Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 16

Lee waited out the storm in the sprawling combination tavern and gambling room ground main floor of the Golden Gyrfalcon. Her table was towards the rear, where she sat leaning her chair back against the wall. With her sat a lieutenant and some guards – a paltry few now that business had fallen off so dramatically.

In fact, all she could be said to control was Geffen’s old place plus a few warehouses down at the waterfront. Support just kept dribbling away as talk spread of the deadly knifer heading the opposition. She was frankly thinking of getting out of the business altogether. Trying another line of work.

It was far into the night when the storm petered out. Some of the sailors and local patrons claimed they heard hounds howling through all the thunder and rattling of windows, and talk naturally turned to the island’s legendary Shadow Moons.

Lee just rolled her eyes; of course all the damned dogs were out there howling at the banging shutters and claps of thunder. Natural, wasn’t it? No need to reach for any supernatural explanation.

Stupid island hicks.

Gasps sounded then from the front and several of the late night crowd jumped to their feet. Lee motioned for one of her boys to take a look, but even as the guard rose to his feet the source of the commotion appeared pushing his way across the room to them.

It was their friend Cowl. And he looked in a bad way.

The gasps were for the bright blood that smeared the man’s shirt front, hands and face. He pulled a chair to Lee’s table and sat, daubing at his bloody nose.

Her remaining lieutenant, a young gal named Ivala whose ruthlessness impressed even Lee, shot her a look that said, Now’s our chance to rid ourselves of this asshole.

Lee gave a slight negative shake of her head.

‘Get me a Hood-damned rag, would you,’ Cowl croaked, his voice hoarse.

None of Lee’s three guards, nor Ivala, nor Lee moved to get up.

The assassin cocked a brow to Lee, who sighed, and motioned to one of the staff. She called over, ‘Bring a wet rag,’ and the serving girl ran for the kitchens.

‘What happened to you?’ she asked. ‘Get mugged?’

The young fellow – actually probably only slightly younger than she – shot her a warning glare, then glanced significantly to her guards.

Lee rolled her eyes again, but waved them away. ‘Get some sleep, everyone,’ she told them. They all got up to go, leaving the two of them alone.

The servitor came back with a wet cloth that Cowl used to clean his face and hands. Lee watched, her hands tucked up under her armpits, leaning back in her chair. It occurred to her that the man’s nosebleed, or whatever it was, appeared far worse because of his near sickly paleness.

‘Notice anything strange about the storm?’ he finally asked, the cloth now pressed to his nose.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

He snorted, then winced, cursing, and pressed harder on his face.

‘Why?’

‘Our friends are back.’

Lee poured herself a fresh glass of red wine. ‘Really? You mean the two you’ve been waiting for?’

‘Yeah. Them. Turns out that Dal Hon mage is the real thing. He’s damned strong.’ Cowl took the glass just as Lee finished filling it, and drank.

‘Hey! That was mine.’

Cowl tossed the rest back.

Lee gestured impatiently for a servitor. ‘So?’

‘Looks like it’s knife to knife for us. Him and me. Which is fine. I prefer it that way. No confusion as to the results, if you know what I mean.’

Lee took a fresh glass from the servitor and poured again. ‘Whatever.’ She eyed the fellow and hoped her disapproval was clear. ‘Listen, them and me, we got an understanding. You go after that Dancer fellow and they’ll think I’m behind it. I don’t want that kind of trouble.’

The damned assassin laughed again – wincing once more and holding his head. Once he’d regained his composure he waved her off as if dismissing her. ‘The only reason you’re still here is you’re too small to bother with. But…’ and he raised a hand as if to forestall any umbrage from her, ‘I take your point. I’ll make it clear that it’s personal and professional. Just between him and me.’

Lee was sceptical but let it lie. ‘Fine.’

He stood, pushing back his chair. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

She raised her glass to him. Here’s hoping you die, asshole.

* * *

After helping Urko carry Nedurian to a room, Cartheron went to the bar and pulled a tankard of weak beer, then slumped into a chair. The rest of the crew did likewise. It was quiet now, the only noise being Urko talking at a table with all those who hadn’t been outside, explaining, as best he could, what they’d seen.

‘So … they’re back?’ Tocaras asked.

‘Don’t know,’ Cartheron answered. He glanced to Surly at the bar. ‘They disappeared again.’ She stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed, glaring at the air ahead of her. ‘So,’ he prompted, ‘what do we do?’

‘Carry on with the repairs,’ she said.

‘Are we gonna go?’ Urko asked. ‘He won’t want us takin’ his ship.’

Surly cast him her searing glare. ‘It’s our ship.’

Urko shrugged. ‘Yeah. But we promised to work for him.’

Surly’s lips turned down even further. ‘We’ll work for him from far away. Anyway, he’s gone again, isn’t he? Disappeared. Maybe gone for ever. We have to just assume—’

Grinner came thumping down the stairs.

‘How is he?’ Cartheron asked.

He nodded his assurances to everyone. ‘He’ll live. Just some kind of shock. Our, ah, patron’s magery doesn’t agree with him, apparently.’ He turned to Surly. ‘May I?’

She gestured him off. ‘Of course. Go ahead.’

He hurried out the door.

Of course, Cartheron thought, he’s worried about Hawl.

Shrift rose and went to the door as well. ‘I’ll take watch,’ she said, and stepped out.

‘Crust,’ Surly said from the bar.

‘Yes?’

She was still staring off ahead of her. ‘You have another moon.’

Cartheron nodded. Damned straight – after that display. Best to be careful. He shook his head. Who would’ve thought the little runt had that in him? Taming the Hounds of Shadow? He drank and shook his head again. By all the ancient powers above and below … who would’ve thought? ‘How long this time, I wonder, hey?’ he murmured aloud.

Surly just stared ahead, thinking furiously perhaps about what this latest revelation meant for her long-term plans.

‘Don’t know,’ Urko answered. ‘The locals say no one and nothing ever comes out of that place.’

Cartheron emptied his earthenware mug and sighed. Well, they had plenty of work to do, regardless.

* * *

Dancer found himself in darkness. Not the dark as of a moonless night, but a complete and utter black, as if he swam lost within a sea of elemental night.

‘Where are we?’ he asked of the blackness.

‘I’m not sure,’ Kellanved answered, sounding reassuringly close, but also completely spent and wrung out.

Understandably so. ‘Can’t you see?’ he asked.

‘No. Too dark.’

‘Well – make some light. Do your hocus-pocus magery.’

‘Can’t. There are no shadows here.’

‘You can’t make us a plain light?’ Dancer felt almost betrayed. ‘What kind of a mage are you?’

‘Not that kind. Ah!’ Above, a door had opened casting weak watery light, as of a sickle moon, down a set of stone steps. The feeble light was occluded, however, by the lumbering gigantic shape of an armoured colossus who came thumping down the steps.

Dancer drew his heavy parrying gauche once more, thinking, This is just not my night.

‘We are within,’ Kellanved called out. ‘Why dispute this now?’

The giant did not answer from within its obscuring full helm. It drew a blade fully as large as a two-handed sword, and held it in one gauntleted hand. It swung ponderously. Dancer and Kellanved evaded the blow. The blade rang on the stone-flagged floor.

‘Do something,’ Dancer hissed to his partner.

Kellanved held up his open hands. ‘I have nothing left.’

Snarling his frustration, Dancer threw himself at the colossus, striking low, but his blade rebounded from the giant’s mailed leggings. He evaded another sluggish blow and called, ‘This is not my strong suit!’

‘I have a plan,’ Kellanved answered, throwing a finger in the air. Dodging a straight up and down cut, the clashing iron raising sparks from the stones, Kellanved ran for the stairs.

Dancer watched him go almost with disbelief. ‘That’s your plan? Run away?’

Topping the steps, Kellanved called down, ‘A time-honoured tradition.’

Dancer easily evaded the ponderous guardian to follow his partner up the stairs. He found an empty hallway. From below came the heavy thumping of the giant, pursuing.

A panicked yell from Kellanved brought Dancer running up the hall to a small parlour, or salon, where flames crackled in a fireplace. Dim dirty windows hinted at early morning outside. Kellanved writhed on the floor, fighting something small and furry that was wrapped round his head yanking at his hair.

Dancer let his arms fall. ‘It’s that nacht thing. Your pet.’

Kellanved stopped wriggling. He struggled to his feet, dragged the thing round to study it. ‘Demon! Bad Demon!’

The thing let out an enormous belch and Kellanved flinched.

Dancer looked to the thick, soot-blackened log rafters above. ‘Change its damned name, would you?’

A crashing footfall announced the entry of the giant, blade readied. Kellanved froze, gaping up at it, as did the nacht in his hands, its arms wrapped round his neck. It seemed to Dancer that both wore the exact same expression of stunned consternation.

The armoured colossus lowered its blade, its shoulders falling, as if in disappointment, then it turned and trudged away down the hall.

Carefully extricating himself from the creature, losing little pawfuls of hair, Kellanved set the beast down on a nearby table. He brushed his hands together. ‘There! Now that that’s settled…’

Dancer threw out his arms. ‘What? What’s settled?’

The little mage just shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’ He peered about the room. ‘Now let’s have a look round.’

‘We are in this house thing then?’ Kellanved nodded absently. ‘I thought it was supposed to be hard to enter.’

‘Oh, it is, I assure you.’

‘But we got in without much trouble.’

Kellanved made a tsking noise. ‘Really? Not much trouble? I’ll have you know the route I brought us on couldn’t be duplicated by anyone alive. We sneaked in, my friend. If you try to force your way in, then yes, it is frankly impossible. But if you come sidling up through darkness and shadow, shift through a number of Warrens and Realms, edging up closer and closer each time, pretending to be part of the darkness, sorting and searching, until, finally, the planes overlap … so to speak…’

Dancer eyed him sidelong. ‘If you say so.’

The mage fiddled with his newly reappeared walking stick, peering about, not meeting Dancer’s steady gaze.

‘Or … it just let us in.’

‘That would rather take away from the magnificence of my achievement, don’t you think?’

Dancer crossed his arms. ‘What did you say to that hound, anyway?’

Kellanved sent him a look, one brow raised. ‘What? Ah! I merely told her that if they cast their lots in with me they would see a great deal of action.’ He waved Dancer onward. ‘You see, it struck me that they must be truly bored sniffing among the sands and ruins and ghosts. With me they’re sure to get out much more.’

Dancer let out a long breath, ruefully shaking his head. ‘In other words, you cut a deal.’

The little mage’s face twisted up, pained. ‘Really, Dancer. Words do mean something, you know. You should take more care in your, ah, casting.’

But Dancer would not stop shaking his head. ‘No. I’m spot on. Don’t you see it? We’re the hounds in this scenario. The House cut us a deal.’

Kellanved had his arms out as if bewildered. ‘I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about. It was only through my pure genius and profound insight into the mysteries of Warren manipulation that I was able to penetrate the hidden interstices, aporia, and lacunae of this structure’s thaumaturgical defences.’

Dancer waved him silent and headed up the hall. ‘Save it for the histories.’

Falling into step with him, Kellanved raised a finger into the air. ‘Histories! Now there’s an idea.’

* * *

Four days after the night of the Shadow Storm – as everyone was calling it – Tocaras waved Cartheron to the front door of Smiley’s. He gestured outside. ‘Someone here about hiring on.’

Cartheron nodded; he was about to set out for the waterfont anyway. He opened the door to see a tall and lean young Dal Hon lad standing before a small two-wheeled cart; the kind wharf stevedores use to haul awkward loads. It held what looked like a big roll of blankets.

The lad bowed from his waist with an odd sort of formality and stiffness. ‘You work for a mage and his partner? The one who recently had dealings with the place called the Deadhouse?’

Cartheron nodded, rather intrigued. ‘Yes?’

‘I wish to offer my services – in return for a favour.’

‘Well … they’re not here right now…’

‘They have entered that place, as some of the locals say?’

Cartheron nodded again. ‘We think so…’

The lad gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. I will wait. But first I have an errand to run. Is there by chance a temple to Hood within this town?’

Cartheron rubbed his chin, rather bemused. ‘Well … there’s a quarter where you can find all kindsa altars and such, down the way, but maybe not a temple.’

The lad peered down the street. ‘Very good. My name is Dassem, by the way.’

‘Cartheron Crust.’

The fellow took up the long handles of the two-wheeled cart and headed on down the street. Cartheron watched him for a moment, rubbing his chin, still bemused.

The door opened behind him and Hawl peered out, blinking and wincing in the morning light – she still hadn’t fully recovered from whatever trauma had been inflicted on her that night.

‘Who was that?’ she asked, a strange sort of urgency in her tone.

‘Don’t know. Some Dal Hon named Dassem who wants to talk to Kellanved.’

She stared after him, then turned back to the common room, calling, ‘Grinner! Follow that Dal Hon with the cart.’

Grinner rose from his table and ducked out past them. ‘Right.’

Cartheron nodded his farewell to Hawl and ambled off for another day’s work refitting the Twisted.

* * *

That night, when Cartheron returned to Smiley’s, he was rather surprised to find the Dal Hon fellow sitting at a table in the corner of the common room. He crossed over to where Shrift, Grinner and Nedurian held a table on the opposite side of the room. The rest of the place was empty but for three regulars – drunken sailors all.

He sat down and nodded over to their visitor. He asked, low, ‘So what’s the story on this guy?’

Grinner just shrugged. ‘He pulls his cart over the altar quarters, talks to some people, then drags it to an old place built of field-stones on the edge of town. There, some old guy comes out and actually bows to our boy here! He puts his bundle inside, leaves his cart there, and comes back here. Been here all day.’

Cartheron grunted, losing interest.

‘How’re the repairs coming?’ Shrift asked.

‘Faster if you’d help out.’

The swordswoman shivered her revulsion. ‘I ain’t goin’ near that thing.’

‘You’ll have to eventually.’

She looked away. ‘I know, I know.’

‘So what now?’ Grinner asked, sending a meaningful glance to their guest.

Cartheron decided he had to eat, even if his brother was cooking. He stood, saying, ‘Nothing. Just keep working,’ and headed for the kitchen.

* * *

After searching the ‘house’ – which proved remarkably pedestrian in its empty dust-filled chambers and closets – Kellanved headed for the font door. Here, the giant set of oddly designed armour of interlocking iron plates, complete with full helm, stood in an alcove. Rather like a museum display.

Kellanved regarded the thing for some time, peering up, while Dancer waited, impatient. The mage reached out with his walking stick and tapped the battered chestplate. It did not ring hollow; rather, it thumped densely.

The giant’s helm grated as it lowered its head to peer at him.

Kellanved hurriedly yanked away the walking stick. ‘Your pardon.’ He wriggled his fingers towards the front door. ‘I was just wondering … if we leave … if we can leave … will we be able to return?’

The helm rose as the giant seemed to dismiss them.

Dancer and Kellanved exchanged glances and the mage shrugged. ‘Well, only one way to find out, yes?’

Dancer raised a hand. ‘Wait. Are you saying you brought us in here fully aware of the possibility that we may never – ever – leave again? Prisoners for the rest of our lives?’

Kellanved backed away towards the door. He fluttered his hands. ‘Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

Unbelievable! Dancer reached to catch the fellow by his wide collar, but at that moment Kellanved lifted the latch behind him, pushed open the door, and tumbled out on to the broad slate landing. Dancer strode forward, meaning to throttle him where he lay. One step took him across the threshold, and the door slammed shut behind his back, battering him on to his stomach. He scrambled quickly to his feet and stood over Kellanved, furious. ‘You could’ve told me!’

The mage was peering up the walkway. He pointed. ‘Not in front of the neighbours.’

Dancer looked up, blinking at the bright daylight: a few kids on the street stood frozen, gaping at them, as did pedestrians in the small crossroads further away. He pulled Kellanved to his feet. ‘You’re lucky.’

The mage straightened his worn and tattered shirt, vest, and jacket. ‘There. You see? No problem at all.’ And he started up the walkway, swinging his stick, and humming to himself.

Dancer could only shake his head. Unbelievable. Completely unbelievable.

* * *

When they entered Smiley’s everyone jumped. The Napans, plus others who must be local hires, even exchanged nervous glances. Dancer peered round, a touch perplexed. ‘What is it?’

Grinner, clearing his throat, was the first to sit down again. ‘Nothing,’ he said, but he kept eyeing them sidelong. An old veteran with him, possibly Talian by his greying straight black hair, approached and bowed to Kellanved.

‘Magister, I am Nedurian – I have enlisted with your representative, Surly.’

Kellanved fluttered his fingers in response. ‘Very good. We need more talents. Especially ex-legion.’

The fellow looked a touch startled, but bowed again, returning to his table.

Surly emerged from the kitchen. She stood regarding them for some time with her arms crossed, as if to say, Well well, look who’s come dragging themselves back.

She approached, her lips twisted in disapproval, and Dancer almost felt contrite – as if he’d been out on a bender. She looked them up and down, said, ‘Some show twelve days ago.’

Dancer’s brows rose. Twelve days? Ye gods. Much longer than I thought.

‘Thank you,’ Kellanved said smugly, and Dancer wanted to hit him. The mage started for the stairs, walking stick tapping the stone floor. ‘I’ll be in my office if you wish to talk.’

Dancer watched him go. Hiding in your office, you mean. He faced Surly, but frowned then, and glanced to a figure sitting far to the back. Having his attention, the figure stood, and Dancer could not believe whom he was seeing.

The man approached and Dancer looked him up and down. ‘What in the name of all the gods are you doing here?’

It was their righteous friend from Li Heng, Dassem, and he glanced to the stairs. ‘I have business to discuss with your partner.’

‘With us, you mean.’

The man took a steadying breath, and seeing that gesture Dancer understood just how extraordinarily important the business was to him. ‘With the two of you, then. In private.’

Dancer nodded. ‘Very well.’ He gestured Dassem to the stairs. ‘Let’s talk.’ He nodded to Surly, Later, but as she watched them go she was scowling her dissatisfaction even more.

When they entered the office, Kellanved was standing at the window, rocking back and forth on his heels. He turned when Dancer shut the door, and nodded to Dassem. ‘What brings you to Malaz Island? Changed your mind?’

‘In a way,’ the man answered stiffly. ‘A service for a service.’

‘This being?’

The fellow was very uncomfortable. Obviously not used to explaining himself, he cleared his throat and said, ‘I have something I wish to place in the Deadhouse.’

‘It’s not some kind of damned storage closet,’ Dancer snorted, going to a small table to pour himself a glass of wine.

Kellanved was slowly shaking his head in thought. ‘Well … it sort of is, actually. And in return?’

‘In return I shall serve you.’

Dancer spluttered on his drink. He eyed the swordsman, wiping his shirt front. ‘You, serve us?’

Dassem’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d detected some sort of insult. ‘My word is good…’

Kellanved raised his hands placatingly. ‘Please do not misunderstand. We do not doubt your word. It is just that … our goals may not be aligned.’

‘I care nothing for your goals. I will serve you.’

Dancer eyed Kellanved, raising a brow.

The mage tapped his walking stick to the floorboards, rocked back and forth again. ‘Well, this is all very hypothetical anyway. We may not even be able to re-enter the House.’

Dassem took hold of the door latch. ‘Then let us see.’

Kellanved and Dancer exchanged glances once more and Dancer shrugged. The mage pointed his stick to the door. ‘Very well…’

* * *

Dassem led them to the edge of town. Here, at an old dwelling constructed of flat fieldstones, he brought out a bundle and laid it in a cart. A bearded old man in rags lived in the shack, and kept bowing to Dassem the entire time.

When they left, Dassem pulling the cart, Dancer couldn’t help glancing back. The oldster was on his knees in the dirt, hands raised in prayer.

‘An adherent of Hood,’ Dassem explained.

Kellanved led the way to the House. Dancer brought up the rear, behind the cart. His neck kept itching as it did when he was under observation and he turned his head to see a slim young lad in dark clothes following them at a distance. He frowned, but continued on, glancing back every so often to keep track of the young fellow. He didn’t like the smug smile on his face – as if he were privy to some amusing secret known only to him.

At the House, Dassem gently picked up the fat roll of blankets and carried it in both arms. Kellanved opened the little iron gate. They walked up the stone path, Dancer in the rear. When Kellanved paused on the broad landing before the door, Dancer looked back and saw the pale lad at the fieldstone wall. The smile was gone. He appeared rather sour now.

As Kellanved hesitated, Dassem reached in past him and took the latch. To Dancer’s great surprise it lifted, and the swordsman pushed open the door. Kellanved entered, while Dancer came in last. As he closed the door behind him, he glimpsed the pale lad’s scowl.

Dassem gently laid the roll down in a side room just off the entrance hall. Dancer and Kellanved watched, curious. He drew back folds of the rolled blankets to reveal the head and face of a young Dal Hon girl, her eyes closed, her hair a sweaty mess, to all appearances asleep.

‘What’s this?’ Dancer asked.

Dassem did not look up from the girl. ‘Someone I swore I would protect.’

‘She will be safe here,’ said Kellanved, and Dancer was quite surprised by how serious the mage sounded.

With the back of his hand, Dassem eased the girl’s sweaty hair from her face, nodding. ‘So I was assured.’

Dancer was going to ask who in the Abyss had assured him of that when the mage brushed his hands together, announcing, ‘Good. So, we have an accord?’

Kneeling next to the girl, the swordsman bowed his head. ‘We have an accord.’

‘Excellent. You will accompany us, then. We have an … errand, of a sort, to run.’

Dancer eyed his partner in open suspicion. ‘What’s this?’

Kellanved was grinning. ‘You’ll see…’

Shadows now came swirling up about them and Dancer raised a warning finger. ‘I told you! No sudden damned—’

The three disappeared, leaving dust motes and a few dried leaves and needles to swirl about the sleeping girl. After a time, heavy footsteps sounded and the armoured colossus appeared in the arched entryway. The helmed head lowered as it regarded this strange new visitor.

* * *

The first thing Tayschrenn became aware of were his hands and feet – they prickled abominably. Next, his arms and legs registered their agonizing reawakening, and he groaned. Or thought he did.

His chest suddenly flinched and his back arched. The pain was transporting; every nerve in his body was aflame. Now he was certain that he screamed until his throat was raw.

Then he slept the sleep of tortured exhaustion.

Noise awoke him next; the heavy dragging and brushing as of something very large moving over stone and dirt. Whispering reached his ears and he strained anew, listening.

‘He’s awake,’ a male voice said from the dark.

‘Yes, yes,’ a female voice answered, impatient and dismissive.

He decided to ask them what was happening. He drew a breath and exhaled, moving his tongue and trying to speak. All he heard was a dry rasping and animal-like growling.

‘He’s dying,’ said the male voice. ‘Isn’t that him dying?’

‘No, it’s not,’ answered the female voice. ‘Water,’ she commanded, ‘water for our guest.’

A short time later water suddenly poured over his face from the total darkness and he gasped, spluttering, trying to swallow without drowning.

‘Enough water!’ the female voice commanded once more. ‘I apologize,’ she said. ‘We get so few visitors down here.’

‘Where,’ he managed, croaking, ‘where am I?’

‘Far below your island, little man. Very far indeed.’

‘Who … who are you?’

‘What?’ the man answered, incredulous and angered. ‘Who among all the ancients do you think?’

‘Now, now,’ the woman said. ‘He is disoriented after his ordeal. Light, I think. Let light be our answer.’ Multiple hands clapped, brusquely.

While Tayschrenn watched, straining his eyes in the absolute black, tiny pinpoints of a greenish-bluish light blossomed to a glow. Here and there, all about, they multiplied by the thousands and thousands, until he made out an immense cavern, vaulted far above and boasting many tunnel entrances, and facing him two giant snake-like entities, each emerging from a different tunnel, titanic, each as large in scale as the tower of a fortress to him. One bore the upper portions and features of a human male, the other a female.

And Tayschrenn, the sceptic and doubting scholar, forced his agonized and punished limbs to move, and he rose to his knees, bowing before the pair, murmuring in awed reverence, ‘D’rek…’

‘Well, I should think so,’ huffed the male portion.

‘Thank you,’ said the female, and she clasped her tiny hands together. ‘Now, our time is short. We spare you, Tayschrenn, as your sentence was unjust. We are not without mercy, as you see.’

He bowed again, touching his head to the floor before him, and discovering it to be a sea of writhing beetles, roaches, centipedes and silverfish.

He attempted to disguise his shudder of revulsion.

‘We shall send you back to the temple,’ said the male.

‘Yes,’ nodded the female. ‘And we ask that you carry a message. A warning.’ Her voice hardened as she continued, ‘Elements within the priesthood are advocating new directions for the cult and we are not pleased – is that clear?’

Tayschrenn bowed once more. ‘Quite. I am honoured by your trust, and—’

‘Yes, yes,’ the male cut in. Aside, to the female, he murmured, ‘He cannot remain much longer.’

She nodded. ‘Indeed. Tayschrenn, the chemicals injected into your system are abating and you must go. Frankly, the atmosphere here within this cavern is poisonous to you, and so we shall dismiss you. Farewell, and good luck.’

He struggled to his feet, his head bowed. ‘My thanks, Great One.’ Even as he spoke, a strong ammonia stink assaulted him as he inhaled, making him cough. This air, he realized, was that of underground caves where those who wandered within soon expired for lack of breathable gases.

Male and female entities waved their dismissal and his vision dimmed. As they disappeared it occurred to him that the female’s lower quarters curved to the left as they disappeared into a tunnel, while the male’s curved to the right. The two, it seemed, might be the oppposite ends of the same entity.

A great dislocation assaulted him as he moved through a Realm he did not recognize, which he realized must be that of Elder, and unavailable to him. The vastness and depth of puissance he glimpsed in passing was beyond his imaginings. Then it disappeared in a sudden, disrupting shear.

* * *

The cavern lay dark and empty but for the uncounted millions of squirming insects.

‘There is a strength in him,’ said the male voice into the darkness.

‘There will have to be,’ answered the female.

‘K’rul seems to think he may be the one.’

‘Yet another candidate,’ murmured the female sadly.

‘Someone will have to succeed.’

‘Perhaps,’ allowed the female. ‘Perhaps not. Change comes to us all.’

‘I will not just step aside,’ affirmed the male.

‘No,’ agreed the female, her voice hardening. ‘Neither will I.’

* * *

On his knees, hands pressed to his thighs, Tayschrenn raised his head to find himself in familiar surroundings. It was a private audience chamber off the side of the cult’s main temple. Shelves of scrolls lined the wall, while the top of a central table was hidden beneath numerous open manuscripts of ongoing research projects.

He crossed to the door and listened: the massed whispering and brushing of robes betrayed a service in progress. D’rek’s timing could not have been better – of course. He took hold of the latch then paused for a time, readying himself. He was terrified, he discovered; his hands shook, his stomach clenched and rebelled. Why so much more nervous now? And he knew, of course. Now was about so much more than merely him.

He yanked open the door and entered the temple. It was crowded with the faithful, all in ranks before the raised altar at the front where the cult elders led the service. Tallow stood in the central place – the Demidrek’s. He was in mid-sentence, exhorting the faithful.

Tayschrenn calmly strode towards the altar, passing through line after line of the massed acolytes and full priests. At first a silence grew behind him as he passed, then it filled with gasps and awed whisperings.

The hissed discordance grew in volume and reached the front ranks. Tallow faltered, losing his tempo. ‘And so, my children,’ he was saying, ‘we must return to the proper path, for we have lost our way…’ He paused, eyed the rear of the hall, frowning. ‘We must…’

His gaze found the vector of the growing disturbance and his eyes widened in shock. Beside him, Salleen lurched to her feet, glaring.

Tallow pointed, bellowing, ‘What impostor’s game is this? Who are you?’

‘I am Tayschrenn,’ he answered, and was proud of the steadiness of his voice.

Tallow was shaking his head, ‘No. That is impossible.’ Beside him, Salleen turned sickly pale, almost staggering.

‘Not impossible. I have been sent to carry a message for the—’

‘Seize him!’ Tallow roared. ‘He has evaded D’rek’s justice! He is a blasphemer! He has spurned D’rek!’

‘No!’ a new high voice shrieked, a young woman’s. A slim figure fought its way forward to the altar, approached Tallow. Now Tayschrenn felt his legs weaken and his resolve faltering as he recognized a dishevelled Silla. ‘He is innocent!’ She clasped Tallow’s sleeve. ‘You promised me he would live and now look! Look!’ And she laughed wildly.

He pushed her from him. ‘You are ill, sister. Someone restrain this poor child.’ He turned from her, yet even as he did so her face grew savage and she leapt forward, swinging an arm. Something glinted in her hand, striking Tallow in the back, and he bellowed, staggering.

A burst of power from him tossed her backwards into the stone wall behind the altar, where her head hit with a meaty crack. She slumped to the floor, motionless. Tallow swung back to the hall, a hand over one shoulder, pressed to his back. ‘He has sent his assassin upon me! I see it now! He would suborn the cult to his own ends! Slay him!’

Those nearest Tayschrenn now closed on him, grasping his dirty robes. Almost as an afterthought he raised his Warren and flicked them away, for his gaze was fixed upon the motionless shape of Silla where she lay. You promised … So, she said those things to try to save his life – a bargain offered by him.

And now … now she was dead.

Slain by … him.

His gaze shifted to the man himself as he straightened, rolling his meaty shoulders as if throwing off whatever damage the wound might have inflicted. Tayschrenn saw in his churning Warren-aura that strange taint, or coloration, now even more potent than before. And now he recognized it – the stain of Chaos. He raised an arm, pointing, ‘Who do you serve?’

The Invigilator smiled. Then he swept his arms forward, motioning all the cult’s highest ranked priests and priestesses into action. ‘Destroy the apostate!’

The entire body of Kartool’s High Temple of D’rek hurled themselves upon Tayschrenn.

He threw up his protective barriers and was bludgeoned and buffeted within. He could not bring himself to strike back, and so he shifted into the Warren of Thyr and fled. And the army of D’rek mage-priests, those who could, followed.