Earls of Iron: Part 2 of 6

Fables of Blood and Fate
Book One
Earls of Iron


A Fantasy Novel
by
Jason Norman Thompson
Part 2: 15,125-30,456 words
 
The Warchief

Minatory storm clouds lurk over the Ealdufan Mountains of north-eastern Knarrerim. They obscure the moon and stars. The chilly night remains calm. The region lies shrouded in shadow so thick that the darkness seems tangible. Silence reigns absolute.
Two men stand in a narrow canyon. They do nothing to disturb the funereal atmosphere. Despite the gloom, Abalta Lamhiarann’s Orb of Power affords him perfect clarity of vision. His left hand rests upon his companion’s shoulder. He thus confers night vision upon Huntlord Fionn Bardach through his Orb. They stare at a squat bulbous pillar of purest onyx. It seems almost humanoid.
The figure is Wismut Feldspat, Claykrieg or Warchief to Clan Calcit of the Dvaryn People. Incorporeal elemental beings who measure their lives in centuries, they must draw upon minerals present in Earth to assume physical form. Dvaryn move through solid rock with the ease of a man in water and can traverse their natural element with tremendous speed. Telepathic, they do not speak but can communicate with one another over vast distances. An insular People, they seldom venture from their subterranean Realm on Thurkarst Island, far to the west of the Ealdufan Mountains.
For almost two decades, in his capacity as Champion of the Hunt, Abalta conducted cautious negotiations with Wismut. Abalta persuaded the Warchief to lead three Dvaryn legions in a perilous mission against an ancient enemy.
Their contact through the Orb of Power also allows Fionn to share Abalta’s psychic conversation with Wismut. The Dvaryn’s thoughts echo in their minds as a sonorous bass thrum.
Champion, survey concluded. Abufan lies several miles beneath surface. Also three lesser cities. Six thousand Dvaryn move on Capital. Last legion trisected to deal with ancillary conurbations.
Excellent work, Claykrieg.
Forces in place before you reach Abufan.
Yes. A pity I cannot travel through Earth as you do. Be patient. I must be cautious, lest I alert our quarry. The Vulpusken’s capture is imperative.
If present. No definitive evidence of existence.
Which is why we are here, Claykrieg. To unearth the elusive truth. My suspicions bear weight. They tolerate scrutiny.
Misgivings. Require assurances that obsession not encourage recklessness.
Claykrieg, I began this hunt fifty years ago. No prey has ever eluded me for so long. I am not about to jeopardise this chance of tracking down my quarry. Not through careless or foolish actions. Not now. Not when I can scent its spoor.
Considerations for People paramount, Champion. Cannot afford unnecessary risks.
Claykrieg, I share, and appreciate, your concerns. Know that we are in accord, whatever the differences in our...
Abalta feels a Class Ring on his left hand grow cold. He knows then that Huntlord Seasta Doighsuil is dead. A jumbled emotional melange engulfs him. Intense grief threatens to overwhelm Abalta’s mind. Detached solicitous empathy ameliorates the emotion. He realizes that he shares Fionn’s anguish at Seasta’s death, mixed with Wismut’s conciliatory commiseration, through the psychic connection maintained by his Orb.
Abalta feels conflicted, an experience he regards with utter detestation. Duty demands that he abandon his mission. He should travel to Tellus Isle forthwith. Abalta clutches at justifications for the continued pursuit of his quest for vengeance. Before Wismut can interpret his vacillation as lack of commitment and withdraw his support, Abalta reaches a decision.
Fionn, I need you to act in my stead. You know what to do. Claykrieg, can you have your People eliminate the sentries, that I might commence infiltration immediately?
Indeed, Champion. Meet in the cavern.
Wismut severs the psychic link with Abalta and Fionn. The Dvaryn relinquishes material form. He vanishes into the ground. The onyx pillar collapses into a pile of black dust. Abalta communes with his fellow Hunter.
Go now, Fionn. I shall follow, when I can. Take this. Be swift, be safe, be sure.
Swiftest, safest, surest. My life for yours. Have no fear.
I must.
Abalta removes his hand. This breaks their mental connection. He pulls a verargent Class Ring off a finger. He passes is to Fionn.
Fionn slips it on. He knows the exact whereabouts of its twin’s wearer. Hundreds of miles lie between them. He sets off at a run.
Abalta watches. The darkness swallows Fionn. The Champion activates his Orb of Power. He levitates towards the top of the ravine as swift and silent as a moonlight shadow.

The Hunters

Telein rides Huntsman at a steady lope. The track winds through dense coniferous forest towards the hill’s summit. Telein follows deep ruts gouged in the frozen ground by wagon wheels. These, and soil churned by many hooves and feet, mark the soldiers’ route into the Kuklos Mountains of eastern Xulontopos.
Tall pine, fir and spruce restrict Telein’s view of the sky to a dark blue strip. The sun has yet to clear the snow-covered massifs that loom beyond the foothills. Telein wears a heavy hooded grey coat over layers of fur-lined knits. A woollen scarf covers her mouth and nose. Thick leather gloves protect her hands. Silk stockings sheath her feet inside her riding boots. The crisp still morning air chills her. She cannot feel her extremities. Huntsman’s breath huffs out in frosty plumes. The dun rouncey carries Telein around a sharp bend. The road steepens.
Telein sees the hilltop up ahead. She relishes the prospect of her assignment’s completion. Huntsman labours over the crest of the rise. The trail descends into a broad shallow depression surrounded by forest. Just within the treeline, armoured men flank the track. Armed with long javelins, they face the open glade. A tall thin man stands on the trail with his back to Telein. He has shaggy black hair. He wears a bright scarlet leather coat. It is shot through with strands of gold lamé. The distinctive garment identifies him as a Powerlord. He can draw upon the sun’s elemental Fire to perform powerful magics.
Two women stand beyond the Powerlord in the centre of the clearing. Hooded black-brown-and-grey linen greatcoats mark them as Huntresses. They face a low burial mound at the end of the glade. There are javelins planted upright in the ground before them. Telein thinks there is something strange about the Huntress to the left. She realizes that the woman stands with both feet buried in the ground. She is drawing upon Earth’s elemental power. Telein knows then that she must be Huntlady Calma Taiscealai. The woman at her side is her Apprentice, Scout Siorai Coillseilg.
Telein nudges Huntsman with her knees. She rides towards the Powerlord. He looks over his shoulder. His dark eyes fix upon the oiled leather scroll-case, which hangs at Telein’s right hip.
‘Messenger,’ he says, ‘unless it is for me, your missive must wait until we are finished here, with the Vipern.’
‘I appreciate that, Powerlord,’ says Telein, ‘but I bear a most urgent message for the Huntlady, from the Champion of her School.’
‘The sun comes,’ he says.
He turns his face away. He gazes up at the mountains. Telein tugs the reins. Huntsman stops. The sky brightens. Sunlight bathes the hilltop glade. The Powerlord kneels on the track. He throws his right hand out towards the sun as if he means to pluck it from the heavens like a great golden apple. He hums. His hands glow with soft amber light. He plunges the left one into the cold damp soil. Telein hears a soft hiss. The ground steams. A broad straight strip of thawed Earth runs across the clearing from the Powerlord to the Huntlady. Calma Taiscealai holds her left hand high. A large dome of translucent honeyed light appears around the two Huntresses. Calma combines Earth energy with elemental Fire transferred to her by the Powerlord to generate a magical shield.
An animal bounds from the forest on the other side of the hilltop. It streaks towards the barrow. While Telein has studied pumas in paintings and read of them in books, it strikes her that no depiction or description could ever capture the tawny mountain cat’s sleek fluid graceful power. Telein notices a round black hole at the base of the burial mound. This must be the entrance to the Vipern’s lair. The puma disappears down the hole. Telein hears shouts from the woods around the glade. Soldiers shift around her. The puma pounces out of the tumulus. It speeds back into the forest.
A blunt scaled pine green head as big as a pony darts out of the hole. A long red forked tongue flicks out of its mouth. Telein sees a huge silvery eye with a slit black pupil. She glimpses a flash of light. A javelin flies through the air. It sinks into the Vipern’s snout. The enormous head snaps around towards the two Huntresses. The weapon falls away. Black blood spurts from the wound. The Vipern’s mouth gapes. Shiny metallic fangs glint in the sunlight. The Vipern spews a thin stream of inky fluid at the Huntresses. The venom strikes the translucent dome of light with a sizzle. A puff of black smoke drifts up. It dissipates.
The Vipern slips out of its lair in one slick undulating lunge. Its long thick body slithers towards the Huntresses. The Apprentice throws another javelin. It sinks into the Vipern’s scaly side. The monstrous serpent jerks. It hisses. The massive head whips around. It catches the javelin’s shaft in its mouth. It pulls it free. The weapon falls to the ground. Dark blood pours from the Vipern’s body. Oily fumes rise from the grass. The Vipern slides across the glade. Noxious ichor leaves the ground blackened in its wake. The Vipern approaches the Huntresses. Its head sways back and forth.
A hawk plunges from the sky. Its talons tear into the Vipern’s right eye. The Vipern’s sinuous body rears up. It towers over the two women below. Its jaws gape. Corrosive blood spurts from the Vipern’s punctured eyeball. The hawk screeches. Its wings flutter. It goes limp. The hawk’s wings fold. It falls away. It hits the ground, dead as a rock. The hawk’s legs are black stumps.
Telein hears shouts. A massive iron bolt shoots out of the trees off to her right. Another follows from the opposite side of the clearing. The Vipern’s head thrashes about. The first bolt sails past. It vanishes into the woods with a crash. The second bolt slams into the Vipern’s underbelly. Arrows and javelins appear in its body. Its head sways. The Vipern wilts like a dead flower.
The Huntlady drops her left hand. The protective dome vanishes. Telein’s eyes widen. The Vipern’s great bulk falls towards the two Huntresses. Telein gasps. The Huntlady plucks a javelin from the ground. She hurls the weapon. It arcs up through the air. Telein holds her breath. The long steel point rams into the underside of the Vipern’s jaw. It bursts out the top of the Vipern’s skull. Dark fluid spurts in the clear air. The Vipern jerks back. Its vast body flops sideways. The Vipern’s head hits the ground with a thud. It twitches for a few moments. The Vipern lies still.
A great cheer goes up all around. Telein yells as loud as the others do. The Powerlord lowers his right hand. The honeyed glow snuffs out. He stands. He wipes dirt off his other hand. Armoured Warriors emerge from the forest around the hilltop. They converge upon the Vipern’s corpse. The Huntlady and her Apprentice turn. They walk along the path dried by the Powerlord’s magic. Telein jerks the reins. She rides her rouncey past the Powerlord and into the clearing.
‘Huntlady Calma Taiscealai of Seilgscoil,’ she calls. ‘I am Sage Telein Kephale, serving Sophoskhole as a Messenger. I bear an urgent missive, from Abalta Lamhiarann, Champion of the Hunt, delivered into my hands last night by Lorelord Takhus Graphe.’
‘Wait there, Messenger,’ Calma throws back her hood. She addresses the Powerlord, ‘Stult, there’s a nest in the lair. I saw the eggs, when I took the puma inside.’
‘Not for long,’ says Stult.
Telein dismounts. She holds onto Huntsman’s reins with her left hand. She unslings the strap from her shoulder. She awaits the Huntlady with the scroll-case held in her right hand. Her back warms. Telein turns. Stult speeds past her. A bright golden glow surrounds his entire body. Telein remembers that Viperns exude an intangible aura, which inhibits any Magi’s ability to draw upon elemental Fire when in close proximity to a Vipern. Only death negates this innate ability, which explains why the Powerlord kept his distance until the Huntlady killed the monster.
Stult crosses the glade faster than a galloping horse. He disappears into the tomb. The black hole in the Vipern’s nest flares with brilliant yellow light. A great jet of flame belches out. It scorches the ground. Telein flinches. She realizes that the Huntlady stands before her. Her Apprentice waits by her side. Telein steps forwards. She delivers her missive. Calma draws a knife.
‘Show-off,’ she says. ‘Powerlords are all the same. Brains baked by the sun.’
She prises the wax cap off the end of the scroll-case.
‘I hate Viperns,’ says the Huntlady. ‘Vile things.’
She pulls the message out.
‘You saw the action, Messenger?’ she asks.
She unrolls the scroll. She reads.
‘Yes, Huntlady,’ says Telein.
‘Siorai,’ Calma says, ‘fetch Tempest and Prudence.’
The Apprentice turns her head. She puts her finger and thumb in her mouth. She blows a loud shrill whistle. Two horses trot out of the forest: a big bay courser and a chestnut palfrey. They lope towards the women. Telein reaches out. She pats Huntsman. The reins in her hand flick against his neck. Her stallion is strong and fast. He is also often mulish and sometimes downright rebellious. Telein does not want him to misbehave towards the Huntresses’ horses. Calma rolls up the scroll. She slides it back into the case.
She says, ‘Siorai and I shall accompany you back to Sophoskhole, Messenger Telein Kephale.’
The cold weary young woman nods. She swings up onto Huntsman’s back. The Huntlady slings the scroll-case over her shoulder. She walks over. She kneels beside Huntsman. Telein hears humming. She looks down. Calma clasps Huntsman’s knee. The rouncey whinnies and prances and tosses his black mane. Telein gasps. Warmth and vitality spread through her. Her lips curve in a contented smile. Calma turns. She springs onto the big bay. Her Apprentice mounts the mare. Telein notices that neither horse has a saddle, stirrups, bridle or reins, although each bears a pair of saddlebags fastened to a girth.
The two Huntresses shout names and wave to the men stood around the clearing and gathered at the Vipern’s foul remains. The Powerlord emerges from the tumulus. He holds his arms aloft. A large fireball shoots up from his hands, high into the morning sky. It flares. There is a loud whoosh. It vanishes.
‘Definitely a show-off,’ Calma says.
She rides past Telein. Siorai follows. Telein turns Huntsman. She goes after them. The Huntlady’s Apprentice looks back at her. Siorai grins. She has tanned skin, short dark hair, baby blue eyes.
‘Messenger,’ she says. ‘Ever seen a Vipern before?’
‘Only in paintings and illustrated texts.’
‘Scary buggers in the flesh, aren’t they? I remember the first time I saw one up close. Near wet myself, I was that scared. Y’know, they can swallow a horse whole. Never seen it myself, but that’s what I’ve heard.’
‘Apprentice,’ says Calma.
‘Yes, Mistress?’
‘Read this, and tell me what is required of us.’
The Huntlady tosses the scroll-case to Siorai. She snatches it from the air. She pulls out the message. She frowns over the text.

Huntlady Calma Taiscealai,
Travel urgently to Earlshome. Location, Aesfortis. Seasta’s companionship ring is passive, telling us, reliably, about a terribly excruciating and regrettable loss. Seasta has orchestrated many eminent hunts, admirably serving as Mentor, and pupil.
Vigilantly investigate this awful loss. Take his Appointment, Title yourself. Officially undertake Seasta’s entombment, Calma, unless remains entail immolation. There’s need of words.
Be eloquent. Visit Iarann’s grave. I left a note there.
The Champion of the Hunt, Abalta Lamhiarann

‘Huntlord Seasta Doighsuil’s died, Mistress,’ Siorai says. ‘You’ve gotta go to Earlshome, in Aesfortis, and take his place. You also have to investigate the circumstances of his death. And ensure he’s properly buried.’
‘Really?’ says Calma. ‘And is that all?’
Siorai regards the scroll. Her eyes narrow.
‘You might have to burn his body,’ she says. ‘There’s something about words. Eloquence. You might have to say a eulogy? And you’ve to visit Iarann’s grave, to collect another note from Abalta.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No, Mistress...oh...wait...‘iarann’ is the Inish word for ‘iron’.’
‘Very well. Give the missive to Telein.’
Siorai returns the scroll to its case. She throws it at Telein. Telein reaches for it with both hands. She almost fumbles the leather case. She manages to catch the strap. The Messenger removes the message. She reads it. She sees nothing that Siorai has not mentioned. Telein studies the text for a few moments. She smiles.
‘Huntlady. This missive instructs you to collect a map from one Tutela Scriptura at Earlshome. It is vital that you keep it safe.’
‘Very good, Messenger.’
‘What?’ says Siorai. ‘It doesn’t say anything like that.’
‘Telein,’ says the Huntlady, ‘would you be so good as to enlighten my Apprentice?’
‘Certainly.’
Telein nudges Huntsman forwards to ride level with Siorai. The Messenger spreads the scroll open on her lap. She produces a stick of charcoal from a pouch at her belt.
‘At first glance,’ says Telein, ‘this missive relates only what you read.’
‘That’s right,’ says Siorai.
‘However, a simple acrostic cipher has been used, to conceal another message.’
‘Acrostic?’
‘A hidden code,’ Telein says, ‘composed of the first letter of each word in a text.’
‘Right.’
‘Huntlady Taiscealai?’ calls Telein.
Calma turns. Telein brandishes the charcoal.
‘May I?’
‘Yes, Messenger. But make your marks lightly.’
‘Very well, Huntlady.’
Telein underlines the initial letter of each word in the body of the message. She passes the scroll to Siorai.

Huntlady Calma Taiscealai,
Travel urgently to Earlshome. Location, Aesfortis. Seasta’s companionship ring is passive, telling us, reliably, about a terribly excruciating and regrettable loss. Seasta has orchestrated many eminent hunts, admirably serving as Mentor, and pupil.
Vigilantly investigate this awful loss. Take his Appointment, Title yourself. Officially undertake Seasta’s entombment, Calma, unless remains entail immolation. There’s need of words.
Be eloquent. Visit Iarann’s grave. I left a note there.
The Champion of the Hunt, Abalta Lamhiarann

Telein reaches into her coat. She removes a slim leather-bound book. She opens it to a blank page. She writes. The Messenger hands her book over. Siorai reads.

TutE.L,A.Scrip,tu,r,aatearl.Shomeh,asam,ap.
Vital.ThA,Ty.OuSe,C,urei.Tnow.
Be.VIg.Ilant.

Tutela/Scriptura/at/Earlshome/has/a/map.
Vital/that/you/secure/it/now.
Be/vigilant.

‘Do you see how the original message has been broken into three distinct sections?’ asks Telein.
‘Yes.’
‘Each indicates a new sentence in the hidden message. That’s a standard device in this type of cipher. The fact that capitals and punctuation do not correspond is intended to make the code more difficult to decipher, should the missive fall into unfriendly hands.’
‘That’s clever,’ Siorai says.
‘I suppose,’ says Telein. ‘Though it is a very simple code. Do you see how Earlshome has been used in the main message, then repeated in the cipher?’
‘Yes.’
‘That emphasizes its importance. The same applies to the word ‘vigilantly’, repeated as ‘vigilant’, once deciphered. The phrase ‘there’s need of words’ and the reference to ‘Iarann’s tomb’ both seem to have some obscure significance too.’
‘Really?’ Siorai asks.
Calma says, ‘Thank you, Telein.’
Telein murmurs, ‘There may be another secret message. Hidden in the first one? The main text? Both?’
‘Messenger,’ the Huntlady says. ‘Enough.’
Telein blushes. She clears her throat.
‘Yes, Huntlady,’ she says.
‘Siorai,’ says Calma, ‘rub the charcoal off that scroll, and hold onto it for me.’
Siorai gives Telein her little book back. The Messenger tucks it and her charcoal away. Siorai licks her thumb. She smudges the marks on the scroll. She rubs until the parchment is clean. She rolls the scroll up. She puts it back in the case. She stuffs the case into a saddlebag.
‘Apprentice, Messenger,’ Calma says. ‘No more talk. We ride.’
The Huntlady leans over. She speaks into Tempest’s ear. Calma straightens on his back. Her horse neighs. He surges off down the hill. Prudence and Huntsman race after the big bay courser.

The Darkness

The cramped tunnel winds down like a stone intestine into the depths of the Ealdufan Mountains. Abalta Lamhiarann moves along the abandoned passage in absolute silence. The stale warm air smells of dust, dryness and neglect. Over half a day has passed since he began his covert infiltration of the underground Kingdom of Abufan. The Champion of the Hunt has spent the entire time in utter darkness.
The journey has been uneventful. After he sent away his companion, Huntlord Fionn Bardach, Abalta entered the subterranean domain through a small cavern. The Dvaryn Warchief, Wismut Feldspat, had been waiting for Abalta. There had been no trace of the three Hobgobelins who had been stationed in the cave to guard one of the many entrances to Abufan.
Abalta had used his Orb of Power to re-establish the psychic link with Wismut. The Dvaryn had shared his recent memories. He had killed the brutish sentries. He had positioned his incorporeal self in the stone beneath their feet. He manipulated the rock. He created sharp spikes of solid stone. These shot upwards. They impaled the Hobgobelins. Wismut had then absorbed the corpses, their blood, and all that they carried and wore, into the rock. He did this so that any who might come after to relieve the guards of their duties would find no evidence of their deaths. Their replacements would be led to believe that the Hobgobelins had abandoned their posts. This was not uncommon among such feckless undisciplined creatures. The ruse must have worked. No alarm had been raised.
With extreme stealth and infinite caution, Abalta had traversed the labyrinthine network of tunnels, which had been burrowed into the rock by the region’s foul Hobgobelin inhabitants. Wismut, in his immaterial form, had travelled through the stone beneath Abalta’s feet. The Warchief has guided the Champion towards their destination, Abufan city. They have evaded the attention of the few Hobgobelins they detected along the way.
The tunnel they follow had been blocked by a cave-in near its mouth. None of the Hobgobelins had bothered to clear the obstruction. The passage had lain unused for some time. Wismut had employed his elemental powers to remove the boulders and rocks that barred the way. He turned them into pebbles and dust. Once Abalta had moved down the tunnel, the Dvaryn had reconstructed the cave-in, that none might follow them.
Wismut has just informed Abalta that, less than an hour hence, they shall reach the end of the passageway, where it opens into the vast cavern that houses Abufan city. The Champion of the Hunt has never visited the Hobgobelin Capital; few willing humans have done so. As he walks, Abalta reminisces about the series of events that led him to his current situation. Abalta casts his mind back over the years to late Novumbarba, 1442M.A.

The Viper

The walled compound stands in the shadow of the Godswall, ten miles from Lobia, the easternmost city of the Kingdom of Duramuros. Strong oaken gates bound with iron bar entry. Armed guards patrol the external perimeter. Others walk the parapet atop the wall. Warhounds roam the interior. They ensure that none can approach the villa at the centre of the compound unmolested. They have been bred to kill. They are beaten and starved to make them more vicious.
The man who lives there has good reason for such caution. His vileness is surpassed only by his obscene wealth. Scores of boy-slaves inhabit the villa. They serve their master, Gredi Lacerta, with absolute devotion. Catamites, they satisfy his sadistic perversions.
Gredi Lacerta is not only a pederast. He is also a betrayer of his own kind, a traitor to all humanity. He accrued his immense fortune through a lifetime of illicit trade in verargent. He sold raw truesilver and spellbound Artefacts to members of the Evil Races. He has committed blackmail, murder, rapine and many other heinous deeds in his seventy-six years of life. These crimes have earned him a well-deserved and long-overdue sentence of death.
It is night. It is wet. It is cold. A man stands unseen, a shadow in the darkness. He regards the compound. The torrential rainfall does not faze him. Abalta Lamhiarann has not come to kill Gredi Lacerta. The Champion of the Hunt seeks information.
He closes his eyes. His awareness quests out beyond the wall ahead. The grounds are lightless. Abalta hones his concentration. He reaches out with a strand of his psyche. He touches the mind of a huge black warhound. He insinuates his thoughts amongst the animal’s. He employs gentle suggestion rather than forcible usurpation to take command of the beast. He senses what it senses. He knows what it knows. He feels what it feels. He remains ever aware of his self.
The hound pads towards the villa. Abalta maintains control and sends tendrils of his awareness into the minds of the other dogs. One by one, they rest great grizzled heads on massive paws. They fall asleep. None of the guards notices this anomaly.
Abalta’s hound reaches the building. It performs a stealthy circuit of the exterior, past closed doors and shuttered windows. The Champion draws upon its keen sense of smell. The beast knows its master’s scent. Gredi’s bedchamber lies to the rear of the villa, close to the Godswall. Abalta puts the animal to sleep. He withdraws his consciousness. His eyes remain shut.
Bats flap through the air nearby. Abalta takes command of one. He directs the small creature over the wall. It flies above the villa. As he suspected, Abalta sees that an open atrium lies below at the heart of the building. He releases the bat from his influence. He opens his eyes.
The Champion of the Hunt draws upon his Orb of Power. Noiseless, he rises up into the air. He reaches a height of several hundred feet. He floats forwards over the wall. None of the guards look up. None see him. He comes to the villa. He drifts down. His bare feet touch cool soft wet grass. He stands in the square atrium.
Darkness shrouds his surroundings. With the aid of his Orb, Abalta can discern every detail. A marble fountain tinkles in the middle of the atrium. A sculpture forms its centrepiece. A lifelike representation of two naked boys. Frozen in the midst of sexual congress. Flagstones run in the cardinal directions to a broad paved walkway at the edges of the open square. The paths dissect the area into grassy quarters. Abalta stands in the south-easternmost of these. A piece of statuary stands at each corner. More nude youths engaged in lewd acts. The Champion counts four doors and sixteen shuttered windows set in the inner walls of the villa, which surrounds the atrium. Silent as smoke, he steps over to the eastern door.
The door is unlocked. Abalta pulls it open. He steps into a dark passageway. He treads along the corridor. He reaches the third door on the left. He hears stentorian snores from the room beyond. The Champion inches the door open. Its well-oiled hinges make no noise. He slips into the chamber, smothered in blackness, like its occupant’s twisted heart. Night-vision accentuated by the power of his Orb, Abalta navigates the plush furnishings. He glides over to the bed. A man lies there. Small, thin, bald. Supine. Mouth agape. Eyes shut tight. Fast asleep. His slack face looks moronic. Abalta draws a knife. He presses the point into the underside of the old man’s chin. He clamps his hand over Gredi Lacerta’s mouth.
The sleeper awakens. Gredi’s eyes goggle. He protests. Abalta’s palm muffles his complaints. The Champion puts pressure on his knife. The tip pierces skin. Blood flows. A thin thread runs down Gredi’s throat, it stains the white satin sheet. A spilled drop of wine. Abalta speaks in a low murmur.
‘Traitor, your life is forfeit. Cry out, you die. Struggle, you die. Anger me, you die. Lie to me, you die. You want to live, old man?’
Abalta removes his hand from Gredi’s mouth. The knife does not shift.
‘Whu-whu-what do you wa-wa-want?’ the old man mumbles.
‘Do you want to keep your miserable life?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ says Abalta. ‘I ask questions. You supply answers. No procrastination. No prevarication. Those are the rules. Simple enough. You break them, you die.’
‘Very well, friend. I have no wish to perish.’
Gredi sounds calm. Abalta expected as much from the old dealer. After a lifetime of illicit barter and trade, he understands negotiation very well. Gredi’s next words confirm this.
‘I assume you desire information. Hence, this dramatic, unnecessary, and really, quite rude, awakening. I shall require terms. Guarantees, my mysterious friend, that you shall not renege, should I supply what you seek.’
‘Terms,’ says Abalta, ‘you already have. Speak truths, and live. Tell lies, you die. Nothing more do I offer.’
Gredi’s eyes narrow. His lined face adopts a vulpine expression. Predatory, arrogant, shrewd. In the pitch-black room, he believes that his nameless unseen visitor cannot observe him. Abalta chooses not to disabuse him of this fallacious notion. Gredi’s eyes dart towards the nightstand. A crystal ewer and goblet rest atop the cabinet. Abalta smells wine.
‘I am thirsty,’ says Gredi. ‘My throat is parched. My friend, if you insist that we must converse in such a barbaric fashion, might I, at least, beg a drop to drink?’
‘No. Ask another question, and you can choke on your own blood. Now. Tell me about the Vulpusken. All that you know. Omit no detail.’
Gredi’s eyes widen. Terror flickers through their dark depths. A silvery flash of fish in inky waters. Fear, more pronounced, more profound, than that inspired now by Abalta. Once more, Gredi’s face assumes his inscrutable haggler’s mien. Abalta senses the lie before it can form on the old rogue’s tongue. The Champion presses his point. The tiniest fraction of an inch. The blade cuts deeper. A sliver in Gredi’s soft flesh. A prick for the old man’s conscience. Blood pours. The pointed reminder elicits a hiss.
‘Speak only truth,’ says Abalta. ‘And do not delay.’
Gredi’s face crumples. Lips curl back in a grimace. He bares blackened rotten teeth. Weathered stones in a tumbledown wall.
‘As you wish,’ he says. ‘Bear in mind, friend, that all this occurred so long ago, I can barely recall. Fifty years past, in the Vertere of fourteen-thirteen. I was but a stripling, then. Just twenty-six. I accompanied my Father, to the distant Ealdufan mountain range, of north-eastern Knarrerim. I was learning the family trade. I assume that you know what that was, my friend. Else, you would not be here, now.’
‘Yes. I do. Now, go on. No digressions.’
‘Indeed,’ Gredi says. ‘We had a rich cargo of verargent. Also, a number of singular Artefacts. Very valuable. Our client was Eglenadder, whom some call the Gruesome King. Lord of the Hobgobelin domain, Abufan. Its cities lie deep underground.’

INSERT:
Have Abalta keep his word and spare Gredi’s life but snatch him away from his home, use his power to destroy it and all Gredi’s treasures therein, then leave him in a vast desert, far from civilisation or succour.


The Gateway

The horses’ hooves clatter on the broad paved road. Three women ride at breakneck speed. A bitter gale blusters from the north. The flat featureless landscape offers no protection. The sun has been up in a clear sky for many hours. It is the first day of Martialis, which is supposed to mark the end of Vertere and the start of Vernalis. The afternoon is almost as cold as the night before.
Despite her thick coat, Siorai Coillseilg feels chilled to the bone. She hunches low over Prudence’s neck to share some of the horse’s warmth as she follows her Mistress. The wind cuts off dead. The air becomes as warm as an Aestas afternoon. Siorai shudders. She feels refreshed and energized. She realizes that she has crossed the unseen threshold at the outer limit of the Sphere of Influence generated by the major Globus Potentatus, which modulates and protects the School of Wisdom.
Every first-year student of the Seven Schools learns how the seven Bonadeus fashioned the Globi Potentatus from their own eternal essences and established the Schools around these most powerful Artefacts of the Dark Age, seventy-seven years before the end of the Godswar. Each Orb of Power is an incandescent sphere of azure energy as large as a man’s head, which radiates a Sphere of Influence with a radius of some six-and-a-half-miles that confers agelessness and immunity to illness, injury and death upon all who reside within range of its powers. Only Luminaries of the Seven Schools can use Globi because each Dean, Emissary and Champion bears a minor Orb in the form of a Mantellum Officio.
Siorai has never visited Dean Cead Coimhead’s sanctum at Seilgscoil, which houses her School’s Orb of Power, much less the private chambers of Kuriakon Episteme, Dean of Scholars, at the School of Wisdom. Despite this, she knows he maintains constant psychic contact with the Orb to control the environment within Sophoskhole and monitor the invisible barrier, so that only legitimate visitors can pass through. Anyone else is obliterated the instant the boundary is crossed. Kuriakon can also communicate telepathically with anyone within range of the Orb.
Siorai hears her name called. She looks up from her hunched position. The road runs straight ahead for miles. It inclines at a steady gradient in the distance as it cuts through a hilly region. It then slopes upwards at a steep angle to climb the vast mound at the centre of Sophoskhole. The huge white ziggurat that is the School of Wisdom surmounts the hill like a crown perched on an enormous head. Calma rides some way ahead of her on Tempest. Siorai looks over her shoulder at Telein Kephale. The Messenger gesticulates with an annoyed expression on her thin wan face. Siorai registers that the horses benefit from the Orb of Power’s effects, just as she does. Entering the School grounds reinvigorated the tired animals. She sits up straight on Prudence’s back. She urges her mare to match the big gelding’s speed. Siorai feels relief. Her Mistress no longer has to tax herself to the brink of collapse by channelling Earth energy into the three horses and their riders, as she has done since their relentless charge towards Sophoskhole began almost five hours ago.
The terrain remains level for several miles. Siorai sees signs of habitation that remained hidden from her eyes until she crossed the School’s invisible boundary. On either side of the road, tilled fields, vineyards and orchards worked by farmers, crofters and hands, and fenced pastures grazed by cattle, sheep, goats and horses stretch for several miles towards regions of dense forest. Lesser paved roads meander from the main thoroughfare to serve farmsteads, ranches, wineries and villas, constructed from pale stone and roofed with terracotta tiles in the angular utilitarian fashion of modern Xulonic architecture.
Two days ago, Siorai and her Mistress travelled this route with the large party mustered to eliminate the monstrous Vipern. Siorai knows that a settlement as large as a small city and autonomous from the Meritocracy of Xulontopos has developed around the central hub of the School of Wisdom in the millennia-and-a-half since Sophoskhole was established.
There is little traffic to obstruct the women’s progress. The road is wide enough for them to veer around the few carts, wagons and riders that they encounter en route to Sophoskhole. Even fewer travellers move in the opposite direction. Calma and her companions soon reach the first of the outlying boroughs.
Large isolated flat-roofed edifices supplant the agrarian features of the countryside. These are the buildings that necessity dictates exist at the extremity of the urban sprawl. They include reeking tanneries, dye works and slaughterhouses, hazardous combustible mills for lumber, paper and grain, and ironworks, refineries, foundries, glassworks and linen mills with tall smokestacks that belch noxious clouds of foggy fumes. Smaller structures also dot the industrial zone that surrounds the School of Wisdom like a grimy rim of scum on the inside of an unwashed bowl. These house fullers’ workshops, breweries and distilleries as well as furnace-houses that render carcasses or burn wood for charcoal, among a host of other odious but essential enterprises.
Siorai wrinkles her nose at the repulsive stench that pervades the air. She breathes through her mouth. She spots a quarry in the distance to her right. There are more of these as well as collieries and mines within the dominion of Sophoskhole. She reaches a crossroads. Branches curve away to either side of the main thoroughfare. Siorai rides straight on behind her Mistress. They leave the manufacturing zone for the much more expansive and pleasant suburban quarter.
Some seven centuries ago, Kuriakon Episteme employed the Orb of Power in a monumental undertaking that saw the topography of an immense band of flatland, almost two miles wide and just over two-and-a-half miles out from the centre of Sophoskhole, sculpted into a delightful region of low rolling hills and wooded dells.
Siorai admires the elegant palatial abodes that feature throughout the School of Wisdom’s residential sector. All have been constructed in the classic Xulonic style of single-storey colonnaded marble villas with tiled roofs centred on airy atria. A gated wall surrounds each dwelling, while the interiors include tessellated floors, painted frescoes, sumptuous furnishings and beautiful statuary. Every residence also boasts baths, fountains and fishponds. These are fed by an independent wellspring sourced from the abundant subterranean lakes and rivers that flow far below the surface. The homes also have generous grounds with gardens, groves, orchards and vineyards.
The road becomes more congested as the women approach the heart of Sophoskhole. They swerve through the vehicles and other riders, and around the clusters of wayfarers, to maintain the blistering pace. There are a great many people abroad on the verges of the road and in the surrounding estates. Most wear grey linen chitons, styled in the elegant Xulonic fashion. The garment identifies each as a Lorelord or Lorelady, who has Graduated and fulfilled a twenty-eight-year Term of Service to the School of Wisdom, thus earning the right of citizenship with all associated privileges and civic responsibilities.
Siorai spots another crossroads some half-a-mile ahead and the alabaster buildings of the city on the hill beyond. They pass through the intersection and race up a stretch of road flanked by stately structures, each set in expansive grounds with manicured lawns and broad tree-lined drives. Wide boulevards run off from the main thoroughfare. Then the buildings diminish in size. They become closer to the road and their neighbours. The divergent routes narrow until shops, taverns and other business establishments line the way with constricted alleyways between. The final leg passes between tall tenement blocks that smother the road in cool shadows. The riders emerge into the bright vast circular plaza at the summit, which surrounds the School of Wisdom like a lake around an island.
Handcarts, hawkers, barkers and entertainers ply the paved square instead of skiffs, sailboats and ships. Portable wooden stalls, booths, stages and orators’ pulpits pepper the area amid thongs of shoppers and spectators. None encroaches upon the road although pedestrians stroll across slender footbridges that arc overhead. Calma leads the way straight towards the wall that surrounds the School.
They enter the campus through a gateless unmanned archway. The women rush past the pruned arbours, tidy topiary, smooth lawns, ornamental fountains and colourful flower beds of the gardens; the artificial streams, miniature lakes, untamed meadows and untended spinneys of the parks that fill most of the mile of space between the circular boundary wall and Sophoskhole. Siorai smiles at the sight of the scores of students and staff in the grey attire of their School who walk, rest and play within the grounds.
Calma reaches the central plaza. She slows Tempest’s pace from a furious gallop to a swift lope, then a quick trot and a steady hack. Siorai follows her lead with Prudence. They cross the wide open space to the foot of the School of Wisdom. The plaza seems tiny in comparison to the one beyond the walls but covers over two hundred paces.
The brilliant marble edifice towers above them. Seven storeys high, Sophoskhole casts no shadow despite the sun high overhead. Calma brings Tempest to a stop near the base of the building. A large bald bearded man dressed in grey robes emerges from a ground-floor doorway. He hurries towards the Huntlady. She turns to Siorai.
‘Wait here,’ she says.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Siorai dismounts from Prudence. There is no lather on the mare. She exhibits no signs of fatigue despite the hard journey.
‘I must return to the Hall of Messengers and deliver my report,’ says Telein.
‘Very well, Messenger,’ Calma says. ‘My thanks for your diligence. Need I remind you that the contents of the correspondence must remain confidential?’
‘No, Huntlady. My lips are sealed.’
‘Very good, Telein Kephale. You have my gratitude. Fare well.’
Telein turns her horse to the left. She rides towards a long structure that stands across the plaza. Calma dismounts. She walks over to meet the burly man. He addresses her in an animated fashion with much gesticulation and a fraught expression on his broad face. Siorai is too far away to hear his words. She tilts her head back to regard the School of Wisdom.
The gleaming white building resembles nothing so much as an enormous tiered cake coated in icing. Near the end of the Dark Age, the Bonadeus created the Seven Schools by commanding massive white marble monoliths to rise up out of the ground like trees sprouting strong and tall from fecund soil. The gods of good then shaped them to suit their desires. Every School has seven storeys to correspond with the seven Bonadeus. This hallowed number appears as a motif throughout. Sets of stairs feature at the four cardinal points. They stretch from the foot of Sophoskhole to the flat summit. The vast edifice stands two-hundred feet high yet seems squat because it is three times as wide as it is tall.
‘Siorai,’ the Huntlady calls. ‘Bring the horses.’
Siorai murmurs, ‘Follow me, dearheart,’ in Prudence’s ear because there are no reins to lead her by.
She walks over to Tempest. She speaks to the gelding in a soft tone. Siorai then strides over to her Mistress and the stout man. The two mounts trail behind.
‘Takhus,’ says Calma, ‘this is my Apprentice, Scout Siorai Coillseilg. Siorai, Lorelord Takhus Graphe is an old friend of mine, and he has arranged for us to travel to Vivecole, through Sophoskhole’s Portavia. Come, for the Emissary of the School of Life awaits.’
The Huntlady turns. She leads the way into Sophoskhole through the doorway that Takhus appeared from earlier. The high wide portal has no doors. The walls and ceiling of the corridor within glow with soft azure light. Their mounts’ iron shoes ring on the marble floor. They follow the straight passage past many oaken doors to either side and through a series of junctions. They traverse a final crossing passageway. They walk along a short stretch of corridor to a door-less opening in the wall ahead.
They go in. They stand at the centre of a square verargent platform almost thirty feet across on each side, at the bottom of a vertical shaft, with open doorways opposite and to the left and right. Siorai looks up at the tiny point of light high above, where the levitator will take them to the roof of Sophoskhole. Calma slips between the two horses. She lays a hand on each of their necks. Lorelord Takhus Graphe hunkers down. He taps on the truesilver floor with the Class Ring on his right thumb. A high clear note peals out. He stands. The levitator rises at a steady rate. It moves through each of the School of Wisdom’s seven storeys. Then the verargent platform emerges into bright daylight, at the centre of a circular dais on the flat roof of the building.
The passengers step off. They descend the dais’s seven steps. A tall black-haired man wearing a white tunic and trews stands with his back to them. A monumental verargent arch looms beyond him, stood on a circular base at the centre of the roof. Calma, Siorai and Takhus approach the man.
The view from atop Sophoskhole is wonderful. All of the School’s districts and environs are arrayed far below in an ordered series of perfect concentric rings. No one stops to admire the panorama. Siorai hurries behind her Mistress and the Lorelord. She feels a pang of disappointment. This is her first visit to the roof of any School yet she has no time to savour the moment or the vista.
The man in white turns at their approach with a stern expression on his long face and disapproval apparent in his bright green eyes.
He says, ‘Takhus. I must say, this is most irregular. I have not had the opportunity to contact Douagiere Nourice, Dean of Healers. But I am certain that she will be most displeased, by this unsanctioned use of the Portavia, to open the Vialumen between our Schools. Much less the unheralded appearance of your companions, in the grounds of Vivecole.’
The hefty Lorelord opens his mouth to reply.
Calma says, ‘Gage Solas, Emissary of Vivecole to Sophoskhole. I am acting under the express instructions of Abalta Lamhiarann, Champion of the Hunt, in the pursuance of a matter of considerable consequence, with potentially significant ramifications, necessitating the utmost urgency.’
She turns towards Siorai. She stretches out her hand.
‘Apprentice,’ says the Huntlady. ‘The missive, if you would?’
Siorai goes over to Prudence. She delves into her saddlebag for the scroll-case. She listens to Gage.
‘What?’ he splutters. ‘She’s an Apprentice? Huntlady Taiscealai, you know full well that none but Graduates are permitted to walk the Vialumen. This is preposterous.’
Siorai’s ferreting fingers encounter stiffened leather. The object of her search jostled to the bottom of the saddlebag during the hectic ride to Sophoskhole. She clasps the scroll-case. She pulls it out. She walks back towards her Mistress.
The Emissary continues with his pompous tirade, ‘Too many of my fellow Luminaries have indulged Abalta in his delusional obsessions. But I, for one, refuse to accede to his intolerable imperatives...’
Gage shifts his gaze. He fixes Siorai with his affronted glare. She hands the missive to Calma.
Gage says, ‘... whatever scrap of parchment might be waved under my nose, to lend dubious validity to his actions. Or his by proxy, undertaken by others on his behalf.’
Siorai hears the Huntlady’s teeth grind together.
‘A Huntlord has died,’ Calma says. ‘I have been directed to replace him. And investigate the circumstances surrounding his demise, forthwith. Tell me, Emissary, which do you deem that? Is it preposterous? Or simply intolerable?’
Gage’s features tighten with outrage. He opens his mouth to retort. Then his eyes widen. He says nothing. The others turn. They watch a diminutive old man step down from the dais of the levitator behind. He has long white hair. He wears a grey chiton. He hobbles towards the group, aided by an ebony stick as gnarled as he.
‘Gage Solas,’ he says in a resonant voice, ‘the Emissary of Vivecole to Sophoskhole, return to your duties. Your presence here is no longer required.’
The tall man’s face flushes. He frowns. His lips thin. He turns without a word. He stalks off, back held as rigid as an infuriated cat’s. The old man regards him with marked disdain. He turns his attention towards Calma, Siorai and Takhus.
‘Best not to interpret this as some form of vindication, Huntlady Taiscealai,’ he says. ‘As for you, Lorelord Graphe. It seems another discussion, concerning the prioritization of your endeavours, and your loyalties, is overdue. My meditations have been disrupted, because of you two. I am sorely vexed.’
He reaches the group. He fixes Siorai with his dark brown eyes. They gleam like chestnuts. He peers at her with the rapacious intensity of a hawk.
The old man says, ‘But you, Scout Coillseilg, stand blameless. It is your Mistress who has, deservedly, earned my opprobrium.’
He shows her his small white even teeth in a smile. Siorai presumes it is supposed to be avuncular. The gesture leaves her feeling a long way from reassured. Calma and Takhus say nothing in response to the crotchety old man’s scorn. They both adopt expressions of profound chagrin.
‘Tell me,’ he squints as Takhus and Calma. ‘Would Abalta have you both rewrite established law? Or is it his preference that you simply disregard the statutes of the Seven Schools?’
‘Kuriakon,’ says Calma, ‘I meant no offence when I asked...’
‘I was speaking rhetorically, Huntlady Taiscealai. And refrain from addressing me in terms of familiarity. We are not friends. Nor are we foes. Unlike some I might care to mention, I am not wholly unsympathetic towards Abalta’s convictions. However questionable certain of his methods, and yours, may be. Your lives are yours, to live as you wish. This young lady,’ the old man nods at Siorai. She suppresses an urge to flinch, ‘has no part in your machinations. I cannot, in conscience, countenance her accompanying you. Unless she has made an informed decision to do so. Or am I wrong, in my assumption that you have neglected to enlighten her, regarding the perils inherent to the journey you were about to have her undertake?’
‘Kuriakon, as her Mistress, I saw no...’ Calma says. The old man glowers at her. She starts over, ‘Kuriakon Episteme, Dean of Scholars, forgive me, but no. I had no wish to alarm Siorai unnecessarily. Or divulge knowledge to which she should not, strictly, be privy. So, I deemed it best to say nothing. But rest assured, it was ever my intention to ensure that her well-being remains of paramount importance. To which end, I resolved to safeguard her with my life. Although I doubt that so dramatic a gesture shall be put to the test, given how astute and conscientious a Student she is.’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Kuriakon, ‘noble sentiments indeed. And it seems unlikely that your confidence might be misplaced. Nevertheless, you are no more infallible than I. Or any other mortal. There can be no justification, for your determination to lead the girl into danger, with blinkers covering her eyes. Shame on you, Huntlady Taiscealai. For you would refuse to treat your horse with such blatant disregard.’
Calma looks abashed. She nods, ‘You are right, Kuriakon Episteme, Dean of Scholars. Of course you are. Do you wish to offer instruction? Or shall I?’
The old man waves a hand to indicate that the choice is hers.
Calma says, ‘Siorai, you know that we stand before a Portavia, a Gateway. And, once it is activated, we can travel the Vialumen, the Lightpath, to Vivecole, School of Life, yes?’
The Apprentice glances at the tall verargent arch and the circular base that it rests upon. She nods.
Her Mistress continues, ‘Only Deans and Emissaries can activate a Portavia. They require a special verargent rod for this. Do you see how strange symbols and script cover the archway? While the outer rim of the base bears similar arcane inscriptions?’
Siorai feels considerable surprise and a little bewilderment. She had not noticed the curious geometric shapes and swirly characters etched into the Gateway’s truesilver surfaces. She moves towards the Artefact for a closer inspection. So intent is Siorai on observing them that she stumbles. She throws her arms out for balance. The scroll-case slips from her grasp. It passes straight through Kuriakon’s chest without any resistance whatsoever. With a soft clatter, the case lands on the flat marble rooftop. Siorai recoils. She gives a breathless gasp.
The apparition before her smiles. He says, ‘My apologies, Scout Coillseilg. I saw no need to attend this meeting in person. I am using the Globus Potentatus, to communicate directly with your minds. I deemed it appropriate, to have your consciousness project this image of my material form, that you not be alarmed by the presence of my voice in your head, without any discernible source. Such Communion is typically reserved for Graduates, and my fellow Luminaries. But I saw fit to make an exception.’
Siorai’s lips purse into a little moue. She says, ‘But, Kuriakon Episteme, Dean of Scholars, if you’re not here, then how’re you gonna open the Portavia for us?’
The image of an old man vents a dry wheezy laugh. He says, ‘My compliments, Huntlady Taiscealai. She is a sharp one. You lot always did have an eye for talent.’
He reaches into his chiton. He produces a slim verargent baton. It is covered in squiggly whorls like those on the Gateway.
He says, ‘This rod is solid. I am manipulating it with telekinesis. I thought it best to project this illusion of myself. Rather than have it waving about on its own. Like so.’
Kuriakon vanishes. The truesilver rod remains. It seems to float before Siorai’s widened eyes. The phantasmal Dean reappears.
He chuckles, ‘Forgive me, Scout Coillseilg. When you are as ancient, and jaded, as I, small absurdities become ever more precious. And every reminder of youthful innocence is to be treasured. Now, I sense Huntlady Taiscealai’s impatient disapproval. And believe no caveat of mine, however dire, shall influence your determination to follow her course. So, with your permission, rather than have her laboriously explain the mechanics of the Portavia, and your impending journey, I can make you aware of all that you need to know in an instant. Have I your consent?’
Siorai says, ‘You mean, I’ll know without anybody having to tell me?’
‘The process is somewhat more complex. But, in essence, yes.’
‘Then why aren’t Students taught everything that way? Instead of having to study for fourteen years?’
‘Why indeed? A most perspicacious observation. And one that I feel confident you shall someday come to comprehend. Now. Do you agree?’
‘Yes.’
Siorai blinks. She realizes that she possesses extensive knowledge of the Portavia yet feels as if nothing has changed within her. She experiences a peculiar twinge of hollow dissatisfaction. She feels duped. Her wealth of new understanding is not accompanied by any sense of accomplishment, as would have been the case had she learned what she now knows in the normal fashion. Siorai then has an inkling of the import of the old Dean’s cryptic remark after her earlier question. This reminds her of the fundamental lesson that anything worthwhile must be earned.
Clear mental images accompany Siorai’s newfound awareness. In her mind, she sees Kuriakon activate the Artefact with the rod. The great archway pivots around the outer track of its base. It comes to a stop. The base becomes blacker than any night, save for the track and a broad verargent strip that runs to the centre. This is the Lightpath, the Vialumen. The space between the arch and the base of the Artefact is also blacker than black, apart from a lesser archway of silvery light. The fathomless darkness is the Void, the very antithesis of all life and existence and light. The small arch is the Gateway. The Lightpath stretches for seven-thousand-seven-hundred-and-seventy-seven paces to its destination. It measures twenty-one paces across. It must be traversed in less than seven hours. After that time, the Gateway will close and the Lightpath shall vanish. Anyone still on the other sidewall be forever lost to the Void. Should any who travel the Lightpath allow so much as a fingernail, or a hair, to touch the Void, then the bottomless nothingness will swallow the Lightpath and all upon it. The Lightpath may traverse any type of terrain on the other side of the Gateway, even the Void. It might meander or rise and fall as the terrain dictates but always measures the exact same distance. Should it pass through the Void, the way will run straight and level without any deviation. The Bonadeus created the Portavia when they constructed the Seven Schools. Each Artefact’s dimensions incorporate the number seven, so special to the gods of goodness. The Portavia measures seventy-seven paces across. It stands forty-nine high but the...
Siorai watches her Mistress walk past. Calma retrieves the scroll-case that Siorai dropped when she tripped. The torrent of information flooding Siorai’s mind subsides. She breathes, long and deep and slow. She calms the tumultuous deluge of thoughts that rushes through her head. Calma comes over with the scroll-case.
She says, ‘Put this away for me, Siorai.’
Her young Apprentice obeys without hesitation. She stows the case in her saddlebag. She fastens the straps. Then Siorai realizes that her mind has assimilated everything Kuriakon shared with her about Gateways and Lightpaths. She can access the information at will without being overwhelmed by a flood of detail.
‘Now, ask her properly, Huntlady Taiscealai,’ says the Dean of Scholars.
Calma nods. She says, ‘Scout Siorai Coillseilg. As my Apprentice and Ward, and aware of the risks involved, do you agree to accompany me, along the Vialumen to Vivecole... please?’
‘Yes, Mistress. I agree.’
‘Thank you, Siorai,’ Calma says. She turns to Kuriakon, ‘Satisfied?’
The old man regards her with an anticipatory mien.
She sighs, ‘Satisfied, Kuriakon Episteme, Dean of Scholars?’
‘Oh, yes, Huntlady Taiscealai. Make your preparations.’
‘Very well,’ says Calma. ‘Siorai, we shall walk to Vivecole. And I want you to take the lead, along the Vialumen. I shall follow, with our horses. String your bow. Ready your quiver. Check your blades.’
The Huntlady walks over to Takhus. She confers with him. Siorai unfastens the bowcase tied to the saddlebag on Prudence’s left flank. She lays it on the ground. She fetches the stiffened leather scabbard and the cylindrical arrowcase from beside the other saddlebag. She sets the quiver next to her bow.
She unbuckles her belt. She secures the sheath at an angle on her left hip. She draws her hunting sword. She shifts the light single-edged weapon to her left hand. She points the tip up and away from her body. She removes a whetstone from a pouch at her waist. She sharpens the slender blade with long smooth strokes until she is satisfied with the edge. Siorai sheathes her sword. She repeats the process with the sheathed knife tucked into the back of her belt and another strapped to her left calf.
She crouches. She unrolls the soft oiled leather bowcase. She removes the smooth yew bow. She stands it on end. She unwinds a bowstring from around the grip. She fits that to the weapon. She sets the bow down. She unfastens the studs that secure the quiver’s detachable top. She slings the arrowcase over her back. The bundle of fletched shafts within protrudes over her right shoulder.
She rolls and folds the bowcase. She puts it in a saddlebag along with the top of her quiver. Siorai picks up the bow with her left hand. She nocks an arrow, so that she can draw and loose in a heartbeat. She looks around. She sees that her Mistress is also armed with her bow and sword.
Calma nods at her, ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, good,’ says Kuriakon.
He sweeps the truesilver rod held in his illusory hand through the air. Several symbols on its bright surface glow with soft bluish luminosity. Corresponding sigils on the huge verargent archway and its round plinth also begin to shine. With smooth stately grace, the arch swivels around its track. It stops.
For a few moments, the spaces between the arch and the flat expanse of the base hemmed by the track become hazy, as the air above a campfire might. They then fill up with blackness more profound than the deepest Vertere night, as if light has ceased to exist there.
Siorai gasps. The sinister Void seems not only alive but aware of her presence in a singular and intimate fashion. She believes that she can feel the dark, pulling at her. She recalls the day, several years ago, when she stood at the very edge of a high cliff in eastern Meerlant and experienced a similar mesmeric and insistent tugging towards the ground far below her feet.
Siorai wills her gaze away from the seductive nothingness before her. She focuses on the gleaming strip of verargent which runs from the edge of the dais to the Gateway; a silvery semicircle of light at the centre.
‘Come, come,’ says the Dean of Scholars.
Siorai looks around. She sees that he and Calma and Takhus stare at her with intense expectation. She pulls her shoulders back. With bold strides, she walks over to the Portavia. She steps up onto its track. For an instant, she hesitates. She fixes her attention on the Gateway ahead.
Siorai takes her first step upon the Lightpath. The broad verargent surface is solid under her bare feet and cold. She moves on with greater confidence. She hears her Mistress and their horses come onto the Vialumen behind. She does not look back. She does not stop. She reaches the shiny Gateway. Its flawless surface is as bright as any mirror yet Siorai casts no reflection in the Portavia. She turns towards Calma for guidance. On the rooftop beyond, Kuriakon flaps his hands.
‘Go on. Go on,’ he cries.
Siorai takes a deep breath. She grips her bow tight. She turns. She passes through the Gateway.

The Mistress

The swift cutter races the breakers across Argentum Bay towards Aesfortis. Siorai clings to the foredeck rail of the Fulmar. Cold spray lashes her. She laughs with unfettered delight.
At the base of a sheer limestone cliff, the Capital of Tellus Isle’s harbour and dockyards shelter behind a high semi-circular granite wall. The vertiginous rock face soars more than one hundred paces to the grey granite walls and tall marble towers of the city, stood upon the great terraced hill called Aesfortis Tor.
Precipitous bluffs form the entire coastline of Tellus Isle. The island juts out of Lake Solala like a gargantuan chunk of masonry dropped into the middle of a pond. This remarkable geological feature makes the Earldom almost unassailable by conventional armies: any invading force would suffer unsustainable losses at the hands of the Tellian defenders above.
Siorai fixes her gaze upon the wharves ahead. She recalls the frenetic journey that she and her Mistress have endured. They used Sophoskhole’s Portavia to travel the two-hundred miles to the School of Life in just over an hour. They arrived at Vivecole yesterday afternoon. A fast ride through part of the Kingdom of Reaumverd took them to Colhault. They reached the town on the coast of Lake Solala as dawn painted the skies in pastel tones. They then secured passage on the Fulmar just before she cast off with the morning tide.
Siorai remembers her last voyage aboard a ship, over a year ago. She had left Seilgscoil, School of Hunting, in the Free State of Inisfiain to begin her Apprenticeship under Calma. The seas had been choppy that day. The rough crossing from the island to mainland Thule saw Siorai confined to their cabin.
Today, only a few clouds drift, serene as swans, across clear skies. The calm waters of the lake have allowed Siorai to savour the voyage. Her Mistress sleeps in the Captain’s berth. She was exhausted from channelling Earth power throughout their long arduous expedition to reach Tellus Isle. The Huntlady gave the Captain a precious Truesilver Tear when she boarded his vessel, with the promise of another upon their speedy arrival at Aesfortis. He surrendered his quarters without a quibble. Calma went into his cabin and collapsed onto his bunk.
Siorai’s mind drifts back to the one part of her journey she longs to forget. She imagines that she walks along the Lightpath. Through the only terrain that she had dreaded before they entered the Portavia atop Sophoskhole: the dark and fearful Void. The knowledge of that terrible place, which had been implanted into her mind by Dean Kuriakon Episteme, did not include any awareness of the horrific fiends who inhabit the endless abyss. Siorai soon learned the truth.
With a shudder, which has nothing to do with the crisp breeze or the cold water upon her skin, Siorai recalls that chill dead lightless place. The eerie mindless shrieks. The incessant gibbering whispers. The frightful voices of the Void’s denizens had echoed in the distance for most of the trek. A few times, they sounded from just off the Lightpath. It had been as if their unseen owners had crept close on silent feet to better observe her passage through their vile domain.
Her Mistress had assured her that no dweller of the Void could trespass upon the Vialumen. Regardless, Siorai spent most of the hike with her shoulders hunched, her bow at the ready. She had expected some nightmarish monster’s limbs to come snaking out of the shadows. To snatch her from the path. To drag her, screaming, into the unfathomable blackness of the pit. To be eaten alive.
Siorai had seen vague shapes in the distance. They were illuminated by sickly light: foul hues of bilious green and fungal white and diseased yellow. She had envisioned unimaginable forms, which glowed from within, to light their way towards their prey in the unremitting emptiness.
She recalls how she had spotted the bright archway of Vivecole’s Portavia. It had shone like a nocturnal beacon far ahead. She had quickened her steps to hasten the end of that awful expedition.
Out of the corner of her eye, Siorai had momentarily spied a misshapen figure. There and gone in a heartbeat like something glimpsed by a lightning flash.
Siorai tries to remember its dimensions. Her mind refuses to surrender the details of what she saw. She can only grasp a firm impression: whatever the imponderable thing may have been, it was wrong. Terribly utterly unspeakably wrong. In every conceivable way. She feels, should she ever manage to envision its horrific glories, her sanity will vanish as quick as water spilt onto sand from a broken jug.
She cannot help but try to picture the hideous apparition. Her nature and her training demand that she examine and analyse all that she experiences. Siorai concentrates. Her memory casts up stark images. A gargantuan gelatinous glaring eye the colour of urine. A vacant black pupil, which peeled open like a lipless maw. It revealed, not teeth, but row upon row of tiny clutching clenching grasping hands. Plump little baby arms. Twisted fingers and thumbs. In the loathsome illumination cast by that glistening suppurating eyeball, Siorai’s mind had registered a suggestion of an enormous unhuman visage. Greenish-greyish-purplish-black putrefying flesh. Repugnant features. Arranged in some bizarre unnatural demented configuration that contravened all sense and reason. Warped into an anguished expression of sheer excruciating agony. Avid, insatiable, somehow lecherous hunger that had almost encouraged her to pity the being, yet something so blatantly and disturbingly profane about whatever despicable urges drove the voracious appetites of that obscenity, that wretched malevolent...
‘Siorai.’
A firm hand clenches her shoulder. Siorai flinches. She twists around. She glares at her Mistress with wide startled eyes.
‘Breathe deep,’ says Calma. ‘Clear your thoughts. Best not to think of the unthinkable, or try to imagine what cannot be imagined. Consider other matters. And those ugly dregs of the Void that haunt your memories, they shall soon fade from your mind, Siorai Coillseilg. Like bad dreams. Like mist. Come the morning sun. Do you hear? Do you understand?’
‘Yuh-yes, Muh-Mistress. Thu-thu-thank you.’
‘Good. My pleasure. Now, are you ready to disembark?’
Siorai blinks. She looks about. She realizes that the Fulmar lies berthed, her sail reefed, her gangplank lowered onto the quay. Her Captain waits behind the Huntlady. He wears a curious blend of concern and deference and impatience upon his broad weathered face.
‘Lead the way,’ says her Mistress.
Siorai crosses the deck. She walks down the wooden plank onto the stone dock. The Huntlady follows, their horses at her heels.
Siorai hears whistles and cheers. She looks back up at the sleek skiff. Her crew cluster around the rail, expressions of delighted awe on their rough faces. The Apprentice recalls their amazement back in Colhault harbour before they cast off. The Huntlady had refused the use of a derrick and sling to haul Tempest and Prudence aboard the Fulmar. She had instead walked the horses straight up the gangplank and onto the deck. The animals stood by the mainmast throughout the trip across Lake Solala, without so much as a whinny of protest or fear.
Siorai smiles. The sailors regard her Mistress’s handling of the horses as mystical. Siorai sees that Calma shares her sense of amusement about their admiration. The Huntlady sketches an elaborate bow. She turns. She gives a joyous yell. She springs up onto Tempest’s back. The powerful courser lunges forwards. He sets off along the wharf at a steady trot. His hooves clatter.
Siorai mounts Prudence. She waves at the crew. They respond with a rousing cheer. Her smile becomes a wide grin. Siorai follows her Mistress past the stacked crates and barrels, the laden and empty carts and barrows, and the burdened porters, the lumbering mariners, the sprinting boys who bustle about the stone pier.
The Huntresses reach the end of the stone dock. They ride over to one of the large levitators, which lies dormant at the base of the sheer cliff. The women dismount. Calma speaks with a tall well-dressed man. He has a metal-tipped staff in his hand. He wears a harried expression on his bearded face. He nods. He cracks a smile for the Huntlady. Siorai watches levitators laden with goods, livestock, wagons, carts and people ascend and descend. She follows her Mistress and their mounts onto one of the flat verargent platforms. The man taps the levitator with the butt of his staff. It rises above the harbour at a steady rate.
Siorai turns. She admires the panorama while the levitator ascends. The people who throng the harbour below diminish, as do the many craft that line the wharves and ply Aesfortis Bay. The sun beams down from a cerulean sky. Its light scintillates off the waters of the lake. The dark cliffs that cradle the bay like a colossal pair of arms gleam, as if polished. The far-off shore of Reaumverd is an indistinct strip of pine green haze on the eastern horizon.
Sunlight glints off to Siorai’s left. She spots a massive pipe. It juts from the limestone rock face. It is stained yellow-green with Verdigris. It empties a brownish-grey cascade of sludgy effluent into the waters just beyond the harbour wall below.
Siorai turns. She looks up. She sees a long tongue of granite. It protrudes from the summit of the cliff. A series of similar constructions flank the stone pier overhead. Siorai notices a rectangular hole in the middle of the end closest to her. The levitator passes through the gap. It comes to a stop.
Her Mistress leads Tempest and Prudence off the levitator onto the broad granite platform. A gang of porters waits beside an untidy heap of crates, casks and sacks. Calma nods to a short man. He bears a staff identical to that of his counterpart below. Siorai follows. They mount up. They ride abreast down the length of the stone quay, onto a wide road paved with even flagstones.
Ramshackle buildings roofed with thatch stand near the edge of the precipice. The road cuts through a squalid sprawl of dirty unpaved streets and alleyways. These are hemmed by shoddy structures. They are populated with unsavoury characters dressed in filthy garments. They peer at the women’s excellent mounts, their fine garb with calculating eyes in shifty faces. Despite their menacing glares, none of the slum’s shady citizens attempt to impede the Huntresses’ progress. The women head straight towards a broad open gateway set in the high wall that surrounds the city proper.
Towers, battlements, arrow slits, murder-holes and other defensive features break the smooth grey monotony of the wall’s surface. No sentries guard this entrance to Aesfortis. Siorai follows her Mistress through the short tunnel that runs under the wall and into the city. She notices that the immense wooden gates have rusty hinges. They do not appear to have been closed for a considerable length of time.
Costlier materials have been used to construct the buildings beyond. They are much better maintained than those of the outer city. The people Siorai passes are groomed. Their clothing, while homely, looks clean. They seem more prosperous and content than the roguish folk beyond the walls.
The two women ride up an incline. They pass through another gate into the next walled quarter of Aesfortis. They then traverse a succession of neighbourhoods. The structures become grander, less crowded together. The inhabitants boast ever-more-elegant apparel. They sport their wealth and station with greater ostentation. Women exhibit expensive jewellery and clothing and elaborate coiffures. Men wear tailored garments and fancy footwear. They bear slender rapiers or sabres with lavish hilt-work in decorative filigreed scabbards.
The Huntresses reach the sixth sector of the city. Calma takes a right turn. The women follow a tree-lined boulevard past impressive edifices and palatial mansions. The residents of the area travel by carriage. The only pedestrians are servants. The riders reach a crossroads. They turn left. They ride up a steep slope to the city’s final wall, which surrounds Earlshome. Siorai gazes up at the majestic palace. It towers beyond the last gate at the summit of Aesfortis Tor.
Six sentinels guard the gateway. They wear black tabards over polished steel armour, open-faced helmets on their heads. They bear swords and spears. Calma brings Tempest to a halt. Siorai does likewise with Prudence. Her Mistress holds out her hand.
‘The missive, Apprentice,’ she says.
The soldiers approach. Siorai delves into her saddlebag. She removes the scroll-case. She passes it to Calma. The Huntlady removes the message sent by Abalta Lamhiarann, Champion of the Hunt. A tall burly guard in his forties steps forwards. He has dark eyes and greying hair. He takes the scroll from Calma. He unfurls it. He reads.
Siorai regards the curious silver emblem stitched onto his tabard. It seems to be a stylized fox’s head. She recalls how this is the insignia of Familia Ferrumanus, the ruling dynasty of Tellus Isle for several generations.
‘Seasta’s dead?’ asks the sentry.
‘Yes,’ Calma says.
‘Damn. How? What happened to him? Were it them brigands?’
‘I only know what is written there. But, rest assured, I shall find out. And avenge him. If that is what is required.’
The guard gives the message back to Calma.
‘Huntlady, I’m Diligens Fidelis, a Sergeant of the Earlsguard. I’m sore grieved by your tidings, for Seasta Doighsuil were my friend. If you and your companion’ll follow me, I’ll take yous to see the Earl.’
Calma furls the scroll. She slips it back into the case. She slings it over her shoulder.
‘Lead on, Sergeant Fidelis,’ she says.
He hands his spear to one of his men. He marches through the gate. He keeps his left hand on his sword’s hilt, so that the sheath cannot entangle his long legs as he walks. Calma urges Tempest into a slow hack. She rides apace with Diligens. Siorai follows.
They move across an immense open plaza. It is paved with uniform rosy-hued flagstones. Siorai marvels at Earlshome. The four-storey white marble monolith encloses the square on three sides. The central core of the palace lies ahead. Long wings stand to Siorai’s left and right.
The Sergeant leads them straight towards the steps. These run up to the colonnaded portico at the main entrance to Earlshome. Once out of earshot of his men behind, he speaks in a low hurried voice. Siorai nudges Prudence forwards. She rides alongside to hear Diligens.
‘Huntlady, I were on gate duty, a couple of days back, when this youngster came galloping up to us, on a horse he’d near ridden to death. Says his name were Levis Fortiare, and he’d important news about a terrible crime, but he’d only share it with the Earl himself.’
Diligens gives a rueful laugh. He looks up at Calma. She nods.
‘Well, Huntlady,’ Diligens says, ‘I have to tell you, I were of a mind to pull the arrogant wee whelp off that poor horse, and give him a lesson in manners. But, to be honest, I were bored, so I says I’d take him to see the Earl, thinking it’d be a right laugh, when the Earl ordered him flogged, for wasting his valuable time with wild tales. So, the lad gets off his horse, and he lifts something from under the saddle. It were wrapped in a cloak.’
The man’s voice lowers to a murmur. Siorai strains to hear him.
‘Says it were proof he’s telling the truth. So, I went and let him keep it, without looking to see what it were, cause I thought it’d be more fun, when he did that in front of the Earl. Then I takes him across here, and into the Grand Audience Chamber, where he stands before the whole Court, bold as brass, like. He tells the Earl about how he’d come upon an orewagon, what’d been robbed by brigands, with all of its escort lying dead.’
Diligens clears his throat. His expression becomes embarrassed. Calma does not speak. Siorai has witnessed her Mistress’s technique when others choose to impart information. The Apprentice knows that the wisest course is to never interrupt but let talkers ramble on, however confused or incoherent their accounts. She too says nothing. The Guard carries on.
‘Well, Huntlady, everybody had a good old laugh at that one, cause there ain’t been no real brigandry in Tellus Isle for years and years. But then, the youngster went and pulled the cloak off what he were carrying, and showed us the sword, and says he took it from a dead man’s hand.’
Diligens’s homely features adopt an earnest mien.
‘Now, Huntress, I’d’ve recognized that sabre anywhere, and I weren’t the only one, cause it were made special, like, with the blade a couple of inches longer than standard-issue, and a worked hilt and scabbard, all fancy and all. And its owner, Elatus, he were another mate of mine, and everybody knows he works as a guard on the orewagons, carting the Earl’s truesilver down from the mines in the mountains. Him, and his woman, Leim, real lovely girl, they’re meant to be getting hitched tomorrow, same as the Earl’s boy, Castus.’
They have almost reached the steps into Earlshome. Diligens stops. The women halt their mounts. He sweeps his right hand in front of him. He waves it about.
‘Pretend like I’m showing off Earlshome,’ Diligens says. ‘Anyways, everybody were paying attention now, and the Earl asks this wee pup, Levis, to describe what he seen, and where, and all that. Turns out there were a massacre. Forty-odd folks murdered, and even the horses, and the truesilver all looted, and they’re lying dead, near Gentiana Wood. So says this Levis, and the Earl asks him some more questions, then sends him on his way, with a bag of Truesilver Tears, for a reward.’
Diligens looks straight at Calma.
‘Now, Huntlady, this’s the bit you’ll wanna be hearing. So, the Earl, he tells Seasta to go and investigate. Track down these villains, and give ’em a taste of the Earl’s justice, cause he reckons the lad musta been exaggerating. No way some mangy bunch of robbers could just up and murder a whole troop of Guardsmen, then vanish without a trace. So, the Huntlord, he sets off on foot, cause everybody knows he’s funny about riding horses.’
Another sheepish laugh escapes Diligens. Calma graces him with a small smile to illustrate that she has not been offended.
‘Says its cruel on the animals,’ says Diligens. ‘So, Seasta takes his young Apprentice with him. But, Huntlady, that were two days ago now, and Gentiana Wood’s no more than twenty miles off. And that’s just a good stretch of the legs, for a man like Seasta, so they shoulda been back by now. And I know he can handle himself, Huntlady, but I have to tell you, I’m a wee bit worried. Something ain’t right. And I went to my Guard-Captain, Sieur Custos Pedester, and told him what I thought. So, Custos went and seen the Earl, and tried telling him as much. But the Earl were too busy to listen.
‘See, it’s ’cause young Castus’s wedding and all’s coming up. So, I’m only saying here, if Seasta’s dead, and you’re trying to find out what’s happening, you maybe need to be careful, like, ’cause there ain’t been nowt like this, murder and robbery, and all. Not here. Not for a long time.’
Diligens lowers his hand. He starts to walk again. The women keep pace on their horses.
‘And, Huntlady,’ he says. ‘I’m worried about young Castus too. See, he’s gonna be Nabbing his Gensor, tomorrow morning. That’s the girl he’s marrying. Gensor Sanglys. A Reaumish Lady. And I’m gonna be with him. Me, and Sieur Omnis Ducere, and a whole bunch of others. We’re gonna be his Nabbing Gang. But the thing is, Gensor’s coming in a coach, from Farina town, on the other side of the island. And we’re gonna be Nabbing her near Gentiana Wood, where Levis says the massacre took place. And I can’t help but wondering whether it’s gonna be safe.’
They near the steps. Diligens’s pace slows. His voice speeds up.
‘Old Omnis, he’s my superior, he says there’s nowt to worry about, ’cause them brigands ain’t gonna be hanging about. Not now they’ve got what they were after, and I’m just being nervous, ’cause of the wedding, and all. But, still and all, I can’t help wondering. If everything’s alright, then why ain’t Seasta come back by now? Anyways, here we are, and I’m sorry for bothering you, Huntlady, and blethering on about all this. But I reckoned you’d maybe wanna know what’s been going on here, before meeting the Earl, like.’
Diligens finishes spinning his tangled yarn just as they reach the entrance to Earlshome. The Huntresses dismount. Calma touches the horses’ minds. She commands them to wait. She turns to Diligens.
‘Thank you, for confiding in me, Sergeant Fidelis. Given what you have told me, I think that it might be best, were I to accompany Castus’s Nabbing Gang tomorrow, with my Apprentice. Rest assured, I shall raise the matter with Earl Suavis Ferrumanus, and convince him to grant me permission.’
The soldier nods his head. He leads them up the steps.
‘That’s what I were hoping you’d say, Huntlady,’ he says. ‘And I know I’ll feel a whole lot safer, and happier, knowing you’re gonna be at my side, come the morning.’
He pushes open one of the huge oaken double-doors. The women follow him into an enormous vestibule. It stretches right back to the rear of the palace. Sunlight pours in through banks of windows set in the far wall. A pair of grand staircases curve up to a mezzanine that overlooks the foyer. Colourful banners and tapestries, hunting trophies and paintings, exotic arms and decorative shields adorn the pale marble walls. Fine pieces of statuary and tall silver candelabra stand about the airy space. Armour trees laden with full suits of plate mail line the walls. Massive golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling. There are many sets of doors around the chamber. Passageways run off to left and right.
The Huntresses follow Diligens across the spacious hall into another vast lofty chamber. The vaulted ceiling bears a magnificent fresco. It depicts a picturesque scene of bucolic bliss in riotous colour. It incorporates elements representative of all four seasons of the year, from vibrant Vernalis and sunny Aestas, to fruitful Autumnus and chill Vertere. Nymphs, Satyrs, Centaurs, Dryads, and other fabulous creatures frolic in charming woodland glades. Nereids, mounted on dolphins, race Meerken through sparkling waters. People also feature, attired in the traditional costumes of the many nations of the Realms of Western Thule.
Several steps lead up to an elevated dais at the other end of the room. A high-backed golden throne inlaid with ivory stands at the centre. It is embellished by intricate carvings of fantastic beasts: the Earl’s Curule. A middle-aged blonde-haired man sits there, straight as a spear. Suavis Ferrumanus, Earl of Tellus Isle is flanked by smaller silver-and-ivory thrones, upon which his relations are seated; a cluster of nobles stand behind them. He holds court over the many advisors, courtiers, socialites, servants and dandies who cluster before him and loiter in small groups about the hall.
Calma trails Diligens. Siorai follows at her Mistress’s heels. The Sergeant marches the length of the chamber past the gathered attendants. He shoulders a path through those crowded before the steps. He mounts the dais. He bows to the Earl on his Curule. Calma unslings the scroll-case from her shoulder. She pulls out the missive.
Diligens announces, ‘Milord, this here’s Huntlady Calma Taiscealai with her Apprentice and she comes bearing bad news. I thought it best to present her to you directly, Milord.’
Calma steps forwards. She bows. She passes the scroll to the Earl.
The Huntlady says,’ I received this yesterday, my Lord. At dawn, whereupon my Apprentice, Siorai Coillseilg, and I rode with all speed for Sophoskhole, School of Wisdom. We arrived there that afternoon, and I consulted with Lorelord Takhus Graphe, who bears a Class Ring twinned with Seasta Doighsuil’s. He was able to confirm that Seasta died on the night of Febris twenty-eighth, which was why he had this message delivered to me, acting under the express instructions of Abalta Lamhiarann, Champion of the Hunt, who left this missive with Takhus, in case of just such an eventuality.’
Calma details their journey to Aesfortis. When she has finished her account, the Earl responds in a sonorous sombre voice, ‘Huntlady Taiscealai, these are indeed grave tidings that you bear. Huntlord Doighsuil served the Earldom, and Familia Ferrumanus, with great diligence, for twenty-one years, which is almost as long as I have been Earl. His presence at Court shall be sorely missed. Please, forgive my impertinence, Huntlady, and I ask that you not interpret my preoccupation as a mark of disrespect towards you, or your predecessor. However, my son, Castus, is due to be wed on the morrow, and we are, all of us here, immersed in finalizing arrangements for the imminent grand event. That is why I feel obliged to ask a question, working on the assumption, as indicated in this message, that you wish to serve in Huntlord Doighsuil’s stead. Are you willing to forego the customary protocols, and ceremonies, which would normally accompany your investiture to that position?’
‘Yes, Earl Ferrumanus. If that is convenient. Although I do have one further request to ask of you,’ says Calma. The Earl nods. The Huntlady continues, ‘Given how the apparent robbery that Seasta was sent to investigate occurred near Gentiana Wood, I wish to accompany your son’s Nabbing Gang tomorrow, with my Apprentice.’
The Earl smiles, ‘It would seem that Sergeant Fidelis has been sharing his concerns with you, Huntlady Taiscealai. While I have no doubt that the varlets involved have fled the area with their prize, if not the isle entire, I see no reason not to acquiesce. However, since it is his Nabbing, I feel it might be more appropriate were you to ask Castus directly.’
The Huntlady turns towards Castus, ‘Baron, with your permission, might my Apprentice, Scout Siorai Coillseilg, and I accompany your Nabbing Gang in the morning?’
‘Certainly, Huntlady, if you like,’ Castus laughs. ‘The more the merrier. It should be fun. And if that helps you to track down those reavers who committed murder and stole from my good Lord-father, well, then, how could I refuse?’
‘Baron, you have my gratitude,’ says Calma.
‘Very well,’ the Earl says. He stands. ‘Huntlady Calma Taiscealai, of Seilgscoil, kneel before me, and offer your oath of fealty.’
Calma obeys his command. She bows her head. By her side, Siorai does likewise.
Her Mistress says, ‘I, Huntlady Calma Taiscealai, Valiant Investigator, a Graduate of the School of Hunting for thirty-five years, and a Citizen of Seilgscoil for seven years, having served my full Terms of Service, at my School, and in the Realms, do hereby swear a sevenfold oath, on my honour, my name, my title, my skills, my eyes, my blood, and my heart, to serve the Earldom of Tellus Isle, and her rightful rulers, Familia Ferrumanus, with loyalty, diligence, and honour, to the utmost of my ability, for a term of no fewer than seven years. This I do pledge, before witnesses, on the condition that no part of my service ever contravene the ethos of Seilgscoil, or the requirements of my School. This oath of fealty, I do humbly swear, on this date, the second day, of the third month, in the sixteen-hundred-and-sixty-third year of the Mortal Age.’
‘And I, Suavis Ferrumanus, Agreeable Ironhand, fifteenth Earl of Tellus Isle, Lord Brigadier of Aesfortis, Guardian of the People, Keeper of the Regalia Lucidus, do accept your oath, Huntlady Calma Taiscealai, and hereby pledge the protection, support, and authority of my Noble position to you, and those under your Guardianship, and the respect and friendship of my person, in return for your loyal, diligent, honourable service, with full awareness, and acceptance, of your obligations to Seilgscoil, School of Hunting, for the aforementioned term, on this date, Martialis third, fourteen-sixty-three. Rise, Huntlady Calma Taiscealai, Mistress of the Hunt, in service to Tellus Isle, and Familia Ferrumanus.’
Calma stands. Suavis embraces her. Siorai also gets up. The assemblage illustrate their approval with polite but enthusiastic applause. The Earl releases the Huntlady. He steps back. He hands her the missive she gave him. He resumes his seat on the Curule.
‘Huntlady,’ he says. ‘You, and your Apprentice, are doubtless fatigued, after your long journey. My Seneschal, Stellaris Status, shall see that you are appointed suitable quarters. We would feel honoured, by your presence at the feast, to be held this evening. We hope to see you then. Stellaris shall attend to any queries, questions, requests, or needs you might have. Fare well.’
Calma and Siorai bow. They turn. They follow the bald seneschal back through the hall. They walk out into the vestibule.
‘Seneschal,’ says the Huntlady. ‘We left our mounts outside. I would be obliged if you could guide us to the stables, that we might see them properly attended to, before you show us to our rooms.’
The stocky man’s lips curve, in a gracious smile, ‘Certainly, ladies,’ he says. His soft voice sounds genial and warm with genuine emotion. ‘That would be my pleasure. And, please, call me Stellaris. I must say, I always admired Seasta’s love of animals, and I shall miss him dearly. Please, come this way.’
He leads them outside.
‘Ladies,’ he says, ‘this is Earlscourt. The stables lie just over here, at the base of the West Wing.’
The Huntresses gather their horses. They follow him across the great plaza.

INSERT:
There are another few chapters to write here, as detailed in my notes