Enchanter Page 7

  “Get up!” he snarled. “But only as far as your knees. You are not yet fit to stand in my presence!”

  He swaggered away from the SkraeBolds as they inched to their knees. This was the first time he’d managed to have them all in the same room since the fall of Gorkenfort, and he intended to drag out their fear as long as he could.

  “Sssss!” he hissed in frustration, swinging his head from side to side, and the four SkraeBolds behind him whimpered as his tusks glinted in the dim light. They knew they had a right to fear the fury of his tusks.

  Gorkenfort had started so well. The town had fallen quickly and thousands had died. Gorgrael, watching his forces from the safety of his ice fortress far to the north of the Avarinheim, had shrieked in delight as each man died.

  But Axis had escaped. Escaped with a significant force of men. Escaped to the arms of his father whom Gorgrael had so desperately desired to have here with him. Escaped, and in escaping, had destroyed so many Skraelings.

  Now Gorgrael would be forced to curtail his drive south, for it was all he could do to keep a tight grip on those territories in Ichtar that he held—from the Andeis Sea to the Urqhart Hills. It was now a dead land, peopled only by frozen corpses and the Skraelings who fed on them. He could take pleasure in that, at least.

  But if Gorgrael was pushed into simply consolidating rather than pushing further south, then now was the time to instil some order among the Skraelings. Bring them back under his control. Breed some more IceWorms. Fashion some new creations from the raw material surrounding him to breach the Acharite lines and break the force that Axis would inevitably throw at him. As Axis needed time to build his numbers, so Gorgrael needed time to rebuild his.

  “You are failures!” he rasped venomously. The flickering light twisted his part-man, part-bird, part-beast form into an even more hideous shape.

  “We tried our best!” “But so hard to remember orders amid such excitement!” “And those Skraelings, so unreliable!” “Nasty, nasty brights!” Their excuses littered the air.

  “Your failure tells me that you do not love me!” Gorgrael screeched. The SkraeBolds cried out in denial. They loved Gorgrael, lived for him!

  Gorgrael’s face twisted in derision. “Let me show you the price of your failure.”

  He reached for SkraeFear, who had failed him the most. SkraeFear still had the arrow Azhure had plunged into his neck embedded in his flesh, the wound festering and black, oozing pus down his chest. Gorgrael grasped the arrow and twisted it viciously, and SkraeFear screamed in agony. Gorgrael waited until SkraeFear’s screams had bubbled away into low sobs, then he twisted the arrow again, twice as hard, the arrow head tearing through SkraeFear’s flesh with a sound like wet cloth ripping.

  “Will you fail me again?” Gorgrael hissed in SkraeFear’s ear. “Will you?”

  “No, no, no,” SkraeFear moaned. “Never again, never again!”

  Suddenly Gorgrael let the arrow go and SkraeFear sagged to the floor. Gorgrael grimaced in disgust. He needed a more intelligent and reliable lieutenant.

  Timozel. Gorgrael’s lip curled. But Timozel was bound to Faraday, and until those bonds were broken Timozel could continue to escape Gorgrael’s need for him.

  Well, for the moment the SkraeBolds would have to do. He patted SkraeFear on the head comfortingly.

  “I still love you, SkraeFear, you and your brothers here.”

  SkraeFear whined in adoration and clung to one of Gorgrael’s legs. “I will be good,” he whispered. “Good, good, good!”

  “Yes, yes,” Gorgrael said absently, gently prising SkraeFear loose. “Be gone for the moment. I will speak to you soon. Give new orders. Impart a new mission. But for now, be gone.”

  SkraeFear gave one last grateful whimper, then scurried out of the room on his hands and knees, his brothers hurrying after him, gladdened beyond measure that their beloved master had not seen fit to chastise them as well.

  Gorgrael prowled among the massive pieces of dark wooden furniture of his chamber; twisted and ensorcelled into strange and tormented shapes, they flung shadows into every corner. He loved the room’s gloom and clutter, its darkness and malformed purpose. It was where he did his best work.

  One corner of the chamber was dominated by a massive plate-iron fireplace. Though Gorgrael constructed many of his creatures from mist and ice, he was warm-blooded himself and needed the heat and comfort of fire from time to time. He wandered over to the cold grate and snapped his fingers. Flames licked their way about the misshapen pieces of wood piled at the back of the grate, and Gorgrael murmured to himself. Sometimes he saw strange shapes in the flames, and it bothered him.

  He turned to a sideboard, its undulating planes and angles polished smooth so that the wood shone, and lifted a crystal decanter from its depths. Gorgrael smiled. This decanter and its delicate matching glasses he had brought home from Gorkenfort, and the fact that Borneheld and Faraday had been forced to leave them behind when they fled pleased Gorgrael. He hummed a broken and grating tune as he lifted a glass with one scaled, clawed hand and filled it with good wine from the decanter.

  He was civilised. He was as good as anyone else. Certainly as good as Axis. Perhaps Faraday would enjoy the time she spent with him. Perhaps she would think him polite company. Perhaps he might not kill her after all.

  Gorgrael sipped the wine, clinking the crystal against a tusk and dribbling a little of the wine down his chin as his cumbersome mouth and tongue tried to cope with the delicacy of the glass. He reached into the depths of the sideboard again and lifted out a large parcel. Crystal was not the only item Gorgrael had brought home from Gorkenfort.

  He grunted in satisfaction and wandered over to his favourite chair, scraping it towards the fire. It was a good chair, throne-like, with a high carved back and wings that reached even higher towards the ceiling. He sat down and ripped open the parcel with his free hand. For a long time he sat there, looking at the parcel’s contents, stroking it gently, careful to keep his claws retracted. Then he drained his wine in a gulp and irritably threw the crystal into the fire where it shattered among the flames.

  In his lap, tumbled and crushed, lay the emerald and ivory silk of Faraday’s wedding gown. Looking at it, absorbing the smell and the feel of the woman who had worn it, Gorgrael felt strange, painful emotions well up inside him. They made him feel merciful—and Gorgrael did not want to feel merciful. Worse, they made him feel lost—and that feeling Gorgrael did not like very much at all.

  There was a movement in the air, swirling about the room, and the flames leapt and spat in the turbulence.

  “She is a very beautiful woman, Gorgrael,” the loved voice said gently behind him, “and it is no wonder you sit there with her silks to comfort you.”

  “Dear Man,” Gorgrael breathed. It had been months since the Dark Man had visited him.

  A heavily shrouded figure brushed past his chair and stood for a moment in front of the fire, his back to Gorgrael. The hood of his black cloak was pulled close about his face.

  “Have you met her?” Gorgrael asked, desperate for closer knowledge of Faraday. “Have you spoken with her?”

  The shrouded figure turned and sat down on the hearth. “I know Faraday, yes. And we have passed the occasional word.”

  Gorgrael gripped the silk in his hands. “Have you desired her?”

  The Dark Man laughed, genuinely amused. “Many desire her, Gorgrael, and perhaps I am one of them. It is of no account. If you want her then I will not stand in your way. You may enjoy her as you wish.”

  For a while they sat there in silence, Gorgrael fingering the silken dress, the Dark Man contemplating the flames. Gorgrael had long given up trying to see the face of the Dear Man. No matter how hard and how craftily he’d peered, always the Dark Man, the Dear Man, appeared as he was now, shrouded so heavily that no-one, not even Gorgrael with his dark talent, could understand or know what lay beneath the folds.

  The Dark Man had been a part of Gorgrael’s life sinc
e he was small. The five Skraelings who had midwived Gorgrael’s terrible delivery had brought him back to their burrow in the northern tundra, had somehow managed to feed him until he was able to crawl out of the burrow and forage in the snow, catching first small insects, then the white mice of the northern wastes, then finally the small mammals, hot and juicy, that fed his growing flesh and provided the stiff furs that kept him warm at night. The Skraelings had sheltered him and loved him, but Gorgrael had led a miserable life among the silly wraiths until the day that, scampering across a small ice field, he had seen the cloaked figure striding towards him. At first the tiny Gorgrael had been afraid of this tall and mysterious man, but the Dark Man had picked him up and whispered to him of things which soon had him cooing in delight and squirming in the stranger’s arms. The Dark Man had sung dreams to the child, had offered him hope.

  No-one but Gorgrael knew about the Dark Man—the five Skraelings, later transformed by Gorgrael into SkraeBolds, had never known he existed. The Dark Man, the Dear Man, had come to Gorgrael almost every day when he was little. Singing strange songs of power and enchantment, teaching him about his heritage, teaching him about his path for the future. Gorgrael had learned well from the Dark Man, and had come to love and respect as well as fear this stranger who taught him. He had learned very early that it was not a good thing to cross the Dark Man.

  But through all these years he had never found out who the Dark Man was. Whenever he asked, whenever he tried to pry, the Dark Man would laugh and evade his questions and inquisitive eyes. There were some things he knew about him. The Dark Man knew Axis, for he had told Gorgrael about his hated half-brother very early in life and had taught Gorgrael the Prophecy of the Destroyer. Gorgrael knew also that the Dark Man lived a dark and crafty life, using his disguises to fool many who loved him. He knew that the Dark Man was a manipulator of considerable skill, and sometimes Gorgrael wondered just how much he had been manipulated as well.

  Gorgrael knew that the Dark Man had a purpose, but he did not know exactly what that purpose was.

  “It was her wedding gown,” Gorgrael mumbled. “Timozel’s sleeping mind told me that. Dear Man,” he lifted his gaze to the still figure before him. “I need a trustier lieutenant than these SkraeBolds. I want Timozel, but he is tied to Faraday. What can you tell me?”

  “You will have him eventually,” the Dark Man assured him. “Many bonds that have been forged will tear apart. Many vows that have been spoken will become meaningless.”

  “Will I have Faraday?”

  “You have read the Prophecy. You know it as well as any.” The Dark Man’s voice was a little harder now.

  “Axis’ Lover. The only one whose pain can break his concentration enough for me to kill him. Faraday.”

  “Axis’ Lover. Yes,” the Dark Man agreed. “Only love can provide the means to destroy him. You know the Prophecy well.”

  Faraday, Gorgrael thought, I must have her!

  The Dark Man sat and watched Gorgrael’s thoughts play across his face. Gorgrael would do well—he had proved his worth already—but he would have to learn to curb his impatience.

  “You moved too fast,” the Dark Man said abruptly, his voice harsh.

  “How much longer was I supposed to wait? My forces were massed, my magic was strong, and Axis knew little about his true identity, his true ability. It was a good time to move.”

  “You should have waited another year. Waited until you had more Skraelings, more ice creatures who could work your will for you. Waited until you had more control over your creatures!” The Dark Man’s voice was scathing now, and he leaned forward from the hearth, stabbing his finger at Gorgrael. “Now you have gained Ichtar, true, but you can go no further until next winter. And meantime the forces of opposition are forming against you. Six months ago Axis had no idea of his true nature. But your precipitate action has flushed out all the major actors in this little drama. Now Axis has cast aside the lies of the Seneschal and absorbs his lessons from StarDrifter as a sponge absorbs water. You have woken the StarMan, Gorgrael, but you have weakened yourself so seriously in the process that you cannot yet move against him!”

  Gorgrael twisted his head away from the Dear Man, sulking. “I will win.” Did the Dark Man not believe in him?

  “Oh, yes,” the Dark Man said. “Undoubtedly. Trust me.”

  8

  THE BROTHER-LEADER PLANS

  The silvery, secretive waters of Grail Lake lapped against the foundations of the white-walled, seven-sided Tower of the Seneschal. Deep within, Jayme, Brother-Leader of the Seneschal and most senior mediator between the one god Artor the Ploughman and the hearts and souls of the Acharites, paced across his chamber.

  “Is there no news?” he asked Gilbert for the fourth time that afternoon.

  The fire blazing in the mottled-green marble fireplace behind the Brother-Leader’s desk was stacked high and the light it threw off shimmered along the edge of the fine crystal and gold that stood atop the mantel. Before the fire lay an exquisite rug of hand-woven emerald and ivory silk from the strange hot lands to the south of Coroleas. The Brother-Leader’s private chambers lacked no comforts.

  “Brother-Leader.” Gilbert, his junior adviser, bowed respectfully, his hands tucked away in the voluminous sleeves of his habit. “The only word from the north comes from Duke Borneheld’s camp at Jervois Landing. And the last Borneheld saw of your BattleAxe, he was whooping and screaming as he led his depleted Axe-Wielders to the north in an attempt to draw the Skraelings away from Gorkenfort.”

  Jayme frowned at the referral to Axis as “your BattleAxe”. Gilbert had never liked Axis, and felt justified in his dislike when news of Axis’ appalling betrayal of the Seneschal’s cause reached the Brotherhood. Yet Jayme was so sick at heart he said nothing to reprove Gilbert.

  “An attempt that nevertheless succeeded, Brother Gilbert,” murmured Moryson, Jayme’s senior adviser and closest friend for over forty-five years. He sat close by the fire to warm his creaking joints. “Axis’ self-sacrifice saved many lives, Borneheld’s the most important.”

  Gilbert continued. “Since the forces of this Gorgrael have moved through Ichtar I have received no word from north of Jervois Landing. Who knows if Axis lives or moulders?” As Borneheld had, so too had Jayme and his advisers reluctantly accepted that the foe they faced, Gorgrael, was something even more terrible than the Forbidden.

  Jayme paced about the centre of the chamber. “Artor curse it, I did not love Axis and raise him from a baby to lose him like this! How many hours did I nurse that parentless child, sing him cradle-songs to comfort him to sleep?”

  “Better to have lost him in the service of Artor than to lose him to the service of the Forbidden,” Gilbert intoned.

  “How could Axis betray the Seneschal—and me—like this!” shouted Jayme.

  “Blame it on Rivkah for bedding with one of those damn lizards!” spat Gilbert. Borneheld’s report had been very detailed. “Women ever were the weaker vessel!”

  “Gilbert! Enough!” Moryson stood up from his chair, wavered for a moment, then walked over to put a comforting arm about Jayme. “Recriminations will not help us at this point, Brother Gilbert. We need to plan for the future.”

  Gilbert’s lip curled at the two old men. What the Seneschal needed was an infusion of blood strong enough to save the Brotherhood from the possibility that the Forbidden would one day re-enter Achar. Artor needs young men to save the Seneschal, Gilbert thought, his eyes expressionless, not old men afraid of fighting words and deeds.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Jayme muttered, patting Moryson’s arm. “I am all right now. Just for a moment…”

  Moryson nodded in understanding and let Jayme go. When word of Axis’ defection to the Forbidden had reached the Tower of the Seneschal it had almost caused Jayme a fatal apoplexy. That a man entrusted with such a position of responsibility within the Seneschal could defect to the Forbidden of all things—the races he was committed to destroy—was almost b
eyond belief. But what cut even deeper was that Jayme had raised Axis from a new-born infant. Cared for him, loved him, taught him, indulged him. And for that care and love Axis had not only led the military wing of the Seneschal, the Axe-Wielders, to the service of the Forbidden, but he had betrayed both his god and everything Jayme believed in. Jayme’s hurt was the pain of a father betrayed as much as that of a Brother-Leader deceived.

  “I must assume he is still alive,” Jayme said. “I must prepare for the worst scenario—that Axis survived, the command he led survived, and all are now in the employ of those,” he paused, “flying lizards.” His voice strengthened as he spoke, and by the time he was finished Jayme’s back was straight and his eyes gleamed with renewed strength. The Seneschal needed him and he would serve. If Axis had abandoned Jayme and the Seneschal, then Jayme and the Seneschal would abandon Axis.

  “I am told that news of this cursed Prophecy spreads within Achar,” he said with new resolve.

  Gilbert nodded. “Yes. Those of Borneheld’s soldiers who brought his report from the north, also—Artor damn them—brought this evil Prophecy. Once they had delivered Borneheld’s report to King Priam they took their worthless and pox-infected bodies off to a tavern where they recited the Prophecy for the edification of the tavern patrons.”

  “Is it too late to stop word of the Prophecy spreading?” asked Jayme.

  “Unfortunately so, Brother-Leader. Gossip will spread—and the Prophecy is so damnably ensorcelled that all who hear it remember it instantly.”

  “And curse those two Brothers Ogden and Veremund for finding and showing the Prophecy to Axis!” Jayme rasped. He still found it hard to believe that the Brotherhood’s small outpost in the Silent Woman Keep had been so corrupted by the isolation and the records of the Forbidden they had found there.

  Of course, none of the three in the room had yet heard news of the true identity of the two beings who wore the shapes of the long-dead Ogden and Veremund.