in a red blanket and was caught in the area beneath the man’s arms, forming vast translucent wings. Veins writhed, tendons snapped and rose above the body like a nest of snakes.
The corpse looked like a squashed frog now, caught beneath the wheel of some evil god's chariot. It was open, revealing innards that were slowly reworked according to the complex constraints of the spell.
Balthazar stepped forward into a pool of blood and organs. The dead man’s torn flesh writhed around him, slithering up his naked legs, encasing him in a robe of sliced muscle and flesh. It joined to his body at various points.
The expanded ribcage snapped shut around his chest, like a suit of armour. The flesh of the internal organs spread over him and hardened into a carapace. Nerves burrowed into his skin, fusing with his nerves. He felt powerful, as the dead man’s strength joined his own.
The spirit of the Umbral reached out and touched his own, lending him a vast reservoir of magical power. It swelled within him, in a surge of almost sexual pleasure. It was worse in its way than pain. It almost caused him to lose control in a way that agony never would.
He breathed deeply. The bone cage around his chest flexed as he did so. The additional muscles wrapped his arms and legs giving him strength. The flayed flesh of the man spread knitting itself along his arms forming vast bat-wings. He spread them wide and grinned.
More flesh and blood wrapped around his face, filling his mouth, almost choking him. He must look like a mummy now, wrapped in cerements of torn flesh. Sheathing the sacrificial dagger in a pouch in his fleshy armour, he spread his arms, flexed the wings and drew upon the reservoir of magical power within himself.
He looked out at the shamans through a film of translucent red. They eyed him in horror and awe, wondering what he would do next. He considered what to tell them. The tribesmen had been mobilised and were united in a way they had not been for a generation. They were hungry for blood and souls to sacrifice. This keep was simply not the place to do it. It was too well protected.
“Take your people east,” Balthazar said loudly, his voice distorted by the presence of the Umbral. “Raid the lands of the goldhairs. Carry off their wives and their children. Kill where you can. Make them fear the People of Xothak once more. When I have completed the task our Lord has set me, I will return with weapons that will make these fools quake. Then we shall take this castle. Then we shall have vengeance for those who have fallen this day.”
He saw some heads nod. He was striking the right note for the chiefs. He was holding out the promise that last night’s catastrophe would be avenged. He had sanctioned the plundering of the Sunlander colonies too. That would give the chiefs many new slaves and many hearts to offer up on their altars. He had said enough. It was time to take his leave.
He sprang into the air and swept the wings down with a thunderous snap. Upwards he went, propelled into the sky by magic and his new form. He needed to get to Helgard swiftly and make contact with the cultists there if he was going to beat the Guardian to the source of Vorkhul’s sarcophagus.
Chapter Eighteen
Kormak stood on the battlements looking out into the night. Rhiana stood nearby. They did not want to talk. There did not seem to be anything to talk about, yet some magnetism still drew them together.
He hesitated for a moment then put his arm around her shoulder and felt oddly reassured when she nestled her head on his. He struggled to find the right words to say, but as usual, they would not come. “I am glad you are here,” he said.
“Are you? You did not sound it earlier today.”
“I was tired and scared.”
“Scared? You?”
“I was worried about what might happen to you last night.” He felt her pull away. She was looking at him sidelong. She looked as if she wanted to say something.
In the distance, over the jungle, a strange ululating scream arose. It came closer by the heartbeat. Until it seemed to be almost overhead. Kormak looked up as the moon emerged from behind the clouds. Gigantic bat-wings obscured the moon as it flew. Rhiana’s hand went to her sword as if she feared the thing would dive upon them and attack. It did not. It passed overhead, heading up the mountains, towards the exit of the pass.
“What was that?” Rhiana asked.
“Nothing good,” Kormak replied. He looked at her once more. Whatever mood of intimacy there had been was broken. His worries flooded back. What they had just seen was a reminder of the perils that lay ahead. On this journey being close to someone was a weakness he could not afford to have.
Balthazar hurtled through the night sky. Below him, the rocky boulder-strewn mountains scrolled by. He caught the updraft rising from the mountains with his wings, rode the air-currents upwards and drifted over the pass.
His heart pounded against his ribs. He felt at once thrilled and terrified. The Umbral writhed within his flesh and mind, fighting to escape. It was getting harder to control the demon.
Maintaining concentration was a struggle. His mind had never been intended to occupy a body that hung in mid-air with vertiginous hundred stride drops beneath it. He felt as if he was going to fall. There was no ground beneath his feet. Only cold windy turbulent air. At the bottom of every downbeat of his wings, his mind screamed that he was going to drop to his doom. The niggling suspicion that this is what the demon wanted made it all the more terrifying.
And yet . . .
He was flying. He rode the night winds like a great bat. He lived the dream of every small boy who had looked at a bird in flight. The fear that filled his mind was part of the thrill. No matter what happened here, he would never forget this as long as he lived, even if that was only a few more minutes before the spell unravelled.
The euphoria was as much a problem as the fear. It nibbled away at his concentration, unlacing the weave of the spell, corroding the chains that held the demon bound.
Rocky pillars towered o
ver the scree slopes of the mountainside. He settled down on the nearest one. He crouched for a moment and sought to regain his balance. In a way, it was worse than flying. He was all too aware of how high he was above the ground. He needed to resist the urge to embrace the rock and huddle against it in terror. If once he did that, he would not be able to go on and he would most likely never be able to find his way down.
He perched on the pillar and muttered the words of the binding spell, seeking to re-establish the links that had weakened or broken. The demon within him thrashed against the fetters of Balthazar’s will. It fed his fears. His breathing rasped in his chest. His heart felt as if it was about to burst. He forced himself to ignore all distractions as he rewove the spell.
All around him the night winds howled and tugged at his flesh. The chill raised goosebumps on his skin. He fought with his demon, knowing that the night was wasting and sunrise was coming and that he had still a long, long way to go. This journey was going to take longer than he had thought.
Eventually, the spell felt whole and solid again. It was time to take to the sky once more. He stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The moon cast strange shadows across the shattered landscape. The ground was a long, long way below.
He stretched his arms, flexed his wings, but the sight of the long drop all but unmanned him. Something in his brain rebelled against the idea of throwing himself off the safety of the ledge and stepping once more into the unwelcoming sky.
He closed his eyes and leapt. A scream split his lips. His stomach sickened as he plunged downward into the canyon below. He was going to die.
He spread his arms. The leather pinions caught the air with a snap. His fall halted. He pulled again and adjusted his position, a diver making the long drop through the clean night air. He extended his arms to the fullest, felt the wind flow over the great smooth sails of flesh and beat himself once more into the sky, rising towards the moon, fear and exhilaration warring for possession of his soul.
Kormak woke from a dark dream in which he watched one of the marines being sacrificed by Balthazar. The sorcerer had summoned a demon from Shadow, but for what purpose, he could not tell.
It was hot. Insects buzzed around the room beyond the mosquito netting that protected the bed. Rhiana stirred but did not waken. He resisted the urge to reach out and stroke her hair. Instead, he padded over to the window and looked out. The air was close and stifling, but the stone floor felt cool under his feet. He looked out into the night. From here he could see the jungle. Shrieks and calls still came from it. The tribesmen were out there. It sounded as if they were torturing prisoners or sacrificing them.
He wondered if they would make another attack on the keep. He doubted it. They had lost too many men in the initial assault. Lacking siege engines, their best bet would be to take the place by surprise. Automatically he surveyed the walls, looking for shadowy figures creeping over them, but he found nothing.
He thought about his dream once more, about the winged thing they had seen flying overhead earlier. He did not doubt that Balthazar had summoned it. Kormak had witnessed his power before in Maial when he had called the Servant of Xothak from the Outer Dark.
He was going to have to find the man and kill him. It was only a matter of time now before Balthazar unleashed some force too great for him to control. Kormak had seen such things before. Sorcerers goaded by demons, driven mad by the powers of Shadow, always overreached themselves. The summoners were the worst because they could call forth powers from the Outer Dark.
If Balthazar did it in the middle of a city, then the fatalities would be great. If he did it here in the jungle, the thing would have time to grow in strength and gain followers. Someone would eventually have to deal with it.
But Kormak had another mission, one he could not abandon. He needed to find the source of Vorkhul’s sarcophagus. Balthazar sought the same thing. No doubt their paths would cross again.
He glanced at Rhiana. A feeling of tenderness stole over him. He had not lied to her earlier; he was glad she was there. That was what worried him. She might easily lose her life on this quest. Balthazar could use her against him. He could sacrifice her to the things he worshipped.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. She was here of her own choice, and she could certainly look after herself. Her presence had advantages as well. Her powers were useful when dealing with sorcerers. He loathed himself for making that calculation, but it was one that needed to be made.
He thought about going back to bed. Instead, he leaned against the cool stone and listened to the night sounds rising from the jungle.
Balthazar’s winged arms fought against the weight of the world. His chest was a blazing mass of pain. Molten lead flowed through the sinews of his arms and the great muscles of his chest. His mind was numb and empty of all but the need to repeat the act of pulling himself through the thick cold air and contain the demon lurking within him.
Soon the sun would rise. He needed to land before that happened. The light of the great fiery enemy in the sky would dissolve the weavings of Shadow magic, and exorcise the Umbral within his body. The demon, connected intimately with his mind and body, knew that too. It felt mounting terror.
What would be merely agonising for Balthazar would be fatal for it. The quality of the Umbral’s struggles had changed. It realised it could not break free. It could only hope that Balthazar sent it back to Shadow before it met its doom in the world of daylight.
Balthazar could barely think about that. This night had been endless. He had started it confident that he would easily reach his goal before morning, but he had been proved wrong. The necessity of having to land and constantly rework his spell had slowed his progress.
The long flight had drained away his energy and the work of flying had gone from being a terrifying joy to a frightening chore. He felt as if he had spent the whole night running on difficult ground, pausing only to lift heavy boulders. Three times he had stopped. Once he had almost been caught by some huge silent thing that had erupted from a cave mouth. It might have been a man, might have been a bear or some unholy hybrid of the two.
Where was that damn town?
He should have caught sight of some lights by now. He should be seeing the end of the pass. He had flown as far and as fast as he could. Sadly it seemed he had overestimated the speed with which he could fly and his endurance.
The sky began to lighten. Soon dawn would come, and if he were still airborne by then, he would fall to his doom. He needed to find a place to land.
But what then? He would be naked and alone in this rocky wilderness bearing only amulets and his dagger. Both identified him as a sorcerer and a heretic as far as the zealots of the Holy Sun were concerned. Most likely word of the price on his head had already reached Helgard.
Ravens could fly faster than he had and there were other ways of sending messages, sorcerous ways, that might have been used. If that had happened, he could only pray to the Shadow that his allies still had the influence to aid and shield him. Count Orm and the other cultists ranked high within the military in Helgard but would they risk themselves to aid him?
Sunrise was now mere minutes away. He chose a flight path leading away from the road, banked over the hillside and swept on. His skin itched. The faintest hint of vapour emerged from the skin of his wings. The sunlight was starting to take effect. Already the wing-flaps looked thinner, the bone structure weaker. Soon they would be translucent.
Ahead of him lay a high wall. Two guard towers flanked a gate in it and beyond. He needed to do his best to avoid the stone barrier lest the wards within it cause him even more pain. He swept higher, aware of the risk he was taking, so close to sunrise. The demon within him writhed, sick with fear and rage.
He extended his arms, found a gap in the hills and arrowed out over a sheer cliff-face. The ground dropped sixty strides below him, and he caught a glimpse of open fields and a distant walled town over which loomed a mighty citadel. Here was the fortress
of Helgard.
He flashed downwards, swooping over the open fields, passing farmhouses and hovels. Early rising farmwives screamed when they saw him. Startled animals ran when his shadow fell on them. He brought himself down as close to the town as he dared go, smoke rising from his wings, his altered flesh feeling like it was burning.
His momentum drove him on through the corner and out onto the edge of the road. A farmer looked up in horror and terror from the back of the cart on which he sat. His frightened animals reared and whinnied and started to kick against the traces.
The rising sunlight burned away the last traces of the demonic frame surrounding him. Balthazar’s flesh sagged back into its normal mortal shape. Terrible weakness settled on him.
He knew he needed to do something quickly before the farmer either fell on him with a bludgeon or raced off to summon help. He dug deep into the soul of the fast dissolving demon and siphoned off the last of its strength. He threw it all into the spell he swiftly summoned.
The farmer and his boy slumped forward along with their horses, suddenly overcome by magical sleep. Balthazar fell to his knees almost too weak to move.
Get up! Damn you! Get up. He reached out and grasped the fallen sacrificial dagger then forced himself to rise and half-stumbled, half-crawled over to the cart. He clambered up onto the seat. The old man and his son lay slumped where the spell had hit them. He opened the veins in the old man’s throat, keeping a hand over his mouth so the screams would not awaken the boy, then he repeated the performance on the child.
The horses twitched as the smell of blood reached their nostrils. Balthazar stole the old man’s sandals, tossed the bodies down on the side of the road, dragged them into the corn. He found an old sack in the back of the wagon and cut arm holes in it. The horses shied at the smell of death. Barely able to keep his eyes open with weariness. He drove the cart towards the city. He knew it would only be a matter of time before someone found the bodies.
