The Kingdom of Dreams (Chronicles of the Magi Book 2)

by Morris, Dave

  Altor had risen from the bier and, flexing his muscles, swung his sword a couple of times in the air to limber up. ‘I’m lucky you got to me before it was too late,’ he said.

  Caelestis briefly considered telling his friend the full story—that he hadn’t been in time, that Hela had claimed her victim, and Altor’s vital spark had been restored by the Faltyn’s magic. But the Faltyn was a pagan creature, as it had itself said, and Altor was a monk-in-training. Caelestis doubted if he would be comfortable knowing that even the tiniest part of his life-essence had come from a transfusion out of the Faltyn’s veins.

  ‘Yes, you were lucky,’ was all he said.

  A passage led off the far side of the courtyard. The pair advanced along it, Altor leading the way. His sword glimmered with soft grey light that penetrated only a few steps ahead into the gloom. Cracked flagstones tilted underfoot, sending the grubs and insects that sheltered there scurrying. Their tiny legs made scritching sounds on the stone and their wings whirred in the air, eerily magnified by the closeness of the passage walls.

  The passage ended in a flight of steps, smooth-worn and carpeted with moss. Dead ivy formed a rope around the balustrade. As they were about to go up, Caelestis heard a sound that made his hair stand on end. A loose flagstone just behind him had given out an ominous clunk.

  He froze, then whirled and stabbed with his sword.

  ‘What was that?’ said Altor, looking back.

  Caelestis stood dumbfounded. His sword had met only empty air. There was no-one behind him after all.

  ‘Greetings,’ said a voice on the stairs.

  They looked round, startled. Standing on the bottom step was a figure wrapped entirely in black, even across his face. Both were sure he had not been there a moment earlier.

  ‘If you will come with me,’ said the man in black, ‘His Majesty is ready to see you now.’

  They followed the man up the steps and between two soaring columns into a chamber whose ceiling sparkled with glints of mosaic high above their heads. Faces of cold chiselled marble gazed disdainfully from the walls. The floor was thick with grey dust, a dry pool that swirled away in thick ripples as they crossed the room to reveal polished black flagstones that had perhaps been covered up for centuries.

  At the edge of vision, figures seemed to dance to the steps of a slow pavane. But they were no more than grey flitting forms, not real enough to show when looked on squarely. Whenever Altor and Caelestis turned to look, wherever they had thought to see a dancer there was just a long draping of cobweb silk undulating weightlessly in the air.

  The dust rose, darkening what little light there was. The man who led the way became just a shadow against the haze.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Caelestis.

  They waited a long time for him to answer, and his reply when it came seemed to issue from so far away that they could barely hear it:

  ‘To a place that shines nowhere but in the dark, and where the day is invisible and dim.’

  The outlines of the vast chamber faded, blurred by the fog of dust. The man in black was swallowed entirely in the haze. For a time they walked in nothingness, an indistinct infinity.

  Sounds came out of the mist—the distant clash of swords, wooden shields bitten by sharp steel, the groans of dying men.

  Gradually these sounds faded, replaced by a steady incessant thudding that was like the pulse of a gigantic heart. Relentless and rhythmic, it grew closer—louder—until they were almost deafened.

  A scene began to form, quite suddenly as if it were a theatre being assembled by magical stagehands. Altor and Caelestis stood dazzled in a blaze of light. An arena now rose on all sides, and the noise they had imagined to be a huge heartbeat revealed itself to be the cacophonous chanting of a crowd.

  Except that there was no crowd. The terraces were empty. They were alone in the arena.

  No, not quite alone. At the far end, above the tiers of seats, was a royal dais where a gleam of light outlined an old man standing there, a person of sneering lip and baleful eye.

  The old man raised his glowing staff and the chant lulled to a sinister murmuring. Now he was lit in stark relief and Altor and Caelestis found their eyes drawn to him. Despite the distance they could see every fold of his robe, every deep wrinkle in his sallow face. The rest of the scene became cloudy and dim.

  Blazing on his brow was a crown of crystal or of ice, and around his neck hung the hilt of a broken sword.

  ‘The Warlock King,’ said Altor.

  The Warlock King nodded once. Then he spoke, and his creaking voice silenced the last hushed murmurs of the invisible crowd:

  ‘This is the realm of Wyrd, where I have for centuries ruled. You have presumed to invade the boundaries of my sovereign land. Into my Palace of Dusk Unending have you entered, perhaps with murderous intent.’

  Caelestis opened his mouth to reply, but the Warlock King’s stare silenced him as he went on: ‘Such foolishness! Think you that others have not dreamt of my death? A rightful ruler is never without foes. And where are those hopeful assassins now, those would-be murderers who hoped to bury their blades in my royal heart? This is the answer: from their disloyal dreams they never woke. Their eyes stayed shut and their bodies slid easily out of sleep and into death. And their souls? Those I’ve kept mewed here with me. They come now to teach you the lesson they have learned.’

  The Warlock King frowned and spread his hands.

  There were sounds again, but this time not the roars and shouts of unseen spectators. This was a forlorn whispering like wind in a graveyard. And it did not come from the terraces.

  It came from under the ground.

  Out of the grey sand of the arena floor poked something hard and ivory-white. A hand. It twitched, finding purchase for its grip, and the sand shifted as a skeletal figure heaved into view.

  Altor and Caelestis drew back, but there were others all around. Mounds appeared in the sand and broke apart, uncovering things long buried under the arena floor—bony limbs that twitched and came to life. Skeletons in rusty armour clawed their way up to the light, more and more of them spilling out into the open until a numberless throng stood on the grey sand.

  Caelestis and Altor slowly looked around. In all directions they met the gaze of hollow eyes.

  The Warlock King stretched out his arm, thumb pointed downwards.

  ‘My decree,’ he said, ‘is that you die.’

  Fourteen:

  The Awakening

  The skeletal army began to shuffle forwards, swords glinting under a coating of rust like dried blood. There were hundreds of them—far too many to fight. Caelestis nervously adjusted his grip on his own sword and glanced across at Altor. He had been about to say farewell, but stopped in surprise when he saw Altor staring at him open-mouthed.

  ‘What is it?’

  Altor pointed at Caelestis’s coat. ‘Your pockets—they’re glowing.’

  Caelestis looked down. It was true. He shoved his hand deep into one pocket and pulled out the chequers pieces he had taken from the elves. They sat in his palm, pulsing with bright green light.

  ‘What was it the elf lord said? “When you contend against the final foe, this sorcery of mine shall aid you.” Did he mean now?’

  Altor parried the attack of the first of the skeleton warriors. ‘I don’t think there’ll be a better time!’ he yelled.

  Caelestis caught the scent of pine and woodland blossom. On impulse he scattered the pieces and jumped back as they hit the ground and erupted in bursts of blinding light.

  The light formed solid shapes. Horses snorted, stamping the dust. There was the jangle of spurs and metal harnesses. A warrior’s horn blew a stirring call to arms.

  The playing pieces had been transformed into elf knights astride sleek white steeds. Horses and riders alike were caparisoned in vivid green, and their weapons and the fittings of their harness were not of iron but sparkling silver.

  The Warlock King snorted at this sorcery. ‘Fay fight
ers!’ he laughed coldly. ‘My troops have no fear of elfin blades.’

  But they saw that despite his words his brow was now furrowed in consternation. Perhaps he was not sure his power was great enough to deal with the elf lord’s knights.

  ‘Your other pocket too,’ urged Altor.

  Caelestis hurled down the frost hound’s teeth as well. As they touched the sand of the arena there was a hissing sound. Caelestis and Altor took a step back. The teeth exuded an icy blue halo that swiftly formed into a host of man-like shapes. As the glow faded, they discovered that a hundred wiry creatures now stood between them and the oncoming skeletons. The creatures had blue-white skin and, although their bodies were the bodies of men, it was hounds’ heads that sat upon their shoulders.

  The dog-men growled at the band of skeletons confronting them. The captain of the elvan knights lowered his horn and said, ‘These men of bone have no place in the world. Dead they are, and in their graves should lie. We’ll straight way send them there, and teach dead men to die.’

  He looked to Caelestis. ‘Apparently they think you’re their leader,’ said Altor wryly.

  ‘I don’t know anything about tactics! You give the order.’

  Altor called to their forces to close ranks and advance. ‘Deploy in a wedge,’ he commanded. ‘Cut us a path to the Warlock King’s throne!’

  Together the elves and dog-men outnumbered the Warlock King’s army, but the skeletons had advantages of their own. They had no fear of death, felt no fatigue and were immune to pain. Nonetheless, as the two armies clashed Altor and Caelestis were confident of winning the day.

  Their army stormed forward towards the skeletons. The first wave of the charge broke the undead ranks, and in moments old bones were trampled underfoot in the press of the melee. A skull, severed at the neck by the mighty stroke of an elf knight’s sword, came flying through the air and landed at Altor’s feet. He kicked it aside and strode towards the far end of the arena where the Warlock King stood on his dais.

  A band of skeletons managed to fight free of the battle and scurried to intercept the two heroes. Altor had no time to waste on them. He gave a great roar and his sword flashed like a scythe of flame. Ancient rib-cages burst, bones and rusty armour fell clattering to the dust. Caelestis caught up in time to skewer a skeleton that was about to leap on Altor’s back. Twisting his sword, he snapped its spine. It fell twitching feebly in the dust.

  Altor reached the steps and with measured tread ascended to the royal dais. He stood face to face with their foe. There was a long silence and then Altor pointed with his sword at the hilt around the Warlock King’s neck.

  ‘This has been entrusted to us, this fragment of the Sword of Life,’ he said, ‘and now we have come to claim it.’

  The Warlock King fixed Altor with a bitter glare but did not seem perturbed. ‘These games have gone on long enough,’ he shrieked. ‘Now, behold the power of the King of Wyrd!’

  He brought his thin old hands together and a thunderous crack split the air. Like a breaking mirror, the scene around them shivered and then exploded into a million fragments.

  Everything had changed in an instant. Altor and Caelestis found themselves dangling from a rod of cold metal in a place where the wind whistled harsh and hard.

  They took in their surroundings with mounting awe. The rod they clung to was part of a network of metal rails, like a giant web of steel. There was nothing else. Around them, they could see only a limitless blue haze that extended in all directions.

  Altor looked down in spite of himself. In the far distance he made out white wisps against the blue and realized they were clouds.

  In the heart of the metal web sat the Warlock King. His huge crystal throne gleamed against the sky. The crystal crown on his ancient brow turned the pale daylight into icy shards.

  He touched the sword-hilt that hung around his neck on a silver cord, his face twisting into a sour smile. ‘You came to take this talisman, but it’s too precious to let go. Even one piece of the Sword of Life is enough to guarantee my sovereignty from the Five. With the pommel stone too it might prove even more powerful...’

  Altor shook his head. Holding onto the rod with one hand, he sheathed his sword. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out the pommel stone. In the bleak light it made sparks of rich dark colour. ‘I’ll give you the same answer I gave White Light’s minion: I’d sooner throw the stone away than give it to you.’

  The Warlock King gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Do so if you wish. We are in the Dream of Wyrd, where I hold absolute sway. Since I can shape this world to my whim, the stone would only fall into my hands.’

  Altor thought for a moment. The Warlock King might be bluffing. ‘Any ideas?’ he called to Caelestis.

  ‘Not a one, I’m afraid.’

  Altor let go of the pommel stone. It fell a few metres, then the air twisted inside out. The stone winked out of sight and reappeared on the steps of the Warlock King’s throne.

  As the Warlock King reached for it, Altor swung on the rod, let go and fell to catch hold of another. He tried not to think of the impossible distance he would fall if he lost his grip. Moving swiftly hand over hand, he reached the foot of the throne. The Warlock King paused in the act of fixing the pommel stone to the hilt and gave Altor a look of indignant rage.

  Altor drew his sword. He took one step up towards his foe before his legs went numb. He looked down and saw with horror that they had turned to polished white marble.

  ‘You understand nothing,’ said the Warlock King. ‘Here in the Dream, I am a god.’

  Caelestis was watching all this from the rod where he was dangling. He couldn’t think of anything that would work against the Warlock King, but he did not intend simply to hang there waiting for the end. Pulling himself up, he climbed onto the rod and balanced there a few seconds, then with his arms stretched out on either side he began to edge along it.

  As he reached a junction of two rods and transferred his weight, his foot slipped. He fell with a cry and caught hold of the rod. The Warlock King looked up and sneered. ‘You’re no more threat than a monkey, stripling. Come here to my throne. I’ll turn you to stone alongside your friend.’

  There was a dull thud as something in Caelestis pocket clanked against the rod. He suddenly smiled, remembering, and took it out. It was the iron bell Oraba had given him.

  The look on the Warlock King’s face changed from contempt to fear.

  Caelestis rang the bell.

  As each knell resounded, deep cracks appeared across the crystal throne.

  The Warlock King pressed his hands to his ears. ‘Stop that!’ he screamed. ‘I command you to stop!’

  Countless images flitted out of the breaking throne and whirled through the sky around Caelestis. There were faces—laughing, sad, fearful, wary. Scenes of sunlight and snow, green fields and golden deserts and seascapes drained of colour. Sounds and scents. He ignored them all and continued to shake the bell with all his strength.

  Suddenly the Warlock King’s arms dropped to his sides. ‘It’s over,’ he said. And with that, the crystal crown he wore burst into a thousand shards.

  Caelestis was lying on the ground beside a lake. There were a few patches of melting snow but in most places sprouted fresh green grass, like the very last day of winter. Or the first day of spring.

  He sat up and looked around. The lake looked familiar—very like the one where the Palace of Dusk had stood. But instead of the proud citadel they had entered, there was only a broken and weathered ruin overgrown with a profusion of ivy. And, whereas the lake before had seemed stagnant and foul, now it was clear, fresh, sparkling in the sunlight.

  Caelestis shook his head. He felt as if he’d just woken up from a long dream. If that was the same lake, then behind him should be the Forest of Thorns. He turned his head, but the soaring pine trees along the horizon bore no resemblance to the evil briars he remembered.

  Altor was lying nearby. ‘Before I sit up I want to ask you somethi
ng,’ he said. ‘Do my legs look like stone to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Caelestis. ‘They’re flesh and blood all right.’

  Altor sighed. ‘Then it must have been a dream.’

  A shadow fell across them in the warming sun. A woman with a gentle smile and wise eyes stood there, leading a dazed old man by the hand.

  Altor and Caelestis got to their feet.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ said Altor.

  ‘We’ve met in your memory,’ said the old woman. ‘That’s all that matters.’

  She took something from around the old man’s neck and handed it to Altor. The old man looked befuddled at first, but then he broke into a delighted smile.

  Altor took the object and stared at it. It was the jewelled hilt of the Sword of Life, now with the pommel stone set atop it. He looked up to thank her, but she and the old man were already walking away across the lush grass.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Did we kill the Warlock King or not?’

  ‘Better than that, I think,’ said Caelestis as he watched the woman lead the old man away. ‘We set him free.’

  They returned southwards and everywhere it was the same story. The country of Wyrd seemed to have awakened at last from out of a nightmare. People no longer dreamed of a dark figure who ruled over them without joy. Their nights now were untroubled by cares, and sleep was no longer a thing to be feared.

  ‘Last night we laid down our heads in a world of poverty and pain,’ said Shanans, greeting them when they got back to his village. ‘Now we have awakened into a verdant and bountiful land. The Warlock King’s officials have cast their armour and judicial maces into the ditches to rust. Tonight there will be laughter and song such as there has not been in Wyrd for twenty lifetimes!’

  Later, as they sat outside beside a roaring fire and roasted chestnuts in the dusk, Caelestis and Altor saw Oraba strolling through the pine trees by the village. Excusing themselves from the party, they dodged between the happy dancing villages and climbed the hill to where she stood.

  ‘It's a dance to appease the spirits of winter,’ said Oraba, looking down to the fire. ‘In past years, when the winter was bleak and cold, the festival was a grim one.’