A Blackbird In Darkness (Book 2)

by Freda Warrington

  There was something else. The Serpent was angry with her. Its anger was as devastating as its hate, and that alone kept it lashing at her when ordinarily it would have subsided into a sullen torpor.

  It was the personal quality of its anger that revolted her. Sometimes it left her so sickened that it took all her will to fight an impulse to wrap her arms around her head and scream. There was only one way she could define the emotion: jealousy.

  Now, as she sat by the fire with Calorn, the struggle continued. She was grateful for the bow to work on, because it helped to concentrate her mind. Yet she could feel the tremor in her hands, and kept finding herself staring at them as if they did not belong to her – oscillating white things outlined by red firelight. She knew how strained and ill she must look to the others; perhaps they thought she was losing her mind. There was nothing she could do about it. At least Estarinel was respecting her need to be left alone – she dared not spare a single thought for him – but Calorn’s warmth and concern made her feel there was a black abyss yawning at her feet, and it would be easiest to jump screaming into the darkness...

  She could not deny it. She was losing her self-control. Every day it grew more tenuous, as if the glacier to which she clung was gradually slipping away from her. Her whole body ached with the cold, but she dared not let go. Had she been able to acknowledge any emotion, she would have found that she was terrified.

  Even when she slept, she was continually haunted by phantasms and could find no peace. She and the Serpent shared each other’s dreams. Then they did not fight, but drifted together through torpid nightmares, sometimes towards a grey shape that filled her with dread of ever reaching it; sometimes towards a small, bright-eyed, brown and gold creature that was the embodiment of life, but which filled the Serpent with such loathing that it flooded Medrian too. These nightmares were worse than the waking conflict.

  Now that its initial fury had subsided, it spoke to her. It did not use words as such, yet the meaning of its thoughts was as sharp and precise as a snake’s fangs, curved and glutinous with venom, striking repeatedly into her brain.

  How dare you? it said. How dare you go to that place where you knew I could not follow? The part of me that lives in you was left in limbo. Limbo, vile nothingness. For that, I cannot let you go unpunished, Medrian. And for denying me, for hiding your thoughts, for setting out upon this evil Quest, you must be punished also.

  ‘And how will you punish me?’ Medrian asked.

  By defeating you. By possessing you, the Worm answered simply. By whatever means will hurt you the most. Hosts have rebelled against me before; you are not the first. But none has prevailed.

  ‘I know,’ she said. She had the miserable stories of all those hosts imprinted on her memory.

  Then be warned. Do not continue this foolishness, my Medrian. I know that you went to that place with the most evil intent. Now you are keeping something from me...

  Medrian knew that M’gulfn meant the Silver Staff. So far she had succeeded in shielding its mind from knowledge of the Staff. Although Ashurek had voiced the fear that it must know already, in fact it did not, thanks solely to Medrian’s dogged efforts. But it was aware that she was hiding something, and that was dangerous. It made M’gulfn angrier, more persistent in its vicious attacks on her defences.

  I must know what it is. You will reveal it to me eventually, have no doubt.

  ‘There is nothing to know.’

  But there is. What is it, Medrian, what is it? You must tell me.

  She remained silent, cloaking her thoughts in a mantle of ice. M’gulfn’s tone became soft, petulant, edged with bitter jealousy. I cannot permit you to go anywhere without me, Medrian. You should not have gone – you had no right. I will never forgive you. I see something in your mind…. I see that you have dared to turn away from me. You have steadfastly refused me, yet you have dared to share your soul with some wretched human while I was left in the void. I will not allow your attention elsewhere, my Medrian, I will not tolerate it.

  ‘I am not yours,’ she said faintly. She could not bear its possessiveness.

  I could have taken another host, M’gulfn said unexpectedly. I need not have waited while you were away, betraying me... How could you have continued your evil Quest then? Yes, I should have taken another host.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, you could not have done,’ she said, feeling weary. It continued to taunt her in the same vein, but she knew that even the all-powerful Serpent could not choose a new host on a whim. For some reason it was closely tied to its hosts, keeping them alive into extreme old age and only then reluctantly letting them die. She sensed that it found the transition from its old host to a new one unpleasant, if not actually painful. Worse: it attached itself to its host like an incubus, in a grotesque parody of human affection. She had never had any fear – or hope – that it would not be waiting for her when they left the Blue Plane.

  I grow tired of you turning away from me. Tired of you not listening.

  ‘I am listening. You give me no choice.’

  You listen to them. When they offer you help, I feel you yearning towards them, longing to betray me. Why don’t you let them help you, my Medrian? Why not stop fighting me? You must be very tired. You want to weep... why not surrender? I will not hurt you...

  Medrian stubbornly ignored this transparent cajoling. Without warning – its moods were never predictable – it became angry again.

  I will make you listen to me, Medrian. I will make you surrender and let me into your thoughts. It would cause you pain, would it not, if one of your human friends were to die? That woman by you, for instance...

  ‘No – you must not!’ She could always distinguish between its hollow threats and genuine ones. Appalled, she realised that it truly meant to cause Calorn’s death. ‘You cannot. I won’t allow it.’

  You will have no choice. I will kill her. No... I will make you kill her. That will be even better. You doubt that I can? The Worm was laughing, its mockery reverberating through her skull until she craved to put her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block it out. It laughed and spoke to her at the same time, its wordless voice at once very loud and very quiet, as if she were suffering the distorted perceptions of a fever. She felt that she was going mad beneath the onslaught of its will, inexorably mutating into a puppet controlled by M’gulfn.

  ‘You can’t make me do anything,’ she whispered faintly. But the Serpent continued to laugh.

  #

  Ashurek rode at a hell-driven pace. His mare, Vixata, was lightly-built but deceptively fast and strong. She shone brilliant copper-gold in colour and her mane and tail danced on the wind like white fire. Her nostrils were scarlet and sweat creamed on her neck, but still she galloped with manic energy.

  He was out of the forest now and heading south-west, crossing a hilly terrain of silver-green grass dotted here and there with outcrops of granite and ash-brown copses. Ashurek’s grey cloak billowed out behind him but the hood was pulled well down to conceal his dark, baleful face. His mood was very grim, images of Silvren, Meshurek and Orkesh arrayed as a grisly backdrop to his thoughts.

  His route was taking him towards the coast, some miles south of the bay where they had left The Star of Filmoriel. He could smell salt borne on a cold wind from the ocean and he saw the silver line of water glittering on the horizon. Sheep and goats grazing ahead of him scattered as he approached. Now he saw the roofs of a small village set in a dip at the sea’s edge. He pulled Vixata to a walk and climbed a hill to get a better view.

  It was a sprawling settlement of simple, wattle-and-daub dwellings with thatched roofs. Many of them were surrounded by enclosures full of poultry and pigs. He looked for something that might be a smithy. All he could see was a long, two-storeyed building constructed incongruously of stone, with a red tile roof broken by a number of turrets. The building was near the shore and looked new and out of place.

  His gaze moved beyond to the sea. The village obscured the view, but
he could discern the masts of several large ships lying at anchor beyond the stone manor.

  Ashurek was mystified. He would have expected to see fishing vessels near such a village, but what possible use could they have for ships of war?

  He rode down the hillside and skirted the village, determined to take a closer look. The hill flattened out and grass gave way to rust-brown, fissured rock, dark with seawater and patterned with pools. The rock fell away into deep, calm water, so forming a natural harbour. Ashurek turned Vixata along the edge towards the village and she picked her way surefootedly over the rough ground. Fifty yards on, a wooden quay jutted out above the water and along this lay four great, three-masted caravels.

  They were Tearnian in construction, strong, solid and cumbersome. Yet the design of the ships appeared Gorethrian. He rode slowly along the quay, Vixata’s hooves echoing dully on the planks. There were some men at work on the nearest vessel, applying a recognisably Gorethrian device to the hull.

  Ashurek halted Vixata and stared. Ghosts of the past thronged round him and he felt chilled by apprehension. A wisp of thought passed through his mind, ‘This is the Serpent’s doing.’

  A man came walking towards him along the quay, saluting. He was middle-aged and thin, with weather-darkened skin and pale grey eyes.

  ‘Sir?’ the man called, sounding uncertain. ‘We, er, we have nearly completed the first device. Perhaps you would care to inspect the work, er, which I hope will meet with your approval, although…’ He broke off as he reached Ashurek and stared him full in the face. A mixture of shock and confusion transformed the man’s visage. He backed away, then turned and ran. Ashurek watched as he drew level with the turreted stone building, ran up the wide path that led from the quay to the door, and disappear inside.

  Ashurek rode after him at a walk, conscious of the other men around the quay staring at him as he passed. He ignored them.

  He came to the main entrance to the manor, a great pair of double doors standing open. Within he could see a lofty, bare stone hall with another pair of doors open at the far side; the modest cottages of the village could be seen beyond. As he halted Vixata on the white flagstones of the path, the thin man immediately came hurrying out of the building and approached him.

  ‘My, er, my master requests that you tell me your name and business, er – er – Sir,’ he stammered.

  ‘Tell him that my name is Prince Ashurek of Gorethria, and that I will state my business to him in person only.’

  The man flew back into the hall. A minute or so elapsed. He came out again but hurried straight past Ashurek, bowing and averting his eyes, evidently having been ordered to return to his work. Ashurek waited and presently another figure emerged.

  A Gorethrian. A very familiar face, one he had not seen for five years or more. The shock of recognition was intense, unpleasant. Ashurek felt himself caught in a dull spiral of foreboding, winding inexorably towards a pre-destined fate, almost as though he were about to relive events that had already happened.

  The figure was Karadrek. He had been Ashurek’s general, his second-in-command, throughout the years when Ashurek had been High Commander of the Gorethrian Forces.

  ‘Prince Ashurek. Your Highness. This is – unexpected,’ said Karadrek, by way of understatement. ‘That half-blind workman of mine mistook you for me at first glance.’

  Karadrek was tall and thin, and his purple-brown skin was darker than Ashurek’s, almost black. His face was hawk-like and his pale green eyes had a keen malevolence in them. He was wearing black robes embellished with purple and gold brocade. Ashurek noted that his missing hand had been replaced by an artificial one encased in a matching glove.

  It was Ashurek who had severed that missing hand.

  ‘I thought you were dead, Karadrek,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You hoped,’ said Karadrek in a brittle tone, ‘but I am not.’ And he smiled, a humourless, predatory smile. Ashurek slid off Vixata’s back and pulled back his hood.

  ‘Well, what in the name of the Serpent are you doing here?’ he asked, keeping his voice level and devoid of emotion.

  ‘I would ask the same of you,’ was the cold, grinning reply. ‘You can bring your mare through to the other side of the hall and tether her, if you please, your Highness. Then we can talk. Isn’t she the mare you took when you... ah ... disappeared?’

  ‘The same.’ They walked through the doors and across the bare hall. Inside, Ashurek saw doorways leading to workshops, the largest of them framing the glow and heat of a furnace. The rhythm of hammers on steel pierced the air. Emerging into the village, Ashurek tethered Vixata to a post and gazed around at the wattle-and-daub dwellings and the maze of muddy tracks that ran between them. The air was thick with the smell of animals, mingling with another, more sinister aroma. ‘Vixata is not so young now, but still fit and tenacious.’

  ‘Why are you dressed in mourning?’ Karadrek asked unexpectedly, his voice sharp.

  ‘What?’ Ashurek exclaimed. Then he realised that Karadrek was referring to his grey, H’tebhmellian cloak. Gorethrians always wore vivid colours: black, red, gold, green or purple. Grey was reserved for mourning. He was about to say that he had merely adopted a Tearnian style of dress; instead, he replied grimly, ‘I have much to mourn, Karadrek.’

  ‘Yes. I can believe it,’ was the unfeeling response. They were speaking Gorethrian, a language Ashurek had avoided using for years. ‘Tell me, your Highness, how did you know I was here? Why have you come?’

  Ashurek wondered how to reply. There were too many unanswered questions; the cold, calculating part of him that was intrinsic to his Gorethrian mentality told him to proceed with utmost caution.

  ‘I did not know that you were here. My purpose is simple; I need weaponry, good quality swords and knives…’

  An equal amount of calculation seemed to be taking place in Karadrek’s mind. He must have wondered what Ashurek needed with such weapons, and why he was unarmed in the first place, but he tried to conceal his curiosity.

  ‘We have an excellent store of arms.’ he replied impassively. ‘Why do you need them?’

  ‘It is too long a story to explain, General Karadrek. I might try, however, if only you will explain to me how you come to be here.’

  They stood and looked at each other, Karadrek smiling like a lizard. Ashurek had a strange feeling of unreality, of detachment and sour resignation. The desire to murder Karadrek had lain dormant in him for a long time. Now he found himself reconsidering the reasons for that desire.

  Karadrek had urged Ashurek to usurp his brother Meshurek and take the Gorethrian throne. But having no desire to become Emperor, Ashurek had refused, and Karadrek had never forgiven him. Later Karadrek had been corrupted by contact with the Egg-Stone and he had conspired with the demon, Meheg-Ba, to disgrace Ashurek by massacring the Drishians. Ashurek had burned to take revenge for that atrocious, irremediable act. Often he thought what a fool he had been only to have cut off Karadrek’s left hand, and not to have executed him. Afterwards Karadrek had disappeared, and most had thought him dead.

  Now, here he was, inexplicably in a remote part of Tearn, building warships...

  ‘Yes, perhaps I can make you understand. Follow me,’ Karadrek said thoughtfully, beckoning him to a stone staircase that swept up the outside of the hall. ‘Prince Ashurek, your Highness, I know that we have had our differences in the past; yet now I am happy that you have come here. It must be fate. I feel sure that if you will only bear with me, you will appreciate what I am doing, and why.’

  Shades of Arlenmia, Ashurek thought darkly. They entered a room that took up half the top floor of the manor. Here were arms enough to equip the caravels moored along the quay.

  ‘A token of my goodwill, your Highness,’ said Karadrek in his dry, reserved tone of voice. ‘I no longer bear you any grudge. Surely this meeting is fortuitous, and a sign that we should forget the enmities of long ago? Take whatever weapons you need.’

  ‘What do you require in re
turn?’

  ‘I think you have paid me already. By giving me renewed hope.’

  Ashurek gave him a candid look and selected three good steel swords with scabbards, and three knives. There was a limit to how much they could carry; he decided also to take two axes and a crossbow, and leave it at that. Karadrek watched with sardonically raised eyebrows, no doubt wondering where – and who – his two companions were.

  Ashurek strapped a sword at his hip, and put the rest of the weapons into a saddlebag, which he took outside and placed near Vixata, ready for their departure.

  ‘You built this manor?’ he asked, indicating the sweep of the red roof with its pointed, Gorethrian-style turrets.

  ‘Aye,’ Karadrek chuckled. ‘It’s not much of a village to be master of, is it? A few Tearnian peasants hardly compare with the imperial Gorethrian Army, but they have their uses. Within this manor I have my smithy and weaponry, my chandler and shipyard, living quarters for myself and my servants... all very basic, I fear, but it serves its purpose.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘As sharp as ever you were, your Highness.’

  ‘I’m curious, naturally. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Four years, thereabouts.’ He was leading Ashurek along a wide, flagged way – the only clean path through the mud – that led from the manor, up a gentle slope through the centre of the village, and to a modest, square hut. Ashurek was aware of the villagers staring as they passed. All had paused in their work and were solemnly saluting Karadrek. He noticed the uniformly glazed, fishlike glare of their eyes, the slow, plastic way they moved. A familiar anger kindled within him.

  Ashurek stopped and gripped Karadrek’s arm.

  ‘Let us cease these deceitful civilities, Karadrek,’ he said. The other looked suddenly discomfited by the cold green fire burning in Prince Ashurek’s eyes. He had seen the look many times before, and it always boded ill. ‘The atrocities in Drish were perpetrated with a demon’s help. I believe you must have escaped with a demon’s help also. And once they have their claws into a human, they do not easily relinquish their hold. Tell me the truth; are you working with the Shana now?’