Chapter 8 Darkness rising
Blossomstide 1924
The tribesman skidded on the marble floor as he rounded the corner at speed. He charged down the narrow gap between the vast bookshelves of the Great Library. In his hand he clutched a glittering silver dagger.
His breath seared in his chest as he slowed towards the end of the gap. Sweat coated his broad tattooed chest. Why had the sorcerer given him the weapon?
The shadows behind him coalesced into a slender shape. The ripple of the air disturbed the tribesman and he spun, dagger flashing. The pale figure side-stepped the attack; his hand swung up into the tribesman’s jaw. The blow sent the tribesman spinning back into the bookshelf.
“Come on, savage, make me work for my food at least,” the pale man said.
The tribesman hissed and stabbed again. The pale man evaded the dagger and grabbed the tribesman’s arm. The sound of bone ripping through skin echoed down the narrow gap. The tribesman screamed, blood pouring from the wound. He jabbed the dagger again wildly and the blade plunged through the pale man’s hand.
The moment was frozen, black blood trickling from the white palm. The pale man’s laughter was shrill. He twisted his hand around, pulled the dagger from the tribesman’s grip, and then slashed it across his throat.
Blood sprayed in a fan and the pale man stood in the shower of crimson droplets, his tongue protruded. The tribesman slumped back, sporadic twitches running through his dying body.
The pale man knelt and dragged his fingers through the growing pool of blood. He grasped the dagger and slid it from his palm with a shudder.
“Master, you are wounded,” a voice said from behind him.
“A deserved wound, Xirik. I am still slow.”
“Why did you give the barbarian the silver dagger?”
“To feel, Xirik. To sense. Four hundred years I was trapped beneath the palace, a spirit locked to a scorched collection of bones. No feeling, no sensations—simply an awareness.”
Xirik stepped over the corpse of the tribesman and walked out into the centre of the library. The pale man strolled with him, regarding his bleeding palm with fascination.
“And do you know what I did during that time?”
“I... I am uncertain.”
“I dreamt, Xirik. I dreamt. And my dreaming became my all. When your entire existence is dreaming, reality becomes defined by your mind alone. And, now I have returned, reality seems somewhat mediocre, somewhat bland.”
“Did you perceive the passage of time, master? Did you sense the days above you?”
“Time has no meaning without reference. No, I did not. Was each of my dreams a heartbeat or a lifetime? I cannot tell you. But that in itself was nothing new—time does not pass normally before my eyes, even now. We stand—the ghasts—unaging in this world of decay.”
“And if our plan is true, then all shall join us. All shall bow to Vildor.”
Vildor and Xirik halted before a large table, covered in maps and tomes. Vildor tossed down the silver dagger onto the table with a clatter.
“Have you located the totems—the plague masks?” Vildor asked.
“They were where you said they would be. Fascinating objects—they reek of demonkind. But surely we do not need to invoke demons in our plan. The drain on your power...”
“May prove necessary.”
“But, master, we have five other ghasts, a score of Dark-mages and an army of black knights at our disposal. The ogres of the Gyrt-Herr caste are also to join our plan.”
“We require the totems because there is a flaw in your plan.”
Xirik froze and gawped. Vildor could see a flicker of anger in Xirik’s gaze. That was good.
“A flaw? I assure you... after two centuries of planning... what is the weakness?”
“In time. First tell me again of the Fall of the Empire.”
Xirik gestured and two gold goblets materialised from the air. He passed one to Vildor who sipped the thick red contents. His free hand drifted to the opal in his sternum. Its surface was like ice.
“The Emperor’s two sons fought for dominance of the Artorian Empire upon his death. He had foolishly continued the division of the Empire’s territories into an east and west domain. The western Praetor was quite insane, and ambitious. He excavated the remnants of the prism that we had wielded during the coup two hundred years before.”
“Aah, now this is important. Was it the exact same prism?”
“Not exactly. It had lost the black face—the one we had used at the end of the coup.”
Vildor nodded, tapping the rim of the goblet on his teeth.
“You did well to survive that conflagration, Xirik. It was misjudged on my part—the demon I invoked was not easily bent to my will. No matter. So the prism that the Praetor of the West used was four sided, as I presume was the one that the Praetor of the East brought?”
“I was not here in Erturia,” Xirik said. “It was during the time that I gave the Gift to Garin, in Keresh. But the magical explosion was felt throughout the Empire. The sky turned the colour of a rainbow and the world trembled. I assumed the prisms were destroyed.”
“That may be an erroneous presumption. The legacy of the Cabal has a tendency to survive all manner of threats. And, in the wake of the Fall of the Empire, Artoria split into two countries?”
“Yes, master. North Artoria is an easy target—the king is an old fool and his court decadent and self-indulgent. South Artoria is the greater challenge. The queen is a formidable woman—but you are aware of the plans there.”
“I am, and am content with them. Tell me, who do we have in Thetoria?”
“Thetoria? Several Dark-mages but none of the Gifted. Can I ask...?”
“It is one of the benefits of dreaming, Xirik. The most curious insights come to you. Now if there is nothing more...?”
“If I may, master? There is one more matter I thought would interest you. We have captured a druid near the Ebony Tower. I have had the knights bring him here.”
Vildor drained his goblet and nodded. The shadows drifted from the corners of the room towards him.
“Let us go see what the child of Nolir has to say then, shall we?”
The pair melted into the shadows.