Hammer and Bolter - Issue 2 Page 2

  With a sigh, Thyriol straightened himself and sat in the throne properly. Anamedion’s small rebellion was a distraction, one that Thyriol could not deal with immediately. He had Caledor’s messenger waiting, eager to return to the Phoenix King with Thyriol’s answer. The world was being torn apart by war and bloodshed, and against that the petulant protests and naïve philosophies of a grandson seemed insignificant.

  Thyriol twitched a finger and in the depths of the palace a silver bell rang to announce that the prince of Saphery wished to be attended.

  Anamedion felt the other sorcerers opening the portal they had created for just this situation. The shadow at the back of their hiding place deepened, merging with the shadows of a cave some distance from the palace’s current location. Something seethed in the shadow’s depths, a formless bulk shifting its weight just outside of mortal comprehension.

  Hadryana and Meledir lunged through the portal without word, fearful of Thyriol’s wrath. They were soon followed by the other students and Alluthian, leaving only Illeanith and Anamedion.

  ‘Come!’ commanded his mother, grabbing him by the arm. Anamedion shook free her grasp and looked at his grandfather.

  Thyriol was a broken creature. Anamedion saw an elf near the end of his years, frail and tired, his own misery seeping through every fibre of his being. There was no fight left in him.

  ‘I am not ashamed,’ said Anamedion. ‘I am not afraid.’

  ‘We must leave!’ insisted Illeanith. Anamedion turned to her and pushed her towards the shadow-portal.

  ‘Then go! I will send for you soon,’ he said. ‘This will not take long, mother.’

  Illeanith hesitated for a moment, torn between love of her son and fear of her father. Fear won and she plunged through the tenebrous gateway, disappearing into the dark fog.

  When Anamedion returned his attention to Thyriol, he saw that the prince had straightened and regained his composure. For a moment, doubt gnawed at Anamedion. Perhaps he had misjudged the situation. Thyriol’s look changed from one of horror to one of pity and this threw fuel onto the fire of Anamedion’s anger. His momentary fear evaporated like the illusion it was.

  ‘I will prove how weak you have become,’ said Anamedion.

  ‘Surrender, or suffer the consequences,’ growled Menreir, blue flames dancing from his eyes.

  ‘Do not interfere!’ Thyriol told his mages, waving them back. The pity drained from his face and was replaced by his usual calm expression. In a way, it was more chilling than the prince’s anger. ‘I will deal with this.’

  Anamedion knew that he must strike first. He allowed the Dark Magic to coil up through his body, leeching its power from where it lurked within and around the Winds of Magic. He felt it crackling along his veins, quickening his heart, setting his mind afire. Uttering a curse of Ereth Khial, Anamedion threw forward his hand and a bolt of black lightning leapt from his fingertips.

  A moment from striking Thyriol, the spell burst into a shower of golden dust that fluttered harmlessly to the bare stone floor.

  Only now did Anamedion see the counterspells woven into his grandfather’s robe. The sorcerer’s cruel smile faded. The prince’s body was steeped in magic, subtle and layered. Dark Magic pulsed once more, bolstering Anamedion’s confidence. Thyriol’s defences mattered not at all; the wardings were many but thin, easily penetrated by the power Anamedion could now wield.

  The view was breathtaking from the wide balcony atop the Tower of Alin-Haith, the vast panorama of Ulthuan laid out around the four mages. To the south and north stretched the farms and gentle hills of Saphery, bathed in the afternoon sun. To the west glittered the Inner Sea, barely visible on the horizon. To the east the majestic peaks of the Anullii Mountains rose from beyond the horizon, grey and purple and tipped with white. Thyriol noted storm clouds gathering over the mountains to the north, sensing within them the Dark Magic that had gathered in the vortex over the past decades.

  ‘I am going to tell Caledor that I will not open the Tor Anroc gateway,’ the prince announced, not looking at his companions.

  The three other wizards were Menreir, Alethin and Illeanith, the last being Thyriol’s daughter, his only child. Thinking of her led the prince’s thoughts back to Anamedion and he pushed them aside and turned to face the others.

  ‘I cannot risk the druchii taking control of the gateway from the other end,’ Thyriol explained.

  The palace of Saphethion was more than a floating castle. It was able to drift effortlessly through the skies because the magic woven into its foundations placed it slightly apart from time and space. From the outside the palace appeared beautiful and serene, but within there existed a maze of halls and rooms, corridors and passages far larger than could be contained within normal walls. Some of those rooms were not even upon Saphethion itself, but lay in other cities: Lothern, Tor Yvresse, Montieth and others. Most importantly, one of the isle-spanning gateways led to Tor Anroc, currently occupied by the army of Nagarythe.

  As soon as he had found out that the city had fallen into the hands of the druchii, Thyriol had closed the gate, putting its enchantments into stasis. Now the Phoenix King wanted Thyriol to reopen the gate so that he might send agents into Tor Anroc, perhaps even an army.

  ‘Caledor’s plan has much merit, father,’ said Illeanith. ‘Surprise would be total. It is unlikely that the druchii are even aware of the gateway’s existence, for none of them have ever used it.’

  ‘I wish to keep it that way,’ said Thyriol. ‘The wards upon the gate can resist the attentions of any normal druchii sorcerer, but I would rather not test their strength against the magic of Morathi. Even the knowledge that such gateways can exist would be dangerous, for I have no doubt that she would find some means to create her own. On a more mundane point, I cannot make the gate work only one way. Once it is open, the druchii can use it to enter Saphethion, and that puts us all at risk.’

  ‘The Phoenix King will be disappointed, lord,’ said Menreir.

  ‘The Phoenix King will be angry,’ Thyriol corrected him. ‘Yet it is not the first time I have refused him.’

  ‘I am not so sure that the druchii are still unaware of the gateways, prince,’ said Alethin. ‘There are few that can be trusted these days with any secret, and I am sure that there are Sapherians who once served in the palace now in the employ of the cults, or at least sympathetic to their cause. Even within the palace we have found texts smuggled in by agents of the druchii to sow confusion and recruit support.’

  ‘That gives me even more reason to be cautious,’ said Thyriol, leaning his back against the parapet. ‘Tor Anroc is shrouded in shadow, protected from our augurs and divinations. Perhaps the druchii have discovered the gateway and guard it, or even now work to unravel its secrets. The moment it is opened, it will be like a white flare in the mind of Morathi – I cannot hide such magic from her scrying.’

  ‘Forgive me, prince, but to what end do you tell us this?’ said Menreir. ‘If your mind is set, simply send the messenger back to Caledor. We are no council to give our approval.’

  Thyriol was taken aback by the question, for the answer seemed plain enough to him.

  ‘I had hoped that you might have some argument to change my mind,’ he said. Sighing, he cast his gaze back towards the mountains and when he continued his voice was quiet, wistful. ‘I have lived a long, long time. I have known the heights of happiness, and plunged into the depths of despair. Even when the daemons bayed at the walls of Anlec and the night lasted an eternity, I had hope. Now? Now I can see no hope, for there can be no victory when elves fight other elves. I wish an attack or Tor Anroc, an assault on Anlec, could end this war, but there is no such simple ploy. Not armed force or great magic will end this conflict. We are at war with ourselves and the only peace that can last must come from within us.’

  ‘Do not do this,’ Thyriol warned.

  ‘You are in no position to give me commands,’ snapped Anamedion. A sword of black flame appeared in his fist and h
e leapt forwards to strike. Menreir stepped in the way, out of instinct to save the prince, and the ethereal blade passed through his chest. In moments the mage’s body disintegrated into a falling cloud of grey ash.

  Anamedion swung back-handed at Thyriol, but a shimmering shield of silver energy appeared on the mage’s arm and the flaming blade evaporated into a wisp of smoke at its touch.

  ‘You cannot control the power needed to defeat me,’ Thyriol said. He was already breathing heavily, and Anamedion heard the words as nothing but an empty boast.

  Dispelling the warding that surrounded the room, Anamedion reached out further into the winds of magic, drawing in more and more dark power. A black cloud enveloped him, swirling and churning with its own life, flashes and glitters in its depths. He urged the cloud forward and for a moment it engulfed Thyriol, cloying and choking.

  A white light appeared at the cloud’s centre and the magic boiled away, revealing Thyriol unharmed, glowing from within. Anamedion could see that his grandfather’s pull on the winds of magic was becoming fitful and saw a chance to finish him off. Taking a deep breath Anamedion reached out as far as he could, a surge of sorcery pouring into his body and mind.

  Thyriol felt a hand upon his back and turned his head to see Illeanith next to him.

  ‘Anamedion told me that you have banished him from your presence,’ she said. ‘He is stubborn, but he is also brave and strong and willing to prove himself. Please end this dispute. Do not make me choose between my father and my son.’

  ‘There are no words that will lift the veil of a mother’s love for her son,’ replied the prince.

  ‘You think me blind to my son’s faults?’ snapped Illeanith, stepping back. ‘Perhaps I see more than you think, prince. Other matters are always more important to you. For over a thousand years you have lived in the mystical realm; you no longer remember what it is to be flesh and blood. I think that a part of you was trapped with the other mages on the Isle of the Dead, a part of your spirit if not your body. Anamedion has not seen the things you have seen, and you make no attempt to show them to him. You think that you guard him against danger, but that is no way to prepare him for princehood. He must learn who he is, to know his own mind. He is not you, father, he is himself, and you must accept that.’

  Illeanith glanced at the other two mages with an apologetic look and then disappeared down the steps from the balcony.

  ‘I miss her, mother,’ sighed Thyriol, leaning over the wall to peer down at the courtyard of the palace where armour-clad guards drilled in disciplined lines of silver and gold. ‘She helped me remember how to stay in this world. Maybe it is time I moved on, let slip this fragile grip that I have kept these last hundred years. I wish I had died in peace, like Miranith. One should not be born in war and die in war…’

  The other two mages remained silent as Thyriol’s words drifted into a whisper, knowing that Thyriol was talking to himself, no longer aware of their presence. They exchanged a knowing, worried glance and followed Illeanith from the tower, each fearful of their prince’s deterioration.

  ‘Sorcery is not an end in itself, it is just a means,’ said Anamedion. ‘It need not be evil.’

  ‘The means can corrupt the end,’ replied Thyriol quietly, his hoarse whisper further proof of his infirmity. ‘Just because we can do a thing, it is not right that we should do a thing.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ spat Anamedion, unleashing his next spell. Flames of purple and blue roared from his hands, lapping at Thyriol. The ancient mage writhed under its power, sparks of gold and green magic bursting from him as he deflected the worst of the spell, though it still brought him to one knee. ‘You’ll have to kill me to prove it!’

  ‘I will not kill my own kin,’ wheezed Thyriol.

  ‘I will,’ said Anamedion with a glint in his eye.

  Anamedion could feel only Dark Magic in the chamber and knew that the prince’s resistance was all but over. All he needed was another overwhelming attack and this would be finished. He would become prince of Saphery as was his right, and they would take the war to the Naggarothi.

  Grasping the fetish at his throat, the rune-carved knuckle bones burning his palm, Anamedion incanted words of power, feasting on the sorcery that was now roiling within every part of his body. He visualised a monstrous dragon, drew it in the air with his mind’s eye. He saw its ebon fangs and the black fire that flickered from its mouth. Thyriol attempted a dispel, directing what little remained of the winds of magic, trying to unpick the enchantment being woven by Anamedion.

  Anamedion drew on more Dark Magic, swamping the counterspell with power. He focussed all his thoughts on the spell, as Thyriol had once warned him he must. He had no time to appreciate the irony, all his mind was bent on the conjuration. He could see the shimmering scales and the veins on the membranes of the dragon’s wings. The apparition started to form before Anamedion, growing more real with every passing heartbeat.

  In a moment the dragon-spell would engulf Thyriol, crushing the last breath from his body.

  Thyriol waited patiently in the Hall of Stars, gazing up at the window at the centre of the hall’s ceiling. It showed a starry sky, though outside the palace it was not yet noon. The scene was of the night when the hall had been built, the auspicious constellations and alignments captured for all eternity by magic. Thyriol had come here countless times to gaze at the beauty of the heavens and knew every sparkling star as well as he knew himself.

  A delicate cough from the doorway attracted Thyriol’s attention. Menreir stood just inside the hall, a cluster of fellow mages behind him and a worried-looking servant at his side.

  ‘We cannot find Anamedion,’ said Menreir. ‘Also, Illeanith, Hadryana, Alluthian and Meledir are missing, along with half a dozen of the students.’

  Thyriol took this news without comment. The prince closed his eyes and felt Saphethion around him. He knew every stone of the palace, the magic that seeped within the mortar, the flow of energy that bound every stone. The golden needle pulsed rhythmically at its centre and the winds of magic coiled and looped around the corridors and halls. He could feel every living creature too, each a distinctive eddy in the winds of magic. It would not take long to locate his grandson.

  But it was not Anamedion that Thyriol found first. In a chamber beneath the Mausoleum of the Dawn, there was a strange whirl of mystical power. It flowed around the room and not through it, masking whatever was within: a warding spell, one that Thyriol had not conjured. It was subtle, just the slightest disturbance in the normal flow. Only Thyriol, who had created every spell and charm that sustained Saphethion, would have noticed the anomaly.

  ‘Come with me,’ he commanded the mages as he pushed through the group. He showed no outward sign of vexation, but Thyriol’s stomach had lurched. Mages were free to use their magic in the palace, why would one seek to hide their conjurations? He suspected sorcery. Despite his reasons for being in the Hall of Stars, this was more pressing than his division with Anamedion. His grandson would have to wait a while longer for their reconciliation.

  Thyriol whispered something, almost bent double, his eyes fixed on his grandson. Anamedion did not hear what the prince had said. Was it some final counterspell? Perhaps an admission of wrong? A plea for mercy?

  For the moment Anamedion wondered what Thyriol had said, his mind strayed from the spell. The distraction lasted only a heartbeat but it was too late. The Dark Magic churning inside Anamedion slipped from his grasp. He struggled to control it, but it wriggled from his mind, coiling into his heart, flooding his lungs. Choking and gasping, Anamedion swayed as his veins crackled with power and his eyes melted. He tried to wail but only black flames erupted from his burning throat. The pain was unbearable, every part of his body and mind shrieked silently as the sorcery consumed him.

  With a last spasm, Anamedion collapsed, his body shrivelling and blackening. With a dry thump, his corpse hit the ground, wisps of thick smoke issuing from his empty eye sockets.

  Thyriol k
nelt down beside the remains of his grandson. For the moment he felt nothing, but he knew he would grieve later. He would feel the guilt of what he had done, though it had been unavoidable. Thoughts of grief recalled the death of Menreir, his oldest friend. Thyriol had barely noticed his destruction, so engrossed had he been in his duel with Anamedion. Another link to the past taken away; another piece of the future destroyed.

  ‘What did you whisper?’ asked Urian, his eyes fixed upon the contorted remnants of Anamedion. ‘Some dispel of your own creation?’

  Thyriol shook his head sadly at the suggestion.

  ‘I cast no spell,’ he replied. ‘I merely whispered the name of his grandmother. His lack of focus killed him.’

  Thyriol stood and faced the mages clustered around the blackened doorway. His expression hardened.

  ‘Anamedion was young, and stupid, and ignored my warnings,’ said the prince. ‘Illeanith and the other sorcerers will not be so easy to defeat. There will be more of them than we have seen. The war has finally come to Saphery.’

  Exhumed

  Steve Parker

  The Thunderhawk gunship loomed out of the clouds like a monstrous bird of prey, wings spread, turbines growling, airbrakes flared to slow it for landing. It was black, its fuselage marked with three symbols: the Imperial aquila, noble and golden; the ‘I’ of the Emperor’s holy Inquisition, a symbol even the righteous knew better than to greet gladly; and another symbol, a skull cast in silver with a gleaming red, cybernetic eye. Derlon Saezar didn’t know that one, had never seen it before, but it sent a chill up his spine all the same. Whichever august Imperial body the symbol represented was obviously linked to the holy Inquisition. That couldn’t be good news.

  Eyes locked to his vid-monitor, Saezar watched tensely as the gunship banked hard towards the small landing facility he managed, its prow slicing through the veils of windblown dust like a knife through silk. There was a burst of static-riddled speech on his headset. In response, he tapped several codes into the console in front of him, keyed his microphone and said, ‘Acknowledged, One-Seven-One. Clearance codes accepted. Proceed to Bay Four. This is an enclosed atmosphere facility. I’m uploading our safety and debarkation protocols to you now. Over.’