CHAPTER SIX
In a basement room beneath the Grand Palace at Lunis, City of Moons, gnarled hands flung an ash-like substance into a roaring fire that blazed in a stone grate. The fire flared even higher and a shrill humming noise was like music to his ears as its flames turned from yellow to pink, from pink to crimson, and then to white. As if across a blank screen, a series of moving images appeared; vague shapes that gradually assumed features. Locations, too, became recognizable.
Ragund, the Dark Mage and consort of Shireen, Ruler of Mamelon and sister of Michal, its erstwhile Ruler (Mamelon had never known a king or queen, the title was an unthinkable throwback to the motherworld) could scarcely contain his excitement as he tossed another pinch of fine powder into the flames. He cackled gleefully at the sight of Nadya’s son, Heron, being overpowered and taken captive by bog folk. Hopefully, they would not get bored and toss their prize to wolves or even grow hungry for fresh meat themselves. Ragund frowned. He had other plans for young Heron.
Suddenly, the scene faded. Ragund scowled for he was faced with an impenetrable blackness. He flung on more powder and intoned a spell. Nothing happened. “Elves!” he swore aloud. It could be no one else. That incompetent fool, Ricci, possessed neither the brains nor stamina to thwart him so. He had to confess surprise. It hadn’t taken Nadya long to realise what was up and take appropriate action. Too late, though to save her son, he reflected with no small satisfaction before closing his eyes and summoning an image of Michal’s daughter whom he had glimpsed, alive and well, but a few lifetimes ago. All due credit to her and the royal bloodline, he was forced to concede. But now I, Ragund, have rejoined the game and she will find out soon enough that I am a bad loser.
Ragund strove to make contact with the woman in his mind’s eye, but could only do so at a tangent. His deepest consciousness barely grazed hers. He felt her start and close herself to him, but not before he has caught sight, fleetingly, of whom he sought. In Nada’s own mind’s eye he saw her son, Heron again. “By Ri, he has escaped!” Sure enough, the youth was swimming strongly through a steamy swamp. Nor was he alone. Ragund strained to see. The scene dropped away again, leaving nothing but a cloud of smoke from the fire. The warlock gave in to a hacking cough, and then tensed. Impossible! but had he not glimpsed, too, a motherworlder with red hair lagging slightly behind young Heron in the last throes of inner vision? It made no sense.
What did make sense, however, was that Heron was plainly making for Ti-Gray, Isle of the Dead. Oh, but of course. Where else would the lad head but home? Ragund frowned. It was hard, even for a Dark Mage to contemplate the notion that any living thing should choose to make a home among the dead.
An evil grin crossed the ravaged face. If only Nadya, the boy's mother, had died as once he planned, her life on Ti-Gray would have been so much more comfortable. And who am I to deny her that even now? Ragund reached for the scrying cup. It would not help him locate Nadya, her wards were too strong (for now) and shielded her children also.Even so, it had its uses all the same. Within seconds, he had tracked down Radik, leader of the few krills that remained hid in Mamelon.
Most of Radik’s kind perished when the Purple Mountains had erupted with rage, killing every living thing under a hail of massive rocks and tongues of fire. But Radik was not a good loser. Ragund had wasted no time seeking him out and reasserting the bonds contrived with those first intruders from across the Sea of Marmela who came to mine Mamelon’s gold long, long ago.
At first, Radik had resisted discovery. Krills were hated by all but those few Mamelonians who envied and bargained for their wealth. Now they were greatly diminished in numbers and had lost not only their gold but slaves too and, thereby, the awesome power they wielded. Many were those who would gladly eliminate a krill given the chance. In the end, though, Radik had been unable to close his mind entirely to Ragund’s persistent seduction. Certainly, an offer of power sharing with the Dark Mage once the Tomb of the Creator had been located and water from the Spring of Life restored to Mamelon, presented a more attractive proposition even than their original bargain to barter gold for slaves.
From the scrying cup, the image of Radik greeted Ragund with a wicked grin. “Go to Ti-Gray and wait,” hissed the Dark Mage, “Spare no one.”
“Not even the dead?” scoffed the Krill leader. He enjoyed taunting the old magician. Ragund could not bear to contemplate a power greater than his own. None though held sway over the dead except, as legend would have it, druids. But druids were an extinct race if ever they had existed at all. Radik, for one, was inclined to doubt it.
“At least the dead are neutral.” Ragund shrugged. “Even elves have no influence over them.”
“Elves, pah!” Radik snorted in disgust and Ragund permitted himself a thin smile. The ages-old hatred between krill and elf might yet be used to his advantage.
The image in the scrying cup dimmed suddenly, spluttered and disappeared altogether. Just before it passed away, Ragund sensed rather than saw an alien presence, one that he had neither summoned nor that even his dream-self quite acknowledged. It made him uneasy, very uneasy. Behind him, a door creaked open. His lower lip curled. It could only be Shireen. No one else would dare disturb him here. Even so, she rarely visited the workshop. Unease became alarm.
“Ragund, my dear…?” The mage stiffened, but made no outward sign that he had heard. “My darling, I have had a dream!” Her obvious disquiet did nothing to alleviate his disturbed state. Shireen’s dreams had an uncanny habit of foretelling, if not a whole, at least a part truth, likely reveal itself sooner rather than later. “Galia, she lives! I have seen her!”
“No!” Ragund leapt nimbly to his feet and pirouetted with all fine dexterity of someone more than half his age.
“I have seen her,” repeated the tall woman with red hair piled high. Shireen winced. She hadn’t seen Ragund in such a rage since some fool krill had stumbled upon the Tomb of the Creator, provoking the spirits into cutting off his main source of income. That thousands had died when the mountains erupted mattered nothing to Ragund. He had brooded long and hard about the gold. Only recently, he seemed to have found a new source of pleasure to occupy himself. She suspected it had to do with the royal bloodline. The dream only confirmed her suspicions.
“It cannot be,” snarled the mage. But he was already remembering the presence on the very edge of his own dream-consciousness. “Galia!” he growled. If Michal’s consort lives the chances are she knows her daughter, too, lives and that her grandson is in peril. Any steps she might take to protect Heron must inevitably pit him, Ragund, against powers the like of which that idiot Ricci’s paled into insignificance. He smiled grimly, relishing the challenge.
Ragund held out his arms. Shireen came forward and they embraced with a passion she had not shared with him for a long time. The eyes that held hers glinted with fiendish anticipation. A rush of satisfaction coursed through her veins. It was good to know that he still desired her and that she gave him pleasure. She put her lips to his and set about pleasing him some more.
Ragund suppressed a chuckle and returned his wife’s intimacy with interest. It was high time, he mused dryly, that the first-born sister of Michal the Great proved useful to him again. Lifetimes ago, it was or so it seemed, since they had committed adultery and murder to oust Michal and seize the High Seat of Mamelon for themselves. Only thanks to that meddlesome fool, Ricci, had Galia and the children escaped. Since then, no amount of scrying or despatching of dream-self to the four corners of Mamelon had revealed any hint of their whereabouts. He had presumed them dead. That is, until recently when Nadya let drop her guard. Why had she done that, he wondered? It hardly matters, though, surely? Of far greater importance was that her carelessness had led him to a son, Heron.
To Michal’s daughter, an heir! The possibilities were endless. Only by the male bloodline could the Power of Rule be dispensed in full. If he, Ragund, had his way, supreme power would soon be his. Once a way into the Purple Mountains had been found, the key to the Creator’s tomb was easily obtained. Water from the Spring of Life would flow freely again. He, Ragund, would be lorded by all and sundry as the saviour of Mamelon, Once, too, this Heron was his and his alone, to use as he saw fit, no magic, even elven or druid could ever thwart him again. What mage could boast more?Ragund the Great, it had a good ring to it.
The ancient warlock beamed and led Shireen to the bed he always kept made up for all-night sessions in the workshop.
They made love with a rare passion.
Inwardly, Shireen sniggered. Mage, he might be, but the old goat had never been up to much between the sheets. Hope at last! She exulted inwardly while heaving and faking cries of pleasure. Had not Ragund incited her to kill husband, brother and sister…and for what? Where were they now, those riches beyond dreams and power beyond imagination he had promised? In the end, they had turned out to be little more than cruel bribes. One day, I will have my revenge. Even so, her exultant cry as he took her was not entirely false.
