by Luke Scull
‘Now,’ said the woman with the collar. ‘Will you come willingly or must you also be subdued?’
‘I’m coming,’ Cole said hurriedly. ‘Let me help you with that.’ He presented his neck and the woman lowered the collar over his head. For a second he contemplated ducking away as it descended and trying to make good an escape — but one look at the comatose Three-Finger convinced him that, for now, he was better off doing as he was told.
‘Lead on,’ he said. The collar snapped shut.
He wandered through a monochrome cityscape. Dark shadows flickered ahead of him, blinking into and then out of existence. Tendrils of fog twisted and curled around the ground, obscuring the bottoms of his legs. A thick wall of mist hung in the air all around him so that he could barely see twenty feet in front of his face. From beyond that impenetrable blanket came a cacophony of weeping, a thousand souls voicing their sorrow.
Something brushed against his boots. He looked down, peering through the unnatural fog.
It was a hand, impossibly small. It twitched a few times, and then tiny fingers reached out towards him. He stared in increasing horror as a doll-like arm emerged from the white haze, and then another, dragging the creature along the ground. Finally the head emerged, hairless, a pale, fetal mass of flesh that stared up at him with white eyes and a mouth opened wide in anguish…
The collar came off and suddenly the real world flooded back. Cole staggered and almost fell. He stared in confusion at the woman before him, who was clutching the collar.
‘What just happened? How long has it been since we left the tower?’ He glanced around. They appeared to be standing in what looked like underground catacombs.
‘Less than an hour,’ replied the taller of the pale women who had led him to this place. She finished wrapping the chain around the collar and hid the contraption beneath her robes. ‘As for your other question, the secrets of Thelassa are not yours to know at this time. We leave you in the hands of the Darkson. Do exactly as he tells you. Fail him, and you will answer to us.’
The servants of the White Lady turned and seemed to drift away, resembling nothing so much as a pair of spectres in their spotless white robes.
‘The sense of unease never goes away,’ whispered a voice behind him. Cole almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around to face the speaker. It was the hooded man.
‘You’re the Darkson?’
‘Yes,’ replied the figure in his sibilant manner of speech. ‘I am… not the same as them. I am human.’ He reached up with his gloved hands and pulled back his cowl.
Cole half expected to be met with some loathsome visage. As it happened, the face staring back at him was sharp-featured — some might even say handsome, though Cole was no judge in such matters. The man looked to be in his late thirties, with cropped black hair and skin as dark as ebony. Like Cole, he wore a short beard beneath his chin. It was flecked with a few hints of grey.
‘You’re Sumnian?’
‘Shamaathan.’
Cole tried to recall what he knew of Shamaath. The small country was further south even than Sumnia, bordering the immense jungles that formed the absolute boundary of civilization where the Sun Lands ended and the unknown began. A nation infamous for its intrigues, political turmoil and extensive use of poison in times of both war and peace, Shamaath was also commonly known by another name: the Kingdom of Snakes.
‘You’re a long way from home,’ he observed. At that moment he felt like he, too, was a long way from home — though compared to Shamaath, Dorminia was barely a stone’s throw away.
‘The more distance between my homeland and I, the better,’ the Darkson replied. ‘You ask a great many questions. My time is precious, so allow me to curtail further interrogation and fill you in on the basics. This,’ he said, sweeping a gloved hand around to take in the dank, crumbling walls surrounding them, ‘is your home for the next fortnight.’
Wherever they were, the place bore little resemblance to the Thelassa Cole remembered. The sandstone from which the small chamber was built looked ancient and the air smelled of damp and decay. Torches burned on sconces on the walls, but they were the only sources of light the young Shard could discern.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘Deep underground,’ the Darkson replied. ‘In the ruins of the metropolis that existed here before it was razed and Thelassa rebuilt on its corpse. The holy city. Sanctuary.’
‘Sanctuary?’ Cole was lost.
‘During the Age of Strife, before the wizards rose up to smite their creators from the skies, Sanctuary was the stronghold of the Mother’s faith in these lands. Her high priestess ruled the city with wisdom and compassion.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Or at least so the history books tell us. One can never be sure of anything without first ascertaining the motives of the writer.’
‘Why build Thelassa on a pile of ruins? That doesn’t make much sense.’ Cole felt somewhat embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. Garrett had encouraged his protege to pursue a broad range of studies to prepare him for the time he would assume command of the Shards, but Cole had quickly grown bored of poring over dull texts. He was a hero, not a scholar.
The Darkson pursed his lips. ‘Who can guess at the White Lady’s motives? Perhaps my employer has a sentimental side. More likely she chose to make a statement. Where better to display her power than standing upon the bones of the faith she renounced and later destroyed?’
It took Cole a moment to digest the Shamaathan’s words. ‘You mean the White Lady was once high priestess of this ruined city?’
The man opposite him sighed. ‘We should not speak of such matters. The White Lady tolerates no discussion of the past. In that, she is not unlike other Magelords. It is not for you or me to question. We are here to serve.’
Quick as a flash, the Darkson pulled a curved dagger from beneath his black, thigh-length robes and launched himself at Cole. The young Shard tried to turn and roll out of the way but the Shamaathan was on him with the speed of a striking cobra. The dark-skinned man kicked out, collapsing Cole’s knees from under him. Before he knew it, he was on his back with the edge of the Darkson’s dagger tickling his throat.
‘I was told you would be more formidable,’ said the Shamaathan. He sounded vaguely disappointed. ‘We have much work to do.’
Cole winced. His back hurt from where it had struck the floor, but the wound to his pride irked him even more. ‘I was unprepared,’ he protested. ‘What do you mean, “We have much work to do”?’
The Darkson pulled his dagger away and sheathed it in one of his sleeves. The motion was so smooth and fast that Cole barely registered the movement. The southerner reached down one gloved hand and pulled the younger man to his feet.
‘You are to be the White Lady’s secret weapon in the coming war with Dorminia.’
Secret weapon? Cole liked what he was hearing. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The dagger you so foolishly lost. Magebane, I believe. It is the only thing that can guarantee Salazar’s defeat. There is but one man who can harness its power against the Magelord.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘That man is you.’
Cole’s heart skipped a beat. Excitement flooded his veins. ‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed. ‘All of the pain and suffering… It was all to prepare me for this. My moment. My chance to shine!’
The Darkson frowned slightly. ‘If anyone but you should attempt to wield the dagger they will find that its magic does not function. Your attunement to Magebane is an accident of birth.’
Cole couldn’t keep the smile off his face. ‘It was no accident, my friend,’ he said. He reached across to give the Shamaathan a companionable pat on the shoulder. ‘I was chosen. It was destin- argh!’
He gasped in agony as the other man grabbed his arm and twisted it around, pinning it behind him. ‘Rule number one,’ said the Darkson in an angry hiss. ‘You do not touch me without my say so. Ever. Rule number two,’ he added. ‘Do not presume I am your friend. I am here to teach you the ways o
f the assassin in the little time we have available to us. You will refer to me only as “master”. Am I understood?’
‘Yes,’ Cole managed. His arm felt as if it was about to be wrenched from its socket. ‘Yes, master.’
‘Good.’ The Darkson released him. ‘I trust your time in the Tower of Stars was not too debilitating. You will need to be at your best for the trials that lie ahead.’
Cole nodded. He still ached in places, and his nose would never be as straight as it once was, but he comforted himself with the fact that such minor imperfections could often prove endearing. Like Sasha’s thighs, he thought with a sudden smile. Let’s be honest, they always were a little on the hefty side.
‘Something amuses you?’ The Darkson’s expression was grim.
‘No, master,’ he replied quickly. ‘I’m ready when you are.’
‘Five minutes,’ lisped that velvety voice. Cole barely heard it over his own gasping. He dropped to his knees, sucking in air. ‘An impressive time,’ the Darkson continued. ‘You might yet make a passable assassin.’
He wanted to retch. Instead he straightened up, placing his hands on his hips as if the gauntlet he had just navigated was a trifling matter. ‘The pit nearly had me,’ he admitted.
The Darkson nodded. ‘You are agile enough. But can you handle yourself with a blade?’ He reached under his robes and pulled out a dagger that looked very similar to Magebane. ‘The White Lady’s adviser, Brianna, had this made for you. She is… familiar with your erstwhile weapon. It should handle very similarly.’ He tossed it over to him.
The young Shard retrieved the dagger from the floor. The assassin had spoken truly. It was exactly as he remembered Magebane feeling in his palms.
‘Now then,’ the Darkson said. ‘Let’s see what you can do. Attack me.’
Cole looked at the assassin uncertainly. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Don’t concern yourself with me. Worry about you.’ The Shamaathan lifted a hand and beckoned him forwards.
Cole went into a crouch, holding the dagger up before him in a fighting stance. He and the other Shards had sparred often, and he had usually bested them in their mock duels. The Urich brothers were the exception — the twins often overcame him with sheer strength, though they usually walked away from their sparring with almost as many bruises as he did.
‘Get ready,’ he said, and he feinted one way only to spring in the opposite direction. Somehow the Darkson had anticipated his ploy and moved out of the way. Cole spun at the last moment, dodging a kick aimed at his head. ‘Missed,’ he said with a satisfied smile.
The Darkson’s other leg swept around and knocked his legs from under him.
‘You are fast, but you lack focus,’ the assassin proclaimed as Cole crashed to the ground. ‘Keep your mouth shut and worry about taunting your opponent after the fight is won.’
Cole wasn’t finished yet. He planted his palms on the floor, rocked himself back and then kicked up in the air, springing forwards so that he landed on his feet. ‘I’m just getting started,’ he said.
The Darkson looked unimpressed.
This time he took more care, probing for openings and staying just out of reach of the other man’s legs. He darted forwards suddenly, aiming a stab at the assassin’s chest. The Darkson swivelled with incredible speed and grabbed his lunging arm, twisting it so that the young Shard was forced to drop the dagger.
Just as he had anticipated.
‘Got you!’ he cried, pressing the Darkson’s own curved dagger against the man’s stomach with his other hand. The assassin blinked in surprise, and then his eyes widened in alarm. Cole had a small nick on his hand from where he had touched the blade while pilfering the dagger from the Darkson’s robes.
‘You idiot!’ the Shamaathan exclaimed. ‘Do have any idea what that blade is coated in?’
Cole hadn’t, but the intense self-satisfaction he was feeling at his clever ploy quickly evaporated as he stared at the cut on his finger. He let the assassin’s dagger clatter to the floor.
‘My chamber,’ said the Darkson quickly. ‘I have an antidote there. We don’t have much time.’
He sped off, sprinting through the doorway of the crumbling chamber and out into the corridor. Cole gulped, and then ran after him.
‘That was close. Manticore venom can kill a man within minutes. An excruciating death, I understand.’
Cole was lying on his back on a bedroll in the Darkson’s personal quarters. The section of the ruined city in which they were based appeared to have once housed Thelassa’s ruling priestesses. Enough light filtered down from the city above that he could make out the murals of the Mother in her many forms painted on the dilapidated walls of the ruins.
The black-skinned assassin had chosen a remarkably well-preserved chapel as his lair. The furnishings were sparse, with only a couple of bedrolls, a large chest, and some cooking apparatus occupying the chancel.
‘Manticores?’ Cole groaned. While the antidote had saved his life, the side effects were unpleasant and would last for several hours. The Darkson had not been pleased.
‘Exotic beasts possessing the head of a man, the body of a lion and the tail of a scorpion,’ the assassin replied. ‘Extinct for centuries north of the great jungles. Their venom is worth a king’s ransom in Shamaath.’ He sniffed and made a sour face.
Cole gave him an apologetic look. ‘What are you doing so far from the Kingdom of Snakes?’ he asked, if only to divert attention away from the smell. His stomach rumbled again.
The assassin sighed. ‘I am no longer welcome there. In fact, I would be killed on sight. I suspect there are assassins hunting me throughout the Sun Lands still, even after so many years.’
‘What happened?’
The Shamaathan grimaced, though whether because of the question or the next wave of unpleasantness that assaulted his nostrils Cole couldn’t be sure. ‘A familial dispute,’ he said. ‘A most unfortunate one, for my family is powerful and entirely ruthless.’ He reached around his neck and pulled away the black scarf that encircled it. Even in the poor light, Cole could see the ugly scar around his throat. ‘By their standards, a public hanging was charitable. Still, I was disinclined to accept their mercy.’
Cole shook his head. ‘Your family sound vile.’
The Darkson replaced the scarf and frowned at the fire between them. ‘It is the nature of Shamaathan society. The Trine does not seem much better.’
‘Salazar is a tyrant,’ Cole agreed. ‘He murdered an entire city. A crime he will one day answer for.’
‘And does the White Lady seem so much fairer?’ the assassin asked curiously.
Cole shrugged in response. ‘The people of Thelassa seem happy enough. There are no mindhawks in the skies or Crimson Watch thugs terrorizing the streets. I wasn’t happy about being locked up in the Tower of Stars,’ he added. ‘But I guess the White Lady wanted to be sure I posed no threat. I can’t say I blame her. Apparently I can be bad for a Magelord’s health.’ He grinned at his own joke.
The Darkson seemed to ignore it completely. The assassin went quiet for a time. ‘Things are rarely so simple,’ he said eventually. ‘You will learn that, as you become older.’
The man’s words confused Cole. ‘But you work for the White Lady,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the Darkson agreed. ‘She pays me handsomely. The coffers of Thelassa are deep indeed, and I require a great deal of gold.’
‘Why?’
‘Mind your own business.’
It was Cole’s turn to sit in silence. ‘How many men have you killed?’ he asked, when the lack of conversation became uncomfortable.
The Darkson looked at him. ‘About the same as the number of women you have bedded.’
Cole whistled to himself. ‘That many. I had no idea.’
‘I meant, for the second time, that you should mind your own business.’ The assassin sounded exasperated. ‘Enough talk. We have much to do. Can you cope?’
Cole struggled to h
is feet. His stomach still felt like he had an iron ball lodged inside it. Still, silent stoicism was the hero’s lot. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I’m a hard man.’
The Darkson appeared to grit his teeth. ‘You’re not a hard man,’ he replied in an annoyed tone. ‘You’re barely even a man. But I mean to change that.’
The Cleansing Fire
‘Shranree requests your presence, sister.’
Yllandris closed her eyes for a moment. It was time. She had not been looking forward to this. ‘I will be there shortly,’ she said, waving a dismissive hand in the mismatched face of Thurva. The short, girlish sorceress was the most junior member of the circle besides herself.
‘Shranree says you must come immediately,’ Thurva protested. She might have been irritated; it was hard to tell, what with the way her left eye seemed to be staring a hole in the side of her nose. Her appearance was almost comical, but Yllandris knew better than to doubt Thurva’s intellect. She had proved to be a shrewd and manipulative creature, ever eager to ingratiate herself with Shranree and the other senior sisters.
Yllandris sighed. ‘Very well. Wait a moment.’
The journey back to Heartstone had been considerably quicker than the trek in the opposite direction. They had lost close to a hundred men, many at the hands of the opposing circle, but overall the storming of Frosthold had been an overwhelming success. The proud town that had once straddled the edge of the Blackwater had been reduced to a blackened ruin scattered with the charred and butchered remains of its people.
Three nights had passed since the war party had arrived back in Heartstone. Each night, her dreams had been plagued by terrible images from the massacre: the face of the young sorceress from the Lake circle melting away to reveal her skull; Old Agatha’s brittle bones snapping under the clubs of furious rebels fleeing from the devastating magic Shranree had unleashed; three small pairs of eyes staring at her in abject terror, utterly helpless, while their mother perished nearby…
