The Mammoth Book of Dark Magic

by Mike Ashley

  In the stable, someone was screaming. A young groom, unprepared for the things that he was witnessing, unprotected by the narcotic that gripped the minds of the riders and held them steadfast in the face of Chaos. Another Benetan felt pity and regret for the youth’s horror, but that Benetan was a stranger, an alien being: the Chaos captain who swung himself up on to the smoke-dark back of his mount could know only contempt for such weakness.

  A jolt of raw power slammed into him as the terrible fusion between man and demon-beast engulfed his reeling senses. The courtyard turned and toppled about him and he uttered a high, ululating yell that was taken up by his fellow riders, a hungry and feverish celebration of energy, desire, madness. He raised his left arm high so that the gauntlet’s claws caught the angry moonlight and, in his altered, churning vision, seemed to flash five searing bolts that spat upwards into the night. Lightning answered from the heavens, and the northern and eastern spires crackled and sang again. Benetan felt the moment coming, felt the Warp’s awesome power building to a crescendo, thrumming through his bones – on the far side of the courtyard the great gates were opening—

  A titanic howl smashed against his eardrums, and the sky split open. Blinding light turned the courtyard to an inferno, and, in hideous harmony with the voice of the breaking storm, the Chaos creatures shrieked a wild challenge as the mass of riders surged forward like a black, breaking wave, with Benetan screaming at their head. Possessed, inspired, deranged, his mind was no longer his own; the gates within him had opened, as the Chaos Gate was even now opening far, far below him, and humanity was drowned in the dervishistic joy of the warrior, the hunter, the reaper, as the demonic riders streamed through the gate to be unleashed upon the world.

  Savrinor had returned quietly and unobtrusively to his rooms. He knew he would be summoned soon enough; although he wasn’t of the magi’s ranks, not even a sorcerer, his position as the castle’s historian required him to attend and chronicle all major events, and for tonight’s ceremony he had no doubt that his presence would be demanded.

  He did not watch the Chaos riders leave. Spectacular though their departure might have been, it was nothing he hadn’t seen a hundred times before and he was no longer moved or even especially impressed by it. Instead as the Warp shrieked in from the north he sat motionless at the ornately carved desk in his study, elbows on the desk top, hands clasped before his face, pale eyes unquiet. He didn’t care to probe the reason for it but there was unease in him, a sense of tension and anticipation – not pleasant anticipation – that even the arrival of the Warp had done nothing to allay. And when at last he heard the tentative knock at his door, he wasn’t sure whether relief or dread had the upper hand.

  “M-master Savrinor . . .?” The magi had a marked preference for female servants; this one was probably no more than twelve or thirteen years old, and any promise of later beauty she might have had was spoiled by her slack mouth and empty, hunted eyes. Savrinor doubted if she would last the year out.

  “What is it?”

  “The . . . l-lord magus Croin, master, he . . . that is, I am to tell you . . . if you will permit . . .”

  Fear and stupidity offended Savrinor in equal measure, and he made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Speak clearly! Does Magus Croin wish to see me?”

  “He – the lord Croin. . . he is at the b-bedside of the F-f-f. . .”

  “Yandros preserve us!” Savrinor hissed the words exasperatedly and, as the girl continued to stammer, brushed her aside and strode away down the corridor. He had made out enough of the faltering mumbles to surmise the rest of the message, and the girl’s efforts to tell him that Croin was with the First Magus confirmed it. Croin was the magi’s most skilled physician; if he had issued this summons it must mean that the end was very close, probably less than an hour away. By now the magi would be preparing for the final procession. If he valued his skin, Savrinor couldn’t afford to be late.

  Tidying his hair and clothes as he went, he reached the First Magus’s private chambers within minutes and found the thin, aesthetic Croin waiting for him outside the door. The door was closed, but light swirled beneath it and on the far side Savrinor could hear the chilly, atonal sound of a dirge as the senior magi chanted an elegy for their leader.

  “My lord.” Savrinor’s bow was punctiliously formal. “The First Magus is surely not—”

  “No, no.” Croin made a negative gesture, rings glinting on each of his seven fingers. “He has not yet left us. But it will be very soon. We are ready to proceed, and of course your presence is required at the time of passing.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’m only sorry that I must be the chronicler of the castle’s loss.”

  Croin regarded him shrewdly, noting the genuine regret in Savrinor’s tone and perhaps interpreting the reason for it all too well. “Our sorrow is the First Magus’s joy, Savrinor. He goes to a reward that we all hope to earn in our time.”

  “Of course, sir.” Savrinor averted his gaze.

  “And if the gods accept his chosen successor, we will have cause for celebration.” Croin’s eyes narrowed. “I advise you not to overlook that fact.”

  “My lord.” Savrinor bowed again in a way that conveyed apology and understanding without the need for further words. The physician continued to stare at him for a few moments longer, thinking his own thoughts. Then he turned, lifted the door’s heavy latch, and led the way in to the First Magus’s chambers.

  The last journey of the dying man began ten minutes later. No lamps shone in any of the castle’s windows now; shutters were closed and all but those who walked with the procession had retired to their quarters as tradition demanded. The Warp had passed, shrieking into oblivion, and the cortege emerged from the entrance doors under the indifferent eyes of the two moons which now hung in a clear, silent sky.

  The first herald of the procession was a cold, glowing green sphere hanging unsupported in the air. It moved slowly from the shadows of the entrance to hover in the courtyard, and behind it came the magi, dressed in flowing robes, their forms ghastly and otherworldly under the eerie light. In their midst, four bearers carried a litter draped with white hangings, on which a still figure lay.

  There was no sound: no chanting, no dirge now, not even the shuffle of feet. The magi moved as noiselessly as ghosts, the shining ball of light guiding them as they advanced in slow and stately procession towards the covered walkway of colonnaded pillars on the far side of the courtyard, and the door at the colonnade’s end through which they would carry the First Magus to his final earthly encounter.

  Savrinor walked behind his masters. Though he knew the form that tonight’s ceremony would take, he didn’t know precisely what to expect and was reluctant to speculate. He watched the shadows of the colonnade as they passed by, unconsciously counting the pillars; then the procession turned as it reached the door, and passed through it to begin the long, slow descent of the spiral stairs winding down into the foundations. At the foot of the stairs they passed through a vaulted room, dark and silent now, then another door gaped before them and they were on the last stage of their journey, along the sloping corridor that would bring them at last to the Marble Hall.

  The Marble Hall, deep beneath the castle foundations, was a place of mist and deception. Its dimensions – if it could truly be said to have dimensions – were shrouded in an uneasy swirl of pastel-shot light and shadow, while the floor from which it took its name was an intricate mosaic of every perceptible shade, a random pattern that drew the eye yet disturbed senses constrained by the limitations of humanity. Centuries ago, when the seven lords of Chaos spoke to the sleeping minds of the world’s greatest artisans, inspired them with dreams of terror and glory and guided their hands to cut the massive foundation-stones on which this castle was built, Yandros himself, highest of all the seven, had created the Marble Hall and with it the Chaos Gate. The Gate was a link between this world and the realm of Chaos, which no man still cloaked with the trappings of mortality dared enter;
and as the procession moved across the shimmering floor Savrinor felt the deep-rooted thrill of awe and fear that no amount of familiarity could ever erode. The Gate lay at what was believed to be the hall’s exact centre, and when closed it was marked by nothing more than a black circle in the mosaic pattern of the floor. Now, however, the mists about the circle were agitating, their pastel hues shot through with dark and dangerous colours. As he took his appointed place Savrinor saw a wavering column of intense blackness flickering close to the limits of perception, and felt the pulse of the forces held but barely in check under his feet. Chaos was stirring.

  The bier was lowered with reverential care to the floor of the hall, before the Gate. The First Magus’s eyes were open and aware; but if he recognised the faces that surrounded him, or the nature of what lay ahead, he gave no sign of it. A paralysing weakness had overtaken him that morning together with the final loss of his powers of speech, any last benisons he might have wished to grant to old friends would never now be uttered.

  Savrinor watched the dying man, whilst seeming to keep his gaze focused on the floor. A good master, in his own way; vain and self-seeking, yes, but who wasn’t in these times? Such faults, if faults they were, had their uses, as Savrinor knew very well. A good servant to the seven gods from whom he took his power? Perhaps; though that was not for any but the gods to say. Better, certainly, than the one who would come after him.

  At that thought Savrinor’s gaze slid surreptitiously to the members of the innermost coterie of magi who had taken up their positions at the head of the bier, and to one man in particular.

  Vordegh. In late middle age now, but still retaining the strength and musculature of youth in his massive build. Black-haired, swarthily handsome, dark eyes calm as he regarded the Chaos Gate and waited with his peers. A sorcerer of rare skill, a demon-master, ascetic, sadist . . . and the word he had stopped Benetan Liss from uttering came unbidden into Savrinor’s mind.

  A madman.

  Efficiently, Savrinor quashed the thought. With Vordegh as First Magus he would do well to take his own advice to Benetan and not even allow such concepts to enter his mind. Croin had echoed that same warning back to him, though not in so many words, and Savrinor hadn’t missed the brief flicker of unease in the physician’s eyes as he spoke. From now on he would guard even his innermost thoughts with the utmost care. Whichever way the wind blew there would still be room for him to manoeuvre, if he kept his wits about him.

  A stirring in the group’s midst alerted him and he looked up quickly. The First Magus on his litter was trying to speak. Words were beyond his power now, but a guttural croaking issued from his throat, like the last cry of an old, sick raven. The other magi hastened to his side, and Vordegh leaned over the bier and took hold of the old man’s hand as though to offer comfort or a last farewell. The First Magus’s fingers fluttered feebly; he held something bright in his failing, arthritic grasp, and the artefact passed from his hand to Vordegh’s before the arm fell back limply to his side.

  Vordegh straightened, and a cold, proud smile touched his mouth. Then he raised his arm, and Savrinor saw the thin, metallic wand that the First Magus had placed in his palm. A chilly blue-white radiance spilled from the wand; bands of shadow moved slowly along its length, and Savrinor sucked in a quiet breath as he recognised it. The ultimate symbol of the power granted to the magi by the gods, and one whose use lay solely in the charge of the castle’s undisputed master – the key to the Chaos Gate.

  The First Magus had named his successor.

  Vordegh turned to face the Gate, and raised the key high above his head. As his arm reached its full extent the wand’s white radiance changed suddenly and shockingly to black, and it began to pulse like an unstable, earthbound star. The shivering column of the Gate took up the rhythm of the pulse, until the two meshed in perfect synchrony.

  The old man on the bier stirred again. A crazed smile split his seamed features, and a spark of fire lit up the failing eyes as, with many hands supporting him, he raised his head a few inches from its pillow. The pulsing black light intensified in a ferocious flare – and the column of darkness seemed to invert, twisting in on itself and opening like a gigantic eye as the Chaos Gate yawned wide.

  Savrinor looked into the eye and through it, to a black road that arrowed from the Gate towards a horizon so vast that he bit his tongue in shock. He could never habituate himself to this: to the vastness, the vertigo, the impossible, alien madness of the world that assailed his senses. Wild colours spun across dizzying spectra, shapes that defied comprehension shifted in constantly alternating patterns of gloom and livid brilliance, figures that were not quite tangible, and held their form only for the space of a heartbeat, moved like restless wraiths on the periphery of vision. And the Marble Hall vibrated with the anticipation of something titanic, that breached dimensions, approaching.

  The magi were still again. Even the shrunken old man on the pallet had ceased his efforts and lay passive once more, waiting, only his eyes animated and eager. Then came a sound like measured footsteps or a lethargic heartbeat, felt in the marrow rather than heard. Tension became palpable; somewhere – it seemed to emanate from the vastness beyond the Gate but that might have been illusory – a low humming vibrated in the bones behind Savrinor’s ears.

  The Gate shuddered and for a moment seemed to collapse back in on itself. Then a massive flash of brilliance, scarlet shot with searing white, turned the Marble Hall briefly to a blaze of light and fire, blinding the watchers and forcing them to turn their heads aside. When Savrinor, teeth clamped down on an involuntary oath, was able to look again, Chaos’s emissary stood in the shadows of the portal.

  The being, which was half again as tall as any of the magi, had the body of a man and the head of a scaled, gape-jawed reptile. Colossal wings rose from its shoulders, the flight feathers fashioned from white-hot metal that spilled molten fragments about its feet. A phantasmic, golden corona of flames burned around the figure; flanking it, two eyeless and monstrously distorted chimeras strained at their chains, snakes’ tongues licking at the air, dogs’ claws scraping and scrabbling for purchase on the mosaic. The emissary opened its jaws, and the stench of a charnel-house made Savrinor’s nostrils flare. He forced himself not to flinch from it – discourtesy would be dangerous – and watched as the being’s eyes, which were a warm amber-brown, calm and intelligent and beautiful, slowly scanned the gathering, their gaze resting at last on the now quiescent First Magus.

  The silence was profound. Blood pounded in Savrinor’s ears and he held his breath, not daring to move a muscle. The emissary gazed down at the pallet; then its unencumbered hand came up, and a finger, tipped with a curving claw the colour of old bronze, pointed at the First Magus’s heart.

  The old man smiled, and in the smile was the joy and triumph of achievement. He reared up as though to meet and embrace the Chaos being – then the hiss of his last breath echoed hollowly through the silent hall, and his empty husk fell back on to the bier.

  Hastily following the lead of the magi, Savrinor dropped to one knee and traced the Seven-Rayed Star over his own heart as a mark of respect for the First Magus’s passing. Only Vordegh didn’t kneel or make the sign; he merely stood erect, unmoving, gazing steadily into the quiet eyes of the demon before him, and waiting. The emissary’s reptilian head inclined once, and Vordegh extended his hand, displaying the darkly glowing wand on his palm. The claw reached out, plucked; and in the demon’s grasp the wand turned white-hot. The monstrous jaws gaped again in a parody of a smile. Then the emissary touched the tip of the wand to the exact centre of Vordegh’s forehead, and held it there.

  Savrinor almost gagged at the reek of charring flesh, and some of the magi looked away. Vordegh, however, did not flinch. The tendons of his neck stood out like whipcord, but he stayed his ground, eyes staring straight ahead, though unfocused now with the strain of absorbing and withstanding the agony he must have felt. He would not recoil, he would not plead for cessation. The
will of the man, Savrinor thought with an inward shudder, was beyond belief.

  Suddenly it was over. The demon’s arm fell to its side, and Savrinor saw the puckered and near-black stigma of a ferocious scar on Vordegh’s brow; a scar that would never heal. Vordegh’s gaze dropped – the only sign of relief that he would permit himself to show – and the emissary held out the wand, no longer blazing with heat, for the new First Magus to take. The two eyeless chimeras opened toothless mouths and shook their chains, and the emissary stepped back a pace. Once more, briefly, it scanned the assembly with something resembling cool speculation in its eyes. Then the molten wings rose high, clashed together, and with an enormous, silent concussion, the black eye of the Chaos Gate closed and the emissary was gone.

  Through the silence of the darkest hours Savrinor sat at the table in his room, committing the night’s events to parchment as his duty compelled. He couldn’t stop shivering. The window was heavily curtained, and the airlessness together with the heat from the built-up fire made the chamber stifling, but the cause of the bone-numbing cold in him was the unpleasant and unnerving track of his own thoughts.