The Last Null Page 5
The Reign of the Elves meant the Reign of the First of the Five Families of Elves—the same Sorcerer-Kings who had fashioned the Blood Gate and almost destroyed the world a thousand years ago.
“Back then, the High King didn’t want any business with elvish magic, and also wanted a way to defend the kingdoms of man if the elves ever got hoity again,” Rugar said. Tanwen let out a slight rebuking huff, presumably for Terak’s benefit.
It’s alright, Terak thought. He had never lived amongst his own people anyway. The Second Family palmed me off to the Enclave as soon as they discovered I was a null.
“And anyway, the High King instituted the Royal Guild of Navigators—who built the air galleons,” Rugar said.
“The air galleons? Like The Lady of the North?” Terak asked. That had been the flying airship galleon belonging to Lord Falan and the Kingdom of Brecha. Now, she was crashed in the southern plains where Falan had flown to aid the defense of the Kingdom of Ara.
“Aye, the Lady’s one of them alright,” Rugar nodded. “Each of the smaller realms and human princes got one—sometimes more than one, if they pleased the Old High King enough. They were meant to form a Navy against the elves!” Rugar said with a touch of pride.
“But the Old High King died, as all humans must, and the kingdoms fell to warring with each other,” Tanwen completed the tale. “The Guild of Navigators refused to build anymore.”
Terak blinked. “So . . . exactly how do you think they can help us now?”
The female Emarii raised her head to look in the north-west direction that the flagstone appeared to be suggesting. “Because tales have it that the Navigators still have air galleons—or parts of them, anyway. They were the only ones who knew the cantrips to make them fly,” she breathed.
“And if we can convince the Guild of Navigators like you convinced the Elder Beings to help us—then maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to fly to the North before the orcs catch up with us or the world ends around us!”
5
Stone Warning
How much Ixchting further do we have to go!? Terak was about to grumble to himself, not because of his aching legs, thighs, feet, or the general hunger that he was starting to feel as their caravan tramped across the dark fell-lands north of Tor.
It was the rising line of dark that concerned him. The null could see ahead of them, like a thick stain of ink along the top of the world. The black haze sat upon the northern horizon and was stubbornly unmoving, despite the fact that the group of Emarii storytellers, Tor citizens, and Elder Being warriors had trudged through the night and into dawn.
The Fourth Baleful Sign, Terak recalled. He kept one of his sharp eyes on the magical night that was pouring southwards from the distant Vale of the Blood Gate. The other, southward direction on their left appeared no better to Terak’s eyes, however. The fell-lands stretched and rolled for a long way before arriving in thick columns of smoke, as the South burned.
The orcs are coming, Terak confided in himself. And soon, the hordes of the Ungol would box them in.
“Elf-friend.” Terak was surprised by a wind-like whisper. Suddenly, the form of one of the bird-like Elder Beings landed lightly at his side where he trudged. Shaking his wings from his shoulders, he brushed the mist and moisture from his arms.
At least, Terak thought it was a he. From the pattern of gold and black feathers, he also thought that it might have been the guide who had first met him and Kol in the burning Forest of Hon.
“There is magic in the air, coming from up ahead,” the Elder Scout said, earning an astonished blink from Terak.
“You can sense magic?” the elf said. He followed the bird-man’s gestured finger to where the fell-lands twisted and were riven by a ridge of barren hills.
“Of course.” The Elder Being cocked his head to one side to fix the elf with one eye. “What you call magic, anyway. The song of this world is root-song—root-magic—not really magic at all.”
Terak nodded. The renegade orc war-champion, Vorg the Unwanted, had told him a little of this lore. There was an older, more natural form of power that came from the world of Midhara itself: root-magic. It had nothing to do with the cantrips, prayers, charms, and rituals that had been developed in later millennia.
“And so, we can sense this strange stuff that you mortals use.” The Elder Scout once again nodded to the nearest cleft in the hills. The path that they were following dove down and into this cleft. “And we can smell a lot of it coming from there.”
Terak raised his eyes to the dark line of hills before them and nodded.
“Tell the others to hold back,” he murmured as he tightened his cloak and jerkin about himself. He made sure that his daggers were easily at hand as he started to lope forward.
If there was one thing that Terak, the trained assassin of the Enclave, was good at, it was getting into dangerous places unseen and alone.
The fell-lands that skirted the Forest of Hon lowered themselves into dips and tight gorges before the line of tall hills, dotted with trees and great granite boulders. Terak saw the white froth of fast-moving streams in the gullies, and how this path would indeed take them to a narrow, rocky ford before it wound between two hills.
The elf crouched on the edge of the heath by one of the boulders. He stayed low and motionless as he watched the ford—and felt the slightest brush of nausea in his stomach.
The Elder Being had been right, clearly. The elf did not know if this was the same feeling that the bird-people felt whenever they neared magic. For a null like he was (and the other Emarii, too, he presumed) the most-common form of Midharan magic felt like a wave of agitated sickness whenever Terak found himself in its presence.
Terak allowed his eyes to defocus a little as he watched the scene before him. This trick would allow his other senses, his fine elvish hearing, his nostrils, and even the sensations of wind on his skin, to rise clearer.
Something . . . Terak’s nose twitched. The flurries of wind brought something to them, something that was a little out of place in this peaty and mossy hill-land. When Terak opened his mouth slightly, the wind tasted a little acrid and bitter on the tongue. Terak remembered the workshop of Father Jacques, and the many strange preparations, oils, powders, and tinctures that he had helped prepare as a part of his teaching.
Lamp oil? Pitch? Tar? Terak wondered. But from wherever this scent was coming, there was no sign of what caused it. Neither down below on the ford nor from the edge of the cliff where the path wound around and into the hills.
And the elf’s usually keen eyes did not reveal any sign of habitation or irregular movement, either. Just the slight sheen of heathers and mosses in the faded late-morning light.
Terak allowed a few calming breaths to take away his hurts, before slowly moving off from his hiding-place. He did not use the wide and bare path of dried earth. Instead, he chose the much steeper incline that led down to the fast-flowing stream that was hidden from view of the ford. He started to traverse the boulders by the stream edge, meaning to get as close as he could to the ford without any chance of being spotted.
The rocks down here were wet and slicked with river-moss. Terak breathed and took his time, moving first one foot and then another in exact, correct ways just as he had learned climbing the mountain cliffs and gorges of the distant Tartaruk.
The stream wove around in a wide sweep. The banks got steeper for a step, before starting to widen out.
There! Terak saw a number of boulders sticking out from the stream which he could use to cross to the far side. Perhaps any unwanted watchers wouldn’t be expecting anyone there.
With a slight exhalation, the elf leapt agilely to the first boulder. he caught his balance with ease before stepping off to the next and hopping to the last. He lightly jumped into a crouch behind a singular boulder that stuck out from the opposing bank.
Now wait . . . Terak breathed, straining his ears to hear the sounds of shouts or warning bells.
Nothing. If that lamp-b
lack small belonged to a scout, they hadn’t spotted him. Yet.
But they will eventually, the assassin of the Enclave knew. The ford was only a little way away. Someone had made a sort of lane marker out of two lines of boulders. Still, no sign of anyone.
Terak eased one of his knives from its holder, and kept that hand covered in a fold of his cloak. He stepped forward, rising to pace to the edge of the ford swiftly.
K’tck!
He felt the kick of magic like a clamp in his jaw as soon as he stepped onto the crossing-place. Terak reacted, one foot sliding back while his daggered hand came forward.
Something had sprung into the air from the ford, spraying water as it did so. It was something no bigger than Terak’s fist, as gray as the stones of the riverbed from which it came. Glowing lines of blue light crackled across it, and the seemingly solid stone appeared to unfurl and break open—revealing four sets of wings, two bone-like mandibles, and a segmented gray-stone body.
And it immediately started to chitter an ear-splitting noise.
“TCHK-TCHK-TCHK-TCHK—”
The noise was like that of an insect, but it drove straight through Terak’s sensitive ears, making him gasp and stagger backward . . . As the thing threw itself at him, with intense speed.
“Hyah!” Despite the ringing sound like daggers being pushed into his head, Terak managed to sweep the dagger toward the thing before it latched onto him.
CRACK! It felt like hitting solid stone—which he was, in a way. He saw the glowing spark as his blade turned the flying thing from its path, sending it rolling through the air to smash into the ford water.
“TCHK-TCHK-TCHK-TCHK—”
But no sooner had Terak stumbled to one side, then another of the things had burst from the ford, and another. Each one sprang into the air like a thrown stone before magically unfurling, just as the first had, into a rock-like insect. They were clearly some kind of deterrence or early warning system. It was plain that Terak’s careful approach had been ruined.
“TCHK-TCHK-TCHK—” The nearest of the stone insects flung themselves at the elf, for him to easily jump out of the way—and straight into the oncoming path of the next.
Terak flashed out with the dagger, this time catching the nearing aerial enemy across its wings. He severed two of them with ease and sent this one crashing to the floor at his feet . . .
“Hss!” Just as the one behind the elf slammed into his shoulder. Terak felt the bite of metal pincers puncturing through his cloak and jerkin and into the flesh there.
He let his feet go from under him, throwing himself downward heavily onto his back atop the ford . . .
“Ach!” It was like jumping on a knuckle of pointed rock. But he felt the magical automata crunch underneath him. When he rolled off it, it lay with its segmented rock-parts twitching uselessly.
“TCHK-TCHK-TCHK-!” But there were still more rising from the bed of the stream around him. Terak knew that he had to come up with a plan, fast.
Two were winging their way through the air straight for the elf. Terak waited until their mandibles and wings were flashing in the air before him. He spun on his heel, spraying water with his fast step as his free hand caught up the end of his cloak.
The two magical automata thumped into the heavy material. The elf threw his arm to wrap them tight, tearing the clasp at his neck which held the cloak to his body.
“Elf-friend!” There was a voice as more shapes thumped into the ford around and behind him. Terak didn’t have time as he heard the hammering chitter of the last of the flying alarms and spun.
He used the wrapped cloak of wriggling forms as a club to bat the last from the air, sending it smashing into one of the nearest boulders before he swung the cloak over his head and against the river floor. On the second attempt, there was a chorus of satisfying crunches from inside the bag. The chittering finally stopped, before the elf groaned and stepped back.
“Elf-friend—I told you there was bad magic from this place,” said the loping form of the nearest Elder Being, holding his short white-wood spear across his body as he came to him. Terak could see still more of the bird-men landing. They ran, jumped, and glided down from the fells and to his position.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Terak groaned, slowly releasing his cloak to reveal a mess of strangely mechanical stone-parts and wing segments. “I have no idea what they were or who set them—” the elf was saying. The Elder Being made a gasping sound and interrupted him.
“Maybe they did!” the Elder Being snarled, as, from around the curve of the cliff, came a huge shape.
It was a wide sort of barge with high walls, and it hovered over the floor by a matter of a few yards. The barge had one flattened, shovel-like prow at the end, and was easily twenty feet across—and many times that long. It was constructed of a deep, tarry black wood. Terak could see where there were already portholes sliding open on its front and at its side.
The floating barge had ragged sails that were pocked with many holes and tears, but the forward sail still had, clearly visible, the insignia of a boat and a crown—the symbol of the Royal and Ancient Guild of Navigators.
“Tell me, elf-friend,” the Elder Being breathed nervously, “are you any good against cannons?”
6
Sister of the Enclave
Tharound . . .
THUUMM . . .
The sounds of the distant war drums outside the Black Keep continued, following Journeywoman Reticula as she raced through the black stone walls of the Enclave’s fortress. The sounds continued in her ears as she crossed galleries and sprinted down steps. In her robes was secreted the wooden box of the Chief External, with its precious cargo of Demiene tincture, and the prophecy of the Last Null.
The young woman didn’t know what was amassing in the magical plague of darkness outside their walls, but inside of them, an eerie stillness pervaded.
Most of the Brothers and Sisters have been called to arms, she realized. Their time of reckoning had come.
But still, Reticula raced—placing trust in the only person who she thought might have some answer how to stop their downfall. He may be the only one to see clearly what was before them.
“Here, Father Jacques,” Reticula said as she entered the last healing alcove of the Healing Halls. She earned a brief scowl from the Chief Hospitality himself, from where he toiled at a great wooden desk in the middle of the room. But he did not raise hand nor voice to stop her as she stepped into the room, heavy with the scent of citrus and lavender.
“Ghrn-rgh . . . ?” Reticula’s arrival was met with a pained cough from the mound of blankets.
He’s still alive, then, she thought with gratitude.
Very carefully, Reticula moved to the side of the narrow bed and removed the box, opening it. The radiance of the crystal-glass vial spilled out into the room. Almost immediately, a sense of sweetness cleared the airs of the chamber. The Journeywoman blinked as she looked at the box, aware of what words it hid, but she tucked the worried thoughts away just as she had tucked away the scroll back into its hiding place.
“Chief,” she said, leaning over the bed to hear the faint, shallow wheezing from within. “Father . . . ?”
When Reticula stepped closer, she could see the man’s face heavy and disconsolate against the pillows. He appeared as near to death as a human can get. Once again, the young woman cursed the Chief Arcanum and whatever foul magics he had layered into that curse which had hit her mentor’s body.
Father Jacques’s eyes and lips were gummed. His skin had sunken and apparently wrinkled, as if adding twenty or thirty years to his growing collection.
“This had better work,” she muttered to herself, lifting the vial and releasing the stopper. She pulled out a thin tube of delicate crystal, already loaded with the effervescent, pearly-white liquid.
Very slowly and very, very carefully, she dripped the contents into the Father’s lips. It glistened for a moment before disappearing as if evaporating.
“Hgnhr!” But then Jacques coughed and spluttered and started to shift in the mound of blankets. “Too hot—too hot!” he managed to murmur. Reticula could see the beads of sweat filling up his forehead immediately.
Acting quickly, she stripped the top layer of blankets from his form, to see that the Chief of the Enclave-External was now heaving great breaths like a bellows. A flush of color had returned to his cheeks—and a tremor had started throughout his body.
Reticula stepped back in alarm. She knew that some medicines could be just as fatal in their excess as they could be useless in their minimum—but did the same count for the works of the dreamy, ethereal upper world of the Aesther, too?
“Chief?” she murmured again, just before—
“Hyurk!” Jacques’s shaking and coughing got suddenly worse. His brief spluttering soon becoming great, wracking convulsions.
“Chief—I’ll get some water!” Reticula said quickly, but then the master of the secretive cabal-within-a-cabal jolted upright, coughing and spitting.
A wriggling black lump shot from the man’s throat and hit the wall, where it immediately started to hiss and bubble in the light.
“Stars!” Reticula swore, disgusted and appalled by the sight. But the lump of poison or creature—she had no idea which it was—was already bubbling and smoking into thin air. It left nothing behind at all but an ashy gray residue.
“Reticula . . .” She heard a groan and saw that Father Jacques was indeed alive, and still there—and that he was rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. The tremors and shaking in his body had stilled. Although he still looked weak and sallow, the Journeywoman could see that he was far from death.