The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 02 - The Darkest Hour

by Martin Hengst

  Just a whelp then, Zarfensis hadn’t had more of a secret than some playful experimentation with a bitch several years his elder, of which he was more prideful than ashamed. It was the ease with which the Deep Oracle laid out his transgressions, in all their torrid detail, as if it had been present during the acts themselves. That was what had sent a shiver of terror up his spine and forced his tail between his legs. His grand-sire had scolded him then, berating him for showing weakness to an inferior. Zarfensis often thought, even now, that the scolding he received was more bravado than anything else. The Deep Oracle was anything but inferior. It was a power not to be trifled with and Zarfensis had vowed then and there not to repeat the mistakes of those who had come before him.

  “Mind your head,” Zarfensis said, ducking into a low fissure in the rock. This tunnel was shorter than any they had encountered so far and the High Priest knew they were nearing the end of their travel. It took them quite a long time to reach the end, where another crack in the rock let them out into a small circular cavern.

  Zarfensis dropped lightly to the floor of the subterranean chamber, taking most of the impact on his new leg. The novelty hadn’t yet worn off and he was wondering if it ever would. He turned to see the Warleader drop to the floor behind him and heard the sudden intake of breath.

  “It’s cold!” Xenir’s exclamation was accompanied by a puff of condensation from his breath. The High Priest nodded. The difference in temperature between the room and the tunnel beyond was staggering. It was easily as cold here as in the northern reaches of the Frozen Frontier.

  “I told you that you’d soon relish the heat.” Zarfensis motioned to a simple shaft of rock in the center of the chamber where a pale green light bobbed to and fro. Its light flickered dimly, throwing shadows upon the wall that weren’t, Zarfensis realized with a shudder, the shadows of anything that existed in the room.

  Xenir growled, his claws slipping from their sheaths. Zarfensis turned toward the pillar and saw that the light had vanished. It was replaced by the translucent form of a human female whose shape and endowments would be the envy of many vermin. The High Priest felt a wave of rutting passion wash over him and he struggled to fight against the powerful magic being used against him. The Warleader’s aspect had entirely changed. Gone was any pretense of threat, he bounded toward the image as he would toward a bitch in heat.

  As Xenir reached the illusion, there was a blinding flash of light and a howl of pain. His vision was a mass of purple, but Zarfensis heard the heavy thud of Xenir’s body hitting the wall beside him. Closing his eyes, Zarfensis slipped into the Quintessential Sphere. In that magical realm, just beyond the physical world, he could see clearly. He saw the pillar and the writhing mass of blackness there, the Deep Oracle’s true form exposed. Black tendrils shot forward, a thousand snakes intent on devouring his very essence.

  With an extended claw, Zarfensis traced runes in the air, speaking the ancient words of power. Words so old that their true meanings had been forgotten. Words that, nonetheless, shackled the Oracle to its pillar as surely as the heaviest chain. The tendrils receded with a roar of frustration that the High Priest felt in his bones. He heard a groan, as if across a great distance, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Xenir was still alive then. Zarfensis was as concerned for his friend, but more worried about what the Oracle could, or would, do with the power of a life forcefully taken.

  Withdrawing from the sphere, he knelt and felt for the pulse at Xenir’s throat. It was there, strong and steady. The Warleader seemed no worse for his ill-advised adventure.

  “Speak,” the voice came not in sound, but within his head. It was thick and sultry and oozed a sensuality not to be denied. “Speak your desires so that we may bargain and my need be fulfilled.”

  Zarfensis struggled against the physical urges that were surging through him. He opened his belt pouch and withdrew a vial of faintly glowing runedust.

  “This is what will sate your needs, Oracle.” Zarfensis waved the vial. “You will not sate yourself on the urges of the flesh.”

  “You may not be willing...but the other...”

  Zarfensis waved at the still unconscious form of the Warleader. “The other is outside your control. You will bargain with me, or bargain not at all.”

  There was another rumbling roar and Zarfensis focused all his thoughts on the idea of slipping the vial back into his pouch and returning to the Warrens. The rutting urges vanished as quickly as they had appeared and were replaced with the intense feeling of a whelp’s sulking.

  “I will bargain with you,” the Oracle agreed sullenly. “Or not at all.”

  Zarfensis unstopped the vial of runedust and poured some of the fine crystals into his palm. Stepping toward the pillar, but being careful to keep a safe distance, he puffed and blew a cloud of the crystals toward the Oracle. The powder was consumed in a shower of sparks and the Oracle’s orb glowed a bit brighter.

  The sound of claws on rock from behind him alerted Zarfensis that Xenir had regained consciousness. The High Priest turned and watched as the Warleader slowly got to his feet, shaking his head. His eyes met Zarfensis’s and then slid away. The embarrassment would serve him well, Zarfensis thought. He’d be more on his guard next time. If there was a next time.

  “More!” the Oracle demanded imperiously.

  “Tell me what I wish to know,” Zarfensis countered, twisting the vial between his fingers. “Then you shall have the rest.”

  “We need it,” the Oracle whined. “Please!”

  “Tell me what I wish to know,” the High Priest demanded, reinforcing his words with the mental image of the vial of runedust shattered on the floor beyond the Oracle’s reach.

  In the pause that followed, Zarfensis idly considered abandoning this foolhardy meeting and returning to the Warrens. Surely he and Xenir were resourceful enough to find the relic on their own.

  “The relic you seek sleeps far to the north, buried in the ice of ages past,” the Oracle’s voice was strong and clear. “It lies within your grasp if you can find it and wake it, but beware, the Chosen are not the only suitors the relic seeks. There are others, climbing, sneaking, and burrowing through forgotten tunnels to find that which you seek.”

  “The vermin?” Zarfensis asked, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a feral snarl.

  “Among others,” the Oracle laughed. “More, now!”

  Zarfensis poured the remainder of the runedust into his palm and blew it toward the pillar. In a fluid motion, he had jumped to the lip of the tunnel, beckoning for Xenir to follow. They navigated the tunnel as quickly as the low ceiling would allow, finally emerging at the junction that had seemed unbearably hot not long before.

  “My vision--” Xenir began.

  “The relic exists, but we must hurry. There are others who seek its power as well.”

  “How do we proceed?”

  “We take back control of the council. We lead the Chosen to victory and exterminate the vermin, once and for all.”

  Taking strength from the confirmation of Xenir’s vision, they started the long trip back toward the Warrens to put their plans in motion.

  * * *

  Tiadaria sat at a worn table in the common room of the Elvish Harlot. On the table in front of her a tankard of cider sat, barely touched. The search for Faxon’s apprentice had not gone well.

  She had spent the morning searching library after library. It wasn’t until she had been turned out of the fourth library that she realized how many quints there were in Ethergate. She was realizing with no small sense of chagrin that there was probably a good reason that Faxon had wanted to accompany her. Most of the people she had talked to here were far too involved in their own affairs to give much concern to the apprentice of another Master, especially one from Blackbeach. That was the other thing she found odd, the seemingly high amount of animosity that existed between the quintessentialists here and those outside the capital.

  She had thought they were all the part of a singl
e order. She had been disabused of that belief after listening to an extended tirade on the Orders and the finer (and less fine) points of each one. Afterward, Tiadaria had realized that looking for Faxon’s apprentice in Ethergate was similar to looking for a needle in a stack of other needles. After her most recent failure, she had returned to the inn for a friendly face and a few minutes to nurse her wounds.

  Harold was behind the bar, polishing the wood with a tattered rag. His hands were so gnarled with age that by the time he had finished rubbing down the counter, he’d need to start over at the other end. Tia wondered how many years he had spent trudging up and down the floor between the bar and the drink cabinet and how long he had used the rag that he now brandished like a badge of honor.

  Tia took a sip of the cider and tried to coax a useable idea out of the tumble of her thoughts. She had spent so much time in various libraries this morning that she thought she’d scream if she saw another book. Still, there were seven more libraries she had to explore and probably get thrown out of. Faxon’s apprentice had to be here somewhere and she’d find him even if she ended up being an old lady before she did it.

  That thought hit her so forcefully that she dropped the tankard back to the table with a thunk. She stood and quickly walked to the bar, surprising Harold as he worked on his eternal polishing.

  “How can I help you, Lady Tia? More cider?”

  “No thank you,” she said quickly. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you lived in Ethergate, Harold?”

  The old man smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Why, my whole life, Lady Tia. Born and raised. Why?”

  “Can you tell me which library is the oldest?”

  “Oh certainly,” he leaned out over the bar, stabbing a finger southward beyond the inn. “Take the south road to the center of the city. The oldest library is under the Reliquary.”

  “Thank you!” Tiadaria took a garnet from her pocket and pushed it across the counter at the startled gentleman, leaving him to stare after her as she all but ran from the common room.

  Though it was just after midday outside, it might as well have been midnight in the reliquary. The squat stone building had no windows and was illuminated by magic lanterns hung from pegs around the long, wide room full of shelves. After being stopped by the guards outside the door, she had assured them that she was vouched for by the King of the Imperium and showed them her writ as proof. Once inside, they had directed her to a quintessentialist so old that he made Jotun look young and sprightly.

  His appearance was ancient, but the quint's mind was sharp, unmuddled by the years he had seen. As soon as Tiadaria had explained who she was and where she had come from, the elder quint nodded.

  “You’ll be wanting Wynn, then.” He took a lantern down off a peg and motioned for her to follow him. “Come along then, the youngster rarely leaves the stacks.”

  Tiadaria followed the old man, who moved surprisingly rapidly for someone of his apparent age. They descended a long flight of marble steps and emerged in a room lined with shelves. As they walked, Tia sneaked peeks at the books on the shelves. Many weren’t even proper books at all, but sheaves of parchment bound together by ribbon or string. Most of them were so weathered and yellow that she thought they would crumble to dust as the merest touch. She resolved not to handle anything in this library unless she absolutely had to.

  Finally, they arrived at a table in a dimly lit corner of the library. The youngster the older quint had referred to was probably a couple years older than Tia, and he was so thoroughly engrossed in the book he was studying that the elder had to shake him to get his attention.

  “Hmmm?” he asked absently, finally tearing his eyes away from the tome long enough to register that there were people standing next to him. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Wynn,” the quint said tolerantly. “This is Lady Tiadaria, from Blackbeach, Master Indra sent her to find you.”

  “Oh.” Wynn looked unsettled. “Uh, okay then. Thank you.”

  Her escort shot her an apologetic glance and shook his head before retreating, leaving Tiadaria and Wynn standing there in silence. Tiadaria had expected Faxon’s apprentice to be as garrulous has Faxon himself was. As seemed to be the case a lot lately, she was wrong. They stood there awkwardly before she finally decided to take matters into her own hands.

  “So you’re Faxon’s apprentice?”

  The young man peered at her for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I help Master Indra with his research.” He pointed to the book on the table. “I really must get back to it. Fascinating stuff, really.”

  “Oh?” Tia asked, cocking her head to read the text scrawled in the tome. “Three thousand types of fungus,” she read and raised an eyebrow. “Riveting reading, then?”

  “Oh yes!” Wynn said at the most animated she had yet seen him. “Each of the specimens was categorized and defined by its unique characteristics, both magical and mundane.”

  He turned back to the book and seemed to completely forget about her. Wynn sat with his chin in his palms, his head bowed over the weighty tome of mold. The only indication that he was even awake was the occasional turn of a page. Tiadaria stood by his elbow, completely at a loss. She cleared her throat, loudly, trying to recall his attention. He seemed to be lost in his own world. A world full of fungus, no doubt.

  “Wynn?” she said tentatively. Slowly, Tia realized that tentative wasn’t going to get the job done. She reached over and flipped the book closed, the binding barely missing the tip of the young man’s nose.

  “Careful!” he hissed, jumping to his feet. He caressed the book with a tender touch. “You could have damaged the binding, or torn a page!”

  Tia had reached her breaking point. She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I’m going to damage YOUR binding if you don’t pay attention to me,” she said savagely.

  Wynn blinked, obviously unaccustomed to such forcefulness. He nodded, his hand still lingering on the book protectively.

  “Faxon said that you’d be the person to ask about a relic we’re looking for,” Tiadaria said without a hint of flattery. “We need to know what the relic might be and where it is.”

  “If Master Indra,” Wynn began, drawing out both the title and the surname. “Wanted to know about a relic, why didn’t he come here and ask about it himself?”

  “Because, Apprentice Wynn, he sent me to start the research before he got here.” Tiadaria stabbed her thumb at her own chest and glared at Wynn. He was probably four inches taller than she was, and she felt sort of ridiculous trying to intimidate him. If only she had her scimitars...

  The use of his title appeared to partially deflate Wynn and he slumped back in the chair at the study table. He gently moved the mold book to one side and peered at her expectantly. They stared at each other for a few moments before he heaved a long, drawn out sigh.

  “I can’t help you find anything if you don’t tell me what you’re looking for!”

  “Then ask,” Tiadaria snapped. “I can’t read minds!”

  Wynn shook his head, as if he was dealing with some eminently unreasonable creature incapable of intelligent thought. “What relic are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” Tiadaria stammered. “We know the Xarundi are looking for it, and that there are rumors of it being buried in snow and ice.”

  “That’s all? If you don’t know what you’re looking for, how do you expect me to find it?”

  Tiadaria lost the last of her patience. “Faxon said you were the person to ask!” Her shout echoed across the labyrinthine library. “If I knew what I was looking for, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

  She turned on her heel and stomped off.

  “You really shouldn’t yell in the library,” he called after her.

  * * *

  Zarfensis and Xenir were exhausted when they finally reentered the Warrens. The urgency they felt to return to the familiar caverns was only partly spurred by their enthusiasm for their mission. Though they�
�d never put the feeling into words, they both wanted to be away from the Deep Oracle and its grasping mind. Xenir had been very quiet on their return to the Warrens.

  They had nearly reached Zarfensis’s warren when one of the adolescents came bounding up to the weary travelers.

  “Your Holiness! Warleader! The pack council is demanding your presence, they’ve found out about the raiding parties you dispatched!” The youngster’s fur stood out in agitation, his lips pulled back to bare his still under-developed fangs. “There are rumors of execution, Your Holiness.”

  Xenir grasped the youth by the shoulders and turned him to look directly into his eyes. “Do you believe in us? Do you believe in the omens that have been foretold?”

  “Of course, Warleader! There are many who stand behind you, but the pack council--”

  “I will deal with the pack council,” Zarfensis growled with unconcealed savagery. “Cowering in our caves like vermin is beneath us. We are the Chosen! Go and tell the loyal that we have spoken to the Deep Oracle and returned. Gather them in the cathedral.”

  “As you command, Your Holiness.” With a half-bow, the young Xarundi bounded back down the corridor the way he had come.

  “The pack council?” Xenir asked.

  “You know what must be done, brother. Do you doubt the omens? Or what information the Deep Oracle provided?”

  “No, Your Holiness.”

  “Then have faith. Our dominion is preordained. The Chosen will possess the relic and we will usher in a new age of domination over the vermin.”

  A knot of loyalists appeared in the tunnel, passing the High Priest and the Warleader on their way to the cathedral. Zarfensis returned their respectful bows as they passed. They were almost uniformly youngsters, those too young to have fought at Dragonfell but now coming into adulthood. The elders were more stubborn.

  “We must attend the council, Warleader.” Zarfensis noted with approval that Xenir’s claws were unsheathed. They set off down the corridor, the metal leg beating out a war drum’s staccato rhythm on the smooth stone.