NIGHTSEED [10]
by heck@heckster.co.uk
CHAPTER TEN

  In the early hours of the morning, the atrium was deserted. Moonlight crept 
through the tiny high windows, but did nothing to alleviate the oppressive 
darkness. From one corner, the scrabbling of foraging rats could be heard high in 
the vaulted ceiling, accompanied by the regular creak, creak of the chain that 
suspended the tiny cage in which the Fool languished.
  Unable to sit down, because the dimensions of his prison allowed him only to 
stand, he had braced his knees and buttocks against the bars. After several weeks 
of confinement, this was all that kept him erect, constant pressure on the nerves 
dulling the pain from the pressure sores that had appeared there. Released, he 
would not have been able to bear his own weight on his emaciated legs.
  On occasion, his captors remembered to feed him a few scraps of bread and 
water. But he was never released from his cage, even to relieve himself. As a 
result, the floor of the cage was covered with a slippery slurry of his own faeces 
and urine, and his pants were caked with ordure. His once bright and jolly jacket 
was dull, hanging loosely on his gaunt frame, it's tinkling bells silenced by rust. 
His face, now half covered by a matted beard, was drawn and his ginger hair hung 
in lank rat's tails.
  Even when the Nightseed were about their activities below, he no longer took an 
interest. The last traces of hope had vanished. A blank expression had taken the 
place of his familiar grin, and his head wove back and forth on his neck; a 
stereotypical, soothing movement that set up the creaking of the chain, and gave 
his brain something to focus on during the long hours. 
  Occasionally, a heaving sigh escaped him.

  The three kept moving, avoiding the possibility of another psychic barrier. 
Alternately riding and walking by their horses' sides, they conserved their energy, 
eating cold provisions and dozing in the saddle from time to time.
  To keep up their spirits, Brannagh had taken to singing dwarf songs in his harsh 
but tuneful baritone. They were mostly about underground battles, matters of 
honour, and other things dear to the dwarven heart, and were largely in the 
guttural language of  his people, which was difficult for the human tongue to 
navigate. But his companions tried gamely to sing along. A feature of the tunes 
was that they all seemed to have repetitive refrains, so they quickly caught on to 
the sound, if not the meaning, of the songs.
  Brenhya had a pleasant contralto. Lon was tone deaf, but joined in nonetheless, 
manfully trying to keep to both tune and rhythm, and frequently raising smiles or 
pained grimaces on the faces of his friends.
  They had left the forest behind, and were now travelling through open farmland. 
Fields of grazing cattle or sheep passed by on either side, and acres of wheat 
waved their tight heads in the afternoon sunshine.
  To their left, a small copse of deciduous trees had been left uncleared, and was 
an oasis for wildlife in the expanse of cultivated land. The trees clustered together 
in a rough circle, growing close and tall, a haven for birds and insects and even a 
few mammals. A squirrel's dray swayed in the upper branches of a tree near the 
middle, and a number of rooks had nested in the boughs earlier in the year, their 
twiggy constructions left deserted until next spring.
  The tree in the very centre was an ancient oak, the foundation upon which the 
copse had built itself. For centuries, it had dominated its neighbours, raising its 
leafy head high above the small canopy.
  But now, it was dying. Slowly, inexorably, its lifeforce was being drained over 
the hours of daylight. In terms of the oak's lifetime, it was sudden, violent death.
  Around its foot, its leaves rained down, curled up and blackened. Dead insects 
and a few withered birds were among the detritus. The stench of death pervaded 
the copse.
  And as the three companions passed unknowing, high in the tree, curled up in a 
deep crotch, the matt black shape of the seething evil that was the Dragonkind 
stirred in its sleep.

  The actinic glow of a circle of black tallow candles lit the anteroom, casting eerie 
flickering shadows to the four corners. In its centre, cross-legged, eyes closed, and 
arms raised in supplication, Amillie began her tuneless chant.
  Only an ear held close to her mouth could have discerned her words, so quietly 
she intoned. Motionless, except for her mobile lips, she sat for hours in this 
attitude, her every muscle and nerve straining as she poured her concentration into 
the ritual.
  At length, a wisp of black mist roiled among the candles. Slowly, it thickened 
and swirled around the seated figure, forming greasy coils in the air. Weird shapes 
appeared, like souls in torment, and tortured moans reached the woman's ears. 
Content that her ritual had been a success, she opened her eyes and spoke.
  "Shades of Blackest Night. Spirits of the Seven Hells. Obey me! You know my 
bidding."
  The mist swirled faster an faster, and dispersed to the edges of the room, 
insinuating itself between the stones and oozing forth into the evening twilight.

  Keeping to the walking pace of Brannagh's little pony was tedious for Brenhya 
and Maakar. The woman had to resist the urge to step out in the long, easy gait 
that was her normal walking pace, powerful legs swinging gracefully from the hip 
in a stride that ate up the distances. Maakar was just thoroughly bored by what to 
her was a tiny, mincing pace, and she walked head down, reins hanging loosely 
and lightly held in her mistress' grasp.
  The farmland was well behind, and the path was no longer discernible. Only the 
warrior's uncanny innate sense of her own position in relation to the world as she 
knew it kept the party heading in the right direction.
  The country they now passed through was bleak and windswept, but beautiful in 
its own way. Rolling hills clad in purple heather with bright patches of yellow 
gorse, and heathland coated with tough grasses, stretched as far as the eye could 
see. The occasional stunted tree, ideal vantage points for the few birds of prey that 
made a good living from the small ground dwelling mammals, broke up the 
skyline, and on the breeze a kestrel hovered motionless under the pale grey sky.
  From the corner of her eye, Brenhya had been watching Lon. He was beginning 
to drag his feet, and was getting more weary by the minute. From time to time, he 
let a huge yawn escape him. Brannagh, in his stoic way, was doggedly putting one 
foot in front of the other, but could not mask his tiredness from her trained eye. In 
addition, she was beginning to feel concerned for their animals, who had been 
ridden or had walked non-stop for more than a day and a half. It was well past the 
time, she decided, that they had a rest.
  "All right", she announced. "Time to rest. Lon, is their a way we can stop, but 
stay safe from that psychic thing?"
  The youth considered for a while before he spoke. "I think", he said, with the air 
of one about to impart worldly wisdom. "I think that the size of the last 'bubble' 
was about as much as the practitioner can manage. If we spread out, we should be 
OK. About twenty-five yards between each of us, should be about enough. And 
one of us should keep moving".
  She did not like it, but it was obvious that there was little alternative. "Well, we 
have to get some sleep and take some food. We'll have to risk it. The horses can't 
go on much longer like this, anyway. But we'll keep thirty yards between us, to be 
sure".
  They tethered their horses to gorse bushes at the points of a large triangle, and 
each rider attended to the needs of his or her animal before thinking about food or 
rest for themselves. Brenhya an Brannagh spread out their bedrolls, while Lon 
gathered some dry brushwood and assembled a cooking fire. He glanced around to 
ensure neither of the others was watching, and began to chant under his breath, his 
hands describing complicated patterns in the air.
  Brenhya glanced in his direction, and her mouth fell open. "Brannagh!", she 
yelled, as she threw herself flat. "Get down!" The dwarf, reacting by instinct, 
hurled himself behind a gorse bush, reaching to take his axe from its place at his 
back.
  With a final flourish, Lon completed his spell, and aimed his index finger at the 
centre of the pile of brush. A diffuse red glow appeared around his hand, 
increasing in intensity as he screwed up his eyes and turned his face away, 
anticipating the worst. Brenhya shielded her eyes but, fascinated, squinted through 
her fingers.
  The fireball drifted from his hand and floated gently to the kindling, landing 
softly among the twigs, where it ignited the cooking fire. The wood began to burn 
with a cheerful crackle.
  Unbelieving, Lon gazed wide eyed at his handiwork. The realisation that he had, 
finally, got it right took a minute or two to sink in. Juicy sparks dripped from his 
fingers, to fizzle in the grass at his feet. Then it dawned.
  "Woo-hoo! I got it right! Again!" He danced around the fire, celebrating his 
success. Brenhya came forward, a huge grin on her face successfully hiding her 
sigh of relief. "Brenhya!", he carolled, running to meet her. He threw himself into 
her arms, where she cradled him with ease. "Did you see? Did you?"
  "Well, what do you know?" The warrior woman was almost as pleased for him 
as he was for himself. "That's twice in a row, now. Well done, Lon".
  Dusting off his jerkin, Brannagh came out from behind his bush. "I doesn't sees 
what all the fusses is about", he grumbled. "Th' lad's only doin' what 'e's s'posed 
to. Gettin' th' 'angs of 'is trades. 'E were bound to gets it right, sooners or laters".
  Lon looked affronted at the dwarf's comments. This was something of a minor 
turning point in the life of an apprentice wizard, when he could repeat a spell 
correctly on more than one consecutive occasion, and although it had taken him 
somewhat longer than others to reach that point, he was finally there and felt it 
needed recognition.
  Fortunately for him, Brenhya had recognised the event for what it was, and her 
praise meant more to him than anything. She draped an arm around his shoulders 
and gave him a squeeze. "I think it's an achievement", she said, smiling into his 
face and filling his world with warmth. "Congratulations, Lon. Perhaps you'll 
make it as a wizard, yet".
  Grinning foolishly to himself, basking in the warmth of her praise, Lon busied 
himself putting a pan of water to boil for tea. Brannagh handed out dried fruit, 
bread, and pungent cheese, and they ate in companionable silence, still keeping 
moving so as to avoid a further encounter with whatever had generated the 
psychic barrier.
  "'Ere!" Brannagh stopped pacing and pointed into the darkling twilight. "Wha's 
that?"
  A black mist had begun to accumulate, some distance from their campsite. As it 
came close, it began to form weird and hideous shapes. Brenhya's sword was in 
her hand in an instant, and she stood prepared to face whatever this new threat 
could be, every magnificent muscle poised in readiness. She spared a glance to her 
companions. Brannagh was ready with his axe, but Lon was squinting at the mist, 
an expression of horror mixed with intrigue on his weak features. "Lon?"
  "I don't know", he answered, understanding the implicit question in her word. 
"Nothing good, that's for sure".
  The shapes attacked, zipping around and between the companions, howling 
hellishly, causing the small hairs on Brenhya's forearms to raise. She thrust and 
slashed with her sword, and Brannagh laid about him with his axe, but the shades 
seemed to avoid their weapons with ease. All of the warrior woman's superb 
fighting skills were useless against an enemy with which she could make no 
contact.
  For a full twenty minutes, they were assailed by the swirling, formless shapes, 
which keened ceaselessly like banshees. Her sword arm was strong and her 
stamina great, but even so she began to wonder how long they could endure. She 
whirled at a shriek from Lon. One of the moaning phantasms had laid hold of him, 
and a look of sheer horror was on his face. She sprang forward, hoping in some 
way to come to his aid, although she did not know how.
  She rushed to his side, aiming a vicious cut at the [apparent] neck of the creature 
that held her friend. The blade passed straight through without resistance. Puzzled, 
she looked at Lon. The expression of horror on his face was replaced by one of 
realisation.
  "Brenhya!" He had to yell to be heard above the eerie howling. "They're not 
real! They can't hurt us! It's an illusion! Look at the horses!"
  She turned her eyes to Maakar and the other animals, still tethered at their three 
equilateral points. The stood placidly, even dozing, completely unfazed as the 
cacophony raged.
  "They know this is not real!" Lon shouted. He raised his arms, and they passed 
through the shade that 'held' him. He stepped away from it and put his mouth 
close to Brenhya's ear. "Put your sword away, and just stand still", he told her. 
Her face wore a sceptical look. "Really", he added. "Trust me."
  With a little shrug, the swordswoman put away her weapon and stood 
motionless. "Brannagh!", she yelled to the dwarf. "Stop fighting! Drop your axe 
and stand still!"
  The little fellow looked at her as if she was mad, for an instant. Then he saw that 
she had sheathed her sword, and knew her well enough to know that she would 
not do that without reason. His dwarvish nature would not allow him to relinquish 
the axe, but he dropped his hands to his sides.
  "Close your eyes and concentrate!" Lon shouted his instructions. "Keep 
reminding yourselves that there's nothing there!"
  The phantoms rushed around, about, and even through the travellers, and each 
time they did they caused a shudder of disgust in that person. But no harm was 
done. The experience was merely annoying, and a little creepy, but otherwise was 
no more than an inconvenience. Under the screeching, Brenhya's sharp ears 
picked up the sound of Brannagh, muttering to himself.
  "Ain't nuffin' there. Ain't nuffin' there..."
  After what seemed an eternity but in reality was less than an hour, the noise 
began to fade. Their senses, assaulted by the violence of the sustained crescendo, 
could detect no difference, at first, but eventually they became aware that the row 
had all but ceased.
  "Keep your eyes shut", Lon advised. "Keep concentrating, and don't open them 
until it has stopped completely".
  The woman and the dwarf obeyed, and finally the racket faded until it 
disappeared into blessed silence. Carefully, they opened their eyes, Brannagh 
working his jaw as if to equalise the pressure on his eardrums.
  "It's over". Lon breathed a sigh of relief.
  "'At's the fust time I's ever fought a battles wi' me eyeses shut".
  "And the first time I've fought without moving", Brenhya grinned. "What made 
you realise they weren't real, Lon?"
  "When that thing had hold of me. I felt all creepy inside, but I couldn't feel 
whatever it was using for hands on me. Then I looked at the horses. They 
obviously couldn't see or hear anything, so I figured it might be an illusion".
  "Might?" Brannagh glared at him. "Might? Yer means yer wasn't sure?"
  "Well, no, as it happens. How could I be? But it was a hunch".
  Brannagh fumed in exasperation. "Hunches? Yer means to tells I yer wasn't 
sure, so yer risks we's liveses on a hunches?"
  "It was a pretty strong hunch", Lon explained defensively. "I ..."
  Brenhya stepped between them. "And as it turned out, he was right", she 
declared, staring pointedly at the dwarf. "So we should be grateful to him. 
Brannagh."
   "Yus. Well ... 'S time us got some sleep."
  Around them, the campsite was completely undisturbed. Save for Brenhya, who 
took the first watch, they lay down beside their respective mounts, wrapped in 
their bedrolls, trying to sleep.
  But sleep came hard, that night.

  Cross-legged and surrounded by the now guttering black candles, Amillie sat. He 
shoulders slumped, and her body was covered in a sheen of sweat as she panted 
from her exertions in maintaining the illusion.
  Cursing angrily under his breath, V'Daa paced the length of the anteroom.
  "They were supposed", he railed. "They were supposed to flee! Run back to 
where they came from. You said they would flee. Why didn't they flee?"
  Too exhausted to reply, Amillie muttered an apology under her breath. Her 
master threw up his hands in frustration. "Well? What now?"
  "I have nothing left, Lord", the witch whimpered. "I can do no more. The 
Dragonkind is behind them, now. They will get here before it".
  A candelabrum caromed off the wall where the madman threw it in his temper. 
"Damn! Damn damn damn damn damn!"
  "Please, don't upset yourself too much, Master. They still have to cross the Dark 
Plain. Anything could happen".
  V'Daa stopped in his tracks. "Yes", he said, conspiratorially. "Anything could 
happen. What can we make happen?"
  "I have no idea. I am spent".
  "Wait a minute. What about the Gorge?"
  "The Gorge?"
  Excitedly, V'Daa grasped her shoulder and spoke very close to her ear. "Yes. 
The Gorge. Amillie, in the middle of the Dark Plain, there is a gorge that leads to 
a labyrinth. Very deep. Very ...twisted". He licked his lips, savouring the word. 
"Once inside, no-one ever comes out again. The entrance is a little way off their 
chosen path, but we can divert them. Have you the energy to conjure up another 
illusion? A big one?"
  "Not yet. But in a day or two. What have you in mind?"

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