Embrace of the Medusi (The Overlords Trilogy Book 2)

by Toby Andersen

  Totelun had never seen his father kneel before anyone, not even Chief Kerbuto. What kind of dark power does this Shaman hold?

  ‘The Heart of the Celestial,’ said the Shaman Lord.

  ‘Yours, Sorkhanis,’ replied Altan.

  Shaman Lord Sorkhanis took the crystal, the size of a human head, and brought it close. The vibrant glow it emitted lit his dark mask, but all Totelun could see were the shadows that elongated and swam across the ceiling of the tent. He could have sworn the shapes were biting at each other.

  ‘You have done well once again, Altan Diosji,’ Sorkhanis hissed. ‘Our greatest hunter. Thanks to you the islands continue to survive.’ Sorkhanis handed the crystal to one of the two apprentices, the one with a scar cutting into his beard. ‘And the Trelki?’

  Altan stood and gestured for Totelun to step forward. ‘Sorkhanis, may I present my son, Totelun. He withstood the call of the Trelki when I succumbed.’ Altan looked at Totelun. ‘With the Shaman’s permission, I’d like to take him on the next Great Hunt.’

  Sorkhanis’ mask once again turned to Totelun, who held up the carcass of the Trelki he had killed. Its skin wasn’t slippery as he’d suspected, but coarse and leathery. Sorkhanis stooped down and crouched in front of the boy, then raised a hand and pushed the mask up onto the top of his head.

  Underneath, his skin was like worn leather, his eyes sunken pits, where at the bottom a tiny glint caught Totelun’s attention. He flashed his sharp filed teeth. The mask was simply an extension of what lay underneath.

  ‘The son of Altan, our greatest hunter. He will be watched with keen interest.’ He looked to Altan. ‘The next Great Hunt will not be for a few years. But he has proven himself worthy if he withstood the Trelki’s song. We only send our strongest hunters to fetch this most valuable and dangerous of ingredients.’ When he looked back at Totelun, Altan couldn’t see the shadow that passed over his face. ‘You must be strong.’ Then almost inaudibly, so that no one but Totelun could hear, he whispered, ‘I wonder. Was it you who drew the Mark of the Medusi from the flames?’

  Chapter One

  Totelun Altanji

  Totelun woke in a cold sweat. The sunken darkness of the Shaman Lord’s eyes swam in the shadows before him. He could still smell the cloying smoke of the chief’s tent, that heady concoction, the strange motif in the smoke. After a moment, the dream of his younger days faded and the stark reality of his situation was all that remained; deep beneath Theris palace, sat in a cold stone cell, barely six feet square.

  He’d been there for three days. The walls were made of thick grey stone that wept moisture and dampened noise and hope. One side was skinny metal bars and a dank hall lit by inconsistently placed torches. Other inmates in their own cells stared back at him.

  Three days, he thought.

  Three days since he’d fought the Celestial thrall, and lived to tell the tale. But not killed it.

  Three days since he’d ended a thirty-year war by killing King Stauros Isingr in combat. But let another war start.

  Three days since he’d volunteered to buy time for the Empress, her sister Cassandra, Nausithorn and Chrysaora to escape the fall of the city to traitors from the palace. But abandoned them at the same time.

  Totelun had paid for that decision with his freedom and he was still paying. He smiled wanly and sighed. Whatever he had paid, it had cost the enemy more. Twenty soldiers had come for him, less than ten had struggled away, holding him in chains, thrashing and biting and yelling in rage. The Empress’ traitorous Grand Premier Verismuss had him thrown in this jail, muttering that he could use him as a bargaining chip.

  But three days was a long time even in Totelun’s own limited experience; a boy warrior could go from being snug at home in the bosom of his family one day, to have fallen from his island home and plummeted to the surface world the next.

  Politics and warfare seemed to move even faster, turning on the edge of a fickle blade. He had witnessed it even from deep underground, behind the bars of his cell. Those who were in control when he was captured weren’t the same as those in control now.

  Three days was an eternity.

  Totelun shared his tiny cell with a large muscular man in his thirties who looked tired and sleep deprived, despite that being all they could really able to do here. He had dark skin of a similar shade to Totelun’s own and a scar cutting through his beard.

  ‘Dreaming again?’ He spat. ‘Or just hallucinating?’

  Totelun sat up and regarded his cellmate. The only light came from the torch in the hall outside, but he could see the large man’s hunched figure. His lank black hair obscured his face, casting shadows. He had a rough voice, and despite his size, seemed sickly, like his new surroundings did not agree with him.

  ‘Dreams of a better time,’ said Totelun. He did not want to talk with Mengu. The man was difficult, taciturn, and when he spoke had a tendency to lecture. In a room the size of an outhouse it was best not to instigate.

  There was no escape.

  ‘The best kind,’ said the brute. ‘There’s too little of that kind of talk in here. Tell me.’

  Totelun couldn’t see the harm. ‘I dreamt about the first hunt I went on with my father. Three, four years ago now, and worlds away from here. We hunted the Trelki.’

  Mengu nodded slowly in the shadows. Then he looked up from the floor. ‘You share too easily, boy. We’ve talked about this. Keep your secrets, keep your memories to yourself. It’s often the only power you have.’

  You asked the question, Totelun thought, but he said nothing in reply. This was how three days had passed. He’d attempted to get the older man to open up on a few occasions now, shared his own stories in order to encourage reciprocation, but been met each time with a solid wall of contempt.

  He looked out and across the hall to where a young woman huddled in one of the nearby cells. She hunched on the floor, head on her drawn up knees and her long dark hair cloaking everything. He imagined maybe three days ago or more she had been a beautiful court lady, that dark tangle of hair an alluring waterfall. Now it was a lank nest. She never spoke, but he had seen her pale face a few times; she had a haunted look, like one in shock. She had seen too much. Now she was stuck here like the rest of them.

  ‘We are to await the arrival of the Goddess,’ said Mengu. ‘You especially, boy. You killed her ally. She will want to talk to you personally. Have you heard what she does to those she questions?’

  Totelun didn’t respond. Mengu’s questions were rhetorical.

  ‘She can reach inside your mind, talk directly inside your head, make you babble and panic. No one can resist her. And when she’s done with you, she can push so much power into your mind your head will explode.’ He stood and stumbled over to the bars, his voice getting louder. ‘She will come for all of us. The Queen of Darkness. Ancient as the forest, the mountains, the islands above. She has planned the downfall of Theris for a hundred years. She will fall across this city like the black cloak of night itself. And she will bring her Medusi hordes to thrall and enslave the city. They will be the only light in the age to come.’ Totelun must have jerked at the memory of the battle for the city. ‘You saw them didn’t you, boy? Medusi taking hosts, slaves for the Medousa. The Clerics have entered the city already, you have seen this also. They prepare the way for her.’

  ‘Shut up,’ called an impatient voice from another cell.

  Totelun guessed from the educated cadence to the words it was either Thaddeus, the former Captain of the Imperial Guard, or Verismuss, Aurelia’s treacherous advisor. Neither spoke regularly, preferring to keep to themselves; they were too far down the bank of cells for Totelun to engage them. He smiled as he remembered them brought down.

  Thaddeus’ soldiers had been the ones to put Totelun in chains, and Mengu had already been in the cell. But before a full day had passed, the palace had been taken by the enemy, the Order of the Medousa, led by the same woman Mengu spoke of, though she was yet to arrive.

  The Med
ousa.

  Her Clerics had broken into the palace, managed to kill the remaining soldiers with the help of their thralled mercenaries, and brought down Thaddeus and Verismuss in the struggle. He’d watched from the bars when the far door had opened and he’d first seen their new jailers. The transition of power had happened above and this was their first exposure to it. Thralled warriors had entered, dressed in black leather suits and masks, their Medusi hovering above, and lighting the hallway blue. They threw a manacled Thaddeus down the steps onto his face, pushed Verismuss down on top of him.

  The two most powerful men in Theris, brought low by the invaders. The cold machinations of the Order of the Medousa had brought war and siege to Theris, corrupted the palace from within, and broken the walls from without. Now they ran the palace, and he presumed, the city.

  Three days, and a monarchy that had lasted a thousand years had been overthrown.

  Mengu was talking again. ‘The Clerics are most interested in you, Totelun. They’ll get to the rest of us. But they’ll want you first.’

  ‘I can handle them, thanks.’

  ‘Oh, sure you can,’ he scoffed. He leant on the bars, and watched Totelun, voice quieter now, face in shadow. Just who was he anyway? Totelun had assumed he was a criminal like the rest of the residents of the jail. But considering what must be happening in the city, the other prisoners may be his greatest allies. Not Verismuss, but the girl from court maybe, and Mengu? Could he help him escape? ‘They will try to break you, they will torture you. The Clerics have serums and methods that would make you talk. They will peel your skin, crush your bones, and do it all while you are awake and screaming. You are a child, and you will break like a child.’

  ‘I am a man grown,’ said Totelun darkly, daring Mengu to challenge it. When the man lapsed into silence again, Totelun added, ‘Besides, I don’t have any secrets.’

  The Clerics were interested in him, that much was true. One in particular, an old gaunt man who seemed to lead them before the Goddess arrived, had visited him once the day before. He’d stood just beyond the bars where Mengu waited now, and had addressed Totelun.

  ‘So, you’re the boy I have heard so much about.’

  Totelun looked at him but didn’t respond.

  ‘They say you killed Stauros Isingr with your bare hands.’

  The dark haired girl across the hall looked up at the mention of that name, fixed Totelun with a murderous stare.

  ‘Rumours grow in the telling,’ said Totelun.

  ‘But every rumour holds a kernel of truth at its centre,’ the gaunt man replied dismissively. ‘And that isn’t the only one I have heard about you. I know about the prophecy, young one. You and I will talk, and soon. Away from here and prying ears, where I can apply my instruments.’

  The prophecy. Totelun didn’t know what to say. This old creature with growths at his neck knew about the ancient prophecy? Even Totelun had only found out about it because Naus had dragged him to the ruins where an ancient seer had set it in stone a millennia ago. How did this man know? Had he been there also? He was a member of the Order of the Medousa, the dangerous cult who used the Medusi creatures to enforce their rule, and carry out their intrigues.

  Small wonder that they would be interested in a prophecy that foretold the destruction of all the Medusi.

  It would mean the end of their cult.

  It would mean the end of magic itself.

  The man left and Totelun remained. Three days was too much time to think alone in a cell. True, he wasn’t completely alone, but it felt that way. His mind would wander for hours at a time. What was Naus doing now? Had he escaped the city? Where were Aurelia and Cassandra? Where had Naus taken them? He hoped they were far from Theris, miles away by now on a road to a town or city safe from the Order of the Medousa.

  In his dark moments his hopes turned to despair. Had his sacrifice been for nothing? Naus could have been attacked and killed at any subsequent point in their escape, the girls captured, killed or worse. Even Chrysaora, with her talents using so many weapons, wasn’t invincible? Was she alive? Was she protecting the Empress as she had promised? He felt powerless and impotent stuck here, unable to help them, unable to add his skills to the fight.

  Who am I fooling? he thought, I am just a kid. It was a delusion to think he would make all the difference.

  ‘No secrets?’ said Mengu, pulling Totelun from his thoughts. ‘Everyone has secrets boy, and yours are bigger than you seem to realise.’

  ‘What secrets?’ said Totelun, thinking to goad Mengu once again. The man was easy prey, but his tirades became dull quickly.

  ‘What secrets?’ Mengu scoffed. ‘Besides the High Cleric coming to see you specifically, besides the fact you killed that King-’

  ‘Not a secret.’

  ‘They will want your accomplices’ names, locations. Who you work for? No one pulls off something like that alone. They’ll break you and then they will go after those you love.’

  ‘They cannot reach those I love.’

  Mengu pushed himself off the bars. ‘There you go again. Sharing too much.’

  ‘I’ve told you nothing.’

  ‘You’ve told me your family is unreachable. Coupled with the colour of your skin, your eyes, your warrior bearing, it is clear to anyone who know these things that you are from the Floating Islands. If I know, they will know.’

  ‘That’s not a secret either.’

  ‘It should be,’ Mengu snapped, getting close now. Totelun stood, faced him. The air in the cell suddenly gave him a chill. ‘No one down here knows there are people up there, and you haven’t been keeping it quiet. You told an Empress in front of an open court. The Order will find out about the Islands and all will be undone.’

  It was true that in general the people down on the surface world didn’t know there were tribes and warriors on the Floating Islands. But for that matter the people of the Floating Islands were taught that the surface world was an illusion, and that was clearly a lie, as he had proved by falling down here and surviving.

  Who was this Mengu? How did he know about the tribes? Why was he so incensed by the secret getting out?

  Unless he worked for those who wanted to keep it a secret? The Order? No, he seemed to be against them.

  Totelun must have given some sign that his attention had shifted, because Mengu chose that moment to take a swing at him. Totelun let instinct take over, ducking the punch, and then catching the second fist with an arm block.

  The fist had a knife in it. Where had that come from? No time for the question, just reaction.

  Mengu dropped the knife into his other hand, and sliced across Totelun’s throat. The boy threw his head backwards, avoiding the swipe and kicked Mengu in the kneecap. The angry snarl became a grimace of pain. The man brought the knife down again, and Totelun caught his wrist with both his own in a cross. His shifted his stance, grabbed Mengu’s arm, but the man was far stronger than him. He’d made the wrong decision, got himself into a wrestling match where strength counted for too much. He should have kept it to blows, where speed would have helped him prevail.

  The huge man pushed and the short dirty blade edged towards Totelun’s neck. Totelun’s calf caught on the pallet he’d been sat on and he fell backward, just managing to dodge to the side as the blade went through the air where his neck had been and deep into the worn mattress. As they fell, Totelun brought a knee up and Mengu landed on it, winding himself. The boy twisted, managed to dislodge Mengu’s grip from the knife handle. He pulled it up himself, the handle now in his hand and slammed it into the huge man’s neck instead. Mengu fell backward, pulling Totelun up off the bed, until they were both knelt on the floor.

  Totelun held him firm, the rusty blade wedged deep in his cellmate's neck. They watched each other with eyes wide, Totelun breathing hard.

  ‘All hail Sorkhanis,’ Mengu spat, blood dribbling from his mouth.

  Totelun didn't register the name immediately; he'd been down here on the surface world
for too long. Sorkhanis. Wasn't that the name of that creepy Shaman Lord he'd met years ago?

  ‘Sorkhanis? What do you mean, Sorkhanis?’

  Then it hit him. Mengu was from the Floating Islands. His face, his name, the darkness of his skin. The scar that cut through his beard. Totelun's mind rebelled at the idea. How was someone else from the Floating Islands here on the surface world? How had they got here? He had so many questions, but he had no time; the man was expiring in his arms.

  ‘How do you get back to the Islands?’ he roared.

  Mengu's eyes were glassing over.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  He couldn't have fallen from the sky, like Totelun had; he must have a way back and forth.

  Mengu gurgled. ‘The top...of the silent sentinel...when the islands align...forms the link between our worlds.’

  ‘What? What is the silent sentinel?’

  The man's body relaxed in his arms, no longer straining. The knife held the blood in, he wasn't dying of blood loss, but its wide flat blade was cutting off all supply to his brain. Pull it out, he dies, leave it in, he dies.

  ‘Cartracia,’ he whispered, and died anyway.

  There were too many unanswered questions to count. Totelun pulled the knife from Mengu’s neck and let the body of his assailant slide to the ground in a growing pool of blood. How am I going to explain this? His eyes flashed on the brown blade; he could use it to saw through the bonds of his feet, but then what? The dark iron bars were still as strong as they had been; he wasn’t getting out with a rusty knife.

  But it did feel good to hold one again.

  He looked down at the body, remembering back to that smoky tent and a burly apprentice stood to one side of the Shaman Lord Sorkhanis. What did he have to do with Totelun? Why had he tried to kill him? More vexing was how did the Shamana know of him, know he was alive and where he was? Had Mengu’s original mission been to free him, return him to the Islands? Or was it just opportunity? Totelun’s head swam, trying to piece this together. He’d been away from the Floating Islands for months, had assumed that they had mourned and then forgotten about him. His father Altan must have told of Totelun’s fall, and he wasn’t even the only one to see it.