Children of the Pact: A Tide of Sacred Ice, #3

By Alexander Saloen

Warrior and prince Zabroc Khanor always seemed destined for greatness, but when the king's throne is left suddenly empty, he finds himself caught between his father's legacy and the traditions of his people.

The Ûzuks have sworn vengeance on the Dacurean Twelfth legion, who've seized the southern city of Darrun. Yet beneath its streets, secrets are beginning to stir, a madness that threatens to consume the legion and the city from within.

On the cusp of an Ûzuk siege, two druids of Aladria arrive in Darrun, searching for a crucial artefact, but instead uncover a conspiracy against the very nature of their world. A Hidden Hand guides the chaos in Darrun, a long-dead king seeks revenge against the gods, and an abandoned people are awakening to feast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexander A Saloen
• Release date: Feb 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393429500

Alexander Saloen

Alexander Saloen's enthusiasm for stories and tales started early. He especially remembers his grandfather's ability to make small chatter seem like little fairy-tales. Back in 2013, he wrote the play "A Dance in the Necropolis" and had begun working on the novel "The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice", which he finished in 2017. ''​I hope that you, dear reader, enjoy my works and that it inspires you. Again, what would our world be without stories, art and music?''  Titles so far in the fantasy series:  The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice  The Blood of Queens  Children of the Pact  The Prince of Fire (the summer of 2022)   

Book preview

A. A.

Saloen

A Tide of Sacred Ice

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my love and appreciation to the following for their friendship and faithful support: Raymond, Dag Harald, Ellinor, Johnny, Ramanan, Braulio, Kamro, Victoria, Dag-Erik, Kine, Maria, Øyvind, Krister, Kjetil, Martin, Enok, and of course, my family.

A special thanks to Simon Olsen for editing this mess, how many cups of coffee now? Must be thousands, but without you this story wouldn’t have seen the light of day. Period.

And to Grethe, your friendship and support means the world.

Finally, a huge thanks to all my readers. Bless you all!

A.A Saloen

Children of the Pact

A Tide of Sacred Ice

Copyright © 2020 by Alexander Amit Saloen (Sæløen)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For permission requests, write to the publisher/author at the address below:

ALEXANDER AMIT SÆLØEN

e-mail: [e-mail]

First edition, published 2020

ISBN: 9798667233718

Cover design made by the author himself at befunky.com.

Map made at Inkarnate.com

Ouroboros, CC0 copyright:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ouroboros.svg  

Dramatis Personae

THE ÛZUK CLAN

Zabroc Khanor – first son

Tomran Khanor – second son

Hunug Khanor – third son

Ubraz Khanor – queen and mother

Sogan Khanor – king and father

Sythra – Hunug’s partner

Groth – Traitor Witch

Narr – ephos, lord chancellor

Bonath – a warrior

Ithac – a warrior

Karazok Khanor – magistrate and uncle

DACUREANS IN DARRUN CITY

Icardasan – High Hilt of the Twelfth

Macarius – Long Hilt of the Twelfth

Hostian – Commander of Guards

Tessania – a sergeant of the Twelfth

Cydonia – lady and mother

Lucia – a daughter

Bazaq Ïhm – High Mage

Halet – mage

Mazgal – mage

Borbas – Blade and Dozen Guard

Dylia – an investor’s spouse

Yinta – Lucia’s maid and nurse

Barius – Head Banker

Tallus Ocus – tax master

DACUREANS AT QUARN FORTRESS

Savarius – Blade and Captain

Udas – a squire, the Twelfth

Malec – a mage the Twelfth

Mitha – soldier, the Twelfth

Deera – soldier, the Twelfth

Brost – soldier, the Twelfth

––––––––

DACUREANS OF THE FOURTEENTH ARMY

Sharda – Blade and Captain at Darrun Temple

Bintus – a sentry

Keg – a sentry  

DARRUN HALFBLOODS

Dask Potte – a thief

Sabriana – a translator

Rocansa – a waitress

DRUIDS OF ALADRIA

Narratus – druid in yellow, historian

Apex – druid in orange, inventor

Littlebrook – druid in purple, head of the order

Humbletee – druid in red, explorer

Azûl – druid in indigo, sorcerer and walker of realms

GODS

Shârz Azûdrûn – Goddess of the Ocean

Shârz Dûrbuhk – Goddess of Ice and Air

Shârz Habathaz – God of Vengeance and War

Shârz Arbathar – God of Prosperity

ARNARIONS

Bulte – a gold digger

Nistrac Uthal – a shield maiden and assistant

Feona – an assistant

Cobbus – a driver

Acara – an escaped apprentice

Poltok – an escaped apprentice

TRIBES OF RAZ NÉNGOROD

Ûzuk clan – Sogan and Ubraz Khanor

Hauthac clan – Harmoc and Brathoc brothers

Likath clan – Rusula Vond

Tibrac clan – Onkar Tibrac

Braxnat clan – Shatac Attynkt

Platanxt clan – Lautharas

Carsothof clan – Cautorikan

––––––––

OTHERS

Horseman – an unwelcomed emissary 

Tufa – a child in a lost realm

Arragath H’laist – priest and sorcerer

Sorocan – a dragon

Kar’ingils – an ancient people

Ak’lust A’ragath – an ancient people

Enya – earth spirit, also called Ëwhela

Lunar King – lord of all moons

Arnarion Necromancer

Dacurean Alchemist

Sorthana – a halfblood servant

Frickath – a halfblood servant

Hagom – warleader, T’guz clan 

Prologue

Blood and Bone

Long have we sat here and watched

the rolling of thrown dice,

between the mouldy walls of a dying city

Long have we waited for our doom,

in an old backroom

in a battered tavern

Whatever we uncovered

beneath these horrid streets,

let be for now, and refill my glass

and let me, once more, roll the dice

Bazaq Ïhm,

Dacurean High Mage

––––––––

2290 of Driorûn

Nine years before the ice dragon’s winter curse

––––––––

S

acred blood smeared the stone slabs before the ancient temple of Habathaz. Dark clouds had lain like a lid over the capitol of Raz Néngorod for a month now, immovable, the lightning perpetual and luminously menacing of the grand scale of haruspicy that was taking place. Thunder roared, a proof of the Shârz Habathaz’s displeasure with the Ûzuk tribe and their change in traditions. Iniquity was not an issue among the warrior tribes. Blood flowed as much as the vast continent’s rivers, sangria and dark under the revolting skies, to the thunderous demands of bloodthirsty gods.

The Ûzuk Warlord and King received his blessing in the temple. His armour was stripped from him and drowned in the severed limbs of his slain enemies, placed in a wooden container filled with saline water. The king wore a string from which dangled the ears, teeth, and phalanges of his butchered adversaries, even those of children, and his shoulders and spine were painted in the colours of those tribes mixed, of course, with their rotting blood. The stench was thick and nauseating, the ritual rigorous, a necessity before and after each campaign.

Servants and gorgos looked skyward. Clouds drifted aside, revealing an evening sky that was red and warm, almost pressing.

Groth stood before the temple of Shârz Habathaz. The king had spent three days inside the temple, surrounded by gorgos and priests that loathed the sight of her. Since her eviction, the temple had stood as a reminder of all she had left behind, a life she was never meant to live. Her banishment was for the greatest of offences, at least so they’d claimed. One did not spread false reputations and deceitful lies in the war god’s temple, they’d told her, and least of all at his altar – the inner sanctum.

Groth had tried something no-one had ever dared. She’d tried to create an awareness of something greater than war and feud, of something bigger than tradition and superstition. It was a groundbreaking notion, one that could turn their culture upside down.

And she’d paid the price. The iron cage she was placed in had held fast, the bent angles solid enough to hold her rotund form as it got lowered into the ice-cold sea to the clinking of iron chains. Slowly but surely, the water had engulfed her, stolen her breath, pierced her skin, chasing consciousness away. Her soul had drifted, she recalled. It had drifted to places unseen, to places unheard of by most living. Mortals weren’t welcome into those ancient realms. One had to be a bodiless being, a Spiritwalker or a pure ghost to be let in through those gates. The journey had granted her knowledge she already despised with a passion, knowledge that assured her she was correct in her misgivings, and that had torn her apart from within. The subsequent ostracising that followed the drowning came as a natural consequence of her actions, one Groth was more than willing to pay. There, on the brink of death, right before she crossed over, she was granted sight. A sight that’d changed her, one that had made her return to the physical world, her own, even worse. The iron cage was hoisted from the water, the witch branded with hot iron, spat at in every market square and forced to walk around the capital of Koranth Absaron wearing a wooden sign that classified her as a coward – the single worst thing after a traitor.

And now as back then, important members of the Ûzuk clan gave her the stares, eyes gleaming with discontent. Groth ignored them. There were, as she feared only she knew, far greater matters at stake here than her pride. The real tragedy was that only a handful of her fellow sorcerers and magi understood that. And standing there like a statue of her former self in utter silence and obedience, witnessing the sky above her bled from red to a deep purple, revealing obscure clusters of distant blinking stars, she understood it. Groth was alone against an entire nation. 

She stepped forward, pale hands shaking. Listening, closing her dark eyes, her heart thudded to the ancient war drums that were stricken in the temple, the boom undulating the very grounds. She sniffed the cold air. The incentives provided a familiar scent of myrrh and laurels, the smoke grey and visible, swirling from the naos and all the way out past the stereobates.

An ox horn was blaring, then two more, all in harmonious octaves.

Warlords and champions stepped aside.

Out of the temple came three High Priest of Habathaz, the Warlord and king following suit. He wore a grey cloak, keeping a stalwart composure, firm and inexpugnable, as he walked down the sacred steps, slowly, with the countenance of someone who’s ready to conquer the world and shape it the way he sees fit. And still, Groth thought, there was something more in his deep dark eyes. His blue skin appeared paler that evening. His earrings glimmered with the usual glow of silver, his bronze bracelets and wristbands shimmering in the overwhelming torchlight, like his traditional tattoos of red and white circles on his fit torso and beardless throat and neck. He tightened the tenacious grip around his long spear and looked about, acutely aware of his surroundings. Blood was being shed in near lands. The darkening sangria sky bore witness to it. His sons were occupied fighting against the Attynkt tribe further northeast.

‘Make way for the ruler, our Warlord,’ the gorgos growled, garbed in black gabardines.

Groth squinted, surveying them with distaste. Damn gorgos. She thought them worse than beasts. They were arrogant, decadent and crude. Stay out of my hair and I’m happy.

Sogan Khanor, the king, walked past her, his gaze cold and strangely determined. And she accepted with a nod of utmost reverence. Groth knew that warfare wasn’t on his mind. The king was desperate.

He needed her.

The shields hung aloft on the wall fascinated Sogan Khanor. He had stood there as a child, his father’s warm strong hands on his shoulder, breath tempered by bloodlust and honour, whispering words of a great future in his juvenile ears. There was honour in those shields, he’d claimed, ever since the first Ûzuks settled down in the Dragon’s Maw and raised the first houses, which were nothing more than huts made from whalebones and bearskin. The fires made from flint and spruce provided everything the warrior clan needed to grow into the proud kingdom they now were. The rituals back then were the same as now, the code of honour no different. They were kept and guarded by different peoples who wore dissimilar robes adorned in much simpler ways. Their language had changed, as had perhaps the deliverance of each magical session, each call for the Shârz that mattered to them. But the essence remained the same; gain favour from the war god, Shârz Habathaz. Propitiate a position at his feet, and forever quench his thirst for blood by sacrificing one’s enemies. That was the Ûzuk way. That was the way of honour and glory, of courage and bravery.

Seven days had passed since the ritual. Sogan was expected to rejoice with his sons in battle, to lead his nation into yet another glorious victory. Most prayed for the heads of their enemies to be placed upon poles and carried all the way back to be perched above each city gate. The Copper Plate had condoned it, and so had the black garbed gorgos at Habathaz’s temple.

Sogan sighed warily, glaring up at the bronze shields. His heart bled red that night, red with doubt. There was more to his people than warfare. That was why he’d called the Traitor Witch, the sorceress that no-one wanted to be associated with. Most didn’t even want to be seen in the same street as her. But given the circumstances, the king felt compelled to initiate contact. And he did. Earlier, a messenger had been sent to her. The command was simple; the king is in dire need of your aid.

Steps approached. The messenger left them.

Groth stepped forth. ‘Sire, you called for me?’

Sogan Khanor’s gaze was still fastened on the glimmering shields, the brass and bronze blinking at him with a sense of silenced pride – thousands of years of glorious history. ‘My ancestors built this temple, Traitor Witch. I know you don’t fancy that epithet, and for that I’m sorry.’ 

‘Don’t be, Warlord. I’ve endured worse,’ said Groth and bowed.

The king stood tall, at least twice as tall as a full grown Dacurean or Arnarion. His shoulder width was broad, contesting to the four hundred and seventy-four years of training and fighting. His royal cloak was brown and edged with a purple stripe, and within it broken spearheads resting on snowflakes. He wore a simple woollen tunic and a broad leather belt around his strong waist, from which hung his sword made from chalcedony and bronze.

He scoffed. ‘You certainly have. Groth, I have been thinking about a few things as of late. The truth is... I’m worried about my future. The peace treaty I created is crumbling, its effect withering. Perhaps I was naïve? Mayhap I invested too much faith in my own kind?’

Groth bowed again, struggling for the right words. ‘You are noble as you are wise, Sogan Khanor. I cannot see how failure is compatible with your honourable name!’

‘Then you are blind, Traitor Witch,’ the king replied. He then turned to her, and there was great trouble and alarm in his black eyes as she knelt before him. ‘No, stand, old friend,’ he said. ‘Had I known what’d befallen you I would have stopped it. Unfortunate, isn’t it? That I was away when they... evicted you.’

‘Unfortunate indeed, sire,’ she replied, bowing her head.

He made a step closer, his voice withering to a mere whisper. ‘I am no longer safe. There are those who wish to see me dead.’

Groth looked up on him, scowl deepening. ‘Dead, sire? Why?’

He turned from her again, beholding the mighty round symbols of bronze, battered and stained with the blood of their former enemies. ‘Because I know things I shouldn’t. I must needs seek the tundra. It holds answers. I have dreamt of it. I have fought wars, battles few can imagine. I have won and lost, bled and tied bandages, killed and raped, murdered and maimed. Yet in all my years of greatness I never sought the truth.’

Groth rose, supporting her girthy weight to her staff. ‘What truth, sire?’

He looked on her, eyes smiling. ‘The truth of our kind. The truth of our lineage. I need to know. There’s more to us than warfare and bloodshed. Somehow, I’ve always known. Somehow, I’ve always felt it. There’s truth in every snowfall, Groth, in the ice that illumes our lakes and oceans, reflecting the sheen of both the sun and its jealous moon. It’s a truth I have felt since I was a young child. And no-one believes me.’ He approached and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Help me. Send me to the tundra. I need answers. I cannot go on as king without them. I will not see my three sons grow up in ignorance, raised on a lie.’

There was great bewilderment in Groth’s eyes. But after long she looked on him. ‘I will help you, sire. You didn’t even need to ask. Your wish is, and always has been, my command!’

The king sat down on his throne, which was placed before the altar. It was made from schist, dark and cold, and had never been comfortable. ‘This throne,’ he muttered. ‘It hurts my buttocks as much as it hurts my conscience. You might get into a lot of trouble for this. Are you still sure you wish to offer your aid? You can walk away now and I wouldn’t blame you.’

‘Sire,’ said Groth and took a short step closer to the throne, where she bowed once more. ‘I have always held you in the highest of regards. And I love your sons as if they were my own. What the denizens of Koranth Absaron have done to me cannot be attributed you and your family. But I must warn you. The penalties I’ve endured have pushed me... out of shape. I can only do my best, sire.’

He nodded, eyes content yet wary.

‘If I may inquire, Warlord and king of Koranth Absaron. Is there a group you fear might want you dead, or a single person?’

Sogan shrugged. ‘The truth is, Groth... I don’t know. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’

‘Why, sire?’ she asked, slightly startled by the king’s reply.

‘To protect those I care about. A drink? Yes, I’m offering.’

She bowed, heart thudding. Forgiveness and acceptance, it would seem, wasn’t just a dream after all. ‘Gratitude, Warlord. But I shall leave to make the necessary preparations. Just one final thing. Bring good clothes. The tundra tends to get... rough.’

Sogan smiled, and it was a benevolent one. ‘I shall bear that in mind. Do what you must, then send for me when you’re ready.’

The Traitor Witch bowed, stepping backward out of the temple’s naos.

Lighter and sturdier footsteps approached. Sogan knew it wasn’t a gorg or a High Priest. A half-blood servant bowed, lighting the candles that’d burned out and respectfully left as the footsteps came near.

‘Queen Ubraz, my love,’ said Sogan, cold irony in his voice.

Her tall slim figure was proud, as always, her dark blue gown almost black in the dimmed candlelight, the silvery ornaments but vague circles of a pale grey. Her bracelets and jewellery of various gemstones, brass and whalebone rustled to her approaching steps. 

‘Save your words and chivalrous design, Warlord. I stand no fool,’ she replied, halting about ten paces before the throne. ‘I hope you’ve taken a decent look at your ancestors’ shields. Each one ought to remind you of your depressing shortcomings.’

‘My queen,’ said Sogan. ‘Did you get up on the wrong foot today? Or is it the wrong period to reason with you?’

She shook her head, eyes ignited with a potent fury. ‘Your sons are bleeding, Sogan. And you’re seated here, safe and warm, glancing up at shields that are no longer carried in war. Why don’t you pick up your own and line up with your offspring, your own flesh and blood?’ Her voice turned brittle, and she cried. ‘What’s happening to you?’

Sogan’s proud smirk had faded, yet the glow of something greater within his eyes lingered. ‘I must go my own way, my queen – with or without your consent.’

‘You...’ she whispered, eyes watery. ‘You have abandoned your sons. You have abandoned me, and now you’re even abandoning your kingdom.’ She approached with a slow amble, her sandaled feet shuffling with cold hisses toward the throne of black stone. ‘Where’s the man I loved? The warrior that wouldn’t think twice for an opportunity to slay his enemies, who wouldn’t think twice if the call for war was blared, who wouldn’t think twice about protecting his family!’

‘I do think of them,’ Sogan growled, hands shivering. ‘Every night, every day, every hour, every month, year, you and they are always uppermost on my mind. That, Ubraz, is why I must needs seek the tundra. I cannot linger within these halls and temples, sit on this throne, deprived of the truth. Please... understand that!’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘It’s him isn’t it? That terrible rider, the dark one. He’s put deceit and lies into your head, and you’re abandoning your rightful throne.’

‘I am doing no such thing, Ubraz. The rider will never return. He’s banned from the entire continent of Raz Néngorod.’

She shrugged, eyes still red and watery. ‘And that idiotic treaty of yours? You know your sons hate you for it, don’t you? You know the Shârz are... angered.’

‘I do. And that gives me more pain than I think you’ll ever understand. As for the Shârz... they will never lead us to the truth.’

‘Don’t you dare, Sogan!’ She turned, leaving with hurried steps out of the temple.

‘If you hadn’t been so querulous, my queen, much could have been resolved this night!’ Sogan yelled after her, his gruff voice reverberating off the ceiling and walls.

She glanced back, a countenance of assurance. ‘This will be the end of us, Sogan. I hope you realise that.’ 

The Warlord looked as she left. I know, love. That’s why I must do this.

Then, as he was alone, he let his head sink forward, crying.

**

In plough formations, black birds flew southward, their inner compass leading them toward more prosperous hunting grounds. Sogan gazed up, sighing, spending another ten heartbeats watching the waving arrowhead bidding the tundra farewell. Up front, at the point, flew the leader, always aware, curious, a tad faster than his flock. It reminded him of himself, of his role as king and Warlord of the Ûzuk tribe. There was a time when kings were elected by the people and the gorgos, when heroic deeds and, it should be said, moral sense of duty and responsibility played a crucial role. That was seven generations ago. And considering the Ûzuk’s long lives that meant thousands of years back. Warriors didn’t bother to write things down, and scrolls existed mainly in the southernmost city in the realm – Darrun. Ironically, perhaps, it was the slaves, the crossbreeds between the purebloods and the lesser ones that’d begun preserving such truths with ink and vellum. Truth, Sogan knew, that were there because of the ink and parchment involved, not because he remembered or because such truths stood, like the megaliths around him, by themselves. He recalled his grandfather and his father telling breathtaking tales of a people who came from the tundra, a people who once traversed the barren wastelands of this world entirely by themselves and on foot. Dressed in skins and fur, armed with flint and granite, they inexplicably ventured south driven by... something. Often, he had pondered upon what happened, the questions keeping the old Warlord awake at night. Did they flee from something, in which case what? Were they hunted down and killed, in which case by whom? Or, were they, against all odds, filled with a forging hope of a more prosperous land where the earth was blacker and more fertile? Fecund farmland was valuable, perhaps even more so than the copper and bronze the earth had provided at a later stage in the evolution of his people. This Sogan Khanor knew to be true. A truth that, regrettably, not many dared speak about. Such conversations were seen as a waste of time or an excuse not to train and improve one’s fighting skills. However, that no longer scared Sogan from asking questions. He had grown too old to be motivated by just bravado. What came before the mass exodus of my people from the tundra? Where did we originate? The source of our fine warrior lines – where did it all spring?

Some questions were lethal. Gossips and mere gibberish didn’t kill but could certainly cause problems. However, questions such as the ones that kept the Ûzuk Warlord from sleeping, were crucial enough to kill, to drive a person, even a Warlord, mad. Once, he had sunken into his own contemplative state amidst flying arrowheads and axes, amidst bloodshed and cries, the echoes of bygone voices reverberating in the back of his head, a bronze bell of truth, ringing, calling his name. His firstborn son had saved him that day, covered his neck with his shield, the enemy’s downward hack pounding on the bronze with a much similar clangour as the truth inside his head.

And Sogan had, in that moment, understood the importance of truth, the sheer gravity of its quintessence. It was as necessary as food, as water, as warfare. The truth was life, and life was but one painful hunt for the truth.

He halted to breathe, the sorceress beside him scrutinising the landscape ahead. Both had stepped out from a long gorge. Before them lay the vast plains called the Fields of Slaughter.

‘I remember this site, these stones,’ said Sogan, placing his hand on one of the many cold megaliths, stones that were part of an ancient petroform. ‘We found them here,’ he said, ‘drove them north to the mountain walls where the butchery commenced.’

‘You speak as if you regret something, Warlord,’ said Groth.

Sogan retrieved his hand, standing back. ‘Perhaps I do. The Shârz... are they evil?’

Groth shrugged. ‘Some are... conflicted.’

‘Aye. Like we are. I doubt the mammoths are the souls of reborn traitors, like the Shârz would have it.’

‘Your firstborn son. He still has to prove himself, hasn’t he?’

‘Ask not questions of things you already know the answer to, Traitor Witch. It is a waste of time.’

‘Warlord,’ Groth replied, a nod of reverence.

‘And yes. Zabroc has yet to prove himself as a worthy successor of my lineage. But I have faith in him. He will find a way. Be there for him like you’ve been there for me, will you?’

‘Those voices again, Warlord?’ said Groth. ‘They’re telling you this?’

‘Aye. Those voices. Cold, thin, and yet so unbelievably meaningful in their deliverance. Have faith in your abilities. That was the first message I heard.’

‘And the second?’ said Groth, grinning.

Sogan scoffed, then smiled, lifting his shield from the ground. ‘Steer clear of all gossip.’

Groth stepped ahead of him, a sly smile on her broad face. ‘A noble message, sire. Shall we proceed?’ 

The sorceress led on. The sun was sinking low, bleeding red and orange, a golden rust that seemed scattered onto clouds that filled the bone-white sky like mottled cotton. The air was brisk and cold, smelling of the scrawny plants and berries the tundra had to offer, and the iron taste of frost. The ground beneath their feet consisted of rocks and pebbles covered by ice and snow, a landscape that’d been twisted and shaped by the first ice itself, the will of the ice being the one true sculptor. Barren and infecund, windblown and vast, that was the tundra the king of the Ûzuk warriors had sworn to traverse and explore. For himself, his sons, and the future of his tribe.

In the far distance, mountains rose to unguessed heights, their precipices steep and dark, almost pointy, their narrow ledges many and unassailable, gathering snow and icicles that reached from the edges like the frozen teeth of a monster. There were glaciers alike, worlds of ice the Warlord had made it his quest to explore.

‘Groth spoke quietly. ‘You’re finally here, Warlord.’

‘I am. And it terrifies me.’

She turned to him slowly, eyes glimmering with something more than trust. ‘That is why I, among all the good kings and queens that ever came out of Koranth Absaron, favoured you, Sogan Khanor. You’re a true ruler, destined not only to rule, but lead. And there’s a difference.’

He shrugged, checking he’d brought along everything. Tent, picks, spades, weapons, cooking tools, a small pot, enough firewood for the first three nights. He straightened and took a deep breath, hand closing around the spear. ‘Tell my sons...’

Silence.

‘They worry you, don’t they?’ she said.

‘They do. They’re so different from each other. A good thing. I just hope they’re wise enough to listen to one another, to learn from each other.’

‘Unlike your brothers,’ she dared.

‘Aye. Unlike my brothers. All dead, except Karazok. And it’s only a matter of time now, isn’t it? I hope the fool has got wits enough to surrender and to live.’

‘Warlord, does Queen Ubraz know of the siege down south?’

‘No. There are those at the Copper Plate who do, but I’ve told them to keep shut about it. We can’t risk a war on two fronts. The Dacureans are powerful, smart, their logistics unmatched. We’re in for a serious war, one we may never rise from again. I cannot risk that.’

‘I shall keep silent, Warlord,’ she said.

‘You’re a damn fine mage, Groth. It would seem nothing passes without your awareness.’

‘True, Warlord. I live to serve you and your people.’

He looked on her and there was pride in his eyes. ‘Go home, Groth. Leave an old man to his own personal quest. Tell my sons... tell them I’ll be fine. Yes, tell them I have faith in them.’

‘As you wish, Warlord,’ she replied and bowed. ‘Someone should write about this, like the halfbloods would’ve said.’

‘Write?’ Sogan murmured. ‘No. Not this warrior. Times may change, and they should, but I shall still honour my ancestors a last time. After all, I am still an Ûzuk warrior. We live, breathe and fight, and leave our mark on this world with the courage in our hearts and the spear in our hand.’

Groth nodded, hearth thudding. ‘Very well, noble Warlord.’

‘What is it, Traitor Witch?’ said Sogan. ‘I recognise that wary look.’

‘It’s just,’ she began. ‘I have this feeling we won’t talk again. I should have accepted that drink, though I must admit, boiled goat blood has never been my favourite brew.’

Sogan grunted, ‘Somehow I’m not surprised.’

‘Farewell, King Sogan. And may you find the truth you’re after.’

The Warlord nodded and turned from her, his black eyes on the far mountains in the north, his right hand firmly clasped around the spear, thrill and courage abloom in his warrior heart. The tundra’s bright plains changed from blinding to reddening in the sunset, and dark grey as the sun sank behind the western mountains of Arnarion, igniting the emerging stars.

Groth remained standing, looking after the traces left by her king, the sheen of his shield, until that too vanished. Then, with the Ûzuk Warlord out of sight, she turned her attention southward.

2291 of Driorûn

Eight years before the ice dragon’s winter curse

D

arrun, a city situated near the southern frontier of the Dacurean Empire, about thirty leagues from Rocarthastan, the empire’s northernmost city. Some said it was a jewel in the night, a shimmering diamond of many colours amidst shadows that were almost too dark to be natural. A constant swarm of insects lay as a buzzing lid over the bright city, save from the winter months of the year when it was simply too cold. Steep gorges and crevices led to this hidden gemstone among the southern mountain ridge of Raz Néngorod, the city being a heart from which Ûzuk purebloods and halfbloods thrived.

Bazaq Ïhm was not one of them. As a High Mage in Dacurea’s Twelfth Army, duty had called once again, back in Rocarthastan, the city he’d hoped to retire in and die drunk and well fed, shagged senseless in some frail auld alehouse, preferably by a dexterous whore. It lay far enough from the heart of the empire for him to forget about his past. The pain and misery his magic had inflicted upon others. Some deserved it, sure, but not everyone. And all too often, military commands and demands alike did not consider guilt when asking its soldiers to draw blades. Or mages to cast spells. Conquest was an insurmountable endeavour without the mind of a beast, as the High Mage had come to realise. The mind of a beast. A heartless beast. Cruel and deformed. Like Dacurea. 

His cadre consisted of both assassins and healers, a combination Bazaq had come to adore. He gazed down on his soil-stained hands, the dirt thick and clogged under his long fingernails. With the specialised scissors forgotten back in the camp about half a league south, cutting them was out of the question. Moreover, there was no way he’d take the time to rinse the undersides of his nails with a dagger, like the assassin did. She was seated around the frail wooden table opposite himself, booted legs crossed on it, her broad cavalier’s hat obscuring her facial countenance of dislike.

Mazgal spoke, a drunk healer who had taken more lives than he’d saved, was, without saying, the worst healer in the army. Experience had saved the man, secured him a regular position in the army. However, such formalities lay beyond the drunk man’s worries.

‘How does mosquitoes and flies find their way down here?’ he wondered, killing one with his palm. The bloodsucker had crawled through his unkempt beard and begun draining blood.

‘They follow your smell,’ the woman mumbled and sighed. ‘Three bloody months. I would slice open anyone’s back for a warm meal, a soft bed and a bottle of red. Three months, guys, back-breaking labour. For what? The tunnel’s taking form, mayhap, but at an unreasonable cost. I’m slowly but surely turning into a ghost. I’m paling... Not long now before you can line me up beside corpses without being able to tell the difference.’

‘Halet, darling,’ Mazgal amused. ‘You need a mirror.’

‘Show me a mirror and I’ll break the damn thing. Don’t dare to look at myself anymore.’

‘You don’t?’ Mazgal went on, holding a pewter mug aloft. ‘I could always hold the lid up before you. It’s blank enough I should think.’

‘The Void swallow you, healer. Oh, and speaking of swallow... where’s your beloved partner?’ Halet amused, looking up, revealing a face that’d once been gashed by a sharp object. Occasionally she wore a scarf that covered half of her face, but there was no need for formalities down here in the lugubrious cesspit.

‘If you’re referring to Malec, he’s got different orders. Commander Hostian sent him north, to an auld tower. A ruin, if I heard the old bugger correctly.’ He scoffed, drinking sour ale stored in an old wine bottle. ‘Malec won’t survive more than a week.’ Reluctantly, at her wink, he passed the bottle on to the assassin.

‘Who’s to be in command out there? Not him, I hope. He couldn’t command sheep even if he was given a whistle and ten drilled shepherd’s hounds,’ Halet said, drinking down deep.

‘Nah, not Malec, the poor man,’ said Mazgal. ‘Savarius! The tall scrawny slouch from Death’s Ashes. Remember him?’

‘I do,’ Bazaq said, chiming in with a hummed laugh, his white teeth glistening behind the one convex candlelight on the table. ‘He messed up pretty bad. And he refused to take an order, I heard. He’s stuck with being a damn Blade for the next five years, at least. Maybe ten. Anyway, so our little Malec has been sent to work under that one’s command? Excellent. Can’t say I envy the bastard.’

‘Aye, High Mage. And yes, he won’t last long,’ said Mazgal. ‘Savarius has a way of irritating stones and dust in ways that make the shârz blush in shame. That’s what I’ve heard, at least.’

Bazaq frowned and rose. ‘Hush, everyone! Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’ Halet muttered, sheathing her dagger.

‘The sky,’ said Bazaq, a mere whisper. ‘There’s sorcery in it, black magic. Bums off seats, legs off tables. Come with me.’

Mazgal and a few other drowsy healers followed suit. The High Mage turned in the self-made birch ladder from the trench and laid eyes on the assassin. ‘You too, Halet.’

She sighed, unwillingly swinging her legs down and made for the ladder.

The sky flickered in vibrant hues of red and purple, forces only magi of the far north were capable of. Bazaq had seen something similar afore, long ago, in the deserts far south. And then as now the lights disrupted the air and the water, distorted and changed the tiniest crystals in rock, earth, and liquid, thereby inviting forces and powers that had no claim in the natural world. It was clear that whoever was causing the skies to revolt in such a brute manner didn’t quite comprehend the full gravity of their display of sorcery. Picks, shuffles, and spades lay everywhere, haphazardly tossed on the ground among the granite rocks.

‘What’s going on?’ said Halet, spitting.

‘Arrest me on this if you like, but I’d call it a cry for help,’ muttered Bazaq. ‘Help that won’t come. At least not in a long while.’

‘You sure about that?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘I’m taking a wild guess, like I’m known to do. Raz Néngorod is huge. And we haven’t come upon a single army of purebloods yet. We’re what, five thousand or more soldiers? The encampment is discovered. We’ve already made a thorough example of the caravans from the southern hamlets, our own starting to appear in two months – if we’re lucky. I’m pretty certain when I say this; the purebloods are sacrificing Darrun so they can mobilize a later assault.’ 

Mazgal lit his pipe, inhaled, then laid eyes on the glimmering city lights ahead with a sigh of sun-leaves. ‘We still have to seize those walls,’ he mumbled. ‘They’re thick, ladies and gentlemen, thick and strong, built to keep out people like ourselves.’

‘I’ve heard it is a city of as much halfbloods as purebloods,’ said Halet.

Mazgal killed another insect that had found its way from the city to their secret camp. It left a bite, which was beginning to sting. He swore hard, swinging to face Halet. ‘And I’m sure you approve?’

A nefarious smirk. ‘I like blue-grey tones, especially in skin. Wouldn’t mind bedding them...’

A sapper appeared from the hatch. ‘Trouble. You must come.’

‘What trouble?’ said Bazaq, turning to look at him, a cold countenance.

The sapper, however, looked troubled, indeed terrified. ‘Bones, High Mage. Bones and water... and...’

‘Spit it out, man,’ Bazaq snapped.

‘Shards of ceramic,’ the sapper finished.

Bazaq sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘Mazgal, light the torches. And Halet, stop dreaming.’

He then darted toward the hatch, the others following suit.

The gloom down here was festered with mould and rot, a paradise for the rats that ran back and forth, a nuisance for the sappers. If they weren’t before their booted feet, dirty and smelly, they were crawling inside the walls, digging smaller tunnels wherever their little brains wanted them to.

Water dripped from a low ceiling, the few beams part of a much older construction the imperial sappers had struck by accident.

‘Bloody rats,’ Mazgal growled, kicking one aside. ‘If only they could muster up front and dig as if the Void was after them. Would save us much trouble!’

‘Dream on, Mazgal,’ Halet replied behind him. ‘They’ll eat your clothes before they take orders from a lousy healer.’

They came to an open hall, a spacious inner chamber far below the surface. It was strikingly circular, although not entirely symmetrical. That of course could be attributed the earth and soil, and the countless roots dangling from the ceiling and jutting out of the earthen walls.

‘It stinks down here,’ Halet growled.

‘Agreed,’ said Mazgal. ‘It usually does around assassins.’

She grinned, studying the rocky floor. ‘So, what’s the big news down here?’

‘Look further,’ the sapper said. ‘Over there!’

They moved further in, discovering that the inner wall was no wall but a mottled blanket, hung up on a horizontal rusted iron rod.

Bazaq held it aside, thrusting his torch in front of him.

The air was cooler here. The water dripped from the ceiling, but this looked like the drooling jaws of a monster, the stalagmites long and pointy, like teeth waiting to smother them. There was water on the ground, too, in small lakes, smooth surface glimmering like plates of rusting silver, under the torchlight. Most of the earth gone as if washed away, the schist marked by runnels and rubbed clean by... something. There was no current, no stream, no underground river, yet the water came from further in, following what looked like a channel.

Bazaq kicked aside another daring rat, proceeding. A sapper’s endeavour usually broke one’s back. Stretching his own was a relief. He’d seen them old, those who’d survived, hunched over at an almost ninety-degree angle, a peculiarly disgusting sight.

‘What is this place?’ whispered Mazgal, following suit. ‘The air feels... thinner, as if it’s been breathed by somebody.’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised if it has,’ said Bazaq, proceeding slowly, feet trying the hard floor. It proved slippery, like boulders situated along a shoreline. ‘This is the gateway to an elder realm. One I am not so sure we should dwell in for too long.’

‘An Elder Realm?’ Mazgal gasped, mouth agape. ‘We should leave, now, while we can. I’ve heard... rumours. They’re ruses that clasp tight, like a fox snare, consuming you bit by bit until you’re forever trapped in them.’

Bazaq scoffed, gazing down on scattered shards of ceramics. ‘You’re too old for fairytales, Maz. But I share your worry.’

‘And too young to die, especially in such a tortuous manner,’ the healer retorted. ‘The Shârz know how long this realm would keep us alive, our souls that is, trapped in our own rotting bodies.’

‘There’s suffering here,’ said Halet. ‘Don’t you feel it?’

Bazaq replied. ‘We do. And it seems... endless.’

They moved on carefully, Halet with a hand on the pommel of her sword.

The cave was massive and seemed to stretch on at least twice the distance they’d already covered.

The High Mage threw a stone in a fixed direction, one he knew roughly led to the city. Much later than expected, a shallow echo reverberated off the walls and ceiling. Thastar fend us from the Void! An elder realm situated beneath the city! How came this to be? What forces were at work? And why here?

‘Alright, this saves us a lot of trouble,’ he said, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘We can’t be more than a hundred paces from the city walls.’ A sly grin spread across his face, his dark, warm voice filling the cavern.

‘High Mage, sir,’ said a sapper. ‘At your feet, in the black water.’

Bazaq looked down at the lake beside him, the sight punching the breath from his lungs. In each of these pools lay bones, thousands of them. He crouched, soon pulling up a child’s skull, water flowing from the open channels and runnels in the skull, cascading back into the pool like miniscule waterfalls.

‘Can’t have been old,’ said Halet, studying the cranium. ‘Nine, ten?’

‘No more,’ Bazaq replied, placing the bone back. One could mess around with many things, but sacrilege was a bad move. As a High Mage he knew. He’d seen the result of a robbery once. There was an old saying back in Dacurea. You steal from a grave, and emptiness shall forever carve out your own heart.

Further in, some of the bones had rings and bracelets attached to them. These remains looked vastly different, mostly because they were more or less whole. Some were just missing an arm, others an ankle or a foot.

‘I haven’t seen this afore,’ said Mazgal, and there was a nervous tone to his statement.

‘Neither have I,’ said Halet, moving, the light hissing to her sudden turn. ‘They’re all looking toward... the city.’

‘Wait, there’s more,’ muttered Bazaq, crouching. The skeleton before him had an arm stretched out, the right. Her hair was orange and pale, parts of her linen gown and leather belt still intact. ‘She isn’t pointing or looking. She’s... crawling.’

‘Is?’ said Mazgal. ‘Baz, they died long ago. Only the Shârz know how long.’

‘No, Mazgal,’ Bazaq replied. ‘There’s more to her. Look at her face, indeed all of their faces, their heads...’

Halet and Mazgal looked, as did the other sappers.

‘What of them?’ she said.

‘Don’t you see it? They’re looking up, skyward,’ said Bazaq.

‘So what? They’re apparently crawling up from a pool of black stinking water. Who wouldn’t be looking up to keep their head clear of...?’

Bazaq’s deep dark eyes had settled on her, his usual confident smirk broadening on his face. ‘That’s right. Escape what?’

She shrugged. ‘Drowning?’

‘Yes, and no,’ said Bazaq. ‘This wasn’t the drowning of one’s body, but one’s soul.’

‘Do you think someone buried them alive?’ said Mazgal. ‘That has happened before.’

Bazaq nodded, ‘It has. A grotesque and barbaric tradition that is. But these poor children weren’t buried here. This water, so deep underground... isn’t it abnormally cold?’

Mazgal dipped a finger into the water.

Halet dared not.

‘Aye, High Mage... it’s cooler than ice,’ said Mazgal, retrieving his index finger, wiping it on his grey cloak.

‘Ice,’ Bazaq concluded. ‘Do you see any ice? Have we come upon ice up there, except maybe the icicled ledges?’

All knew the answer. They hadn’t.

‘I have another idea,’ the High Mage went on, holding his hand on the child’s skull.

‘Don’t, Bazaq... you’ll only find misery!’ Mazgal warned.

Bazaq grinned, eyes on the dead girl. ‘I need to know. You can heal me afterwards.’

Mazgal swore under his breath.

Darkness.

Cries.

Pain.

Bazaq swam in an infinite ocean of despair, a sea of suffering. His bones were frozen, his eyes seeing only the misery that’d happened in his life. Which was noteworthy, he thought. Except, he didn’t. Somebody else was thinking, and he realised that he was floating beside himself as a child. His face was pale and rotten, tiny crustaceans crawling in and out of wounds inflicted by something with jaws. The lad beside him smirked, a mischievous one that lingered. ‘Where have you been? We’ve missed you. We’ve all missed you, Bazaq Ïhm. Come, swim with us. Swim toward abandoned hope, as we all do.’

Thousands of children appeared drifting around him. Eaten, gnawed upon, torn and ripped asunder.

Bazaq clenched his fist, which he knew existed somewhere in the dark behind his eyelids.

He awoke with a scream, lying beside the girl.

‘High Mage!’ Mazgal exclaimed. ‘You alright?’

Panting, shivering, his skin cold as ice. ‘Those little bastards,’ he stuttered. ‘They knew my name. They knew my goddamn name!’

‘Stay still,’ said Mazgal, placing a hand on his head. Warmth returned to the High Mage’s veins, the tension that was about to cause serious spasms and cramps fading.

‘That’s it, breathe,’ the healer instructed, retrieving his hand.

Bazaq took a moment to gather himself.

‘What did you see, High Mage?’ Halet tried. ‘From the look of it...’

‘It wasn’t good. They swam, drifted, in a black ocean... rotten, stripped of everything, even hope,’ said Bazaq, looking about. ‘There’s evil down here, evil that never sleeps. We must warn the others and dig no further.’

‘Our orders are clear, High Mage,’ muttered Mazgal.

‘No!’ Bazaq exclaimed. ‘Don’t you understand? The evil knows of us because of our magical abilities, our skills. We must make it within that city, and when we get there we’re going to get wasted. I hope they’ve got barrels of wine stacked away in some dusty cellar.’

‘You’re saying that our magic has awoken something... evil?’ said Mazgal, a wary expression on his face.

‘I do. And it’s not a laughing matter! This beast, whatever it is, will try to break us, as it did these children. It’ll look for a way within us. Alcohol keeps it at bay.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t that sorcery out there? said Halet.

‘Aye. Black magic has nothing to do with this. Besides, it doesn’t permeate the ground. It’s up there, soaring far above rooftops and clouds, even. We’re crouched down here, around pools of rotting bones.’

She shrugged. ‘Fair enough. And what of our orders?’

Bazaq slowly got to his feet, brushing dust and rat excrement from his robes.

‘There’s a way. There’s always a way,’ he said. ‘First we need to find a way from this elder realm back into the city.’

‘And now?’ said Halet.

‘Let’s get out. I could sorely do with some fresh air before we start searching in here,’ the High Mage drawled.

All headed for the exit. Bazaq last. 

The sorcery in the sky had come to an end. All that remained were dark mottled clouds vaguely illuminated by the lights from the city. Bazaq overlooked the walls, squinting, eyes narrowing to slits of doubt.

‘Can’t go head on,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Where’s the damn cavalry?’

‘East,’ Mazgal replied behind him, handing him a wooden cup of tea.

‘Gratitude, Maz.’

‘Hostian wants them east, to cut off supplies coming in from the T’guz tribes.’

‘Remind me, who rules the city?’ Bazaq inquired.

‘Karazok. A pureblood, of the Ûzuk tribe.’

‘Who?’

‘Ûzuk, from the far north. Fierce warriors.’

‘Do they hold honesty and honour dearly?’

‘I think so. Why?’

The High Mage nodded, a smirk on his face. He drank, the herbal tea warming. ‘I hate this tea. The bitterness is worse than piss. It’s only gotten worse since we got here and begun digging.’

‘I’m aware, High Mage. But it’s all we have left.’

Bazaq sighed. ‘We need to seize that damn city. This life’s killing me.’

Somebody whistled. 

‘Guys, attention,’ Halet called thereafter, turning to the narrow goat path that led to the southern thoroughfare. Hooves clacked across the loose rocks. A horse neighed. A brown steed appeared, carrying a tall man garbed in grey cloaks. Beneath that layer of wool, he wore expensive clothes, silks and satins. A golden emblem of honour glimmered from his shoulder.

‘What’s going on?’ the rider demanded harshly.

‘High Hilt?’ said Bazaq. ‘What an unexpected surprise.’

‘Spare me your welcome, sappers. There’s work to do. The damn purebloods are calling for aid, reinforcements. I hope to Elpída they’ll never see them. We’re moving in – now.’

Bazaq sighed. ‘Already? I was hoping for another ten years of smoking sun-leaves and sipping bad tea.’

‘Wish again, High Mage,’ the High Hilt murmured. ‘How far left?’

‘Not far.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Not far.’

‘A number, you fool!’

‘Eh... Hard to say. Another hundred paces, maybe?’

The High Hilt yanked the reins of his steed, who neighed and snorted in dislike.

‘I take it, then,’ Bazaq drawled, ‘you want us to hurry up?’

‘You are all cadre mages of the Twelfth Army,’ the High Hilt growled. ‘The empire wants results. Get back to work. I can always have you hanged before the entire squad.’

‘There’s something you should know, High Hilt,’ said Mazgal.

Bazaq’s face turned deadpan. Shut up you fool. He’ll blow it all sky-high, us included!

Mazgal told him the story.

The High Hilt managed a bemused grin, then came a rough deep chortle. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘No, High Hilt,’ said Halet. ‘I was there. I saw it with my own eyes.’

Bazaq looked away. You didn’t.

The High Hilt leant forward, holding on to the saddle horn with his right hand. ‘In which case, mages... we’re closer to the damn city than expected.’

All looked up at him.

‘Tell you what. Although I’m entirely inclined to believe you, I’ll make you a deal. Make it within the city and you are pretty much free to fuck and drink to your hearts’ delight.’

‘Are you sure, High Hilt?’ said Mazgal. ‘It’ll encourage... disorder, disarray and insubordination among the rest of the army.’

The High Hilt leant back in his saddle, crossing his arms. ‘That is a risk we must take. We need that city.’

They nodded, all as one.

‘And one more thing. I hired you because I know how good you mages are at doing things secretly. Clandestine meetings will be the norm after this mess is over. Speak of this realm to anyone and I shall have your tongues. Am I making myself clear?’

No-one spoke against the High Hilt. He wheeled his mount around and cantered off with haste, back to the encampment. The three mages remained standing on the hilltop, looking after the dust rising in the steed’s wake.

‘Dammit,’ said Halet after long. ‘I was almost beginning to like it out here.’

‘I suppose,’ said Mazgal. ‘It’s better than bloodshed.’

Bazaq took a deep breath, pouring out the rest of the tea. ‘No offence, Maz.’

‘None taken, High Mage.’

‘Good. Put that pipe away and fetch a sodding spade. Halet, light an oil lamp and get back under. This isn’t the time to dream of decent remunerations. There will be no wages until that damn city is under our heels.’

‘I said nothing about payment, sir,’ Halet replied and shrugged, passing him. 

Bazaq grinned. ‘You don’t need to. I’m not your High Mage for nothing, am I?’

She didn’t answer.

The air was festered with a stank worse than rotting flesh. Bazaq held his torch in front of him, moving slowly toward the black curtains. He halted before them, turning to his fellow mages. ‘A little detail with regards to our... identities. From now on we are alcoholics. Heavy drinkers, like Mazgal.’

‘With nothing to drink,’ muttered Halet, eyes rolling.

‘You heard me, didn’t you?’ Bazaq demanded.

She sighed, shrugging, the oil lamp heavy in her hands from the long, strenuous walk back. ‘Fine, drinks, lots of them. Still hate cesspits, though. My back hurts like it’s been broken on a wheel.’

Bazaq pulled the curtains aside, stepping in. First, only darkness, the stench worsening with each step.

A child’s laughter echoed in the far distance.

The dripping of water.

‘Look!’ said Mazgal, gasping widely, holding his torch down to the nearest pool, the spade resting on the schist, on the waterline. ‘They’re gone. All of them!’

‘In the name of all Shârz,’ muttered Halet. ‘This can’t be good.’

‘You could say that twice,’ the High Mage replied. ‘If you now doubt that this is an elder realm, I’m prepared to classify you as idiots.’

‘We don’t. I don’t, at least,’ said Mazgal.

All looked ahead onto the High Mage’s face, which got drained from blood. He held a broken jug in his hands, one he’d picked from a pool.

Beyond, in the darkness, a terrible laughter, unspeakable evil. Then, cries, shrill and loud, cries that made their ears bleed.

‘Stop it, High Mage!’ Mazgal yelled. ‘Use your magic!’

‘Give me a bloody moment!’ Bazaq replied, peering into the darkness. His heart skipped a beat to the emerging sight, the green light that swirled toward them, disturbing the dust at their feet, tearing it from the stone in an updraught. Thousands of dead children stepped forth, flesh rotted and dark grey with mould, each holding on to a piece of an incongruous rock.

‘Use your goddamn magic, Baz, or we’ll join them!’ Halet yelled, hands on her sword.

Bazaq stepped back, planting his feet firmly on the ground. Warmth spread within his arms and legs, emanating from the root of his heart, and reaching out his left arm, a bright light shone from his palm.

The children drew closer, approaching, smirks broadening.

‘Hurry up, Baz!’ Mazgal cried.

‘Shut up! I’m trying!’

The light contracted, Bazaq’s hand burning, the magic boiling in his veins. He groaned, eyes reddening, focus slowly but surely turning into an unconscious darkness. ‘I can’t... I can’t hold them!’

Mazgal tore off his own cloak and lined up beside him. A green light shone from his palms, his eyes darkening.

The children’s flesh and eyes took damage, and although dead, seemed gravelly pained by the searing light. They retreated to the shadows, the cries ceasing.

The magi fell to the ground, panting, hurting. Halet and the other sappers crouched by their sides.

‘High Mage, Maz, are you alright?’ she said.

Bazaq looked at her, and there was consternation in his eyes. ‘He’s here!’

‘Who? Who’s here? High Mage?’

Bazaq groaned. ‘The children tried to crawl their way out of this realm. Endlessly, to no avail. But we can’t fail.’

The ground shook. A deep boom that could only mean one thing.

‘The army is on the march,’ muttered Mazgal.

Bazaq shook his head in distrust. ‘They have no idea what they’re walking into! We must warn them! This curse, or whatever it is, could follow us into the city.’

‘Too late for that now,’ said Mazgal sadly. ‘We’re taking it either way.’

Bazaq got to his knees and crawled to the closest pool where he dipped his hand in the ice-cold water. A hiss, the reek of burnt flesh rising with the damp.

‘We have to do something!’ Halet argued.

The rest of the sappers weighed in, and a hefty debate commenced.

‘Silence!’ Bazaq roared after long. ‘This is what it does to us, makes us quarrel and argue! Hearken to my words, everyone. Get a grip. We’re proud members of the Twelfth Army. You, Maz, go fetch an abundance of oil lamps. Halet, tear down those damn curtains, the rest of you, fetch every pick and spade that’s still operational and haul them back here.’

‘What do you intend to do?’ said Mazgal, a wary look on the man’s face.

Fear had suffered a draught in the High Mage’s eyes, something far more powerful growing in them now. ‘What we came here to accomplish. Dig a hole under that cursed city wall and get us the hell inside. Once in the city we shall ignite the whole bloody place, a conflagration of Dacurean rage that’ll turn our enemies into ashes. I want them to feel my wrath, see the sparks reflect in their eyes as panic devours them. And then... puff.’

‘But our magic,’ said Halet. ‘Have you forgotten? We can’t use our magic.’

‘Who says we must?’ Bazaq replied, a canny grin playing across his face. ‘We have something that’s just as powerful. Our will and our cunning. My brave cadre mages, there’s no evil in this world that can withstand that. Now then, what are you waiting for?’

They scattered, eager to fulfil their duties as Dacureans.

Mazgal helped his High Mage back on his legs. ‘Are you sure about this, Baz?’

‘I am. We shall punch through that mess below, pretend as if we’re nothing but lousy drunks inside the city and keep it that way until the time is right. Don’t worry, Maz. I got your back.’

‘I am sure you do, Baz.’

‘Just don’t make me more of that horrible tea, will you?’

‘It’s the water, sir,’ said Mazgal. ‘I’m quite certain of it.’

Bazaq shook his head, a sly smile. ‘Of course it is. It’s always the water.’

Part

One

Chapter I

Firstborn

––––––––

These layers, my son, touch, feel, smell

They’re not of the ice, nor of the earth,

but are the battered surface of shields

These layers, my son,

are waves of our enemies’ blood

an ocean of rage and vengeance,

marooned on these shores of bronze and wood

These layers, my son, are your inheritance

Ubraz Khanor,

Queen of all Ûzuks

––––––––

2296 of Driorûn

Three years before the ice dragon’s winter curse

––––––––

T

he thunder rolled and echoed unusually. Either too loud or too low, disappearing before rolling back in another deafening boom. The horizon wasn’t itself. Vultures followed the cragged rocks that rolled down to the sea, upon which unresting black waves rolled ashore, white foam leaving salt that would never be washed away.

Far above Zabroc Khanor, the vultures stooped earthward, shrill