The most experienced of the Charonites noted the Prophet’s easy way with power, and thought he might not be all that he appeared, or that he might be more than he appeared. But he held his peace and, later, it would be he who would share most of the Prophet’s secrets.
But for now the Prophet expelled his breath and spoke. “I need a gardener. Someone who is prepared to serve the Prophecy, and see to its needs. Someone who will wait for he who is to appear, and guide and guard his steps.”
“I will do it,” cried one of the Charonites, prepared to leave her life of contemplation for the service of the Prophecy.
“And I!”
“Both of us would serve,” cried the brothers in unison.
“And I, too, would serve this Prophecy,” said the last gravely, and the Prophet nodded.
“It was the power of the Prophecy that led me here this night to meet with you. You will be my Sentinels, and to you will I entrust the Prophecy over the coming ages.”
The five never returned to their UnderWorld home. They stayed with the Prophet and accepted the secrets he entrusted to them and the transformations he wrought in them. They lost their previous identities and forms and became the Sentinels, and they became closer to each other than they had ever been before.
The other Charonites mourned them, but, with the other mystical races of Tencendor, they came to know of the Prophecy and understood the cause to which their brothers and sisters had been lost. They contemplated the mysteries that the Prophecy had created and prayed that the garden would survive the storm that would eventually engulf it.
Now the five Sentinels sat in their circle, hands tightly held, needing the contact and warmth and love. For three thousand years they had waited. Over the past two years they had guided and watched and waited for the Prophecy to work itself through. There had been times of warmth and laughter and there had been times of deep sadness and loss, but the Sentinels had been content, knowing that they did their best for the Prophet and the Prophecy.
“The Prophecy moves apace,” Jack said into the silence.
“It slides to its conclusion,” Yr responded, her voice sad. Of them all, perhaps Yr would lose the most in the coming months. She had been the freest, and she had enjoyed her freedom.
“And we slide to our—”
“Enough, Ogden!” Jack cautioned. “We all knew what our service to the Prophecy would entail and there is no need to voice our fate now. But the fact remains that, as soon as Axis moves north towards his confrontation with Gorgrael, we will have to begin our final duties.”
There, the words were said.
Yr nodded jerkily, and a moment later the other three nodded.
“Faraday moves east,” she said. “Axis prepares to move north, and Azhure…well, who knows what she will do.”
The others thought silently on Azhure. Even Jack, who knew many things, had been stunned by the appearance of the Enchantress’ ring and its choice of Azhure. He had originally believed the Wolven and the Alaunt had gravitated to Azhure because of her parentage…but now that he’d seen the ring on her finger Jack knew differently.
As the original Enchantress had acted only as custodian for the ring, so WolfStar had acted only as custodian for the Wolven and the Alaunt.
Now all had come home.
Had the Prophet known of this? The Prophecy itself gave no clues…did it?
The appearance of the ring had vastly increased the Sentinels’ respect for Azhure—and for Axis. It would only have reappeared when the Circle was complete, and it marked both Axis and Azhure.
“Who knows what part she will play in the final act,” Veremund said. “But whatever happens, let us hope Gorgrael never learns her true identity.”
Again all were silent for some moments, then Yr spoke, realigning the subject back to their circle.
“As we are currently in Carlon, then I must go first.”
Jack, his face unusually soft, nodded. “Yes, Yr. You will be first.”
Yr’s eyes filled with tears. “And now that the moment is here, I find my heart is full of regrets.”
None of the others begrudged Yr her words. Regrets filled every one of them and they would not hesitate to voice them. But they would not let regrets stop them in their final service to the Prophecy and to Axis. Not when they had come this far.
“Many regrets.”
4
ICE FORTRESS
For hours (or was it days?) Timozel sat knee to knee with Friend in the tiny boat, gliding smoothly and effortlessly over choppy grey waves and still, icy green waters alike. Friend kept up the pretence of rowing, but Timozel was sure some enchantment was being wielded. Who could row for hour after hour (day after day?) without tiring?
Friend had not said a word since he rowed out from the beach at Murkle Bay. But Timozel felt certain that within the shadows of the close hood Friend grinned maniacally at him. Timozel spent most of his time staring anywhere but at the darkness behind the man’s black and gloomy hood.
After an unknowable time Timozel perceived that their boat glided through green and glassy waters so icy that great icebergs, only three or four to start with, jutted skyward. Soon Friend was manoeuvring their tiny craft through a veritable forest of the ice mountains. To the south lay a grating icepack, and beyond that a still and silent beach. Timozel twisted on his bench, anxiously peering this way and that, jumping every time a deep roll of thunder rumbled through the icy canyons towards them.
“Friend?” he asked, unable to keep his silence any longer. “Friend, what is that noise?”
Friend rowed in silence for a few more strokes, then spoke, startling Timozel, who had not expected a reply.
“The sound you hear is that of the great glacier of Talon Spike calving her icebergs into the ocean.”
Timozel tried to remember the few rudimentary maps he had seen of the northern wastes. “We are in the Iskruel Ocean?”
“Assuredly, Timozel, assuredly. See, the icebears gambol, and to the south beyond the ice you can see the Icebear Coast.”
Timozel twisted to where Friend had inclined his head. On the nearest berg a massive icebear stood watching them, her fur yellowed with age and the elements. One ear had been lost in a past dispute with another icebear over the carcass of a seal, and the loss gave her head a curiously lopsided charm. The bear’s black eyes were uncomfortably all-knowing.
“We are almost there,” the Dark Man said, his own eyes briefly meeting those of the icebear. “An hour or two, perhaps more, perhaps less. Gorgrael is close.”
Timozel shivered and forgot the bear. “Gorgrael is close,” he whispered. “Gorgrael is close.”
He hoped Gorgrael would be all that his new friend had promised. He hoped Gorgrael would indeed prove to be the Great Lord of his visions. He hoped that in Gorgrael he would find the saviour who would drive the Forbidden from Achar’s fields and rescue Faraday from her fate at Axis’ hands. If these hopes proved false, then Timozel knew he would go mad.
Gorgrael was keen to make a good first impression. Apart from the Dear Man, Timozel would be Gorgrael’s first real visitor, and the arch-fiend of the Prophecy of the Destroyer was determined that Timozel should find his new master worthy of his service.
He stood in front of his (for once) brightly glowing fire, every sharp plane and angle in his warped furniture waxed and polished. The crystal—what was left of it—that Gorgrael had retrieved from Gorkenfort sat on the single flat surface of the sideboard. Wine glinted richly in the depths of the decanter. All Skraelings within his Ice Fortress had been banished to unseen rooms, and SkraeFear, representing the SkraeBolds, waited nervously in an anteroom to meet his new superior.
Gorgrael twisted his clawed hands as he watched with his mind’s eye the Dear Man pilot his boat towards the Ice Fortress. So much depended on Timozel, and the Dear Man had recently convinced Gorgrael that gentle persuasion and seductive lies would more likely win Timozel’s total support than the outright terror Gorgrael had been subj
ecting Timozel to in his dreams.
“After all,” the Dear Man had said, “Timozel is an intelligent man. He deserves better than what you mete out to your SkraeBolds. Much better. Besides, better he work his heart out willingly for you than under duress.”
Of course, Gorgrael reflected, Timozel would still need to have the ties that bound him to Gorgrael confirmed, and for that there would need to be a little pain. Just a little.
Friend had been rowing steadily north-east for some time when he suddenly shipped his oars and nodded to a spot behind Timozel.
“We walk from here,” he said.
Timozel turned and stared. The little boat was drifting towards an ice-bound beach; he could see round pebbles and small rocks beneath a thin and treacherous layer of ice. Briefly he cast his eyes beyond the beach to the towering cliffs of ice that hid the land beyond, then looked back to Friend.
“We’ll break our ankles within five steps on that footing, Friend. Do you know where you lead me?”
“Assuredly, sweet boy,” Friend said. “I always know where I’m going.”
As the boat crunched across the beach Friend rose and stepped past Timozel and out of the boat. “As this trusty boat has carried us through the treacherous waters of the Iskruel Ocean, then I am sure your feet will carry you safely across these shores.”
Magic again, Timozel thought. Although he had been taught from birth by the Seneschal to loathe all manner of enchantments, Timozel was slowly coming to the understanding that perhaps the enchantments of the Forbidden could only be broken through similar magic; perhaps his visions were proof enough of that. He stepped carefully onto the ice-bound shoreline and found his booted feet gripped as surely as Friend had said they would. Well, whatever magic Friend had wrought to bring him to this remote spot seemed mild and harmless enough. Perhaps magic was only evil when used by the Forbidden and their spawn.
For some time they walked up the canyon, the ground rising and the walls narrowing as they proceeded. Timozel’s breath came in short, sharp puffs that frosted heavily in the icy air. For the first time he noticed how cold it was and pulled his cloak closer about him. Friend’s cloak billowed out as he strode several paces in front of Timozel, seemingly unconcerned by the cold. His features must be fully exposed as that cloak blows back, Timozel thought, and he tried to increase his pace so that he could catch the man and see his face.
But just as Timozel came within a pace of Friend, the ground rose sharply before them, and Timozel had to slow his pace and use both hands to steady himself as they climbed. The sky almost completely disappeared as the ice walls closed in; within minutes Timozel found that he was climbing almost vertically through a narrow icy chasm. Above him, Friend’s boots sent a constant torrent of small rocks and slivers of ice cascading into his face and Timozel would have cursed, had he the breath.
Irritatingly, Friend whistled a silly ditty. Where does he find the breath? Timozel wondered as one of his hands slipped from its hold and he almost lost his footing. His heart pounded and Timozel felt sweat trickle down his face—he would die on the ice-covered rocks below if he fell down this chasm now. He gritted his teeth. If Friend could climb so effortlessly, then so could he.
As if he could feel Timozel’s increased efforts, Friend called down reassurance. “Almost there, Timozel. Just a few more minutes.”
That’s what you said hours ago in the boat, Timozel thought.
The Dark Man laughed merrily. “Time means little to me, Timozel. But see, I have reached the top of this ice-pit.”
Even as he spoke Friend’s boots disappeared over the welcome lip of the cliff, and the next moment Timozel grasped the man’s hand and let him pull him out of the chasm.
“See?” Friend cried. “The Ice Fortress!”
Timozel blinked and looked about him, narrowing his eyes. The sky was clear and the sunlight almost blinding as it glittered across the snow. They were standing on a flat, snow-covered plateau that stretched north and eastwards from the ice cliffs bordering the Iskruel Ocean for what seemed like eternity.
“The Ice Fortress,” Friend said again, pointing.
Perhaps half a league away to the east stood the Ice Fortress. It was constructed of jagged sheets of sheer ice that rose like perpendicular daggers towards the sky. It was massive, and Timozel guessed that it was twice the height and girth of the Tower of the Seneschal as it sat on the shores of the Grail Lake.
It was also very, very beautiful.
Shifting colours of mauve and pink shone as the sun struck the ice walls and reflected off on wildly divergent tangents.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”
“Of course!” Friend said, taking Timozel’s arm and pulling him forward. “Of course. Did I not say that you would find Gorgrael worthy of your service? Could anyone as dark and as desperate as the Destroyer of the Forbidden’s Prophecy live amid such beauty? No! Come.”
The Ice Fortress was as beautiful inside as it was from the outside. There were none of the horrid writhing shapes beyond the corridor’s ice walls that Timozel remembered from his nightmares and visions. All was calm, all was bright.
The corridor wound through the heart of the Ice Fortress, gentle pink light reflecting from unseen lamps. Gorgrael has done well, the Dark Man thought, very well indeed. He glanced at Timozel, who was walking steadily forward with a glazed expression on his face.
But that changed when they rounded a corner and Timozel found himself walking down the same stretch of corridor that he’d walked in his nightmares. He recognised it because there at the very end was the massive wooden door that his treacherous hand had knocked upon to summon Gorgrael.
“No!”
“Timozel, my man,” the Dark Man said, his hand firm and reassuring on Timozel’s shoulder. “What you dreamed was Forbidden-corrupted, not the truth. No-one is more upset that you have been frightened than Gorgrael himself.”
“Truly?” Timozel asked, desperate to believe Friend’s explanation.
“Truly,” the Dark Man soothed, wrapping Timozel’s mind so tightly in enchantments that the man stood no chance of discerning truth from lies. “Very, very truly. Now, shall we go on?”
Gorgrael stood in the centre of the room and extended his claws as the door opened and the Dear Man and Timozel stepped through. The man’s face was pinched and white, despite the Dark Man’s enchanted reassurances, and horror rippled across his features as he saw Gorgrael.
How could something this repulsive—so horribly malformed—be anything but an aberration?
In his nightmares, and in his enchanted vision when he had been forced to mortgage his soul to Gorgrael, Timozel had been brutally treated by the Destroyer.
But now the horror stepped forward, opening its taloned hands in welcome, dipping its tusked head almost in embarrassment that Timozel should find its form displeasing, spreading its wings behind it in unconscious imitation of the Icarii manner of abasement, and almost swallowing its over-large tongue in an effort to twist its mouth in as close an imitation of a smile as it could get.
Timozel came close to fainting, and actually swayed slightly on his feet, but Friend grasped his elbow. “Steady, steady,” he whispered. “Take courage. Think of this as a test. Do you have the courage to do what is needed to win both Achar and Faraday their freedom?”
“Yes,” Timozel muttered. “Yes, I have the courage,” and he straightened his back and squared his shoulders. “I have the courage,” he said in a stronger voice.
“Timozel,” Gorgrael said, and Timozel jumped slightly at the power and strength in Gorgrael’s voice. He stared unflinching into the creature’s silver eyes.
“Timozel, are you my man?”
“Do you fight to destroy the Forbidden?”
Gorgrael almost snarled. Who was this stripling to question him? But he felt the Dark Man’s eyes on him, and he remembered their plan. “It is my name,” he said in as soft a voice as he could manage. “The Destroyer. I live to destroy the Fo
rbidden, the hateful Icarii and Avar.”
“Will you free Achar?”
“I will drive the Forbidden from the land, yes.”
Gorgrael would free Achar. Timozel only heard what he wanted to hear. He cleared his throat and spoke in a slightly stronger voice. “Do you seek to destroy Axis?”
Now Gorgrael could not help a small hiss and he flexed his clawed hands. “I will shred him!”
Timozel smiled, and for the first time he seemed comfortable. “Good. Will you free Faraday?”
Gorgrael smiled with an equal degree of chill. Faraday. Axis’ Lover. The key to his destruction, and a woman Gorgrael had come to desire almost as much as he desired Axis’ death.
“Will you help me free her, Timozel? Will you help me rescue Faraday?”
“Yes, yes and yes thrice over, Great Lord,” he said. “You are all that Friend said you were.” He paused. “My soul is yours.”
Fool! Gorgrael thought. Your soul was mine from the moment Faraday broke your vows of Championship. But he ducked his head and simpered anyway. Time enough in the future for Timozel to realise exactly how deeply Gorgrael’s claws were hooked into his soul.
“Then let us cement the bargain,” Gorgrael whispered.
The Dark Man hurriedly stepped out of the way.
In the wink of an eye Gorgrael scurried the distance between himself and Timozel, his dreadful clawed hands and taloned wings extended. He was so quick that Timozel could not have moved, even had he wanted to.
All he had time for was a quick breath of surprise, a widening of the eyes, then Gorgrael was upon him.
With lightning-quick movements, Gorgrael shredded the clothes from Timozel’s upper body, then knifed razor sharp claws deep into Timozel’s chest.
Timozel opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so great all that escaped his mouth was a harsh gurgle.