“But he’s already admitted that he can’t find them, and that someone, or something, is masking their whereabouts,” said Tharaman desperately. “That in itself is a huge worry; why would anyone hide them from a potential rescuer unless they meant them harm?”
Krisafitsa flattened her ears with fear. “I’ve no idea, and I must admit it looks bad. But we have no choice, my love – we can only wait while Oskan continues his search, and pray that he succeeds.”
“And if he doesn’t?” the Thar asked quietly.
“If he doesn’t . . . if he doesn’t then for a time the stars will stand still in their courses, and the sun will be dimmed to a grey parody of day,” said Krisafitsa in a whisper. “But still, Tharaman, still our allies will be threatened, and our friends will be in danger, and I for one will fight in their war, though my heart may mourn for the rest of my days and my life will be changed to a cold and dark shadow of what it once was.”
The Thar gazed out over the darkening plain, his amber eyes glowing like the heart of a winter’s fire, and the icy wind stroking patterns in his richly dense fur. Then at last he hung his head low for a moment before turning to his Tharina. “You’re right, as ever, my love,” he finally said. “From now on my heart will still be in the Magical Realms, but I will try to use my teeth and claws here in the physical world. Our friends are in need and the struggle is about to begin. Let none say that Tharaman and Krisafitsa ever betrayed those in need of the Snow Leopards’ strength!”
And, throwing back his head, he sent out a mighty roar that was answered by all of his people, until the Plain of Frostmarris echoed with the power and might of the Icesheets.
Oskan searched slowly through the Plain of Desolation again. Eventually he turned away and looked beyond the steaming geysers, mud-pots and hot springs to the narrow area of rocky scree that led down to the chasm bordering the land. He knew that beyond the border lay the supreme evil of the Darkness, and he was desperate to find the boys and Kirimin.
But despite his sense of urgency he was distracted; being so close to the evil realm filled his psyche with a frisson of almost unbearable excitement. He was well aware that all he had to do was lower his defences and the Dark Power would fill his mind to capacity, and then no amount of shielding would be able to hide Sharley from him. But what then? Would he just become as evil and as twisted as every other fool who’d opened themselves to the Darkness, or would he be strong enough to control it? He was, after all, supposedly the son of the second most powerful being in the Cosmos . . .
“And that second most powerful being was also made evil and twisted by the Darkness,” said a voice, and Oskan watched as the Messenger of the Goddess approached. He hadn’t seen or spoken with the powerful spirit since she’d appeared in his psychic trance. Oskan raised his hand in greeting and wondered what this second visitation heralded.
“I rather thought that Cronus was evil before he created his realm,” he said.
“And so he was,” the messenger agreed as she stood before him. “But the creation of the Darkness has compounded his wickedness. He’s steeped and bathed in its power every second of his existence; it permeates every part and particle of his being, corrupting and deforming his very soul. Exactly as it would do to you if you chose to open your mind to it.”
Oskan nodded. “And she has sent you to warn me of this?”
“Yes, and also to remind you of the weapon of knowledge that the Goddess has placed in your hands. You must choose to use it freely for it to be truly effective.”
Oskan remained silent. The sacrifice that its use demanded was appalling, and he still resisted accepting his task.
“The Goddess will expect an answer from you soon, Oskan Witchfather. She knows of your pain, as She knows the minds of all of Her children. But the existence of the entire Cosmos depends upon your decision. She must think of the many.”
Oskan nodded and looked up, meaning to tell the messenger to ask the Goddess to allow him a little more time. But she had gone, and he was alone in the ether of the Plain of Desolation. He sighed; when would there ever be time for Oskan Witch’s Son again, the boy who’d once met a princess in the forest and given her shelter from a storm?
He scanned the plain around him, and for a while he could see nothing – but then, for a moment, a tiny flicker of identity broke through an obscuring fog.
‘Sharley!’
The mask that had been hiding the three friends had slipped, and now he could see why. Whoever it was that had enticed them away to the Plain of Desolation was about to attack, and maintaining the energy levels needed to hide people while preparing to strike was almost impossible.
Quickly Oskan assumed the shape of a giant hawk and sped to the chasm. As he flew he could sense a building of negative power in the ether. Whoever it was that was trying to kill Sharley and his friends was almost ready to strike! The kids would be defenceless against Magical Power.
He arrived just as a bank of black thundercloud rose out of the void and moved threateningly towards the two boys and the Snow Leopard. Bolts of lightning flickered about its huge bulk, and deep rumbling notes of thunder muttered and boomed ominously. Quickly Oskan projected a bridge that leaped out over the yawning chasm, an ideal place of safety; nothing could harm anyone who stepped onto magical bridges, because the levels of magic needed to make them were so high that all other power in the vicinity was rendered null and void.
Oskan could also see that Sharley and Mekhmet were drawing their scimitars, and Kirimin was crouching, ready to spring at the approaching storm. Desperately he shouted a warning, but it emerged from his hawk throat as a piercing screech. There was a small flying creature nearby, and when it heard the hawk it flew about the friends’ heads and seemed either to be urging them towards the bridge or harrying them in some way.
By this time lightning bolts were striking the ground all around them, and huge hailstones were ricocheting from the ground and thumping deep depressions into the turf. Reluctantly the boys and the Snow Leopard stepped onto the bridge, and within the blink of an eye were gone.
Oskan breathed a sigh of relief, and then, with a screech, powered into the storm cloud. Immediately he was caught in the mighty turbulence that raged and tumbled through the thunderhead. He sent out a great burst of power that burned away a large segment of its bulk. A thunderbolt exploded as the storm writhed in agony, then it quickly recovered and struck at him with all its power.
The lightning burned away every feather and he fell. Quickly he negated the burning energy by becoming a fireball himself, and, rising, he turned and smashed into the cloud, drawing energy from the storm itself and growing in strength as he seared a burning path through the vapour of the thunderhead.
The storm boomed and roared in agony, striking at him again and again with lightning, but Oskan merely used the energy to grow in power, crackling and raging at the very heart of the cloud.
In triumph he sensed the enemy fading. He was almost certain he could kill it with just one more burst of power!
But then it was gone. Oskan hung suspended in the air, the constellations glittering and scintillating all around him, and no sign of the storm. He’d won, but it had escaped, and he tried to convince himself that he didn’t know who or what it had been. Not only that, but Sharley and his friends had crossed the bridge and he had no idea where they’d gone to. Now he’d have to start the search again, and if the enemy recovered before he found them, they could be in deadly danger.
Medea fell screaming through the ether and smashed into the frozen lands of the Darkness. The tiny shards of ice that made up the endless tundra hissed and spat as they came into contact with her burning wounds, but eventually the heat dissipated and the souls refroze over her ruined skin, soothing the pain and stopping further damage.
She writhed in mental agony and screamed again into the wide nothingness of the Darkness’s sky. Oskan, her own father, had beaten her in battle, and she had been so sure she was now stronger than him! Su
ch was her rage and pain, she almost forgot to direct her magic into its healing mode. But at last her mind turned inwards and damage was repaired; charred and blackened skin sloughed away, ruined limbs crumbled to charcoal and the rebuilding began.
Such was her power, that even in her injured and dormant state she was able to keep the ravening packs of Ice Demons at bay, and in less than two hours she was healed, physically at least, and climbing to her newly reformed feet she willed herself back to her Bone Fortress. She arrived in the Great Hall and sat in the huge chair-that-was-almost-a-throne while she sought order from the chaos of her defeat, and for a moment she allowed the silence of her home to wash over her, finding in its quiet a calmness and peace that was healing in itself.
But if all was quiet around her, within she was a seething mass of conflicting emotions. The battle she’d just fought and lost was the first contact she’d had with her father since he’d banished her to the Darkness. She felt a need to feel nothing but undiluted hatred for the man she believed had betrayed her, but deep in the darkest corners of her mind the smallest note of longing sounded. She’d seen Oskan again! Her father; the man who’d raised her; the man who’d nurtured her childish Magical Talent . . . the man who’d loved her.
The hiss of her intake of breath echoed around the walls of her palace as the thought arrived unbidden in her mind. In raging anger she forced herself to remember that it was also her father who’d sent her to die in the Darkness.
With a supreme act of will she regained her confidence and she gloried in her power. The Witchfather had merely been lucky, taking her by surprise. Next time she’d be ready, and then they’d see who was the stronger.
Orla emerged from the shadows where she’d been hiding, and she curtsied as deeply as her twisted body allowed.
“Oh, there you are!” Medea snapped. “I was beginning to think I’d need to thaw another soul from the tundra. Where have you been?”
“Close enough to do the mistress’s bidding if she had needed me.”
“Well, if you were that close you’ll know I was badly injured in a battle with my beloved father.” Once again a far distant echo of regret for what might have been sounded in her mind, but she ruthlessly squashed it. “But you, my dear handmaid, were conspicuous by your absence! Exactly where were you when I needed you?”
The witch managed to look concerned. “I’m sorry to hear the mistress was injured, though surely the wounds can’t have been too serious, especially as she is so obviously in good health now.”
“My good health, as you put it, is due purely to my superb abilities as an Adept. Now, you can get me—”
But Orla had disappeared. Suddenly Medea became aware of another presence, something much more powerful and evil. Medea then watched as her grandfather paced his measured step across the skull cobbles of her hall. His white frock coat flowed elegantly in the breeze, as did his hair that swept back from his forehead and down to his neat and pristine collar, and his pale face was expressionless.
“Granddaughter!” he called as he approached. “You have clashed with your father.”
“We fought, as well you know.”
“And what was the outcome, now that you claim to be the stronger?”
“My powers are greater than his, but he has more experience, and utilises what he has with enormous skill.”
“Aren’t skill and experience to be considered powers too?” he asked tonelessly.
“No . . . yes. But they’re not magical in the truest sense of the word.”
“And yet they helped to defeat you.”
Medea observed him in silence. How far dare she push his supreme evil by arguing back? “My lack of experience will be remedied by time, and therefore my skills will soon be equal to his.”
“But, Granddaughter, his experience will also grow with the same passage of time. How can you ever catch up, unless you kill him?”
“There will come a time when I will walk away from a meeting with Oskan the Warlock, and he will remain forever silent.”
“I admire your confidence; I hope it isn’t misplaced.”
“I will destroy him,” she answered quietly.
Her grandfather turned the empty depths of his eyes upon her, and held her in the crushing vice of his regard for several long seconds. “Medea, your right to exist in the Darkness is called into question by your inability to defeat your father. He has never fully embraced his magical potential, denying the power of the evil within him, and yet despite this he can still crush you in a straight contest.”
“I have secured my right to the Darkness by virtue of the fact that I destroyed the six Adepts in battle,” Medea answered, her voice almost cracking in panic.
Cronus’s eyes suddenly glinted in a rare display of open malevolence, and then he granted Medea a view of his unguarded, undiluted mind.
For a moment she was made aware of the appalling depths of his evil. Here was a being, she suddenly knew, who would again try to depose the Goddess if he could. How could she compete with such depths of depravity?
“Something to aspire to, Granddaughter,” he said quietly, and then he went on:
“Tell me, in all the depths of my mind, did you detect even a hint of emotion?”
“No,” Medea replied automatically, though there had been the faintest suggestion of something buried beneath the layers of his malevolence. Something that had almost seemed like a sense of betrayal, and a deep unhealed pain. Perhaps here the two Adepts had something more in common than simply their family link, if either would dare to acknowledge it.
“No, there are no emotions,” Cronus agreed. “Because I will not allow it. Feelings weaken the strength of the depraved mind, something you still haven’t accepted, Granddaughter. But understand and recognise this: you will never defeat your father while you allow emotions to dictate your actions. The passion of your mind threatens both the Darkness and my plans for the Physical Realms. Therefore, you will lay aside all human feelings.”
The echo that usually haunted the place scampered away in terror, leaving his words to fall flat and stark into the gloom.
Strangely, Medea was reminded again of Oskan, who had also tried to make her conform to his ideas on what was acceptable and right. The two hugely powerful Adepts were so alike; only their loyalties differed. She forced herself to concentrate on her grandfather, realising it was dangerous to do otherwise.
He held her eyes for a few crushing moments, then turned and slowly walked away. Mind-shaping, he thought, needed to be carried out with a little more subtlety. Medea was now all too aware of his presence in her head. He would wait until later, when he’d disguise his moulding of her opinions and attitudes as her own thoughts and feelings.
Medea watched him go, her heart pounding. Whatever happened, Cronus must never find out what she was trying to do to Sharley and his friends. Death and terror would be inevitable if he did. Quickly she sent her mind questing out to the Plain of Desolation and, locating her brother, she quickly increased the levels of psychic masking that hid them from view.
Erinor seethed and boiled with greater levels of rage than she thought possible. Already her Shock Troops had been broken by a simple pincer movement of cavalry into their left and right flanks, and even the chariots and Sacred Regiment of mounted archers had been almost completely wiped out as they’d charged into a series of cunningly hidden ditches around the enemy’s position.
General Andronicus was proving himself a very worthy opponent, even without the artillery that usually accompanied an Imperial army. The problems with supply continued to dog the Polypontians and cripple their armies. But even so, under the right leadership they still packed a considerable punch.
Erinor surveyed the wreckage of her opening moves against him, and incredibly a sense of calm suddenly returned. For a moment she found herself wishing that she and Andronicus could have met in battle when the Imperial Legions were at their height, with none of the present troubles with supply and morale. But then she
dismissed the thought. Circumstance and chance were the makers and levellers of armies, the architects and destroyers of empires. The Polypontians had had their day, and it was her task to literally clear them from the face of the world.
She looked out to the general’s position where she could clearly see him, training his monoculum on the battle before him. Then incredibly, his viewing instrument came to rest on her, and she watched as he raised his hand in greeting. She smiled, genuinely amused, and bowed her head in acknowledgement.
General Andronicus was indeed a worthy opponent, she thought to herself. But even so, he was fighting from a position of terrible disadvantage; the Polypontians had lost every battle in the war so far, and the Imperial soldiers really believed she was invincible.
“So, General, if you cannot be outflanked, a frontal assault remains the only option,” she said quietly. And then her face was transformed into a mask of rage and hatred as she screamed out her orders.
With a bellow Erinor’s Tri-Horn moved forward, leading the phalanx of mighty beasts towards the Imperial lines. Their pace quickly increased to a lumbering charge, and the Polypontian legions began to fall back. Now Andronicus sent forward the pike regiments, their eighteen-foot long spears swinging down into the engage position as they advanced.
This would be the general’s greatest test. The Tri-Horns were considered unstoppable, but he’d watched them in action once before and thought them unsteady. If the morale and courage of the pike soldiers could hold, and they advanced in close order, he believed the animals could be turned, and made to inflict huge damage on their own army as they fled.
Down on the front line the pike phalanx pushed through the retreating lines of the Imperial legions, while before them the Tri-Horns advanced like a disciplined mountain range, their massive feet sending up clouds of dust and their deep bellows vibrating through the air.