Then, during one of those chilly nights, a pleasingly destructive havoc came to the vile prison. Down one of the columned corridors a roar went up and he could just make out figures capering and gathering in the silver lamplight. Very soon, cudgel sentries were rushing off to quell the riot, including the pair who guarded his own fenced-off area of the great chamber. Then over the yammering clamour he heard a heavy thud from directly above, from the shadow-masked heights of the dungeon. Fragments of stone fell clicking on the floor, followed by a trickling hiss of dust. Followed by another impact and a cracking rumble and the shattering noise of broken masonry slamming into the flagstone floor. Amid the panicking cries and the tormented shrieks and the billowing powdery dust, he was cowering from the extravagant turmoil when strong hands gripped his shoulder and turned him.
“Calabos? — you are safe now.”
Calabos.
That was the name, his name, the key for the lock, the seed for the soil, the crack in the dam, the candle in the abyss, the spark for the tinder.
“Qothan,” was all he was able to say through his choking emotions as he recognised the other two Daemonkind, Viras and Yostil, reaching down to him. Then his deliverers lifted him with beating wings, up to the ragged hole in the ceiling and out into a foggy night.
For a moment he caught sight of an empty cobbled road hemmed in by stone walls but his ascent continued, speeding on through streaming mists. Occasionally the murk parted to show the roofs of countless buildings crammed together, their deserted streets resembling canyons of shadow broken by the infrequent silver glints of lamps. And every glimpse revealed the same cityscape, the same collision of differing styles of architecture as well as differing functions. Calabos shivered as he recalled the words of the Sleeping God — ‘…the Nightrealm’s tilted territories…districts make war upon districts with unrestrained savagery…’
Moments later, a great, broad tower emerged from the ashen mists. Calabos’ bearers banked to the right, losing a little height then slowing as a wide gap in the side of the tower came into view. Lamps burned within and figures both sitting and standing were visible. Qothan and his brothers alighted gracefully just inside the hole, carefully depositing Calabos on the tiled floor. Calabos managed to stagger a couple of paces before his legs went from under him and he fell in a sprawl, his senses spinning, his damaged hand full of stabbing pain.
“Here, now,” said a woman’s voice as one of the Daemonkind pulled him upright. “You’ll need to get yer strength back first and get that hand seen to — then go for a walk!”
Gasping, and feeling a sting of embarassment, he glanced up to see Qothan crouching beside him.
“We were lucky enough to encounter Kerna and the Hornghosts, her warband, after we crossed over…and lost you. Without her help it would have taken much longer to track you down.”
“By which time you would have succumbed to Urku’s tender mercies,” said the other voice. “But it was most pleasing to work with people who look like Overseers but aren’t.”
“I’m deeply indebted to you,” Calabos said as he turned to look at his benefactor…and stopped, staring in astonishment. The hair was lighter and longer, and there was a scar on her chin and a graze along one side of her jaw, but it was Keren. Every line of her face, the steady appraisal of the eyes, the air of experience, all of it leaped from the oldest, deepest memories, those bequeathed by Byrnak.
“Keren?” he murmured
She frowned and gave a little smile that made his heart lurch. “No — Kerna,” she said. “I’m the chief of this band of idealistic rogues, and this…” She indicated the chamber with an outstretched hand, “is our sumptuous barracks, full of homely comforts and a stack of sharpened weapons. I’ll have our adept, Guldarem, look at your hand when he gets back from foraging. In the meantime, Calabos, be welcome with us.”
As she turned to speak with one of the 30 or so men relaxing about the chamber, Qothan, Viras and Yostil helped Calabos over to an empty alcove in the side wall. After several clothwrapped bundles were stacked inside, against the wall, Calabos sat down heavily on a stone bench and sighed.
“How long, Qothan?” he said.
“It has been nearly seven days since we passed through the gate,” the Daemonkind outrider said, then tugged open one of the bundles. “But we still have your sword.”
The sight of its crosshilt and scabbard jutting from with its wrappings was a gratifying relief. All was not lost — but, seven days!
“The Sleeping God said that Time runs faster here,” he said. “But we’ve no way of knowing how fast compared with our world. We’ll have to assume that events there are happening much slower than here, and lay plans for finding a way to this Great Shadow’s court.”
“That may prove difficult,” Qothan said and went on to describe the Nightrealm to him, first in terms of life and the half-death, how people lived and fought, and how there appeared to be no memories stretching back more than a few years, with a kind of folk memory of long-past great battles, including one or two collective uprisings against the Great Shadow himself. Then he laid out the strategic picture, the warband and the chapters, and the militias who answered to the Overseers who maintained the Great Shadow’s dominion from their towers. They in turn answered to the Duskgeneral whose cliffside fortress, the Citadel of Twilight, provided the only way of reaching the dreamcourts of the Great Shadow. In addition to the Overseers, flocks of Nighthunters guarded the airborne approaches there, and elite echelons of the Black Host manned the cliff fortifications.
“And I have to tell you Calabos, that I have suspicions about these Overseers,” Qothan said, anger smouldering in his eyes. “It may be that they are the Daemonkind of that other world, enslaved and corrupted.”
Calabos nodded. “Yes, of course. Then that may mean that Orgraaleshenoth is alive, here.”
Qothan’s eyes widened as the realisation sank in.
“The great prince,” he said. “He was the first to rebel.”
“But even if he were still here, there would be no guarantee that his independent spirit has survived this terrible place.” Then Calabos glanced at Kerna, who was laughing with some of the Hornghosts, and felt his hope lift a little.
“So we have to get from here to the Citadel of Twilight,” he said. “Then enter it unseen and find the way to the Great Shadow’s courts. It’s going to require stealth, subterfuge, and a river of luck…” He looked over at Kerna again. “And some local help.”
“From speaking with her,” Qothan said, “I am sure she would be keen to aid us, but she is engaged on a task of great importance to her — she intends to rescue her sister Nilka from the dungeons of a militia chieftain called Grachek…”
“Her sister?” Calabos said, apprehensively.
Qothan frowned. “Apparently so.”
“So if we offer our help in her cause, she may help us in turn.”
“I’m afraid that bargain has already been made, Calabos,” Qothan said. “Our help in her rescue attempt is the return favour for their help in freeing you.”
“Ah, I see,” said Calabos, sitting back. “Still, I’ll raise the matter with her later — we at least need some kind of map that will get us to this Citadel…”
And perhaps I can discover more about her sister, he thought, feeling both fascinated and fearful at the possibility that it might be Nerek, the mirrorchild of Keren which Byrnak had created.
An opportunity presented itself an hour later when the foraging party returned and Kerna introduced him to the Hornghosts’ adept, a lanky, balding man called Guldarem. He gave Calabos’ damaged hand a quick examination then nodded.
“Pretty straightforward,” he told Kerna. “Typical of Urku’s boys, but I’m surprised he still has all his fingers — they must have been busy when they brought him in!”
As he started work, cutting away dirty bandages and cleaning out wounds, Kerna gave Calabos a quizzical look.
“I never did get a good explanation from y
our winged friends about where you’ve come from,” she said. “Care to try?”
Calabos already knew what Qothan had told her, and decided to keep their story as straight and uncomplicated as possible. “There are other lands beyond the Nightrealm,” he said, wincing as Guldarem tuoched a fractured finger bone. “Our land is quite different from yours and is under attack by the Great Shadow’s forces. But we will not surrender to his greed which is why we need to get inside the Citadel of Twilight.”
Kerna’s eyes widened for a moment before she burst out laughing.
“I know a good way inside,” she said. “Turn up at the citadel’s gates and proclaim loudly that the Duskgeneral is the bastard offspring of a burial boy and a vine worm! I’m sure the Murknights’ll be more than happy to invite you across the threshold!”
There was a collective roar of laughter from the nearby warband rogues, and Calabos nodded and grinned along with it.
“But seriously,” he said once the mirth had subsided, “If you wanted to get inside, how would you go about it?”
Smile fading, she gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t — it would be an invitation to perpetual torment in the Duskgeneral’s iron cells. I have heard of a legend supposedly telling of a great rebellion against the Great Shadow in which legions of the Black Host sided with the rebels and got as far as the outer dreamcourts. I don’t know the details…” She shrugged. “I’ve had the half-death a few times — makes it hard to remember everything.”
“Old man Culri might know,” said Guldarem, glancing up from Calabos’ hand from which the pain was slowly lifting. “He always clams that he holds on to his memories through the half-death.”
“That sounds promising,” Calabos said. “I’d like to meet him.”
Kerna grimaced sardonically. “Later, then, once the night is over.”
As she turned away to speak with one of her men, Guldarem straightened and pronounced the fingers healed, their bones rejoined.
“But you really shouldn’t put too much strain on the hand for a few days,” he said. “And wear a gauntlet — the skin will be a little frail for a while.”
Calabos nodded and thanked him, noticing the beads of sweat on his forehead. The hand felt cool and numb, but the fingers worked and all the cuts were closed scabs.
“May I ask you something?” Guldarem said.
“Please do,” said Calabos.
“I cannot help but wonder if you have been adept of the Well before this,” he said nervously. “Whenever I drew upon the flux I noticed that it was eddying towards you, very slightly. Forgive me if my query intrudes…”
“No, it does not,” Calabos said. “The answer is yes, although I wonder if it means the same in my land as it does here. Tell me, have you every heard of something called the Lesser Power, or the Godriver?”
Guldarem shook his head. “But Culri might recognise them.”
With that, he excused himself to go and work on some of the others mens wounds. Calabos regarded him for a moment then returned to the alcove where the Daemonkind were resting. Qothan looked up.
“How are your wounds, friend Calabos?”
He held up his hand in answer, working the fingers.
“Cured, yet still in need of recuperation,” he said, sitting beside the hulking Daemonkind outrider.
“There may not be time for such,” Qothan said. “The woman Kerna wants to launch the rescue raid by the end of the next day, which means that we will have to be in position for it.” He gave Calabos a considering gaze. “Are you going to play a part, and will you wish to carry your blade?”
“Yes, and yes,” he said. “But let me ask you this — have you had occasion to employ sorcery since our arrival?”
Qothan exchanged looks with Viras and Yostil.
“Yes, and it was unnervinv experience.”
“Why?”
“The powers of the Israganthir derived from the Wellsource but through another part of the Void,” Qothan said. “Here, the flavour of it is tinged by other strains of power, and thus it behaves differently.”
Calabos nodded. “That’s what the Sleeping God said, that when the Lord of Twilight triumphed here, he seized the other powers and combined them with his own…but I’ve felt nothing through my undersenses, no feeling of power woven into the air and the surroundings as it is back home. Perhaps I should attempt to form a thought-canto but I’m unsure of the risk.” He snorted in self-reproach. “Truly, the timidity of an old man…”
“Calabos,” said Qothan. “I had not wished to mention it before now, but you no longer look like an old man. Since passing through, your hair and your beard have become utterly black and I see few lines in your face.”
Reflexively, Calabos reachd up to finger his beard, then squinted down at a tuft held out and saw black not grey curls, And a closer look at his hands and arms revealed fuller, more muscular flesh.
“Was it the journey here that has caused this?” Qothan said.
“Perhaps,” Calabos said. “Certainly, it greatly affected my mind. You should know, however, that my elderly appearance was an adopted disguise, whereas this is how I really look.”
“A mask,” said Viras. “To hide your long-lived nature.”
“Just so, although I also moved from place to place to keep from arousing suspicion…”
Just then, there were sounds of a commotion near the arched doorway at the rear of the chamber. Calabos glanced over to see a couple of Kerna’s Hornghosts struggling with a bald, gangling man in shabby garments whose protests quickly grew louder.
“Let me be, you…villains — cutthroats!….”
Calabos and the three Daemonkind drifted over to observe, along with most of Kerna’s warband, while she glanced once at the disturbance then contined her discussion with two of her serjeants. As Calabos drew near, Guldarem joined him from the side, indicating the beggarly captive.
“No need to go looking for old Culri,” the adept said. “He’s come to you!”
“…yer filthy hands off! — I seek the sword-bearer, the one who has crossed the unseen bridge!”
Calabos exchanged a look with Qothan, then looked back. The two brigands restraining the old man tried to bind his hands but he squalled and screeched and fought them. Certain that the old beggar had been referring to him, Calabos was about to speak up when Kerna finally stepped forward.
“What is all this racket? I can hardly hear myself think!”
“We spotted this old bag o’ bones skulking around in the lower halls,” said one of Culri’s captors. “When he tried climbing up the outer ledges, we grabbed him and brought up here.”
The old man ceased his struggles and glared at the speaker.
“Once there was a time when you were kinder to me, Losker,” he said. “But that was four or five half-deaths ago for you, back when you marched with Gonderlak…”
The man called Losker paled at this and Culris went on, passing his angry gaze across the gathered warriors. “There are others here I recognise, yes, almost half of you I knew well, but now you don’t know me at all….”
“There’s one thing I do know,” said Kerna, standing over him. “That I’m getting a headache listening to your drivelling!”
Culri regarded her with disapproval. “I knew you, too…”
“Do you know me, old man?” said Calabos, pushing to the front.
The moment he laid eyes on Calabos, joy flickered in his face then awe and a little fear. At a gesture from Kerna, the guards released him and he hesitantly went up to Calabos and studied him.
“What do you hope to find?” Calabos said, amused at this.
“So long, so long….only the absence of darkness,” Culri said. “I remember your face, Calabos, remember it despite the ocean of years that have washed through this realm of darkness….”
Kerna came over and addressed Calabos. “All right, he can stay for now, but once you’re finished questioning him he’s to leave. I don’t want him listening to what don’t con
cern him.”
“As you wish,” Calabos said and guided the old man over to the alcove as the other warriors lost interest and dispersed around the chamber. Culri glanced at the three Daemonkind for an amused moment, then faced Calabos before he could sit down.
“You’ll not succeed,” he said. “You’ll fail and end up in that ice prison of his, if you deny your nature!”
Calabos was taken aback. “We have skills and powers at our disposal and a weapon of surpassing might, which may mean little in the face of the Great Shadow’s hordes. But somehow we have to find a way into his courts to confront him there.”
“What an elaborate way to commit suicide,” Culri said with unconcealed derision. “Unless you accept the foundations of your nature.”
Calabos was silent a moment, coldly certain of the old man’s meaning.
“The ‘nature’, as you put it, is gone forever,” he said. “Torn out by the very blade which I have brought to this place with the intention of testing its powers on him!”
Culri shrugged. “The time will come and you will know what has to be done. In the meantime, just how do you imagine you’ll even get as far as his courts?”
Calabos smiled. “It is my understanding that this had been achieved at least once before.”
“Just the once, the culmination of Omizar’s campaign,” the old man said. “And he had the one thing that could unlock the Duskgeneral’s citadel — the armour of a Murknight.” Then he laughed. “Of course, he also had a huge army at his back…” Glancing around him at Kerna’s warband, he laughed again.
Calabos gritted his teeth and suppressed his irritation. “So how would I lay hands on a suit of Murknight armour?”
“By killing a Murknight.”
“Of course.”
Culri looked over his shoulder at Kerna who was glowering at him from the middle of the big room.
“I fear that my time here is almost done,” he said. “Look for Murknights after dark, mostly — they enforce the Duskgeneral’s orders to the high chiefs, and there is rivalry between them and the Overseers who see themselves as the hand of the Great Shadow….”
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