The great glowing machine sat in the centre of the chamber, the light spilling out from under its protective but filthy cover and even through the dirty fabric the faint pulse of the thing beat like an emerald heart. The room vibrated and trembled with the same evil influence and it was as he looked away that he suddenly noticed the restraints mounted on the stone - thick rings of forged steel with chains and shackles hanging from them. There was no blood on the floor though, as might be common with torture, only the eerie splashes of green that stained the metalwork.
He walked over to the machine but halted a few feet away from it. The glow seemed to grow brighter when he approached and diminished when he walked away. Tubes dangled lifelessly from its sides, dripping in something Haggart had no intention of finding out, yet he had a sudden desire to touch them, to feel them under his fingertips and get close enough to do so. His arm began to rise from his side. He could feel it reaching out to him, calling him closer, dripping honeyed words into the deep recesses of his mind. The voice, it spoke with such a sweet and pleasant voice. He took a step closer, both arms out to embrace it. Come, Haggart. Come to me.
“Eva?” he whispered. “Is that you?”
“Come to me, Haggart. I’ve missed you so much!”
“But how...?”
He saw it move out of the corner of his eye and the spell was broken. One of the dripping tubes was slithering across the floor, inches from his feet and the end of it had swelled open and become a fanged maw dripping with putrid slime. He flung himself backwards as it lunged for him, stumbling and falling and grasping his way back onto his feet. The tube darted after him only to stop a foot from his boots - the maximum reach it was capable of.
“What the hell are you?” he whispered. The voice had gone now, the power diminished and the pulsing slowed. It was exhausted, it needed feeding, he realised. “That's what he was on about,” mused Haggart aloud. He was grateful it hadn't been fed or perhaps the outcome might have been very different.
Regaining his wits, he pledged himself to destroy the thing, to inform the Captain and return in strength. He was convinced that whatever the machine was it was clear it had a far more evil purpose than Hector realised. He retraced his steps back to the trapdoor and left without looking back.
2.
“This race of men is a warlike people. We thrive on combat. We grow in conflict. Our bonds are never stronger than when the enemy presses us hard and death becomes our closest ally. Peace? All men should shun such a demasculating notion. Peace would force us to be less than what we are. Peace would mean the end of man and the beginning of our end. Peace will be the death of us.”
- Alasan Ulther, Chief of Historical Records.
“Are you sure it was the same thing?” said the Captain as Haggart sat down at the table with a plate of cold meats. Harry came over with a mug of mead and he drank it almost immediately. “How can it be? The builders were all killed before the Council came and flattened the place during the overthrow.”
“I know what I saw, Captain. I know what I felt, too. It was alive like the other one.”
“Under the mill? But why?”
“I don't know. What use could Hector have for it?” said Haggart, who'd discovered his appetite as he'd ridden back that morning. He ate his breakfast like it was his last, perhaps because the experience with the machine had shaken him to the core. It'd felt like an age had passed since he'd last heard her voice, and there it was, cruelly mimicked by the machine in order to trap him, devour him like some fly in a spider's web. He shuddered at the thought of what might have been.
“Perhaps he's keeping it hidden for someone else.”
“There's no other explanation, he must be. Perhaps it survived the war. Maybe someone found it and has some hold over Hector, forced him to hide it for him. He looked terrified, Captain, shaken out of his wits with fear. He didn't want it there more than any one I know. And I suspect he's feeding it too.”
“Feeding it? The last time we saw one, they were feeding prisoners to it. We never found out what it actually does, though, did we?” said the Captain.
“No. The builders died before we could find out,” replied Haggart, chewing his bacon like it was made of leather, gnashing and grinding despite the fact it was as soft as butter. Harry had always prided himself on the delicate texture of his pork cuts.
“Did you ever see one work?” said the Captain. Haggart shook his head.
“I heard rumours of them being used but it was all kept secret in case Gorm ever got wind of it and stole the idea. I saw them being moved around too, often with horses and carts from our stables, but never active, never like what I saw under the mill. Your were more likely to hear something than I.”
“You know me, Haggart - I shunned my nobility for as long as I could. I didn't want to eat with those soft buggers every night. A tankard and a leg from the hog is enough for me regardless of what names and titles they want to thrust upon me. I think that made me suspicious in their eyes, less trustworthy for the King's secrets.”
Haggart sat back, his plate empty. “You should never have denied it,” he said. “You are as much a noble as any Knight I’ve served under. The men loved you, every last one of them. There was no need to deny your heritage and shun your rights.”
“Rights? Rights to be pompous pricks who care more for their scraped faces and fine smelling garments than for the lives of those who'd die for them. If I lost anything from denying my family name then I gained a hundred fold when I stood at the front of the battle lines with them all behind me. My Father and his Father before him would have been shamed by this monstrosity we call a society today. The name of Dern, in my opinion, died with them at the battle of Garan bay. The last heroes all died there and sank into the silt to be forgotten taking whatever honour we had left with them. Let them lie there in peace, I say, and let today's men carry their own burdens on their soft-skinned backs.”
“Can it ever change?” asked Haggart.
“It will take a dire need for men to become men again, a terrible catastrophe we may not survive. Damn those men who sit back and let others die for them and collect their rewards. Damn them to hell.”
Haggart let him sit there and release the tension that he'd stored up in remembering the past. It was both the source of his strength and it's only weakness - a nobleman who had seen the plight of his people and condescended to help them, only to be rewarded with shame and ignominy at the hands of his peers. It'd haunted him for his entire life and had been the legacy that his Father had passed down to him and his Father before that - a code of honour that put people before power. Haggart had seen every facet of his suffering down the years and wondered how such a man had managed to survive it and still be able to smile and laugh with people who, by right of birth, were far less worthy to ever sit with him.
“We must destroy it,” he said after a long pause. The Captain, staring into his mug, nodded his head.
“Aye, that me must.”
An hour or so later, the pub began to swell with locals coming for their lunch and to share the gossip of the day with each other over a pint pot and a bowl of stew. It was one of the livelier parts of their day and it helped to distract them both as they busied around the place carrying trays back and forth from the kitchen and pouring mug after mug of mead. They chatted with the farmers and the field hands, traded war stories with the older patrons and for a while forgot that life was not always as dark as it seemed.
Towards the end of the rush Talbert walked in followed by Shankworth who was wearing the dark, boiled leather uniform of the Abergwen even now after so many years. He had the bow-legged walk of a man at home on the rolling waves of the sea and the pitted, weather-worn face of one too. The Captain beckoned them over and a tray of mugs was quickly brought across the room to their familiar corner, far from the ears of the others.
“Long time no see, Shanks,” said the Captain. “Has that girl of yours been keeping you busy, then?”
“Sh
e's amazing. She thinks she can get me a berth on her next voyage. I'll be back on the waters before you know it, mark my words!” he said.
“Aye, like the last girl who came into port. And the one before that,” said Talbert.
“This one is special,” said Shanks, shaking his head. “She's the real thing.”
“They always are until they're waving at you as the ship disappears into horizon.”
“So cynical, Captain. What news do you have for me?”
They talked for a while about the familiar things and people before Shankworth leaned forward in his seat to whisper to them both.
“A strange thing I heard the other day down at the Mariner's - talk of queer tidings coming from the north, from Minivad of all places.”
“Isn't that on the coast of your homeland?” asked Talbert. Haggart nodded.
“Word is there's a lot of comings and goings from there to here. Odd cargo. People fleeing Ulfwen in droves.”
“What people?” asked the Captain.
“A fair amount of Raiders and Tribals and more besides. They're fleeing but they won't say what from. Not just the men neither - women and children with great burdens on their backs. Something's got them spooked.”
“That is odd,” remarked the Captain. “And they're fleeing into the wastes? They won't stand much of a chance out there, surely?”
“That's the thing, they're stopping at Minivad then catching another ship to Slow and on again to who-knows-where.”
“Slow? Who's taking them there?”
Shankworth shrugged. “Beats me. The ships that come in have never been seen in these parts before - odd design too. They land long enough to board, spare no one to leave the ship, then they're gone again.”
“Sounds like rumours and ramblings to me,” said Haggart. “Anything worthy of proof?”
“I can't reveal my sources, Haggs. You know that.”
Haggart sniggered. “Aye, of course. Blind Bill and his gimpy-legged dog. Salty Sid. One-eyed Tom.”
“You mock the ways of the sea?” cried Shankworth, laughing.
“No, my friend - just your version of it.”
*
Towards evening Haggart left the lads drinking in the pub and found Lorrie in his study. She was reading by candle light, her head propped up on her elbow and her eyes studying the small text of the works of Barameus, the scholar. Judging by the amount of pages on her left, she was over half way through it. A cup of wine was next to her and occasionally she would reach out blindly, grasp the drink and move it slowly to her lips without taking her eyes from the page.
“A bit of light reading, then?” said Haggart.
“He has very different views than Alphaeus,” she said.
“You wouldn't think that two brothers, two powerful Summoners, would take such different paths, would you?” he said, sitting down in his favourite reading chair by the window. It was an old and tattered thing he'd found at the market and it'd once belonged to a clerk of the army who'd retired to Sander's Hill a long time ago. Perhaps it was the fact that, like him, it was a relic of a forgotten era.
He lit the candle on the table next to him and the soft, golden glow danced across the spines of his small library. Most of the works were illegal, Council-banned texts that, if found, would land him in jail for a long time. He'd collected them over the years and his travels during his time as a Cavalry man had given him ample opportunity to find dark and dingy bookshops down forgotten alley ways who were more than happy to trade loot for paper. Each one was written in the distinctive pen of its author and each one was specifically linked to the strange art of Summoning. Given the recent arrival of a Hunter in their pub, chances were that such a gathering of work would most likely earn him a swift execution were it ever to be discovered.
“Barameus claims that what we do isn't magic but simply a...” she shuffled a pile of parchments next to her, looking through her notes to find the right definition, “...a summoning of natural energy found in every living being on the earth. What do you think?”
“I think he was on the right lines. Closer, perhaps, than many scholars today. He believed that we altered the world around us on a small scale, using will power alone, using our own energy to affect others' energy. We can't see it most of the time, but every one can do this in some way or another, some more powerfully than others.”
“So how do I apply this?” she said, sitting back and brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. Haggart laughed.
“It's not that simple. It takes practice. And above all that – discipline of the mind. If you understand that our will power gives the command to act, then it's that same mind which must learn to control itself or any thought or feeling will trigger action. For example...” Haggart imagined Lorrie scratching her ear and he pushed the impulse to the front of his mind. Years of training meant that he could drive out all other thoughts – even his own body reacting, his breathing stopping momentarily. Lorrie's hand reached up and scratched. “See?”
“See what?”
“You scratched your ear.”
“So what? I had an itch.”
“And again?” said Haggart, the thought forming itself in his mind again. She scratched. “Again?”
She scratched with her other hand this time.
“Okay, I get it,” she said, but her hand moved to her ear once more. “Stop it, okay?”
“How's your foot?” he said.
“Fine thanks...” Both hands moved to her bare feet and began rubbing her toes.
“That's not fair!” she said.
“You try.”
He watched as she began to concentrate, her face wrinkling up with effort and he could feel the power of the thought pushing gently against his mind. It wasn't enough to cause him to respond though.
“Concentrate harder,” he said and the impulse to slap his own face gathered force. He clapped his hands together and almost immediately the thought vanished as she broke concentration. “Distraction broke your thought. I felt you trying but your full will wasn't behind it. When I clapped, you looked up and the power faded.”
“That's hard,” she said, sweat forming on her brow. “Plus I feel rather...”
“Tired? That's the problem, you see - that same energy you're drawing on is the same energy we use to live. The more powerful the thought, the more the drain and the less energy you will have left.”
“So I'd collapse?”
“Possibly. But if you pushed yourself beyond your abilities you would slip into death-sleep, never to waken again.”
Lorrie nodded and looked down at the book. “Can you teach me?” she said.
“I don't have a choice. If left without any kind of support you'll either kill someone or kill yourself. Your Mother wouldn't have wanted either outcome from her little girl.”
Lorrie looked at the floor and even then he could see her thoughts without the use of any power. He regretted mentioning her mother, regretted distracting her from the good work she was doing without his interference.
“What was she like?” she asked.
“It's hard for me to describe her, Lorrie - I'm useless with words.” Then the idea struck him and he searched his memory for that single image that stuck in his mind over the years, the sight of her holding her child in the summer sun a week after she was born. He projected it across the room and summoned it directly into her mind. Lorrie suddenly drooped in her chair and the tears fell freely as she saw the face of her mother for the first time, vivid and beautiful, tall and golden haired.
“Is that... me?” said Lorrie as the memory faded in her mind with the rapidity with which it had come.
“Yes,” he replied. “You were but a week old. There was a lull in the war of the Southern Lords. Your mother was in the army and she was going to leave the moment it ended and make a life for the two of you. That was before news about your Father reached us.”
“Can you...”
Haggart shook his head.
“That memory
was... special. It took a lot for me to show you and I'm sorry to say that I never met your Father. He was a noble, a Knight of the old King. We would have fought many miles from each other, possibly never meeting.”
“Oh.”
“It's late. You should get some supper and think about some sleep,” he said. She got up out of the chair a little unsteadily and, closing the book, turned to leave.
“How did she die, Haggart?” she asked. For a moment he thought about telling her but it wasn't the time - if there was ever going to be a right time. So instead he just smiled and shook his head.
“One day I will tell you. This is not the time, not while you're discovering your own abilities. I'll tell you this, though. She was the bravest and kindest woman I have ever met and her thoughts were only of you until the very end.”
Lorrie nodded, fresh tears falling from her cheeks, and left.
Haggart looked at his hand, the one scarred by the rune and looked across his shelves for his old service records - notebooks he'd filled with details from his time training under the Summoning Master, Sturgis. He'd been a stubborn bastard in his day and like most highly skilled people his demands for constant improvement had always been misunderstood as arrogance. It had taken Haggart a long time to get used to the old veteran but after a few years he'd seen the potential in this foreign illiterate boy and taken him under his wing. By the time Haggart had ridden into his first battle he was reading and writing fluently and he was able to summon to a small degree. It was Sturgis who'd advised him to take notes if for no other reason than to practice words and letters, but more importantly to record his own learning in summoning for future generations to benefit from. It was this same reason that had stocked his library with others who felt the same way.
Haggart's Dawn Page 4
