by Dave Morris
The glare lessened, the noise began to subside. Altor and Caelestis were left with a ringing in their ears—and something else besides. The call to morning prayers, ringing across the rooftops of Hakbad.
A flock of birds took flight against the eastern sky, where a trace of gold now spilled up. They felt the breath of wind stirring against their faces.
‘Altor, it’s the sunrise! Sussurien’s spell—‘
‘Died with him.’ Altor pointed to a bloody mess of ripped clothes and pulped flesh lying beside the well. The three demons had vanished entirely.
Caelestis got up and put a hand out to help his friend. Altor rose to his feet, a little surprised to still be alive. The wound on his shoulder was painful, but the poison had been burned out of his system.
They exchanged a look that said much: bliss to be alive at all; relief at victory; weariness and yet resolve; thankfulness for true friendship.
Together they remembered the Magi.
On the backdrop of the western sky, clothed in the last shreds of night, the five ghostly giants stood watching. A wave of implacable hatred radiated down from them, though their faces might have been as distant and unmoving as the farthest nebulae.
Altor lifted the sword. ‘You’ve seen the Sword of Life, you know now what it can do. Hide in the heavens. Or come down to earth and be destroyed!’
The blade of the sword, catching the rays of the rising sun, flared anew with light.
For the first time, the Magi showed emotion. Their eyes narrowed in discomfort or distaste. They turned, ponderous as vast clouds, towards the west—and then were swept away by daybreak. All that remained to be seen were the five comets, and soon those too were lost against the lightening sky.
‘I hope we’ve seen the last of them,’ said Caelestis.
He turned away to see a crowd gathering. With the flow of time restored, people were coming from their house to investigate. Someone pointed to Sussurien’s remains.
Altor and Caelestis hurried away. ‘We don’t need any more trouble like my experiences in Crescentium,’ said Caelestis.
Altor nodded. ‘Absolutely. All I want is to find an inn when I can get this wound bandaged, wolf down a hearty breakfast, and then sleep for a week.’
‘And I can get some decent clothes instead of this makeshift toga.’
‘Except that we’re penniless as usual.’
‘Penniless, certainly,’ said Caelestis with a smile. He reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a gold medallion. ‘This would be a worth a few hundred florins though, don’t you think?’
Altor stopped and looked at him accusingly. ‘Where did you get that, Caelestis?’
‘In Saknathur’s tower, while you were talking to the abbot. We originally stopped off there to search for trinkets, you’ll recall.’
Altor laughed. ‘Ah well, why shouldn’t heroes do well while doing good? Lead on, then, my friend—let’s find the finest inn in Hakbad!’
Epilogue
In the middle of the street stood a grove of palm trees around an ornamental pool, like an island in a river of packed dirt. Caelestis looked up as he passed, thinking to see a slender figure standing under the trees, but there was no-one there.
A figure in warlock’s robes watched them go. Then, hidden by the cloak of his invisibility spell, he wove his way through the gathering crowds. He spared Sussurien’s body hardly a glance. Another spell sparked from his fingertips, and when he stepped over the edge of the well it was to drift lightly down into the cool darkness.
The door to the secret chamber stood open. ‘How slovenly of them,’ said the warlock to himself. ‘Anyone might have wandered in and found it.’
He entered a chamber that was bathed now only in rippling darkness—no longer like the surface of a river, but its dim impenetrable depths.
In reached for the black blade, he paused. The waves of darkness emanating from it slid like gossamer across the sharp contours of his face. Glittering tawny eyes, almond in shape, drank their fill of it.
As he took hold of the Sword of Death he gave a moan of pleasure, although the sharp edge cut his hand. He licked the drops of blood away as he studied his prize. It throbbed, full of sorcery, avid for him to use it.
‘And use you I shall,’ he said, answering his own thoughts. ‘I have a fine and private purpose in mind, a purpose that shall turn the recent victory of my two dear foes to dust. They shall suffer a thousand terrors before they die. So I swear, Lord
Utayama-no-Sugensiki Aiken—called, in this heathen land, Icon the Ungodly.’
ALSO BY DAVE MORRIS ON KINDLE
Heart of Ice
Down Among the Dead Men
Necklace of Skulls
Once Upon A Time In Arabia
A Minotaur At The Savoy
The War-Torn Kingdom
Copyright © 1997, 2016 Dave Morris
The right of Dave Morris to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
