by Ben Galley
‘Silence!’ snarled Orion, reaching to grab her puny head between his huge claws. She cried out as he squeezed.
‘What will you do with him, lord?’ asked Azkeroth.
‘I,’ began Orion, still holding the child. A curious idea had come into his head. ‘Shall name him Ruin. And that is exactly what he shall be.’ He released his female, but she cried out again, suddenly putting her hands to her swollen belly. One of the other slavelings reached out a sweaty hand to touch her pregnant bulge. He gasped.
‘What is it, slave?’ demanded Orion.
‘There is another, majesty,’ said the slaveling, keeping his eyes down. ‘Another child, maybe even two.’
Nobody but the baby saw, but just then, Orion began to smile. It was a rare expression for a daemon.
Part One
Sand, Blood, and Seawater
2,400 Years Later
“Whilst mortal Elven fingers steal,
Daemonic whips snap fast at heel.
Orion hath come to sate his lust,
for dead men walk among’st us.
Creatures live where Daemons dwell,
they sound the gods’ most final knell.
But at last their fury knows an end,
from Elven, Daemon, the gods shall rend,
Justice, Vengeance, to demand the least,
and starry knights will leave in peace.
But salvation comes most high a toll,
three stars were left, three Daemon foals,
Shifting shape and with it sands,
sowing seeds and most immoral plans.
For man shall wait betwixt the ice,
for brings Pale Kings, and with them vice.
And, lost by dark ones all forgotten,
Lakes of magick ‘neath paths untrodden,
evil hideth there, in deepest depths,
in a Prophecy, those places kept.
The first and last, with death aplenty,
one such as the Elves left empty.
Speaks: ‘Once the final seed is sown,
it must rear its head to face alone,
what furrows left by earthly fathers,
for ‘tis greeted by unearthly laughter.’
And One more terrible than Three shall come,
One to which the stars succumb,
and bring Ragnarök upon the earth,
and leave all to bask in unholy birth.
For lo, dead men walk among’st us,
and we’re nought but slaves to dust.”
The Dust Song
Chapter 1
“Even the smallest of deserts hide the biggest of secrets…”
Old Paraian saying
Shade was of short supply in the Paraian deserts. There were no shadows, no shelters, and even in the relative coolness of the craggy hills the heat was close to unbearable. No trees grew there. Not even the insects ventured out. The sun dominated everything in its path like a cruel king peering down from his throne. Searing and seething it shone down from its unreachable balcony in the crystal clear and cloudless sky, surrounded by an endless sea of cerulean blue. High overhead a lone vulture performed lazy circles, a mere dark winged blotch in the perfect atmosphere. Its black eyes scanned the hot sands below and searched hopelessly for something dead or helpless, or both.
But, sadly for the scavengers, the wind-blown sands and empty hilltops were bereft of anything but grit and sun-bleached skulls. That was until a lone figure appeared on the craggy horizon, standing defiantly against the rippling heat waves.
The man trudged onwards, glad to have shed his hood and his cloak, and kept his eyes on the wobbling hills ahead of him. With every laboured step his boots sunk into the sand. His breathing was heavy. Farden would never have admitted it, but he was starting to miss the cold and the wet of Emaneska. The sandy stuff beneath his feet got in every available crevice, every conceivable pocket and crack. It irritated him immensely.
The mage walked until the bright sun faded to orange, and then finally to red, until it teetered on the horizon and the purple blanket of night waited in the east, ready to pull itself across the huge sky. Farden stood atop a rocky mound overlooking the desert plateau and watched as the fiery orb sank into the distant sands. With it went the warmth of the day, and the night brought the cold. Nothing felt better after a blistering afternoon.
After a brief, and well-earned, sigh of relief, Farden allowed himself a smile, and went about finding shelter for the chilly evening. At least the perpetual sand was good for one thing, he smirked as he lowered himself into a small gully between two monolithic rocks. They were ancient and weathered like the sunburnt arms of a dead giant. Farden placed all of his meagre supplies on a shelf of rock: two pouches of coin, a dusty spyglass, an even dustier haversack full of clothes, two striped pebbles of a knobbly nature, a vulture’s feather, a rather intriguing golden disk, a bracelet made of a rare red metal, a steamed-up glass vial of precious water, a packet of tough dried meat, a sharp knife for the tough meat, and his ageing and battered sword in its red scabbard. Taking stock of his supplies always made him feel less lost, as though they tied him to a purpose. That was comforting.
Farden delved into his dusty haversack to find some clothes for the evening. After a moment of rummaging, he yanked a blue and white scarf from its depths and wrapped it around his mouth and neck, tucking its tails into his shirt. Leaving his supplies in the little gully, he took a few steps out onto the open sands and rubbed the gold and red metal vambraces that encircled each of his forearms. He briefly touched them together with a metallic clink and put his hands in the air. A sudden breeze shuffled the grains of sand around his boots and swirled around him. Farden raised his hands higher, and higher, until the breeze grew into a wind that buffeted him from all directions. Rivulets of flame began to trickle down his fingers and from there they leapt into the sandy vortex. Each individual grain flashed like miniature stars in the early twilight, sparking and sizzling as they melted together in the hot wind. Farden pushed and pushed and moulded and shaped, until standing in front of him was a little glass hut, barely tall enough to crouch in, but perfectly smooth and sealed, complete with a small hole in front for a door. After a few finishing touches and a couple of well placed whacks with the flat of his palm, Farden let the structure cool as he watched a huge moon climb into the sky. Her pale face was pockmarked and milky, and Farden found himself trying to count her scars.
His glass hut soon cooled and the mage gathered his scant belongings from the rock shelf. Getting to his dusty knees, he crawled inside and piled up his things. He looked out at the moon, warped and mottled as she was through the uneven orange glass, her face flecked with particles of sand and grit. The night was slowly closing in. Farden could see his own breath in front of him. The strange deserts never ceased to perplex him. Blistering in the day. Freezing at night. The mage shook his head. The mage wished it would make up his mind.
Farden shuffled out of his hut and went to find something that would burn. It wasn’t long before he found a wiry bush that seemed dead enough. After a couple of vicious tugs it came free of the sand and he dragged it back to his camp. Within moments the bush was alight and crackling and Farden sat cross-legged in the sand eyeing the flames, deep in thought.
After months of searching he felt no closer to finding the man in his dreams. The dreams had stopped, but his suspicions about Tyrfing, his uncle, had only grown. The talking cat, Lazy, or Lerel as she had insisted on being called, was proof that he was alive somewhere, no matter how quiet she kept on the subject. Tyrfing was alive, just hiding.
It seemed to Farden that he had seen every dune, every dry riverbed, every desert plateau that Paraia had to offer, and plenty more after that, but according to the people of the scattered towns and far-flung cities, there was still plenty more desert left to search. The thought that he was wasting his time had entered his mind more than once, but, like the stubborn man he was, the mage was not about to give up just yet. Farden could feel it in
his bones, and he had many, many questions that needed answering, answers that only his uncle could give him.
Farden put his hands behind his head and leant back against the squeaky glass of his hut. The same strand of hair that had annoyed him all evening tickled his eye again, and he shook his head to move it, and promised himself a haircut on his return to Nelska. And a shave, he thought, momentarily rubbing his heavily-stubbled chin. What a different man he must look, surmised the mage; his skin had turned a dark nut-brown in the strong rays of the sun, his chin and cheeks were now covered in thick, dark, and dusty hair, and there were bags of tiredness squatting under his eyes. He was looking more and more like the desert peoples every day. Even in the markets of Belephon and Galadaë he was beginning to blend in. What would Durnus and the others think of him, he wondered.
As the moon went about her nightly journey, the desert began to come alive with things of the night. Something squealed in the darkness. An echoing bark came from a nearby hilltop. Glowing eyes skirted his campfire and glinted in the flames. Jackals, sandfoxes, grimlings, scorpions, he had been stalked by them all. Occasionally he would see a flash of flame or two moving through the desert. At first he had thought them to be lanterns and people, but they were the ghosts, or ifrits as they were called, of the people who had died in the wild deserts and were forced to roam the sands as flames and shadows until somebody burnt their remains. More than once he had chased them, finding nothing but strange tracks leading far into the deserts. Farden had learnt to ignore them as they now ignored him.
A nearby creature yelped in the darkness, a quick snack for something with sharp claws. There was a whoosh of wings and the yelping stopped. Farden crawled back inside his glass hut and let the night sounds wash over him while he tried to find a comfortable place in the sand. Old thoughts wandered about in his head, thoughts he had long entertained like unwelcome, but unavoidable, guests. Farden tried to think of other things besides them. Trawling the Paraian deserts for his uncle had kept his anxious mind busy, but old habits died a long death, especially on the longer nights.
Tossing and turning, Farden continued his mental duel for an hour or two before he sat bolt upright and sighed. He grabbed his belt and his leather pouch and he shuffled out from under his shelter. As he stretched and made his aching spine click back into place, the mage looked around. Colour had died with the day. The moonlight bathed the desert in a cold light, painting everything a different shade of monochrome grey. The sky was cloudless. White and blue stars hung in the firmament.
Farden’s keen eyes could pick out shapes moving about in the darkness. None of them were remotely human. He wondered where all these creatures hid during the day, if they all shared a cave somewhere amongst the rocks, and put aside their differences while they slept. The fire had burnt low. The scraggy bush had all but been consumed.
Farden reached for his supplies and grabbed the heavy gold disk. His trusty Weight. He balanced the thing under one arm as he strapped his knife and belt around his shirt and trousers, and stuffed something in his pocket. Then he took off his boots and threw them inside his hut. Once he was ready, the mage held the Weight up to the moon and covered its pale face with his gold one. It fit perfectly. Farden felt the magick bite, and in a flurry of sand he was gone. The air shivered behind him. Something squealed and ran away.
Far to the north, where the ice and the glaciers inexorably crept south and the rain and snow fell in great quantity, the capital city of Gordheim was, for the most part, fast asleep. Only soldiers wandered through the streets, or stood on ramparts, or guarded large doors and larger gates. They listened to the sound of the waterfalls crashing and roaring around them, the gushing namesake of the city, the city of waterfalls. Mountain crags surrounded it like a crown. Rivers burrowed into the streets. Roads and walkways stretched across them like fallen branches, or the paved strands of a spider’s web, curving hither and thither and in no particular direction. Turrets bristling with banners and sharp battlements poked their heads out from between the arched rooftops of longhouses and halls. Their torches hissed in the cold night wind.
Like Krauslung’s Arkathedral, Gordheim’s palace was a fortress, and was built upon a jutting crag of water-carved granite that leant out over the rest of the city like the prow of a tall ship. Twin waterfalls fell either side of it like two unravelling curtains, cascading over the slippery black rock ledges and filling the winding canals a hundred feet below. The sheer walls of the glistening palace were a mishmash of turrets and roofs, minarets and towers, and their flags flapped and crackled in the night breeze. For the moment, all seemed to be at peace in the Skölgard city of Gordheim.
In the highest part of the highest tower, a wide balcony overlooked the landscape. A few candles still burnt in their holders and they struggled to stay alight, flickering at the end of their wicks. There was a chair, and a table, and a tall silver mirror, and a wide set of doors that had been left slightly ajar for the night. Behind the door silk curtains rustled and shivered as the breeze played with them. In the shadows of the long room the sounds of heavy breathing could be heard, and the faint rustling of disturbed bedsheets. The frozen moonlight fell in pieces through the diamond-paned windows.
On the balcony the breeze abruptly changed direction. The candles momentarily relaxed and breathed little sizzling sighs of relief. The mirror quivered and rattled softly against the stonework. There came a rushing noise and the air seemed to wobble for a precarious moment. A shape of a man appeared from nowhere and landed on all fours with no more noise than a falling cat. There was a sharp snap of air as it contracted, and then all was still again.
Farden stood up and, treading softly across the white stone tiles, he went to each of the remaining candles and pinched their flames between his finger and thumb, extinguishing their brief lives with little whispers of protest. Silently, he went to the door and peered through the crack with one eye. It was dark inside the room. Only a couple of shafts of moonlight interrupted the gloom. Putting one foot forward, he gently opened the door, parted the silk curtains with a finger, and slipped inside the room.
The breathing was heavy, almost laboured. Farden waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness and then he crept forward to stand over the bed. He didn’t dare wake her, not after the last time. Farden simply just looked at her, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed, that she would roll over any moment and smile at him. But this woman wasn’t Cheska any more. She was cold, ruthless, calculating, and she had ripped out his heart and watched it burn in the fires of Vice’s plans. Farden stared at the bump that hid under her bedsheets, above her waist. It had grown bigger since he had last visited. Her child. His child. Theirs. Vice’s so-called weapon.
Farden scowled.
For what seemed like an age or more, he stood there and stared. Finally, he sighed gently, and reached inside his pocket for something. He leant forward slowly and left it on the empty pillow beside her, wondering what trouble it would cause in the morning. He didn’t care. Farden slipped through the door and left Cheska alone, wondering how she slept so peacefully with a conscience so heavy. The mage shook his head and lifted his golden disk to the night sky.
With a quick flash of light and a puff of sand Farden was suddenly back in the desert. With the edge of his hand, he wiped the grit from his face and looked around, allowing his eyes to adjust once again. Annoyingly he had slightly misjudged the spell, and he was now a short walk from his camp. The fire was still burning, he could see it glowing not too far away, and he walked towards it, feeling the cold sand between his bare toes.
As he approached his little hut, he suddenly realised that something was not right. There was a shadow by the fire, and the faster he walked the more the shadow turned into a small hooded figure sitting with his knees to his chin, for the moment peaceful and silent. Farden’s hand moved to his knife.
Without a hint of hesitation, the mage wandered into the camp and stood on the opposite side of the fire from his visit
or. The figure didn’t even move.
‘It seems you have made a mistake,’ said Farden. ‘This fire is not a social gathering.’
The figure chuckled, and Farden wondered whether it was a man or a woman. It shrugged and remained staring at the flames. ‘Seems to me you’ve a lot of fire to go around, boy,’ it said, in a deep gruff voice, a man’s voice.
Farden crouched down and looked into the newcomer’s face. The thing wasn’t really a man or a woman, or anything resembling normal for that matter. The hairy face under the hood was a little goat-like, with sharp teeth that poked out from behind dark lips and a nose that was more of a snout. Wisps of dark hair crept over the figure’s furry forehead and the more that Farden stared the more certain he was that he could discern stubby, curled horns hiding under the peak of the hood. He couldn’t see the thing’s feet, but the hands that were clasped around its knees were thick with dark, perhaps black hair.
‘What do you want?’ asked the mage.
‘Warmth, rest, a little conversation,’ shrugged the goat-like creature.
‘That I can provide,’ replied Farden.
It smirked and looked at him with dark animal eyes. ‘How generous of you.’ Farden met its gaze squarely and it looked away. It nodded to the little glass hut. ‘Your handiwork?’
It was Farden’s turn to shrug. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
‘Then how exactly would you go about making one of these?’
Farden didn’t like this line of questioning. ‘Takes a lot of hard work, and peace and quiet.’
The creature chuckled and nodded. Its laugh sounded like a braying donkey. ‘Fair enough, stranger, fair enough. There are plenty of secrets in the desert,’ it said.
‘That there are,’ nodded Farden. For the life of him he could not figure this strange beast out. He tried to decide if it was dangerous.
‘And you,’ it pointed at him. ‘You are searching for something, are you not? You have the look of a man confused, and not quite sure what he looks for.’
