by J. W. Webb
“I am hardly dressed for a party.”
“You look gorgeous, Ariane.”
“You, haystack, are as bad as Corin.” Ariane was on her second bottle.
“Nobody is as bad as Corin,” Barin replied.
“True,” responded the queen. “I miss him...” With that last comment still hanging in the air Ariane left Barin to his peruse from the balcony. At dawn Tarello woke her with word that Wynais, the Silver City, had fallen to treachery within, and that even now Perani’s army laid waste to the streets of her capital.
At last Caswallon had shown his hand. They’d been taken for fools. The attack on Calprissa had been a ruse to lure her troops away from the capital. The real war had only just begun. Morning revealed no sign of Derino’s force. Doubtless they’d received word to join their masters in the east. Within three hours Ariane was riding east.
The battle for Kelwyn had begun.
Chapter 46
The Return of Old Night
That following afternoon found The Starlight Wanderer already far out to sea, graced by a helpful sou’wester, her decks painted by the pale glow of a wintry sun. The cliffs of Cape Calprissa slowly sunk behind. They’d left early, retiring to the vessel after the celebrations and casting off at dawn.
Away south a trail of smoke revealed all that was left of the Assassin’s fleet. Ariane’s ships would return to Calprissa that evening. The sailors would bolster the garrison as it prepared for Caswallon’s next move.
Shallan’s mood was reflective this afternoon. She watched from the dancing prow as the lukewarm sun sparkled over froth-capped waves and a school of dolphins leapt joyfully towards them.
Shallan didn’t share their joy. Last night she had watched the flames leap high above her father’s funeral pyre. The Duke of Morwella’s last words hung heavy on her.
The Horned Man was her real father not the duke. She was half Faen—one of the faerie people. Her blood alien and strange. The thought made her sad, thinking how Duke Tomais had lived with that knowledge all those years. That his wife had had a lover and his daughter was not of his seed.
Mother, what happened back then?
Shallan thought about Ariane and her mixed feelings towards her. She and the queen would never be friends, and yet Ariane had been so kind to her of late. She thought of Corin and wondered what feelings Ariane still harboured for him.
I know you still love him, cousin.
Time would tell. Shallan shrugged, turned to watch the dolphins approach. They were calling to her—her watery kin.
The crew were busy at their tasks and hadn’t noticed them. Moreover, they were of a mind to leave Shallan to her thoughts. Even Barin gave her space to mend. Her only companion of late had been Zukei. The two girls had warmed to each other since the duke’s death. Worlds apart: the duke’s dreamy daughter and the savage dark-eyed killer from the distant south. Zukei seldom spoke, which suited Shallan well enough. The girl was away talking to Fassof this afternoon. Shallan had noted how those two seemed to like each other.
As Shallan watched from her vantage point she saw that some of the creatures had the blue faces and upper bodies of young maidens. As she listened Shallan could hear them calling her name from far across the water.
Shallan, beloved sister return to us…
I will one day—that I promise.
Shallan waved goodbye to her kinfolk, turned and made her way below to the master’s cabin. The dolphins departed amid melancholy cries.
Later, as she took to her bed that night, and just before closing her eyes, Shallan saw three shadows watching her from the wall of her cabin.
Shallan closed her eyes, but not before recognising the duke and her mother’s sad faces. Behind them the Horned Man’s shadow faded and flickered from view. Despite the ghostly visitation Shallan slept far better than she had done in weeks.
***
Corin fed Thunderhoof fresh oats supplied by one of Barakani’s sons, as he waited for the party to say their farewells. They had ridden north for several hours. During that time Corin had learned from Silon and Yashan of Barakani’s gathering of the tribes, and of their journey south to the Crystal Mountains.
Once there they had waited for the arrival of the sultan—their scouts having reported his presence amongst the crimson elite. It seemed all had gone as planned and everyone was now congratulating themselves. And good for them too, he was very happy for them.
Actually he wasn’t.
Once again he, Corin an Fol, had been a clueless participant in someone else’s business. Silon, Zallerak and now this Barakani and his desert boys. For once it would be nice to play with his organ instead of everyone else controlling it. No matter—once free of this desert Corin would part with the lot of them. He’d miss Ulani and Tamersane—even Bleyne. But needs must. Car Carranis was waiting and Shallan would be there by now.
After some hours they topped a high ridge of sand and Barakani reined in his steed. Beside him his seven sons smiled as they grasped the hands of Corin and his friends and bade them farewell.
“Here we part our ways,” said Barakani with a wave of his hand. “Go with my blessing. From now on you are always welcome in Permio. If there is any way I can aid in your struggle against the sorcerer I shall.
“A short ride north from here will bring you to the banks of the Liaho, near Helbrone Island. Upstream of that isle is a shallow ford where you can cross without difficulty.
“I suggest you make for the Fallowheld at the southern end of the High Wall mountain range; it commands a wide view of the lands there about. Farewell!” Barakani wheeled his horse about and signalled his sons to follow. Those left behind waved and said their farewells to the Wolf of the Desert and his fiery sons.
Ulani eased his horse alongside Thunder and thrust out a brawny arm.
“I wish you well, Longswordsman,” Ulani said with a broad grin. The wound on his face had nearly healed and his leg no longer troubled him that much. “I ride south with Yashan,” the king said. Behind him the lean desert warrior raised his hand in farewell as he took a pull at his weed pipe.
“Must you leave us?” asked Corin, returning the wave to Yashan with a smile. “We will have need of warriors of your prowess in the north. Besides, Barin will be most disappointed if he misses the opportunity to beat you in an arm wrestle!”
“He’ll have to wait!” laughed Ulani. “My heart tells me I will meet this Barin one day, and that you and I, Longswordsman, will fight together again before this business is fully over. Until that bright day comes I wish you well, Corin son of Fol. I must return to Yamondo. There is trouble in my country too. Big trouble. My people will need my guidance in the coming strife. I have already been gone far too long.”
Corin watched with Tamersane and Bleyne the archer as their friends, King Ulani of the Baha and Yashan the tribesman, caught up with Barakani and his seven sons and began the long ride back towards the oasis.
“I shall miss Ulani,” said Tamersane, scratching his head and yawning as he reached for the water gourd. Ahead of them the young Prince Tarin and Zallerak the bard (or Arollas the Aralais as Corin had started calling him, much to the wizard’s annoyance), were already trotting north towards the pale distant ribbon of the Liaho.
“He is a fine warrior, “added Bleyne. “I too would like to witness him and Barin in a wrestling match. That would really be worth watching; only the goddess would know who was strongest. Well, it’s nice to have something to look forward to. By the way, we had best get moving, hadn’t we?” Bleyne grinned at them both before trotting off to catch up with the others.
“What’s got into him? I’ve never heard him talk so much,” mumbled Tamersane.
“He’s been in this damn desert too long,” answered Corin. “We all have. I’m sick of getting sand up my arse.”
“Aye, it will be good to return to fertile green lands of flowing ale and nubile winking lasses,” grinned Tamersane. Corin rolled his eyes in resignation. There was only on
e thing they could be sure off in the north and that was trouble.
“Come on, Thunder,” he grumped at the horse. “Let’s be off. Back to the northlands; the mist and rain and sleet and sludge. Winter is waiting.” Thunderhoof didn’t respond to that.
The remainder of their journey passed without event until once again they arrived at the muddy banks of the River Liaho and made rudimentary camp by its waters.
They had survived the desert despite everything it had thrown at them. In the north the distant mountains known as the High Wall were capped with heavy cloud. A chill wind bore down on them from that direction confirming winter held court in their homelands.
Next morning they forded the river and left the arid land of Permio behind. Corin glanced back on a whim. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see a figure watching them from the far bank. The tall figure of an old man, his features obscured beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
Corin turned away. Let the Huntsman play his games. Morak was defeated and the Tekara re-forged. Corin had done more than his share. Let them do as they would. He was bound for Car Carranis. Corin smiled, picturing Shallan’s beautiful face.
“Come on, Thunder—let’s get cracking.” Corin grinned for the first time in weeks. Despite Thunderhoof’s indifference his rider was glad to be leaving the desert behind.
***
Gribble watched the shambles leaving Calprissa. What a sorry bunch they’d proved to be. Bad Boy Derino had got shafted by the Northman, and Perani would have to send someone else across to bang their heads together. Gribble wondered whether the time was right to request promotion. He had been an exceptionally good spy. Probably not, on reflection—Mr Caswallon was unpredictable these days.
And Mr Caswallon had other things on his mind. Queen Ariane. The noose was tightening around her at last. She had proved such a troublesome little minx. But her game was up. Tricksy Ariane had nowhere to go.
The traitor had opened the gates to them in Wynais. There’d be nice warm flesh there. Far better than munching corpses and dead doggy Groil. Gribble decided he’d need a proper lunch before heading back north to Kella.
Silver City, here I come. .
***
By the time he’d staggered into the harbour his ships had departed. Rael had taken to diving in the water, cutting across to the far side. Once there he would commence the long hike up to Kelthaine. From Fardoris he’d sail over to his island. When home he would disembowel the deserters and pickle their heads. He’d retire for winter and in spring return to cause havoc. Rael owed many debts. This was no longer business. This was personal.
A dark shape blotted the sun. Squinting, Rael glimpsed Caswallon’s goblin flying overhead. Caswallon could play his own game. Rael had one thing on his mind. Return home and plot revenge on the bastards that had foiled him yet again. That thought kept him alive through the following weeks.
***
The Tekara re-forged closes one game and opens another. Oroonin smiles, this new game is starting well. Above Him the nine worlds turn and spin ceaselessly on their axis. Oroonin listens; He feels the Maker’s presence far away, senses the time so long awaited draws close. He chants the rune-words summoning Uppsalion the corpse-horse, His steed for countless millennia. Together they depart from the desert land where He has been watching events unfold to His satisfaction.
Uppsalion carries its rider high, far beyond the place where the clouds wrack the skies. Time and matter shifts; Oroonin crosses dimensions, seeking that high lonely castle in the sky.
Telcanna is expecting Him. The Sky-God awaits His brother’s arrival whilst holding court from His cobalt throne. The courtesans in the Sky-God’s palace are beautiful too, they gather in their hundreds to adulate at His feet. Telcanna’s raiment is a shimmering dazzle of sapphire: it hides His face. The Sky-God calls out to Oroonin as His brother rides close.
“So you return, gallows bird. Can you not sense it? OUR BROTHER WAKES!” Telcanna’s voice echoes across the heavens. As He speaks shafts of lightning spear out from His cobalt mouth.
“Already he challenges his bonds. The final war has started at last! WAKEN YOUR HOUNDS, OROONIN! UNLEASH YOUR CORPSE LEGIONS WHILE YOU STILL CAN!”
Oroonin says nothing, choosing to ignore His brother’s rant until Telcanna, in irritation, dismisses His court. Castle and court vanish. Telcanna glares at His brother before turning and fading into nothingness.
The Huntsman watches Him go in silence and smiles that calculating smile. And so it begins: the final war. Deep in the roots of Ansu, He feels His other brother stirring. Ansu. The world where it started and the world where it will end.
Oroonin allows His mind to journey back down there again. There is something still to do. He mounts Uppsalion and swoops down through racing skies.
His journey this time takes the Huntsman far south of the desert realm to the steaming jungles of Yamondo. It is here that He seeks for the second time, that forgotten fissure beneath the fiery mountain in the jungles’ midst.
Oroonin spies the lonely peak’s trail of smoke rising up above the lush vegetation surrounding it. He bids Uppsalion wait, while in astral form He ventures toward the mountainside.
Oroonin is wary. There is much danger here even for one such as He. A pale ghost. The Huntsman passes beneath the dreary gates where the demon lies sleeping. He finds the sconce flickering stairway and follows its winding path, down and down, in darkening spirals. Passing stinking pools of filth where fear holds sway, and shadowy things gape at him from churning, oozing pits.
Down and down and down Oroonin’s shade hastens, towards the final catacomb from whence comes the hidden icy fire. Fell unspeakable creatures snarl at His passing. The Huntsman is invisible to their eyes but they can sense His hidden presence.
Fangs snap and talons claw toward Him as the creatures of Chaos waken from their ancient sleep. Oroonin ignores them as He draws near to the fiery heart of the mountain. Light fades as the mountain sleeps, its fires content to wait.
At last the Huntsman reaches that final awful place; the cavern men call Yffarn, and even He knows fear at what He sees there.
Big Brother.
Eyes set deep in that huge severed head watch His approach from the high plinth at the edge of the fiery lake.
Cul-Saan.
In this place the sentient head of the Huntsman’s eldest and most feared brother, branded Old Night, has been imprisoned for aeons.
Oroonin approaches slowly, warily. He is careful to avoid the fumes of Old Night’s contaminated breath. The Huntsman’s single eye narrows when it sees how the blood drips endlessly from its owner’s severed neck to rest in smoking puddles on the lava lake below. So the contamination still spreads.
Silence chokes the air; glowing translucent mould clings to slimy walls like a canker of despair. The head of Old Night rotates slowly on its plinth. His terrible eyes see who has come. His are the eyes of futility: darker than the jungle night, colder than the tundra wastes, and yet veined with living fire.
Then the head of Old Night speaks through the ruined crack of His mouth, filling the cavern with the stench of rotting flesh. Blood salivates around Cul-Saan’s black, snake tongue. He yawns, spraying the cavern and walls with his detritus.
“SO YOU RETURN.”
The words are like poison. They shake the roots of the mountain, His tomb/dungeon, and waken the last of His nightmare brood. The dark acolytes that chose to be incarcerated with Him. Here in Yffarn beneath the mountain. Despite His fear Oroonin is not to be swayed. His single eye blazes icy blue in return.
“The time comes.”
“WE FEEL IT.” The head stares down at Him from its fiery mantle. “OUR CHILDREN AWAKE, THE TIME FOR OUR VENGEANCE HAS ARRIVED. WHICH SIDE WILL YOU TAKE THIS TIME, DOUBLECROSSER?”
“I play my own game as you know well enough,” responds the shade of Oroonin. Behind Him the dark sinewy shapes of Cul-Saan’s acolytes manifest and gather, their insect eyes glaring like bloody swabs of hun
ger.
Old Night laughs. The sound splits stone sending tremors through the mountain and out into the jungle night beyond, where savage beasts pause in their hunt quailing suddenly at an unknown fear.
“CHOOSE WISELY, LITTLE BROTHER.”
The ghastly head rocks on its plinth. Oroonin’s god sight can see that most of the invisible bonds binding His brother’s head have rotted into spidery ruin.
Now as the head moves a dark river of blood glistens beneath it. Sizzling, it gushes forth corrupting the fire and melting the stone beneath it.
“WE ARE ALMOST FREE.”
Those ice-fire eyes are fully open now. Behind the plinth the stained children of Old Night stoop to drink deeply at the gushing river of blood seeping from His neck. They sigh like lovers as their long banished strength returns to them at last. Again the head speaks.
“I AM THE LORD OF CHAOS AND FUTILY. SOON I SHALL BE ONE WITH MY BODY. THEN SHALL THE FINAL RENDING BEGIN.
BEHOLD, BROTHER, YOU ARE WITNESSING THE RETURN OF OLD NIGHT!”
At those terrible words the mountain rocks in sudden violence shaking its foundations to the core. Stone crashes and splits asunder. Jets of fire surge forth into the heavens.
At the gate the demon wakes in fury and discovers itself bound helpless in writhing flames. Oroonin flees. He alone is no match for the might of His eldest brother, even in His present dismembered state.
The children of Old Night shriek and wail behind Him as He runs. They can see Oroonin clearly now. They chase His departing spirit up from the roots of the mountain.
The Huntsman passes between the ruined broken gates; He glances down at the writhing tortured demon trapped by its own bonds of fire. Oroonin summons Uppsalion and the corpse-horse bears Him aloft just as the mountain spews gobbets of black flame a thousand feet into the sky.
That flame takes form. A tyrant tall and beautiful garbed in glossiest black. The spirit of Cul-Saan the First Born, soon to be free again. Old Night. The earth shakes with the sound of His laughter. His form shimmers—splits into a billion fiery splinters and then settles like choking dust on jungle below.
