Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  Sitting cross-legged, Ilkar held the amulet on his open palms, examining it intently, occasionally mouthing words. He was breathing slowly and deeply, and when he closed his eyes, his chest continued to move, somewhat to Hirad's surprise.

  Hirad glanced at Denser, who was also studying Ilkar, right hand absently scratching the cat's chin, unlit pipe clamped between his teeth. There was a half smile on his face and fascination in his eyes.

  Ilkar was searching for something, that much was apparent. His head was sweeping the area immediately in front of him, his eyes roving behind closed lids. Hirad frowned and shifted, his mouth turning up at one corner, dimpling his cheek. He found the sight unnerving.

  Ilkar licked his lips and started probing the floor with his fingers, amulet now in his lap. Suddenly, his sightless eyes shifted to his right to where Denser was standing. The Dark Mage flinched reflexively. Ilkar kept staring, unmoving, for fully half a minute.

  He opened his eyes. “Got it,” he said.

  “Excellent.” Denser's smile broadened.

  Ilkar got to slightly unsteady feet and walked over to the Dark Mage. Hirad stepped over to examine the floor where Ilkar had been probing. To him it was just hard and cold.

  “It's a control spell. Dordovan, I think. I'll try it, it should be simple enough.” Ilkar looked again at the amulet, turned it over and mouthed a few words. He glanced over his shoulder. “Hirad, I would advise you to move a couple of paces backward.” The barbarian shrugged and did so.

  Ilkar placed a palm on either side of the amulet, closed his eyes and muttered a brief incantation. There was a momentary hiss of escaping air from a seal, and an entire slab of stone disappeared from where Hirad had been standing.

  “All right, Ilkar, I'm impressed,” said Hirad.

  “Thank you, Hirad.”

  “Me too,” said Denser, moving to the hole Ilkar had made. “Dimensional transference. No wonder the Wytch Lords never found the way in.”

  He was joined by Hirad. “They don't make doors like that nowadays, eh?”

  “Hirad, nobody ever made them like that. Except Septern, it seems.”

  They could see nothing down the hole. The first few steps of a flight led into the darkness, and there was an impression of size, but that was it. Hirad called to Talan to bring in two lanterns, and with them lit, he moved cautiously down the stairs, unsheathed sword in one hand, lantern in the other.

  The air was musty and smelt of age, and Hirad could see he was descending into a chamber almost the same size as the room above it. All but covering the wall directly opposite him was a moving dark. Swirls of deep greys, flecked with brown, green and the odd flash of white, poured over each other, going nowhere. The dark roiled and swam within its frame, alien and menacing, its silence adding to its threat. The room held an air of expectancy and Hirad couldn't shift the sensation that the swirls would snatch out to grab him and pull him into nowhere. The thought made him shudder. He stopped and felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “It's the dimensional rip. Nothing to worry about,” said Denser.

  “Can't things come through, you know, from the other side?” Hirad wafted his sword in the direction of the rip.

  “No. Septern stabilised it using his magic and lore. You have to start from this side to get back to this side.”

  Hirad nodded and moved on down, only half convinced by Denser's reply. The rip was compelling. It gave an aura of impenetrable depth but Hirad could see its edge and it seemed to hang on the wall like a picture, less than a hand's width thick.

  All around was the debris of a life. To his left as he descended was a table covered in papers, and near it, another scattered with implements, flasks and powders. A chest was lodged against the right wall. A layer of dust faded sharp outlines and at the bottom of the stairs was the answer to a riddle.

  “Septern,” said Hirad.

  “Undoubtedly.” Denser moved past the barbarian to examine the body. “Three hundred years and he could have died yesterday.”

  The body, head forward, eyes closed, dark hair thinning and close-cropped, was crumpled against a wall in a half slouch, hands partially covering a bloodied tear in an otherwise white shirt. As the lantern light swept away the shadows, it revealed a large, dark and dusty stain on the flagstones.

  Denser looked up at Hirad. “Think how close they came to ultimate victory. Septern escaping down here saved everyone. I wonder if he knew that?” He moved to the paper-strewn table, sat in a chair and began to leaf through the mass of documents.

  Hirad moved off the stairs and was followed into the workshop by Ilkar, Talan and Richmond. The elf repeated his earlier spell and the hole closed above them.

  “Ilkar?”

  “Yes, Hirad?”

  “If you've got the amulet there and you need it to open and close the door, how did he do it?”

  The mage straightened. “Good question. Any ideas, Denser?”

  Denser, who had just uncovered a leather-bound book, turned. “I don't know, what did you do?”

  “It's similar to a FlamePalm but you have to be holding the amulet so that the flame is directed straight into it.”

  “Whatever the amulet's made of will be the catalyst, then. Have you checked his neck?”

  “His neck?” Ilkar's scowl was momentary. “Oh, I see.” He bent to Septern and put his hand inside the dead man's collar. Hirad could see the shudder from where he was standing.

  “Feel good, Ilkar?”

  “Clammy and cold, Hirad. Waxy too. Really, really unpleasant. He is wearing a chain, though.” Ilkar took the chain over Septern's head and nodded as he looked at the blood-stained copy amulet hanging from it. “The faces are largely blank, it's just the edging that has the same design.”

  “Good,” said Denser. “I wouldn't like to think he'd made several copies of the way in here.” He went back to his reading.

  Hirad turned his attention to Talan and Richmond who had been poking idly at the glassware on one of the tables but had now begun to examine the chest. Ilkar came to his side, wiping his hands down his armour.

  “What do you think of this?” He pointed at the rip, its gentle swirling still slow and rhythmic.

  “It gives me the shivers. I wonder what's on the other side.”

  “Well,” said Ilkar, “I have a strong feeling that you'll be finding out.”

  “No question of it,” said Denser. “There's some incredible stuff in here.” He tapped the book. “It'll bring dimensional research on hundreds of years. And it answers a few other questions too.” He stood up and walked over to Ilkar, handing him the book and indicating a passage. “Read it out, will you? I've got to try something. Have you got any rope, Talan?”

  “Outside.” Talan was gazing at the rip, Richmond at his shoulder. Eventually he turned to find Denser looking at him. “Do you want some?”

  “No, I was just passing the time.”

  “Well, I'm not a bloody mind reader, Denser.”

  “No, you'd need a mind for that,” muttered the Dark Mage. “Just get the rope, will you?”

  Talan strode toward him. “In charge now, are you? Tell you what, go and get it yourself, or have you lost the power of movement?”

  “I only want some rope, Talan,” said Denser. “I'm not asking you to open the gates of hell or anything.”

  “It's on my horse if you want it.” Talan turned and stalked to the other end of the rip and took up his gazing again.

  “Gods alive,” said Denser. “FlamePalm, you say?”

  Ilkar nodded and tossed him the original amulet. “Just leave out the command word and substitute whatever it is you say for manameld.”

  Denser followed the Julatsan's instructions, and soon wan daylight appeared above them.

  “I won't be long.” Denser trotted up the steps.

  “Are you going to read that book, or keep it to yourself?” asked Hirad.

  “Sorry,” said Ilkar. “Do you two want to hear this?”

  Richmond shrug
ged and walked over, Talan glowered at Ilkar then did likewise.

  “It's a diary of sorts. A research log as well, though I won't go into that. Listen to this:

  ‘It is only four days since I revealed my creation of Dawnthief and already the Wytch Lords are searching for me. I can feel the shock waves through the mana even here. I cannot leave this house and I am left hoping that the four Colleges will defeat the evil from the Torn Wastes, for the spell I created to destroy them myself I cannot unleash on Balaia. It was folly to tell the Colleges of my discovery. I have since found that Dawnthief is infinitely more powerful than I had imagined. While it would be an unstable spell to work, should it be cast with the right preparation, concentration and, of course, catalysts, it could plunge Balaia into eternal night. It would mean the end of everything.

  ‘But I also find I cannot destroy the knowledge I have unearthed. Is that terrible when that knowledge could obliterate us all? I don't think so—you can never hope to unmake what has been made. So I have taken the information containing the names of the catalysts through the rip and into a place where those who guard it have sworn to do so though death take the breath from their bodies and the flesh from their bones.

  ‘The key amulet has been left with the Brood Kaan in the Dragon dimension and they of all creatures know the price of Dawnthief falling into the wrong hands. Perhaps some day they will give the key back and this journal will be found and my actions understood. For myself, having hidden what had to be hidden, I must destroy the rip, closing the door for ever. To do so, I must remain on this side and will take my own life. No one must find Dawnthief. No one.’”

  The next page was blank.

  Ilkar looked up from his reading, finding all eyes on him. Above them, Denser came back down the stairs, took the amulet from Ilkar and closed the slab once again.

  “So what happened?” asked Hirad, indicating Septern's body. “He didn't kill himself, that much is obvious. And he didn't destroy the rip either.”

  Ilkar shrugged. “Well, it looks to me as though the Wytch Lords got to him earlier than he expected. Like Denser said, he saved Balaia by getting down here before he died.”

  “And we're about to do what he feared most,” said Denser. “We're going to get that information. Now then.” Denser walked over to the closed chest, slapped open the clasps and opened the lid, finding clothes, boots and a pair of lanterns inside. He turned to the others. “A going-away chest, if I'm not very much mistaken.”

  “What is it you're going to do, Denser?” asked Hirad.

  “A little test of what exactly is behind the rip, that's what.” He closed and clasped the chest again. Taking the coil of rope from his shoulder, he quickly bound the chest with it, leaving a length of perhaps twenty feet in his hands.

  “Hirad, would you?” asked Denser, pointing at the chest.

  Hirad frowned but walked over to the Dark Mage.

  “What do you want?”

  “Pick up the chest and throw it through the rip, if you don't mind.”

  “Oh, I see. Good idea.” He knelt and wrapped his arms around the chest, picked it up and took a couple of paces backward. “Anywhere in particular?”

  “In the centre, I think.”

  Hirad nodded and moved to the middle of the rip. He hefted the trunk so that his hands were beneath it and it rested on his chest. A couple of bounces and he threw it straight into the rip, where it disappeared as if swallowed by thick mud.

  All eyes switched to the rope as it moved gently through Denser's hands. After no more than ten seconds, the rope gathered speed briefly, dipped, fell to the bottom of the rip and went slack.

  “I see,” said Denser.

  “I wish I did,” muttered Hirad.

  “It's quite easy. The rip itself is quite deep, maybe six feet, and travel through it is slow. Just beyond the rip is a short drop which we'll have to be ready for.” He paused. “Now then, who's for a journey into the absolute unknown?”

  Silence. And it had an odd quality about it. Hirad considered that they had always known they'd have to go through the dark swirling mass, but now the time had arrived, they were all thinking about what might actually be on the other side. Whatever it was, it was unlikely to be much like anything they had ever experienced.

  “Well, we don't need to leave a guard, do we?” said Richmond.

  “That we don't,” said Ilkar. “What do you reckon, Hirad, The Raven's strangest ride?”

  Hirad chuckled. “Yeah. Let's do it.” He clapped his hands together and drew his sword. “Lanterns, I think.”

  “Definitely,” said Ilkar, picking up the one Denser had left on the table.

  They lined up in front of the rip, each man staring deep into the gently moving picture in front of him. Hirad looked down the line one way then the other from his position in its centre. He breathed deeply, his heart rate leaping.

  “Ready, everyone?” he asked. There were nods and murmurs of assent.

  “Hirad, I think you have the honour of the cry,” said Talan.

  “Thank you, Talan.”

  “What's this?” asked Denser.

  “Just listen,” said Ilkar.

  Hirad drew in another huge breath. “Raven!” he roared. “Raven with me!”

  They hit the rip at a dead run.

  Styliann warmed his feet by the fire in his study and took tea from the mug on the table by his right arm. There was a knock at the door.

  “Come.”

  Nyer and Dystran entered. He gestured them to the other chairs and poured them each a mug of tea. Nyer settled into his seat with the ease of one well used to such company. For Dystran, a man barely into his forties, the nervousness was apparent and he sat forward in his chair, clutching his mug tight.

  “Is Laryon on his way?”

  “Regretfully not,” said Nyer. “He has encountered a problem with certain of his staff.”

  “I see.” Styliann's eyes narrowed. People didn't usually pass up one of his invitations. He made a note to speak with the Master presently. “Now, Dystran, the DimensionConnect research, it is in an advanced state, I trust?”

  Dystran looked to Nyer, who gestured him to speak.

  “Yes, my Lord. We are testing in the catacombs.” He smiled before he could help himself.

  “Something amuses you?”

  “Sorry, my Lord.” Dystran's cheeks suddenly glowed red beneath his short brown hair. “It is just that we had to improve drainage rather urgently after the initial, highly successful test.”

  Styliann raised his eyebrows.

  “Keep to the report,” said Nyer.

  Dystran nodded. “We have made three successful tests of the DimensionConnect spell, linking our dimension with that of another. Having made the correct calculations, we were able to steer a course of water between the two, unfortunately flooding one spell chamber.”

  “Excellent,” said Styliann. “How long before we are ready for a live test?”

  “Any time,” said Dystran. “The only question remaining is one of mage linkage. We assume that the more mages casting, the wider the channel. However, there are risks involved.” He paused. “Finally, dimensions are not always in alignment, and although we can calculate when they will be, we have no control over exactly when it is possible to cast.”

  Styliann frowned. “What are the alignment windows?”

  “Between several hours and several days. We are still searching for a pattern.”

  The Lord of the Mount nodded. “That will do. Dystran, I need you to bring your team of mages up to speed for a large-scale live test. How many do you have?”

  “Thirty,” said the mage.

  “Your view, my old friend?” asked Styliann.

  “It is the ideal offensive weapon for the pass,” said Nyer.

  “Naturally.” Styliann smiled. The door to victory opened once again.

  Later, Styliann held communion with Laryon and what he heard took the smile from his face. It was sad when old friends began playin
g power games with him. It made him angry.

  Flesh was being sucked from his bones. Blood was pouring into the skin of his face. He could feel it swell until his cheeks burned with pain, and then swell yet more. Hirad's hands tightened reflexively, right hand attempting to crush the hilt of his sword. Eyes open, unclosable, seeing nothing but blackness mottled with grey. If he could have turned his head he was sure that he wouldn't have been able to see any of the others. Were they even there?

  He could hear no sound but for the blood thrashing through his veins and his brain shouting at him to make sense of it all. Was he walking? He thought not, but he was certainly moving. Where didn't matter. He just wanted it to stop before the flesh was torn from his body and his blood surged into the void. Even then, he found himself thinking that he would still be moving. He felt a pulsing spread through his body. It began in the pit of his stomach and moved swiftly to enmesh his entire being. It was hot. Very hot. The blood felt as if it would boil his veins, melting them away.

  Light.

  The end of eternity.

  A fall. Hard ground. A dimming of the light.

  Hirad was sitting in an open space and it felt high up. No reason for that. It just felt that way. He looked left and right, counting the rest of The Raven off in his head. They were all there, all sitting, all looking at each other. Behind them, the rip hung in the air a couple of feet from the ground. The end of the rope that bound the chest hung in a slight bow. Hirad tracked it to the chest, which was lying on its side next to Ilkar. And behind the rip, a sheer drop into nothing.

  Hirad stood up on juddering legs, quickly subsiding to calm, and drank in his first sight of another dimension. With the blood settling back to a normal pace through his veins, he felt the hairs all over his body stand as he breathed. He hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't this. The air tasted different, dry and tinny, and the whole atmosphere was strange and cloying, slightly irritating to the skin and eyes.