11th Chraunost, 998 NE
Gong! Gong! Gong!
Lyferin’s timing had been almost perfect. Redgate and Direcrown arrived in Blackbranch just as the magisters died, just as the threat was about to spill over the defences and into the still-fleeing populace. Descending from the sky, the pair of arch-sorcerers had fought back-to-back, shields overlapping. Their demonic forces went to war with those of the Incursion, and each of them filled out their ranks, hand-picking new demons to bring under their sway. Hellbane was nowhere to be seen. It was just the two of them.
Yesterday afternoon was glorious. He would remember it for the rest of his life.
The laughter of the demons turning to yells of dismay as he moved alone to block them. The elated cheers of the crowd behind him as Harukar stood in the entrance to the bank, using his wyvarlinact claws to tear through dozens of fiends, halting the flood before they breached the interior. (He’d never been able to get the eldritch wings to work like Lyferin had, but the claws were like five red, hooked swords that cut through most hellsteel as though it were satin. A fair trade, in his eyes; he had alternate, if less effective, means of flight.) The looks in the eyes of the children who came running out to safety once he’d cleared the steps of hellspawn…
Yathira had been barren, or perhaps it was just that his seed had always been soulless, even back then, before he’d lost for good whatever claim to heaven he’d once possessed. Either way, they had never been blessed with children. Few family members were left alive to them, all older than them. No heirs to inherit the business. No future.
Seeing the gratitude in the eyes of the children – that was the real reason to do this, supposedly, and yesterday more than any other day he’d almost been a believer.
If they’d arrived thirty seconds earlier, they might’ve been able to save the magisters too. But Lyferin wouldn’t have wanted that, Harukar knew. To the Lord Shadow, it was all about the reputation, the accolades – and Harukar had never known him to be wrong before. The people would remember this: the rescue on the cusp of imminent death; the (not just last-minute but last-second) arrival of two of the most potent archmages in the city. Champions attending to protect them, ward off the dangers that came from the dark realms, cast back the fetid swarms of the lower planes – this was how it would be recorded by the news-writers, repeated by the town-criers.
He’d had the best night’s sleep after that – as usual, his cold bedfellow kept to herself. At least she followed commands now, so long as she was well-fed.
This morning he’d headed into town to pick up some supplies: a regenerative salve for the red rash under his left arm; a new ledger he’d had his eye on for the last week, the covers made from the soft leather of basilisk-hatchling skin.
He headed into town, and not once did he hear his name mentioned.
He was shopping within a five minute walk of Blackbranch Square, and even here the criers didn’t seem to have any idea he’d saved all their lives yesterday.
But Lyferin? Lyferin, who’d been a champion longer, who was more famous, more appealing, more powerful…
Harukar returned home and slammed the door so hard the wood splintered somewhere in the frame. The only living human in the house beside himself, the hypnotised, emaciated doorman standing blank-faced in the hallway, didn’t even react.
“‘Hail Redgate, Defender of Blackbranch!’ cry the criers!” he spat, moving deeper into the house. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Master,” came the chorus of responses from rooms all around the house, some in Netheric. His servants, his wife.
He entered the drawing room, and carefully placed the bag containing his new ledger down on the couch before he unleashed his anger on his demiskin instead, hurling it to the rug and kicking it into the corner. Since it was functionally impervious to harm, this was altogether unsatisfying.
He knew exactly what it was he needed to do to restore the balance.
As morning became afternoon and afternoon became evening, he finished his third bottle of Onlorian red and his second street-urchin. Finally his senses were starting to dull. He was starting to forget the hurt, the sting of betrayal.
Nothing was what it was supposed to be. There was none of the prestige. Nothing to fill the emptiness inside. No tourniquets could be used to reassemble a heart so shattered by this wild vicissitude, from his prior mundane life to this perpetual magical nightmare.
In forgetting the hurt, the anger was tempered, cooled to a steel blade.
Redgate. I will encompass your death, my young teacher, my young fool. You may have bound me to silence to save your ears from the truth but you made me into what I am and, one day, I promise, I will unmake you.
* * *
28th Orovost, 998 NE
He usually had no trouble sleeping after an Incursion, but this time he’d spent less of the evening at the side of his mentor than was typical. It had been nice to follow his own initiative, play the part of rescuer and hero uncontested; however, avoiding Redgate came with its own risks. What if the young lord had noticed his absence, chose to quiz him over it? They’d often fought as a duo throughout the three Incursions Harukar had attended until tonight – this was the first time Harukar had done his own thing, and now he felt conflicted over it.
He sat in the darkness of the drawing room, simple darkness doing nothing to impede his vision. The faces in the shadows that had once been his imagination were now all too real, purple eyes upon him, waiting on his stirring, his command. But he needed nothing save his wine-glass, and he’d set a whole crate of bottles on the couch beside him. He wouldn’t have to move for hours.
He wasn’t alone, but he felt that he was. Alone, adrift. A fiend in a man’s skin. A betrayer, a murderer.
Am I not hell-bound? he asked himself. Am I not already fated to take that journey into Infernum a final time, with no way back? To become the plaything of the very demons I can now summon?
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The two glass-set doors that let onto the gardens were flung open suddenly, and a cold wind carried leaves into the room.
Harukar didn’t spring to his feet in alarm. He was no longer wearing his champion’s attire, but his shields were already active, created and fortified long before he started in on the wine. His wights were poised to defend him; even if they weren’t capable of slaying most fiends one-on-one, there were several of them right here with him. If one of the hellspawn that’d escaped the clean-up crews had fled the magisters into this house, it had made a fatal mistake…
But it was no demon. It was several, trapped in an archmage’s body.
Redgate floated in through the open doors, and the wind died down.
“Good morning,” Harukar said dryly. “Would you like a glass?”
Lyferin settled to the floor beside the brandy decanter and poured himself a treble helping. He stood still, staring down into the crystal tumbler half-filled with the potent alcohol.
Harukar braced himself for the deluge of questions. He didn’t even fully understand the enchantment to which he’d voluntarily submitted, all those months ago, that had silenced his tongue where Lyferin and his identity were concerned. It had been a vow so swiftly offered…
Might I even refuse to answer him when he asks?
The softly-spoken words were not what he’d expected. The subtle near-exultation of Lyferin’s tone.
“Dustbringer is dead.”
Harukar’s eyes widened.
That means Redgate is made the longest-serving arch-sorcerer in the city, he realised.
“How?” He managed to keep the choking-sound from his voice.
“It described itself as a ‘Daughter of the Sinphalamax’,” Lyferin said, removing his spider-mask and sipping at his liquor. “I suspect by this it was something called eolastyr, a Mistress of Time – a powerful diviner for sure.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “I must consult my books.”
“He – he was erased?”
“The disintegration effect, yes.”
Harukar finished his glass, poured himself another, and half-finished that one, draining it in mind-numbing gulps.
To which plane is Dustbringer’s soul bound? he wondered.
“Are you quite alright, Mr. Wyle?”
That form of address sent shivers up his spine. He bore Redgate no overt ill-will; no plans were in motion, no emotions strong enough to overcome the alliance between their hearts that allowed them within one another’s shields.
But he feared him. Oh, how he feared him. He feared him like he feared dark gods, like he feared Duskdown, Dreamlaughter… There were few things in the city, in the world, Harukar feared now. But Lyferin was at the top of the list. Worse than any darkmage; here was a man perfectly willing to play the part of the champion, bearing all his well-kept secrets within him into the Gathering beneath the Tower of Mourning. A man perfectly willing to kill hundreds – have his lackey kill hundreds – in a wild experiment at granting archmagery.
A man who would not hesitate to use the many, varied tools at his disposal to slaughter Harukar if he showed one whit of recalcitrance.
Am I quite alright? he asked himself.
He shook his head, which was a bit of a bad idea, given his level of inebriation.
“My apologies, Redgate. I’m afraid I may’ve partaken a little strongly, given the hour.” He passed a hand across his face, fixed his fawning smile before returning his gaze to Lyferin’s eyes. “And my congratulations. You are the premier sorcerer of Mund, now. Timesnatcher will have to turn to you for many things.”
“To you, and to Netherhame.” Lyferin quaffed the remaining brandy in one and replaced his mask upon his head. “I am bound to Tirremuir on the morning tide, and will be absent for several weeks.”
Absent?
“M’lord, if I –“
“Do not call me that.” Lyferin spoke quietly but still succeeded in interrupting him, perhaps due to the softness of his voice. “You will have ample opportunity to prove yourself in the coming weeks. I tell you this as a courtesy, for I expect you to see to my interests in the meantime. Do not allow Timesnatcher to promote Netherhame to a position of prominence. And keep an eye on Feychilde for me. The boy is disconcertingly assertive, given his lack of experience and the curiosity that comes with it.”
“I shall bring him to heel for you,” Harukar replied smoothly. The mask was returning to him now. Not the physical, hellish mask of cold metal he wore on the outside, to hide his identity from others. No, the mental, hellish mask of cold indifference he wore on the inside, to hide his misery from himself. “Might I enquire as to your purpose in visiting Chakobar?”
“I join a quest to slay a dragon –“
Upon seeing the look on Harukar’s face, Lyferin held up a hand and continued speaking. It seemed he had mistaken the upswell of anticipation playing across Harukar’s features, such sudden and desperate hope that even he could not hide it all, for an expression of concern.
“– and I shall desist from speaking more on the matter. The less that is known, the better. The Magisterium would approve no formal aid, and so we must be careful about our movements, lest we be barred from travel. I would have it far from your thoughts.”
Such desire, to leave Mund? Harukar questioned silently, shocked at this turn of events. There must be much coin in such a venture – dragonslaying is such a lowborn pastime these days. What makes this dragon so special?
It could be borne, for now. It could be discovered, later.
For now, he had to get through this conversation with his life intact.
“Farewell, then, my friend,” he said, and distracted his eyes by looking down at his wine-glass. “Another drink, to your victory and swift homecoming?”
He poured himself one, knowing Lyferin would not remove his mask a second time – such would make him look indecisive, unmindful of the future. The young lord would rather behave discourteously, refuse the toast, than do that.
The toast would force him to leave.
Lyferin gently shook his head. “I shall take it when I return.” He reached for the decanter, and poured another measure of brandy. “Leave it on the side for me. I’ll drain it, dust and all, and recount my tale, to you and you alone.” His eyes flickered around the room at the eldritches. “You hear my words – leave this glass for me.”
It was a futile gesture for him to give commands to another arch-sorcerer’s bound servants, unless it was his intention to try to wrest control of each and every one of them from Harukar. Even for Lyferin that would be a tall order.
Yet it was not a futile gesture. It was designed not to command the eldritches but to reassert dominance over Harukar, remind him that the eldritches he possessed were only his because of Lyferin, because of the young lord’s endless evil machinations.
A reminder that whatever commands Harukar gave to his eldritches were at Lyferin’s whim.
“It will be left for you… Redgate,” he murmured.
Redgate drifted from the room, out into the darkness of the gardens, the forests of Treetown. Even here, the winds were tinged with the reek of the fires, the destruction of the Incursion. Direcrown could smell the death out there.
He gestured to the doors, and one of the maids silently crossed the room and closed them.
Sighing, he sat back on his couch, trying to regain control of his thoughts.
The interview had passed. It had passed, and he had given away nothing.
Or had he? What if there had been something, some nuance of his body language or voice that had revealed his change of heart to Lyferin? How could he possibly know?
He quelled the quivering that took hold of his wrist and sloshed a little wine upon the couch. He set the glass down, placed his hands in his lap and closed his eyes.
I am in control. I am in control. I am in control.
Wyrda take him! Take him in your arms and drown him! A thousand sacrifices for you, Wyrda, if you prevent his return!
When he opened his eyes again, they fell upon the tumbler of brandy. The tumbler he could not move – was not permitted to move. The tumbler that would become a blister in his mind, a nagging splinter in his eye, the pain of its innocent presence only growing, slowly growing into an itching, a burning, as the days would become weeks and this, his retreat of peace and solitude, would become the prison-cell of a slave.
For that is all I am. The least I can do is ensure that, if I am doomed to Infernum, he joins me forthwith.
* * *