The grating of stone pulled L’oric’s attention from his father. The narrow slit window in the far wall appeared to be changing. Dust and ground stone fell in a fine powder that flared incandescent as it drifted into the beam of blazing light. That beam cutting through the slit took on a deeper hue of gold until L’oric could no longer see through it. It might have been that light, but when he studied the slit window, his hand before his eyes, it appeared to be widening. As if it were opening.
He grabbed Spite’s arm and brought his head next to hers. ‘We must go!’ he shouted through the burgeoning roar.
‘Why?’ she yelled, and brushed his hand away.
He pointed. ‘The window! I believe it is the gate! A gate opening directly into Kurald Thyrllan.’
‘So what?’ She waved at him. ‘Aren’t you resistant, or whatever, to its manifestation?’
‘No more than Mother Dark could encompass Darkness itself!’ he shouted back. ‘Come!’
‘Your father?’
‘They will take him! Come!’ He attempted again to grab her arm but she easily brushed his hand away. He started backing away towards the stairs regardless.
The slit was definitely wider now, and lengthening, extending down to the floor. The solid bar of light was filling the chamber and it was this that pushed Spite back as it ate up the floor space finger by finger like shimmering poured gold. She joined L’oric on the stairs, which they descended backwards. So bright was the presence above, L’oric had to turn his face away. Spots danced before his punished eyes. On the ground floor Spite bumped into him, cursing and wiping at her eyes. ‘Damn it to Night!’ she snarled. ‘I can’t see a damned thing.’
‘Thryllan has taken him,’ L’oric said, studying the stairs.
‘He will hardly be missed,’ Spite growled.
‘You are harsh.’
‘It is the truth.’
He took a fold of cloth and dabbed his eyes. ‘We will not know the truth of this until sufficient time has passed.’
‘Sufficient time for the lies to take hold.’
‘I think you hold too hard to bitterness.’
Spite studied him for a time. ‘Our alliance is nearly at an end, L’oric. Do not tempt me to any rash act following it.’
He sketched a courtier’s bow. ‘As m’lady would have it. Shall we go?’
‘Gladly. I loathe this place.’
‘That is not so strange. I rather like it.’
* * *
On the western slope of the Gangrek Mounts a woman descended a slim trail. It was no more than a rocky animal track occasionally used by locals to climb the mount for game or to collect firewood or plants. Her shirt was tattered, stained and worn to mere threads, while her skirt hung merely to her knees. Her hair was an unkempt cloud about her heart-shaped features. Yet she walked the trail with the assurance and ease of an experienced jungle tracker.
Halfway down she stopped to peer back up the path. After a time another figure came descending behind. He came slowly as he used a sturdy stick as a crutch. One arm hung tied to his side, he dragged one foot, and a cloth was wrapped around his head covering one eye. His hair hung long and loose but did not completely hide the odd shape of the left side of his head. He wore the torn and hard-travelled robes of a Thaumaturg.
The young woman took his arm to help him down the more difficult sections of the steep track. He offered her a strange one-sided smile that made her blush and turn her face away. As the trail levelled she kept his arm to walk along beside him.
Together, they retraced their steps back into Thaumaturg territory. They were returning because someone had to rebuild, and if they did not others would. She had a reborn faith to guide and shape anew and he would do all he could to clear its way into the world.
* * *
Far off on the eastern coast of Jacuruku, a gentle surf kissed a stretch of desert strand. A dense jungle verge crowded the shore. The empty sands descended steeply to the sapphire waves. Above, clear blue sky echoed the pale blue of the shallow waters. White seabirds hovered and gave their harsh calls in the weak wind. Crabs searched among the foam and cast-up seaweed.
A man came staggering out of the jungle to stand weaving drunkenly and blinking in the bright sunlight. A shirt hung from him in tatters, as did his trousers. Sores, bites and scratches dotted his limbs. His beard and hair were ragged and filthy. Another emerged, no different from the first. He, too, stopped as if dumbfounded, or completely uncertain of what to do next.
A giant emerged next. It carried a man in its stone arms that it gently set down to stand in the sands. This man tapped a blackwood rod chased in silver to his shoulder while he stood staring out to sea.
More men, a bare few handfuls, came staggering out to fall or sit in the sands and stare wordlessly at the bright leagues of empty sea. A scrawny old man wearing only a loincloth came limping from the jungle. He carried a bag over one shoulder and he walked down to the man holding the blackwood rod.
After studying the sea for a time, Principal Scribe Thorn turned to his commander, Master Golan, and said, ‘Congratulations, Golan the Great.’
Master Golan blinked as if coming out of a dream and peered down at his scribe. ‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked. ‘Congratulations?’
‘The Army of Righteous Chastisement has emerged triumphant, m’lord. It has crushed the jungle into abasement. Dealt it a final decisive blow! Your march has proved victorious.’
‘You will write that down, won’t you?’
‘Of course!’
The old man, all skin and bones, his hair standing as a thinning white rim about his skull, bent his head down to search within the loose bag. He searched, then searched again, becoming more and more agitated. Finally, he pulled the bag from his side and overturned it, waving and flapping it. A single sheet flew free to flutter out over the waves and disappear into the distance.
Golan watched it fly off. ‘Nothing important, I trust,’ he offered, rather drily. He peered curiously at the empty bag. ‘Misplaced your records? What has become of them?’
‘Food has been rather scarce of late,’ Principal Scribe Thorn confessed, looking guilty.
Golan studied the man, frowning. ‘My glorious campaign has disappeared down your gullet, been digested, and shat out your other end?’
‘I have merely done the job of the historians for them, m’lord.’
Golan tilted his head, thinking about it, then nodded, conceding the point. ‘True enough, Principal Scribe. True enough. You have merely saved everyone a great deal of time.’
‘I do try to serve in my own small way.’ He suddenly raised a finger as if in inspiration. He yanked the nub of a quill from behind one blackened ear, licked the end, and poised it over the leather bag. ‘Your orders?’
Golan looked to the surf, the blue sea rolling onward to the horizon. He rubbed his fingers across his brow — they came away slick with grime and sweat. He sighed heavily. ‘Second,’ he called in a raised voice.
Shortly after this, Second in Command Waris emerged from the jungle verge. He wore a long stained shirt that was at one time the underpadding of leather armour. A weapon belt hung over one shoulder and he bore a scrap of cloth tied about his head. He came to Golan and saluted.
‘Second Waris,’ Golan began. Then he paused. He eyed the cloth on the man’s head. ‘Not regulation, I should think, Second.’
‘Keeps the sun off, sir,’ the man replied, his voice flat.
Still a man of few words. Somehow reassuring, that. Golan cleared his throat. ‘We will camp here. Perhaps there are foodstuffs that the troops may collect. On the morrow we head north around the coast. Eventually we will reach our borders.’
Waris bowed and headed off to convey the orders.
Golan started pacing the shore, slowly, meditatively. He held the blackwood Rod of Execution behind his back in both hands, tapping it with his thumbs.
Principal Scribe Thorn followed behind. He licked the quill and began scratching on the bag. He mouthed as he walked: ‘Having utterly crushed the jungle leagues of Jacuruku, Golan the Great vanquishes the Eastern Ocean then casts his victor’s eyes onward to new conquests! He orders the beginning of a grand new campaign against the Northern Wastes. The glorious Army of Righteous Chastisement springs to its feet to follow its inspiring leader onward to new triumphs no doubt as rewarding and glorious as those they have known …’