A SONG OF PICTISH KINGS

A SONG OF PICTISH KINGS,  by Adrian Cole, artwork by Andrea Alemanno and Gary McClusky

In Cyrena, northernmost and greatest state of the continent of Atlantis, change has come like a tidal wave in the night. The evil power of Karkora, the Pallid One, has been broken, and a new king sits the Dragon Throne in the mountain castle above Cyrena’s principal port, Epharra. Elak  has triumphed against his enemies and seized the throne, albeit with some reluctance—it is a kingship he’s never wanted. Now, as king of Cyrena in  his newly proclaimed capital, he has begun the unification of the continent, the merging of its many states into one nation. Revolution brews like a massive storm— in such violent times are strange alliances concocted. (The events in this story take place eighteen months before those in DEMONS FROM THE DEEP)

 

 

Chapter 1: Warriors from the West

 

Dawn had barely broken, streaking the eastern clouds with fire and crimson banners beyond the crooked arm of headland. Below rocky coastal cliffs, hidden in deep shadow, the narrow cove whispered with life, waves pushing sleepily across its sand, stirring low banks of accumulated weed. A solitary ship had been beached, its lamps doused: it had the appearance of a specter, or sea beast risen silently from the surf combers. Men disembarked: a swarthy, sea-going crew, bronzed by the sun, muscular bodies short, arms wreathed in tattoos, ringed with gold. Their blades gleamed, their hunters’ eyes alert, yet for all their latent power, they crossed the sand as noiselessly as a sea breeze.

Beyond, at the edge of the rocks, another handful of men slipped from cover. The two groups converged. This second group were led by a figure garbed in a long, flowing robe of neutral gray, who carried a tall staff, identifying him as a Druid, a man of importance in these lands. The men with him were armed guards wearing the retinue of Cyrena, where the newly crowned Elak was beginning to stretch wings of power.

The leaders of the two groups met and nodded to each other.

“I am Dalan,” said the Druid. “High Druid in the Order of Cyrena, and I act as the voice of the king, Elak. My words are his words.”

The shorter, stockier man grinned like a tiger. His hair was dark as raven’s feathers, long and thick, silver strands woven into it; from his ear lobes dangled beautifully crafted silver skulls. His sword was likewise superbly made, its length lavishly filigreed. “I am Borga, king of the Pictish Wolf Clan.”

“You are welcome to our shores.” The Druid had never expected to utter such a welcome to this notorious hunter from the west, whose reputation as a conqueror of the many islands there stirred terror in the hearts of Atlantean citizens, on land and sea. The Pictish empire was growing, and greatly feared. Dalan knew the day would come when it would clash with Atlantis – such things were in the stars. Thus the request for a peaceful meeting was unusual. Picts commonly let their cold steel do their talking.

Three of Dalan’s warriors set a cask down on the sand. Moments later it had been opened. The Druid drew off a fat beaker of mead, took a long draught, and nodded in appreciation. He gave Borga and others of his sailors beakers which were soon filled and quaffed in an understanding of peace, at least temporarily.

“Atlantean mead is strong and sweet,” said Borga. “I confess we’ve plundered your ships in north western waters and tasted it before.” His eyes gleamed, feral, and he grinned, as if challenging the Druid.

Dalan smiled wryly. “Our nations have not enjoyed the best of relations, Borga of the Wolves. Yet you seek an alliance.”

“I hear your young king desires to bring all of Atlantis under his sway.” He refilled his beaker and drank eagerly. “It will take a heroic effort, and many, many warriors. We know your western seaboard well. Some of its people will rush to the golden dragon banner, but others will resist. The wars will be long and bloody—many lives will be lost.”

Dalan grunted in agreement. Borga spoke truly enough. The Pict’s secret messages to Elak’s court suggested a potential alliance, and although the Atlanteans found this highly desirable – the conflicts with the Pictish Isles had raged across many decades, damaging trade and progress – fear of treachery would always guide their response.

Borga’s grin widened. “I’m sure your trust in my proposal is fragile. Why should my nation, free and unfettered by Atlantean kings and laws, come to you for aid?”

Dalan again nodded.

“We have a mutual enemy,” said Borga, his grin blurring into a grimace as deep anger clearly fueled his mood. “Sorcery of the blackest, vilest kind! Our shamans have deflected it, but our power alone are not enough. Slowly we are being bled, our islands threatened with extinction. Don’t think to benefit from this, Druid! Once we are crushed,  forced out of our islands, we will seek new homes on Atlantean shores, likely through a fresh war that none of us desires.”

Dalan was deeply shocked by the Pict’s words. They were so unlike the usual bravado and loud boasting of the western warrior clans. Even facing defeat they would scream out their wild defiance until the last man fell. To hear talk of utter defeat from one of their great war chiefs was unheard of. Borga’s men were silent, eyes cast down, strange for men normally so belligerent.

Borga read Dalan’s muted incredulity. “Many of us have lost family and loved ones. We fight hard, but the tide is against us.”

“What is this enemy you speak of?”

“We call it the Crawling Death. Earth and sea risen up as though the gates of all the hells have opened. No man is safe from its insatiable hunger.”

 

 

 

Chapter 2: The Crawling Death

          Elak and Lycon stood silently among the small group of warriors guarding Dalan’s back, both wearing Cyrenian livery, disguised as ordinary fighting men. Dalan had raged against the idea of the young king and his right-hand man joining him for this dangerous meeting with Borga, but Elak would brook no dissent. His face was not known to the Picts. He wanted to hear for himself what the legendary wolf warrior had to say.  Listening to Borga now, he felt the stirring of horror.

“Our mainland, Krannach, is a large land mass surrounded by scores of lesser islands,” the Pictish chief continued.  “Many have been swamped by the Crawling Death and the creatures serving it. Krannach is well defended, but our strength is not enough. Our shamans have flung Pictish sorcery at the enemy, but there is something at its heart, ancient powers from beyond time, monstrous and warped. You, Druid, are said to have power—there are known to be great sources of high magic in Atlantis. We would have you and those powers at our side.”

“This is no small thing that you ask, Borga.”

“No, but aid us,  and you will benefit doubly. The Crawling Death can be cast back into the pits that spawned it and Atlantis, too, will be safe. For this help, we will come to Elak’s support when he rides out to win his empire. With Picts for allies, he will overrun this continent. It will be the beginning of a lasting peace between us.”

Elak looked discreetly down at the full-bodied Lycon beside him, whose face was less inscrutable than his king’s. Elak knew Lycon burned to shout his distrust. Lasting peace with the Picts? The Atlantean courts would have laughed at the suggestion. Yet Borga’s fear of Atlantean sorcery he’d faced was undeniable. There was an element of desperation in his plea.

“Elak will be told of this,” said Dalan. “You will have an answer before the sun sets.” He pointed into the mist banks the dawn light was slowly revealing, and the vague shapes glimpsed in their grayness. Dalan’s sensed the Pictish fleet’s numbers, enough for a major raid, if there was to be treachery, though his instincts told him Borna was genuine. “Meanwhile, your ships are under our protection.”

“If your king accepts,” said Borga, “I invite Atlantean ships to return to Krannach with me, to be your king’s eyes. When they see the Crawling Death, perhaps Elak will fight beside us.”  He waved one of his men forward, a young warrior, muscular and already battle-scarred, with harsh features and a withering gaze. “This is my son, Kaa Mag Borga. He will stay as hostage at your court, if you come back to the Isles with me.”

“”I will have food and more mead sent to you while you await our king’s reply,” said Dalan, ending the meeting. Wordlessly Borga led his men back to their ship to await Atlantis’s answer.

*

          “Preposterous!”

The word cut the taut atmosphere like a knife in the Council chamber. Zerrahydris, most prominent member of the City Council, looked apoplectic. The small, circular room adjoining the main Council hall, was humming. All the principal Councilors had been summoned, while Dalan and Elak sat patiently before them. Dalan had barely finished his report, delivering Borga’s proposal.

“The western wolves have failed to break our resistance for so long, they grow desperate,” said Zerrahydris. He was a highly respected member of the Council, second in power, many knew, to the throne itself, though loved and respected for his intense loyalty to it. “This is a plot to weaken us before they come for the kill. I know these savages of old!”

Elak listened attentively. Dalan had warned him Zerrahydris would oppose any alliance. The Councilor’s father had died fighting Picts, when Zerrahydris had been a young boy. In all his years on the Council, he had raged against the westerners and always urged suppression of them. Elak stood up and the murmuring in the chamber quickly died. The king was young, but he was a tall, imposing figure, and in  defeating  the demonic alien Karkora and Erykion the sorcerer, he had proved himself a remarkable and dependable champion.

“If Borga speaks the truth,” said Elak, “all of Atlantis is in peril. We dare not risk dismissing the Pict’s words.”

“Sire, you simply cannot trust the serpent tongue of a Pict!” persisted Zerrahydris. A number of the Councilors stood with him, but it was noticeable that more of them wanted to hear Elak out.

“He’s prepared to leave his son, his heir, with us as a hostage, as a mark of his sincerity. I accept that. We must learn the truth,” said Elak. “I will send a ship back with Borga. Dalan will be aboard. If this Crawling Death is real, and the sorcery unleashed by its masters reaches out into Atlantean waters, Dalan will know. So—I will have my finest ship prepared. Meanwhile we must fortify Epharra, strengthening it in readiness for our next campaigns. There is much to be done.”

Zerrahydris and his supporters realized there would be no further discussion, and as the king had the final word, the meeting dispersed. Afterwards, in his private chambers, Elak spoke to Dalan and Lycon. “I’ll lead this expedition myself. Both of you will be with me. No one must be told, and I’ll travel disguised as a warrior.”

“You!” cried Dalan, appalled. “That is madness!”

“If Atlanteans are to believe the Picts, it will take our word to sway them. Get word to Borga with all haste. The Wavecutter will meet with him out at sea, under tonight’s stars.”

 

Chapter 3: The King’s Spy

          Olvaros slid across the roof, silent as smoke, belly to the tiles, ears straining for any hint of sound. Beyond him, etched by stark moonlight, row upon row of ships, from Atlantean battle galleys to smaller fishing craft stretched out at their moorings across the Bay of Gold. Around its rim, a few harbor lights gleamed; the silhouettes of Epharra stood out like sentinels. Behind them, smudged by night, the growing city reared up into the surrounding hills. Since Elak’s rise, Epharra, had burgeoned quickly, with new warehouses, temples, markets and an extension to the docks which included the largest military barracks in Cyrena. There were rumors the young king even intended to have the Dragon Throne brought here from its mountain castle, to be the core of his new empire.

At the roof’s edge, Olvaros peered down into a courtyard. A man crossed it furtively—two armed warriors followed him, evidently protecting his back. Olvaros recognized the man as Kranaldis, a city Councilor, who quickly entered a low door into the building. His guards stationed themselves outside it. Olvaros grinned. He had no intention of entering that way. Hours before, in daylight, he’d reconnoitered the roofs hereabouts. There was another way in and now he slipped down to the tiny window. It was a simple opening in the building’s upper wall—inside was a small, neglected store room.

Olvaros continued to move stealthily, well-practiced as a spy for the royal household. He opened the door gently and moved out and along a dusty corridor, until he came to a balcony, partially blocked with abandoned furniture. Below was a chamber, once a hall, now long neglected. A few narrow candles lit the drab surroundings: drapes were torn, thick with dust and cobwebs, and the walls were flaking. A table had been set in the hall’s center, with a few chairs, the floor devoid of carpets, bare boards exposed and in places wormy. No doubt, Olvaros mused, its current visitors had chosen it precisely because of its insalubrious condition.

Two men sat at the table and were joined by Kranaldis. Olvaros recognized both. One was Mittrubos, another Councilor, and with him was Scuvular, a cousin to Elak. The Councilors were in late middle age, while Scuvular was younger, less than thirty, a man in wasted physical condition, corpulent and pasty-faced. He was notorious for self-indulgence at court, preferring its confines to the field of battle.

“You’re certain you were not seen?” said Mittrubos, whose nervousness was evident in his visible restlessness, his head turning to catch the slightest sound.

“Yes,” said Kranaldis. “The city sleeps. So – what have you to report?” He directed this at Scuvular.

“I spoke to my brother, Vannadas, late in the day. The king will leave the city before dawn, on another of his private engagements.” Scuvular spoke with a rasping voice, edged with contempt: Olvaros heard each word clearly.

Kranaldis growled with suppressed anger. “It underlines our concerns about his suitability to reign. Ever putting himself at risk. Zerrahydris and the others try to control him, but they are not strong-willed enough. No good will come of it. Sooner or later, Elak will fall foul of our many enemies. A king should rule with an army at his back, always!”

“This time he goes too far,” said Scuvular. “He’s sailing westward.”

“Into Pictish seas?” said Mittrubos, horrified.

“Vannadas has been put in command again. He says Elak sails with a Pictish escort. An alliance.” Scuvular laced his words with scorn.

“By the gods,” murmured Mittrubos, “that’s a dangerous game. Elak trusts the Picts? Is he insane!”

“If the king falls during this mission, your brother, as first in line to succession, will take the Dragon Throne.”

Scuvular’s grin sent a chill through the Councilors, and above them, Olvaros also experienced deep unease.

“It brings me one step closer to the throne,” said Scuvular. “Vannadas does not enjoy the best of health. His wounds in service of Cyrena over the years have weakened him. His days are numbered.”

Mittrubos grimaced, but Kranaldis nodded. “Soon we must take drastic action, for the good of Cyrena.”

“For all Atlantis,” added Scuvular, whose ambitions were ill-concealed. For a while the men discussed their intentions, coldly plotting a course that would bring grim changes to the ruling of the state.

Olvaros had heard enough. It had been a close ally of Vannadas who’d employed him on this mission, for there’d been more than a little suspicion in the royal court that treachery was brewing. When was there not? Olvaros mused as he slipped back to the roof, leaving as discreetly as he had come. As he prepared to drop down to the alleyway and back towards the royal courts, something struck him hard under his ribs, and a sudden fire burned sharply in his gut. He sank down, gasping in agony.

An arrow was lodged in him, and he knew instinctively it was a fatal strike. Already blood trickled from his mouth. As he fell over the edge of the roof into the darkness below, he heard a voice, something from a bad dream.

“Take him out to sea and let the sharks finish him.”

 

Chapter 4: In Troubled Waters

          “Dalan is much angered,” said Lycon softly. He stood beside Elak, both accoutered in the uniforms of Cyrena’s royal household guards. The deck of the Wavecutter, fleetest of Atlantean war galleys, swayed as the sleek craft sped through the western seas, great sails billowing in a light gale. Elak stood a head taller than his stocky companion, looking ahead to the prow, where the lone Druid leaned out and studied the seas and accompanying Pictish fleet. Elak and Lycon had taken on aliases for this mission. If the Pictish sea wolf had known that the Cyrenean king sailed in this company, the gods alone knew what advantage he’d make of it.

“Dalan’s anger is directed partly at me, for taking such a risk,,” Elak said with a wry grin. “Yet I sense in him a deeper anxiety. He sees things, Lycon, from the remote past, but also the paths of the future. It is the latter which so disturbs him.”

“Our fate?”

“Possibly. There’s something in the future of Atlantis hanging like the threat of a great storm in Dalan’s mind. He spoke to me of a crossroads in our fortunes and those of the Picts. What transpires now could effect the balance – stabilize it, or plunge us all into catastrophic wars. The misery they would cause across generations is what angers him. It’s why he’s come on this mission. To keep that balance.”

“Borga won’t betray us,” said Lycon, with conviction. “Not while his son is hostage in Epharra. They are Picts. Their blood is their bond.”

Elak nodded, though his face remained clouded. He knew little of his companion’s early life and had never sought to pry personal knowledge from him, but he recognized there was a degree of Pictish blood in him. Perhaps it accounted for his ferocity and dependability in battle. Many had mistaken Lycon for a drunken sot, bloated and unfit, but Elak knew well enough Lycon could match any man in combat. Certainly there was no one else he would rather have beside him in a tight corner – and they’d shared many of them, especially in the last year, when Elak’s dragon banner had been carried far and wide across Atlantis, bringing ever more states under the new empire’s control.

“Dalan is also concerned about Epharra,” said Elak. “My cousin, Vannadas, has done well for me, holding my throne while I’ve led our armies in the field. Some think he should be king in my place. Vannadas is loyal, though.”

“He would die rather than betray you,” said Lycon. “As would the vast majority of your people.”

Elak frowned. It had been Lycon’s way of gently reminding him that now was the time to be the king, to let go the wayward past of an adventurer with its independence and complete freedom of will. “I’m sure Vannadas will honor us. There are others, though, who might not. The Council is largely behind me, and as long as Zerrahydris is at its helm, they will support me.”

“He’ll be incensed when he discovers you’re on this voyage,” Lycon said with a low chuckle. “He’s an old woman at times. But in fairness, his advice is always sound.”

“There are those among the Councilors who might not be so loyal. Vannadas does not enjoy the best of health. If anything should happen to him, his younger brother Scuvular will succeed him.”

Lycon spat over the rail. “That devious rat! A man you should never trust. I’ve seen the naked envy in his eyes when he looks your way, Elak. He lusts for power – for the Dragon Throne itself.”

“Aye. He is watched. Vannadas, too, has doubts.”

“While the cat’s away, the vermin play.”

Elak was about to respond, when a shout from the ship’s mainmast snared his attention. The lookout had seen something in the surrounding waters.

Dalan approached. “We near the outer Pictish islands. Can you smell the air? Something has died here—a miasma hangs over the sea.”

At the rail, Elak and others of the crew stared at the rise and fall of the waves. In a moment they saw a mass of forms, tangled together like a long raft of weed, countless bodies, twisted and broken, and with them the bulbous, fat tendrils of some deep, oceanic creature, ripped and leaking. As the Wavecutter ploughed on through the murky waters there were more of these dreadful conglomerations. They were all Pictish.

“The Crawling Death!” said Lycon.

Dalan shook his head. “Front runners of its army.”

“A war canoe approaches,” said Lycon, watching the Pict fleet, which had sent the oncoming craft. Moments later Borga came aboard. Elak and Lycon slipped back into the ranks while Dalan met the Pictish king.

“Our easternmost island, Skaafelda, lies ahead,” said Borga. “We’ll land there. Have your men prepared. We may be attacked, though I believe Skaafelda to be a dead place now.” He spoke with barely suppressed fury. “We’ll go there in our war canoes.”

Lycon scowled, whispering to Elak, “Their canoes! We’ll be completely at their mercy.”

“I understand your concern. But I cannot believe Borga has brought us thus far to murder us. And he did not lie about the Crawling Death.”

An hour later several war canoes alighted on the pale beach of the island. Elak and Lycon were among the warriors Dalan selected to accompany him, and as they walked up towards the lush undergrowth and spreading jungle, the entire party was conscious of an unnatural atmosphere, the air heavy, as if something had been badly burned. Among the mottled greenery, there was an alien pall of decay.

Dalan clutched his staff tightly. It vibrated, like a tuning fork reacting to sorcery of the darkest kind. Instinctively he knew that horror lay beyond those trees.

 

Chapter 5: Island of Death

          Scuvular sipped his wine slowly, pushing away the remains of the large meal he’d just gorged. He studied his brother, Vannadas. Although the latter was his elder by four years, he looked far older, his shoulders sagging, the weight of his temporary office heavy. “No wonder you look so haggard,” Scuvular laughed mirthlessly. “These deceits will not suit the Council when they come to light.”

“Elak knows best how to serve Cyrena,” Vannadas snapped, breaking off in a fit of coughing.

“Such risks, though! Elak is younger than I am, hardly out of boyhood. Statesmanship is learned over many years. Elak is at times a hothead. I grant you he’s a wonderful warrior, always prominent in battle, leading by example. But he’d be no good to Atlantis dead!”

“He is well protected.”

“By that drunken sot, Lycon!”

“Lycon’s nobody’s fool. And Dalan wields the great power of the ages.”

Scuvular nodded, though his whole mien suggested scorn. “He’ll need it against Pictish savagery. If Borga discovers our king is there in his clutches -”

“He dare not act against him.”

“You mean we have his son, Kaa Mag Borga? Oh yes, I know about him. Shut away here in Epharra with two of his own guards, brooding in his seclusion.”

“Borga would never do anything to risk his son’s life.”

“If it is his son.”

Vannadas’s face clouded. “What are you talking about?”

“We’ve only his word for it. The Pict calling himself Kaa Mag Borga may be a fraud. A sacrifice. Let my men interrogate him -”

“No! Dalan was satisfied. We do as we have been ordered by the king.”

Scuvular sat back, waving his arms in a gesture of acceptance. “Of course. But be aware the Council is divided on this, brother. It is only reasonable of them. We are entering a new era. Once the southern states of Atlantis are brought under our banners, we will rule the entire continent. Something which will be very evident to Borga and his wolves. A united Atlantis would hardly sit well with his ambitions.”

“For now, we wait,” said Vannadas.

Scuvular knew his brother well. He’d been chosen for his obdurate loyalty to the young king. Well, there was one way to eliminate Elak. If Kaa Mag Borga and his guards should be found murdered, and if word of such Atlantean perfidy got back to the Pictish king, Elak wouldn’t survive another day. And if Borga invaded, Scuvular thought, an outraged and unified Atlantis would be ready for him. He poured himself more wine. So—if Borga’s son is killed and one of the guards escapes and flees back to the west with word of the betrayal…

*

          On Skaafelda the Picts and Atlanteans broke through the overgrown trail and came upon the mangled ruins of a former stronghold. Dalan surveyed the broken remains with a deep frown, and among the guards behind him, Elak and Lycon suppressed gasps of horror. The Pictish buildings were not as elaborate or advanced as Atlantean architecture, most having been hewn from the rock faces and cliffs of the area, roofs constructed from beams and thick leaves. Devastation was in evidence everywhere. Stone had been calcified and in the bright light of midday its bleached whiteness was like soiled snow, every wall tainted by whatever had touched it, as if an unnatural canker had been let loose. Trees had also been contaminated, and a closer inspection revealed numerous bodies, many tangled together like roots, all morphed to chalk-like stone.

Borga stood beside the Druid. “The Crawling Death. No one here survived it.”

“It came from the sea,” said Dalan. “I have read of such things in ancient manuscripts, a curse almost beyond living memory.”

Elak and his warriors studied the calcified dead, whose faces were like those of crude, primitive statues, features crumbling, sloughed off, or sucked from them. Limbs were cracked and broken, most knotted together horribly, as if fused in a firestorm. Among all the debris there were great coils, also transmogrified into flaking stone. Serpents, perhaps, or the once undulating arms of whatever had come up from the ocean deeps. Over everything hung the stifling reek of sorcery.

“Where else has this happened?” Dalan asked Borga.

“The source is in the northernmost of our islands, Brae Calaadas. We’ve been hearing rumors of a secret sect there for years. Whenever we’ve sent men to investigate, they’ve returned with tales of the Crawling Death and the stone curse it brings. Until recently, it kept to itself, seeming to have no interest in the rest of the isles. So we shunned it and kept watch. Now this has happened here and on other of our smaller, eastern islands at the rim. It cannot be resisted.”

Dalan shook his head. “Not without a counterbalancing sorcery.”

“Can you provide it?”

“Not alone. There are powers I can call upon, but I can be no more than a focal point. You have many shamans? What are their numbers?”

For a moment Borga’s face clouded, clearly reluctant to release such knowledge, but he managed an evasive reply. “Every major island has one, though many guard their powers jealously. I’ve spoken to other Pictish kings. We have fought each other for many years, though in recent times there is an uneasy peace in place.”

Which is one reason you’ve never crossed the ocean in vast numbers to invade Atlantis, Dalan thought.

Borga may have read his thoughts, for he smiled wryly. “The shamans enjoy individual power, under their kings. To combine strengths might lessen their individual standings.”

“The Crawling Death, and more specifically, whoever is controlling it, will know that. They’ll do as they have done here, cut you down, one by one. Only in unity can you defeat this enemy.”

“Which is why I have called upon you and your young king for aid. Not all my fellow kings think well of me for that. Doubtless some have called for my head on a spear.” Borga laughed, spitting into the white dust.

“Who controls these dark powers?”

“We hear whispers of a sect, several sorcerers from the far north, almost in the ice regions. A place of mysteries and terrors from the underworld, where a pit gapes on a realm inhabited by shunned gods. It is how our myth-makers speak of it. Until now, no more than a legendary, sleeping realm.” He pointed at the grim chaos around them. “But sleeping no more.”

 

Chapter 6: A Gathering of Kings

          Elak spoke softly in the confines of the small cabin where he, Lycon and Dalan had retired for the night on the Wavecutter, away from Pictish ears. “What can we achieve, Dalan? What Borga has described is a danger far beyond what I expected. What can one Atlantean ship and your high magic do against this monstrous invader? Should we turn back and gather a fleet, if we are to assist Borga?”

Dalan looked nonplussed, something rare for the Druid. “We are committed to visiting the Pictish council. To slip away now would be seen as cowardly, and there could be dire repercussions.”

“I did not mean flight!” said Elak. “I spoke of a tactical withdrawal, with Borga’s understanding -”

Dalan knew that, however brash and impulsive Elak could be at times, he was no coward. And the young man was already showing signs of diplomacy. “I think we should learn more of this northern threat. Hear their council then choose our path.”

Lycon’s scowled grimly. “They’re infamous for their treachery,” he said. “If we bring a fleet to their waters, we need to be very sure of Borga. How far can we trust him?”

Not for the first time, Elak wondered about his friend’s attitude towards the Picts. The two nations had warred periodically for many years. Some deep grudge was locked inside Lycon, something that fueled his animosity.

Several more days passed. The sea remained calm, its fogs clearing to reveal the main land mass of the Pictish islands, the huge Krannach, looming on the horizon. Its outer archipelago soon enfolded the fleet. The sun blazed and seabirds whirled in great clouds – the evil atmosphere at Skaafelda appeared to be a distant nightmare, and as the Wavecutter eased into the harbor berth prepared for it at Krannach’s main port, the world seemed a calmer place.

*

          Elak studied the faces around him in the huge Pictish council room. Several kings were present, their tribes coming from far and wide, their many islands stretching across a great expanse of the western ocean. Each tribal king, like Borga, was battle-hardened, a fierce warrior used to the rigors of local wars and sea-faring raids across the world. In recent times Atlantis had become less of a target for them, but Elak knew a day might come when old rivalries would flare anew. Here, in this seething council, where scores of warriors lined the circular hall, all fully armed, some even painted for war, the young king felt a little intimidated and for once questioned his decision to risk himself in this venture. He sensed, too, other figures who wore the shadows like cloaks.

Borga addressed the gathering, his voice rising above and silencing the clamor. He spoke of his voyage to Cyrena’s shore and of his appealed to the Atlanteans. He introduced Dalan, and although Borga made much of the Druid’s powers and willingness to combat the Crawling Death and its masters, there remained a degree of suspicion and hostility among the Pictish ranks. There were kings here who visibly disapproved of Borga’s actions, though for now they had set these aside, listening. The terrors that had been unleashed on their nation had temporarily subdued their belligerence.

When Borga concluded, one of the kings stepped forward, muscular arms folded across a huge chest in a clear gesture of defiance. “Will this high and mighty Druid tell us how he intends to stem the black tide from the north?” There was a chorus of wolf-like growls behind him and several blades and spears gleamed in the filtered daylight. “What powers does he have?”

Dalan remained outwardly calm. He stood tall on the dais where he and Borga addressed the warriors. He raised his staff. “Powers have been given to me,” he said calmly. “My staff embodies ancient magic, handed down for many generations. What lies herein is said to have originated in the stars. Yet it will not be enough to crush your tormentors. Where are your shamans?”

From the closely ranked audience, several of the figures who had kept in shadow now showed themselves, men unlike other Picts, much older men, their hunched bodies wrapped in furs and pelts, their arms circled with gold and silver, numerous tokens hanging from their necks, carved bones and brilliant gems. Each shaman held a long, elaborately carved staff, from which feathers and more bones hung. Their faces, daubed with garish paint, fixed doubting gazes upon Dalan: their eyes were filled with challenge, for in this realm, only they were holders of the ancient powers, the wielders of sorcery.

The air about Dalan’s staff hummed as though a swarm of hornets flew around it. “My staff alone will not be enough. It will need the combined strength of yours. A mixture of spells and sorcery that can break the power from the north. I have seen it!” he said, his voice suddenly raised like a strong wind, so that for a moment the entire company felt that vibration of power.

One of the shamans spoke. He was the eldest of them, gnarled and contorted, though his ancient frame yet throbbed with supernatural energy that made the others fall back in respect. “I am Cruath Morgas, servant of the Pictish Lords of Midnight.”

Dalan and his companions saw the blind, white eyes, although they understood that here was a man of vision, a man who had looked beyond normal human realms, his power unquestionable. “I read the power you bring, Druid. Let no man here doubt it! Yet I ask – why are you here? Why should you aid your ancestral enemies? You and your Atlanteans, whose hands are red with Pictish blood. I smell it upon you!”

This brought a great howl from the massed warriors. The blind eyes of Cruath Morgas turned upwards to the daylight seeping in through the high rafters. “The Lords of Midnight are vengeful gods. Blood for blood is their way.”

Again the Picts howled, now like a vast wolf pack, baying for the blood that the shaman spoke of, blood they were eager to spill.

Elak’s hand tightened on the hilt of his rapier. If this came to a fight, he and his men would surely be overwhelmed.

 

Chapter 7: The Eyes of the Shaman

          Cruath Morgas stilled the mob by raising a withered hand. His dead eyes fixed on Dalan,  lips twisted in a grim smile.

The Druid remained calm. “I have seen the workings of the enemy, and the chaos that is the Crawling Death. If it brings ruin to the Pictish nation, it will not stop at that. It will cross the ocean to Atlantis and all the world. The darkest of gods are stirring—their work must be undone, whatever strange pacts it takes. Pictish and Atlantean power, fused into a mighty weapon of resistance, will rise above the darkness. All else must be set aside. Pict and Atlantean must stand shoulder to shoulder. Divided, we will all be drowned in the coming madness.”

Silence gripped the huge chamber, the Picts hanging on the reply of Cruath Morgas, whose shrivelled body ironically held the balance of power. The shaman was slowly nodding, as if his inner eye could view the visions conjured by the Druid’s powerful speech. His head turned so it seemed he was studying the Atlantean warriors behind and below Dalan. Elak had been permitted to bring a score of them with him to this council. Like the Picts, they had retained their weapons, though they stood as a solid unit, silent and unblinking. The shaman moved awkwardly toward their front rank.

“These are your finest,” he said. “Every man here has distinguished himself in your recent wars, your young king’s rise to becoming overlord of Atlantis. You would have Pictish warriors beside them in your annexation of total eastern power. This is the price we must pay for borrowing your sorcery.”

Dalan said nothing, but watched the old shaman closely as he stood under the very gaze of the Atlanteans, sniffing like a hound. Cruath Morgas gently pushed aside two of the unresistant warriors and then two more behind them, creating an opening in their ranks as they shrank from his touch. “Come forward,” he called, indicating Lycon, with a grin of triumph.

Beside Lycon, Elak tensed. He knew well enough these moments were to be a trial. Lycon would have to obey. To Elak’s relief, he did so, stepping out to face the shaman.

Cruath Morgas touched Lycon’s arm gently. “As I thought,” he said. “Here is a man with Pictish blood in his veins. Do you deny it?”

Elak could see the anger rising in his companion. If it gave way to temper –

“No,” said Lycon.

“Your mother,” said the shaman. “She was a Pict.”

Lycon nodded.

“And you are Lycon, the closest of King Elak’s warriors, are you not?”

There was a unified gasp from the ranks of the Picts, for word of Lycon’s prowess had reached these shores, carried home by raiders who had studied the rise of Cyrena like hawks.

“It is said,” Cruath Morgas went on, “that you once swore a blood vow that you would bring the Pictish clans to their knees if ever your king brought war to us. Many of our warriors would put that proud boast to the test – here and now.”

Before Lycon could respond, Elak pushed through his guards and stood beside his companion, pulling free his rapier.

“It is also said that the king’s servant never ventures far from his side,” said the shaman, his blind eyes turned to Elak as though he could see him plainly. “Is that not so – Elak of Atlantis?”

At this, pandemonium broke out among the Picts, and several of the kings stepped forward, swords drawn, holding back what was now an angry mob.

“I am Elak, yes, but know this. I will defend Lycon with my life. As will the Druid. You may think to kill us now, but we will take many of you with us -”

“Wait!” Dalan’s voice was imperious and sounded around the hall like a peal of thunder. “This is not the time for killing!”

Beside him on the dais, Borga raised his own blade. “Be silent!” he roared to the masses. “I have not bargained with Atlantis to have her king brought here and betrayed! My son stands as surety for my bond. He is in Epharra. Atlantis has acted in good faith. And Elak has seen for himself what we face.”

Elak wondered if Borga had known his identity all along. If he had, the Pictish king hid it well.

One of the kings towered over Cruath Morgas. He was unusually big of stature for a Pict, whose men were generally far shorter. Like Borga, he was in his prime, and his bronzed body rippled with muscle, shining like polished hardwood. Tattoos wound around his arms and across his chest, serpents and dragons, mouths open to reveal fangs colored with blood. He held a huge war ax and two swords jutted from his thick leather belt. “You know me,” he called to the warriors. “I am Slaath Mag Barrin, king of the western shores of Pictdom. I bow the knee to no man.” He gazed meaningfully at Borga as he spoke.

Elak read the enmity between them, guessing that here was the main threat to Borga’s ambitions to rule all Pictish clans.

“I will never fight beside an Atlantean, even in an alliance!” Barrin roared like a bull, huge frame quivering with emotion. “My family have fought Atlanteans since the dawn of days. Some fell into slavery at their hands!”

Borga raised his hand and the hubbub among the warriors slowly subsided. “We have a history of death and bloodshed. But that ends if the Crawling Death takes us down to hell. Without Atlantean steel beside us, we are damned.”

Barrin spat. “That for Atlantean steel.” He glared at Elak. “Each of my warriors are worth ten of yours. You are not fit to stand at our side.”

Borga would have roared back angrily, but Elak was not intimidated. Tall as he was, Barrin was a head taller. “If you doubt my mettle, then put it to the test. Call out your finest warrior.” Elak held up his rapier. “Let us see if he can match me.”

Barrin laughed and rammed his ax haft into the earthen floor, stepping back. “I accept your challenge. As for your opponent, why, what Pict here would deny me that pleasure?”

 

Chapter 8: A Clash of Steel

          A space was quickly cleared at the foot of the dais, allowing Elak and the huge Pict to circle each other, eyes locked, teeth barred in grim smiles. Lycon and Dalan knew they dared not interfere, both cursing under their breaths at Elak’s impetuosity. If he lost this fight, he’d forfeit his life and if that happened the Cyrenian cause would be in ruins. It was one roll of the dice too many. Dalan put his hand gently on Lycon’s shoulder, feeling the smoldering frustration in the man, but they remained still and silent.

Slaath Mag Barrin fought with a sword in each hand, both short, stabbing weapons, ideal for close-in fighting. The air hissed as he swung the blades in a few initial passes, his face the face of a wolf scenting blood. Around him the Picts growled encouragement. All the ancient enmity between them and the easterners boiled. Borga looked on with a deep scowl, though this affair had gone beyond his intervention.

Elak was fast, ducking and weaving with deceptive speed for his height, and Barrin’s blades chopped at his shadow. Elak used his rapier like a serpent’s tongue, prodding and probing inside the Pict’s guard, but Barrin, for all his size, was also nimble, a veteran of numerous fights, as the countless scars on his hide attested. The blades met and a shower of sparks sizzled like a halo around the two men, the air shimmering. Barrin feinted with his left blade, then struck upward with his right. The sword point traced a thin line from Elak’s midriff to his upper chest, parting the cloth and nicking flesh. It brought a great roar from the watchers in the hall, but Elak’s immediate riposte turned this into a gasp as the rapier’s point tore across Barrin’s left shoulder, also drawing blood. It ran freely down his upper arm. If it had pained him, he made no show of it, simply grunting dismissively, redoubling his efforts.

For a long time they tested each other. Barrin was no fool, and would not be tempted to any rash flurry. He was a natural swordsman and Elak knew that if the Pict had been trained by one of his own master guardsmen, he would have been even more formidable. It took all Elak’s skill to keep him at bay, parrying first the left blade, then the right. The circling continued, both men’s chests heaving with effort. It began to seem that the man who tired first would be the one to fall. And yet neither flagged.

Barrin broke the pattern and made a rush, using his swords in sweeps, eschewing finesse and opting for power. It seemed that he would overcome Elak with sheer animal strength, but again the young king slipped aside and drove his blade in at his opponent, ripping flesh from his upper arm. This time Barrin was angered, and he roared with fury. He swung round and flew at Elak like a maddened bull, chopping relentlessly. Elak’s thinner blade took the blows and withstood them, deflecting them without snapping, as many blades would have. Elak, however, was driven back.

They broke apart, breath rasping. Barrin’s bloodied left arm leaked so much blood to his hand, that the sword hilt had grown slippery. With a snarl he tossed the weapon aside and fought on with one blade. He was no less dangerous and soon had dealt Elak a cut to the ribs, though the wound was slight. It served, however, to bring more howls of glee from the audience, who sensed a swing of power Barrin’s way. The Pict aimed a kick at his opponent from close quarters, but Elak remained agile and evaded it. He closed in and Barrin defended his upper torso from another thrust of the rapier.

It never came. Instead Elak went low and ran the point of the rapier into Barrin’s left thigh, going in deep and drawing a shriek of pain from the huge warrior. Elak leapt back in time to avoid a slicing cut of Pictish steel and although Barrin made to follow up, his wounded leg could not take the strain and he went down, falling to his knees, his sword knocked from his grip by the impact. He scrambled to retrieve it, but Elak had moved with the speed of a striking serpent and trod hard on the blade. Barrin swore, making to rise, but Elak’s rapier point snaked out and touched the flesh under his chin.

Silence gripped the entire hall. No one moved. It was over, and Barrin was about to be dispatched. He lifted his head high, exposing his neck. It would be a proud death, one that his people would remember.

Elak paused, and something in his eyes relayed to Barrin that he would not administer the kill.

“The victory is yours, eastern vermin!” Barrin snarled. “Take your prize. End it!”

Still Elak hesitated. It was enough that he’d triumphed. There was no need to waste the life of this powerful warrior.

Mercy was not the Pictish way, however. Barrin scorned it and, before Elak could react, thrust his head forward, so that the point of Elak’s rapier was driven through his neck and out the other side, spilling more blood. The huge Pict’s eyes widened as he tried to shout out one last defiant appeal to his dark gods, then clouded over as he toppled sideways. Elak glared at his blade as though it had betrayed him. He was conscious of the shouts of the Picts and swung round, ready to defend himself against the expected tide of fury.

However, they held back, their voices subsiding. One man stepped forward. He was a young warrior in his prime. He pulled Barrin’s great ax from the ground and kissed its wide blade. He stood before Elak, and for all his latent ferocity the young king saw tears in his eyes.

“I am Kurrach Mag Barrin, son of the fallen.”

Elak wiped the streaming sweat from his face. If he must fight again, it would be an unequal contest, this time one he was certain he could not win.

 

Chapter 9: The Twisted Plan

                    Scuvular leaned back lazily in the padded chair. In this cramped room, above the drinking hall of a dockside inn, the sounds of laughter and singing from below were muted. The Councilors Kranaldis and Mittrubos sat with Scuvular, Mittrubos as nervous as a cat, twitching each time a louder burst of noise welled up from under the floor. This was a vile den, frequented by thieves and pirates, barely tolerated by Epharra’s officials. However, Scuvular had insisted on its use as a precaution against any more of Vannadas’s spies. To be found plotting together now would undo everything.

“It’s all a matter of timing,” said Scuvular, thick features grotesque in the candle-light.

“How much longer?” said Mittrubos.

Kranaldis was less tense, but nevertheless frowned uneasily. “Elak has been gone for several weeks, and may be away for more.”

“It’s a long voyage to the Pictish isles. The longer he’s away, the more restless the people get. And you know how uncomfortable the Council is.”

Kranaldis nodded. “Zerrahydris frets like an old maid.”

“Concerned about the Pictish guests, no doubt. They’re restless, too. Their confinement is like imprisonment. Picts like the outdoor life.”

“So what is your proposal?” said Mittrubos.

“As you know, I have a small fleet of trading vessels. It’s due back in Epharra from the western port of San-Mu in a matter of days. The fleet’s captain, Theorron,  is used to carrying out special missions for me.”

Both Councilors had heard more than a few rumors that Scuvular engaged in illegal trade. They had deflected the inquiries into it occasionally set up by their colleagues, as it played to their advantage, but they found Scuvular’s operations distasteful.

Scuvular smiled with self-satisfaction. “I have men involved in the guarding of the Picts, rotated with other guards. When the moment is ripe, my guards will slay Kaa Mag Borga and one of his protectors. The other will be, ah, rescued, and smuggled away before he can be interrogated by Vannadas. His story at home will be it was on the orders of Vannadas that the Pictish king’s son was murdered. My men will bring the Pict secretly to me and I will profess my horror at the outrage and offer to get the Pict to safety.”

“At a price,” said Kranaldis, and for once his grim features broke in a smile.

Scuvular gave a low laugh. “Of course. I will offer Borga assistance in his vengeance. Captain Theorron will ship the Pict back to his homeland, leaving Epharra at night, under cover of another trading mission. Once there, the Pict will expose Elak’s treachery and we’ll be rid of him, and that accursed Druid.”

Mittrubos shuddered. “Surely Borga will launch a war fleet upon us!”

“For certain. And its victory will be assured, for he’ll have allies here. I’ll have groomed the Pict accordingly. He’ll believe I sought to resist the killing of Kaa Mag Borga and that I have supporters who’ll help Borga’s invaders get into Epharra and bring down the remainder of Elak’s supporters, including Zerrahydris and all Councilors who are not with us.”

Kranaldis nodded slowly. “It is well reasoned. Dangerous, but Borga will know an invasion of Epharra would be risky without inside help. He couldn’t be sure of taking the city.”

“Once the victory is his, he’ll not want to set up a base here,” said Scuvular. “He’ll have to make me his satrap.”

Mittrubos paled. “Gods, but we’ll be an annex of the Pictish empire.”

Scuvular laughed. “I don’t think so. Elak has almost completed the subjugation of all Atlantis. Once I sit upon the Dragon Throne, I’ll be satrap in name only. I’ll have the entire continent at my disposal—I’ll kick the Picts back into the ocean and harry them well clear of our shores. As I said, timing is of the essence. And patience. For now, we await the return of my trading fleet. Once Theorron arrives, we’ll set events in motion. Shall I order us some wine? This inn may be a dung hole, but I promise you, the vintage here is excellent.”

*

          Elak was aware of the intense silence gripping the hall. He was prepared for Kurrach Mag Barrin’s attack, as the great ax rose before him. However, the young warrior turned its gleaming blade and proferred it to the Atlantean, dropping to one knee as he did so.

“The victory was fairly won,” he said, eyes fixed on the still form of his fallen father. “The House of Barrin will stand with you.”

“And Atlantis will stand beside you,” said Elak, hugely relieved. “Together we’ll oppose the Crawling Death.”

Cruath Morgas turned to the gathered Picts. “You have heard King Elak. See, his blood mixes with that of the Picts! Now it begins. Now we call upon the Lords of Midnight to aid us.”

 

Chapter 10: The Teeth of the Island

          The Wavecutter rode the sea effortlessly, spume flying back across its deck, where Elak’s warriors waited patiently, watching the waters ahead as the ship passed through the islands’ labyrinthine passages. Dalan stood impassively with Elak and Lycon. On either side of the ship, the leading Pictish craft also surged northward. These vessels were less sleek, heavier in the beam, their billowing sails less trim, and Elak knew that he could outrun them easily if it came to a race. He also knew Borga had allowed him to sail in the Wavecutter rather than in a Pictish craft so neither he nor his companions, especially Dalan, would be able to study it in detail.

With a strong gale blustering behind it, the fleet sped northwards swiftly and arrived at the outer islands in less than a week. Evening was waning, the sun’s crimson ball slipping into the western ocean as the lookouts sighted the remote Brae Calaadas, outpost of the Pictish isles. It was a large island, many scores of miles across, its southern coast sheltered from the blasts of the northern weather, strung with inlets, small beaches and coves. The fleet eased into one of the wider coves, beaching in twilight. Above it, hanging like a dark fist, the packed trees were a silent a wall.

Elak and his companions alighted and in moments Borga, Kurrach Mag Barrin and other Pict warriors and their shamans joined them in the shifting sands. Borga indicated the dense forest. “We camp there for the night.”

Elak would have preferred to remain on his ship, but knew the Picts were primarily landsmen. They had taken to the seas through necessity, but unlike the Atlanteans were not natural sailors. Elak nodded to Borga, and the King led the war party, several hundred men strong, up the beach to an almost invisible path into the first thicket.

*

          Long before dawn, Borga and a few picked warriors and Cruath Morgas came to Dalan, who had slept lightly. “Across the valley, cut into the low hills, lies the ancient citadel of Tergarroc. It is a place of legends and ghosts, and at its heart lies a system of caves that are said to plunge into the underworld, the spirit regions.”

Dalan, Elak and Lycon nodded in silence. The Picts were a superstitious race, but here in this region, who knew what dark gods and spirits roamed?

“We must learn the strength of this sect,” Borga went on. “Will you spy on them with me?”

Elak nodded, glad to be active. The party, including fifty Pict warriors and as many of Elak’s,  merged once more with the forest and wove its way through the nocturnal gloom. Above them the night sky was cloudless, sprinkled with a myriad stars, their glare as piercing as eyes, and the men sensed they were being evaluated by the old gods they were disturbing. Elak felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stirring, expecting at any moment to see spectral figures seeping out of the trees. This was a strange, alien terrain, its air like no other he had experienced, as if he had crossed into another world, a place of the dead and unknown powers. The air grew colder, closing like fingers of frost, and the sea seemed very remote.

They cut through a deep ravine and climbed its far end until at length they broke through the trees and stood high up on the rim of a huge depression, crater-like, the far side of which rose even higher. The brilliant starlight, pulsing with strange energies, picked out the buildings and caves of the city, Tergarroc. It seemed to hang, suspended from the vertiginous cliffs, huge tangles of forest interwoven about its angled streets and walkways like something from a disturbed dream. Indistinct shapes flapped around the towers and crooked knots of immense trunk, creatures of the night that swooped and dipped like huge bats, guardians perhaps of the bizarre city.

“The masters of the Crawling Death are within those walls,” said Borga softly to Elak.

Dalan studied the lower slopes of the city, where several wide steps and ramps dropped into a large, circular lake whose black waters were as smooth as oil, redolent with evil airs, streamers of curling mist rising like an evil breath. The water began to swirl slowly, as if stirred by a mighty, unseen hand. “Whatever powers lie here, they have sensed us,” Dalan said, gripping his staff. Behind him a group of the Pictish shamans moved cautiously to the lip of the drop, studying the waters as thicker mist tendrils rose.

There came a loud crack! across the lake, high up along the rock rim, and all eyes focused on the stone. An indefinable shape moved as an immense slab of rock and massive root broke free of the cliff and slid towards the water. Other such shapes burst from the walls and slipped down. There was something deliberate about the slow fall. The waters boiled as the monstrous things plunged in, clouds of steam rising. Behind them, the rockfalls had left vast gashes in the cliff face and as Elak and his companions watched, they saw the stone ridge morphing until a dreadful, spectacular image presented itself. The scarp now had the look of a row of colossal, cracked teeth.

“They watch,” said Dalan, pointing to the city. “The sorcerers who control the elements in this place see us.” He raised his staff and called to the shamans. “With me! Pour what powers you have in your staffs into mine. Quickly!”

Fear overcame their reluctance to serve the Druid’s will, and in moments a dozen shamans had directed the energy of their staffs into Dalan’s. He pointed it at the seething lake, and a stream of white light beamed down like molten fire. For long moments the sound of that power and the roar of the collapsing stone clashed, a raging, elemental fury, until at last things fell eerily silent. As the waters churned anew, serpentine shapes burst up from the deeps, coils of some dread undersea nightmare. Elak had seen these before – floating in the ocean, twined with mounds of the dead, and at Skaafelda, where the white stone had calcified even more fallen.

“The Crawling Death is come!” cried Borga, about to flee.

“Wait!” shouted Dalan. As the writhing shadows of horror thrashed ashore below them, snaking up this side of the cliff, the waters of the lake again boiled, then abruptly subsided, sucked downwards into the depths of the earth, driven there by the power of Dalan’s sorcery. There was a final moment of stillness, as though all the powers at play here were waiting.

“Do you hear it!” said Lycon. “From below. Dalan, you have woken another power! Can you not feel the island move? Whatever is rising, it will tear the land apart – and us with it!”

“Lords of Midnight, come to our aid!” roared Borga, raising his war ax high, as the entire company felt the grotesque shifting of the island, like an impossibly huge beast rousing itself. Overhead the clouds boiled, as though the ancient Pict gods had answered the king’s shout.

 

Chapter 11: A Bloody Night in Epharra.

          A small group of men passed through shadowy, narrow alleyways and side streets, where curious moonlight could not reach down and reveal who these silent creatures were. They were armed, all but one wearing the livery of the royal guards, closest to the throne. The leader wore a single, thick robe, cowled to make his identity even more secret. With Scuvular were a dozen of his most trusted warriors, greedy men who had been promised much when their master achieved his ambitions. Tonight would play a pivotal part in them. They made their way to a small temple, some distance from the city’s heart, within whose high walled, secure gardens and inner retreat, the three Picts had been housed while the king and Borga undertook their business in the west.

Scuvular led his men to a side gate, unlocking it and admitting them. Quietly they padded to the inner gardens. “You have your instructions,” said Scuvular, his men nodding. They were ruthless and ambitious and would not balk at the bloody work in hand. Scuvular watched them depart, turning to the one who remained.

“Now, we watch, Azarvis.” Scuvular led the soldier around the garden to a narrow window, through which they could study unfolding events.

They saw the warriors crossing a lawn, limned in moonlight. Scuvular knew there was no one else here. The Picts had been left in peace, doubtless bored with their weeks-long confinement, but they were a stoic race and obeyed whatever orders their kings gave them. From the inner chamber, three men stepped into the light. This was Kaa Mag Borga and his two personal guards. They were not armed, though they had protested this, nor did they wear much protective clothing. The Pictish king’s son did not trust the Atlanteans, but his father had warned him that without their aid, the fate of the islands hung by a thread.

Scuvular’s assassins wasted no time. They drew their blades and advanced on the Picts with clear intent. The first of them rushed at Kaa Mag Borga, but the young Pict was wide awake, his distrust of the intruders firing up his own blood-lust. As the warrior drove at him, the Pict ducked and ran forward, his wide shoulders crashing into the lower abdomen of his assailant and then tossing him up and over as a bull tosses a man. The warrior hit the ground hard and before he could rise, the fist of the first bodyguard smashing into the side of his head, laying him out cold. His sword was immediately snatched up.

Kaa Mag Borga stepped aside as his companion used the sword to deflect the blade of the second and third attackers, and with deft but brutal hacking strokes, cut into flesh and bone, disarming both of them. In a matter of fierce moments the three Picts were armed. The remainder of the warriors closed in, trying to circle the Picts, but the three intended victims formed a close circle that afforded a tight defense.

From the hidden window, Scuvular cursed softly. It was essential that the Picts were killed. He cursed further when another of his warriors was gutted, and as the man fell, spewing blood, he tangled with the soldier behind him, and had no time to adjust his balance before one of the Picts drove his blade into his exposed throat. Though outnumbered, it was evident that the Picts, armed as they were, would not be cut down. Instead they took the offensive. A vicious fight ensued, blades clashing, bones breaking, and blood dripping.

Scuvular was quick to re-think his plans. “Stay here, Azarvis. Above all, do not be seen in that livery.” Scuvular went round to the garden’s gate and entered, holding a short stabbing sword of his own. When he reached the fight, he allowed himself to be seen by the Picts, who were about to chop down the last of their opponents, and feigned horror at what he saw.

“Traitorous vermin!” Scuvular cried, and drove his blade into the gut of the startled Atlantean warrior before him. As the man slid to the ground, Scuvular watched the others die in a last violent press by the Picts.

“Royal guards!” said Scuvular. “By their livery! They serve the Council. I know who is behind this.”

Kaa Mag Borga came close to him, the bloody sword rising as if it would finish its savage work with Scuvular’s death. “My father will burn your city to the ground for this.”

“Wait! This is not the work of the ruling Council. Renegades are behind this. You must stay here. I will expose them. You will be safe. Your mission will not be compromised.” His heart pounded as he could see the uncertainty in the Pict’s eyes, but at last the warrior nodded.

“Do what you must. But we keep the swords.”

Scuvular nodded and quickly left, locking the gate behind him. Azarvis, who had seen the entire debacle, gaped at his master and the blood splashed liberally across his robe.

“Wait awhile in the shadows until I call on you. Do not leave until I come to you again.”

Azarvis did as bidden and the night swallowed his master. Scuvular made his way as swiftly as he could through more cramped alleys until he reached the back of an inn. He went upstairs to private chambers he had hired. Mittrubos and Kranaldis awaited him. They saw the blood and their faces were white with apprehension.

“It is done,” said Scuvular. “Kaa Mag Borga is slain, with one of his guards. It but remains to get the other away, back to his lands, to report. Come, you must help me.”

He led the Councilors to the temple’s garden, although they were both reluctant to enter, especially Mittrubos, who shook with terror. Inside, they found the slaughtered guards and stood over them, horrified.

“Gods,” said Kranaldis. “Must we dispose of these?”

From the shadows, the three wraith-like Picts stepped forward, their blades raised.

Scuvular pulled out his own weapon once more and rushed upon Mittrubos. “Strike!” he cried to the Picts. “These are the men who betrayed you. False Councilors! They want no part of a Pictish alliance!”

Mittrubos fell, his face a mask of shock, dying as the Picts combined to cut down Kranaldis.

“I will bring Vannadas, the king’s regent, to see this perfidy. He will reassure you that it was no more than a small group of dissidents.”

Kaa Mag Borga and his men looked slightly bemused, but again they allowed Scuvular to leave them. Outside the garden once more, Scuvular called on Azarvis.

“Make a small cut across my face,” said Scuvular. “And my arm – open the flesh, though carefully. I would not bleed to death.” He could see Azarvis looked bewildered. “Do it, man! Our plan has failed. I have to convince the Council that I had no part in this conspiracy. It must be made to look as though Mittrubos and Kranaldis were to blame and tried to kill me. I aided the Picts in thwarting them, but took the cuts for my trouble. Do this for me, Azarvis, and say nothing. With the death of the men in the garden, you are now promoted to be my prime captain. There will be another time for rebellion.”

Azarvis nodded, his face somber. His eyes, however, attested to his delight. One man’s misfortune was another man’s gold.

 

Chapter 12: The Ocean’s Fury

A remote, dreadful roaring rose from the bowels of the emptied lake. Elak and his companions watched as the shapes that had been clambering up towards them like mutated ogres paused as though confused by the tumultuous din below.

“We stand firm!” Dalan shouted and around him the warriors and shamans were like statues, rooted by their dread of what must be rising, a slumbering god free of the shackles of ancient sleep. Borga’s face was set, the fear locked inside him held under control as he gripped his war ax and prepared to die before giving ground, even though the temptation to flee was almost overpowering. His men were with him. It was not the Pictish way to abandon a leader.

Abruptly there was an explosion from the drained lake as a huge fountain burst skyward, a concentrated column of water, within it a distorted visage, a screaming face, an elemental god, formed from its own fury. White spume cascaded over the rocks. The column and face within it collapsed but rose again, as if huge oceanic waves were pounding a shore at the height of a storm. The earth shook and more chunks of white cliff crumbled into the thundering waters, dragging masses of trailing vegetation into the maelstrom.

“The ocean below the island,” said Elak. “I can smell the salt. See – where it strikes the rocks, the surf breaks as if on a beach. Dalan has tapped the ocean.”

Lycon nodded in horror. “We cannot remain here. We’ll be engulfed.” He pointed to the rising waters. Already  the living sea had reached the Crawling Death and the monstrous figures, tearing at them with saline fingers, dragging them down into the deeps. The swirling waters thrashed as though huge sea leviathans were writhing in their death throes. The quays and ramps at the foot of Tergarroc began to twist and tumble like rotting logs battered by a rising flood and presently the lower buildings of the city tumbled away, instantly churned to mud.

“The sorcerers flee!” called Dalan. “I sense their terror. They are no match for the ocean gods.”

“What have you unleashed?” said Elak. “Can you control it?”

“I have merely directed its power. The evil that rooted here on Brae Calaadas was an affront to the deep dwellers. Sorcery protected it, but our own was the key to unlocking the barriers. The sea will do the work of the gods.”

Elak would have replied, but a wall of water rose up before them—there could be no possible escape from its battering embrace as it collapsed and poured down the outer slopes of the rim. However, as it crashed down like the fist of an angry deity, neither Elak or any of the others on the ridge felt its grip. Water roared around them with the ferocity of a hurricane, but other than a few drops, it surged between or over the men, as if they existed in a bubble of air. They were knocked to their knees by the immense power of the waters and saw through the tumultuous cascades the broken shapes of white stone, chunks of rock that cracked and dissolved as they whirled past and downward to the outer ocean.

Elak’s senses were rocked; he could not move, but the air became calmer. Gradually he was able to look up, not through a torrential flow of waves but at the night sky, where the glittering stars yet gazed down, their courses unchanged by the petty earthly stirrings below. Dalan was on his feet and pulled Elak to his. Presently the entire company had recovered, with no one lost. Below on the landward side, the lake had been restored, though its now placid surface was strewn with shattered trunks and twisted boughs. The entire lower half of Tergarroc had gone, the remainder hanging precariously from a cliff face that was riddled with huge cracks. On the seaward side, the jungle had been flattened, every tree down to the coves pressed into the earth and stone as if a landslide had swept down through. The ships were safe, though, bobbing silently on the now calm ocean surface.

*

          As the small fleet left Tergarroc, Dalan studied the waters, as though he could see deep down into their depths and weigh their secrets.

“The sorcerers,” said Borga. “Have we destroyed them?”

“We have severely bruised their powers,” said the Druid. “The ocean dwellers have cleansed Tergarroc of them. It is now but a shell, and it will slide into the silt at the bottom of the sea. Yet the cult that rose here has fled, scorched but not destroyed. As a wounded serpent grows a new tail, so will they reform.”

“In the far north?” said Elak. “In the ice realms?”

Dalan nodded. “A most dangerous place for any ships to follow.”

Borga swore. “Even so, we must find them and strike while they are hurt.”

“As we are now,” said Dalan, “we are ill prepared for such a pursuit. They would evade us in those interminable ice caverns and floes. If we go back and gather all our powers, then we could begin the hunt. For now, let us be content that we have delivered them a shattering blow. I doubt that the Crawling Death will trouble your islands again.”

Borga grunted, but he could see the battle had taken a toll on his men and indeed, the powers of the shamans. He forced a smile, though, and raised his spear. “We go back to our islands,” he roared. “We have feasts to prepare.”

“A new alliance to celebrate,” said Elak.

Borga scowled at him, but only for a moment before his face split wide in another grin. “Aye, Atlantean. And we’ll seal it with our best mead.”

*

 

 

Epilogue: Return of the Warriors

          Vannadas coughed, his body badly wracked, but he forced himself to stand and study the group of men before him. His brother, Scuvular, was beside him, attended by Azarvis, commander of Scuvular’s personal guards, and Theorron, captain of Scuvular’s fleet of traders, lately returned from a voyage to San-Mu. The room in which the meeting had been convened, in a remote part of the city, far from prying eyes, was a low, dingy chamber, with a dozen or more crude wooden biers lined up by the walls, each bearing a bloodied corpse.

“Kranaldis!” Vannadas gasped, seeing the dead men’s faces. “And Mittrubos! Two city Councilors. How has this happened? Who is responsible?”

“Treason,” said Scuvular. “They plotted against Elak and intended to have Kaa Mag Borga and his warriors murdered, with word sent to the Pictish king. Elak, who is with the Picts, would have been torn to shreds.”

Vannadas nodded solemnly. “Olvaros suspected as much.”

“Olvaros?”

“A spy for the royal household. He had been following a number of suspects.”

“Where is he now? Can we question him?”

Vannadas grunted. “I fear he has been discovered in his work. I have heard nothing from him.”

“You mean he’s been killed?”

“Yes.” Vannadas moved slowly among the biers, looking again at the faces of the dead. “Who are these soldiers?”

“As you can see,” said Scuvular, “they wear the livery of the two Councilors. The Picts were too powerful for them. I saw some of the skirmish and had to defend myself.” He held up his bandaged arm. “I got this for my pains. Fortunately Azarvis and his men were able to put an end to things, but not before the two Councilors were killed.”

Scuvular indicated Theorron, his burly sea captain. “Tell my brother what you learned.”

Theorron turned to Vannadas. “Sire, there are always whispers among crewmen, talk of plots. I don’t always pay attention. But I caught whiff of something disturbing, talk of messages being relayed from here in Epharra to the Pictish Isles. Kranaldis was behind it. I have only been returned for a short while. I came to Scuvular as soon as I was able with the news. The plot, I found, had already been thwarted.”

Vannadas nodded again. “The question is – who did these traitors intend to put on the Dragon Throne?” His anger, barely concealed, prompted a fresh bout of coughing.

Scuvular took his arm and supported him. “You’re in no fit state to conduct an inquiry, brother. Leave that to me. I’ll get to the bottom of it. If there are any others involved, I will root them out. In the meantime, I’ll see that Kaa Mag Borga is properly protected.”

“I am grateful. Elak will return soon. You will be well rewarded for your part in this, brother. We need to keep King Borga sweet.”

*

          Borga and his Picts came again to the western shores of the Atlantean continent, to the small bay where they had first met with Dalan and his young king. The sun had barely risen as the small party of Picts gathered on the beach. Elak pointed to the shadows where the trees met the sand.

“They come,” he said. He had sent a fleet craft ahead of the Wavecutter to let Vannadas in Epharra know he was returning. And it was Vannadas now who stepped out into the post dawn light. In the party of men with him were Kaa Mag Borga and his two Pictish guards. Borga met his son and hugged him openly in front of the company.

“The price of your patience,” said the Pictish king, “is a victory. A Pictish and Atlantean alliance.” He turned to Elak, who grinned. “Perhaps the beginning of a new era.”

“I would be glad of that,” said Elak.

“When you need us,” said Borga. “You have only to call.” Then, with a brief, courteous nod to the Druid and Lycon, Borga led his son and the rest of the party back to his ship.

“I am relieved to see you safe, sire,” Vannadas said to Elak. “Can I assume you will be taking up residence in Epharra for the foreseeable future? The burden of leadership is not something I’d wish to bear for long.”

Elak clapped an arm around his shoulder. “Of course!” he laughed.

Behind him, watching the western ocean quietly, Dalan kept silent. It had been a small triumph, a battle, not a war. The invisible sorcerers they had defeated on Brae Calaadas would be licking their wounds, healing themselves. It may take them some time, a year, five, ten? Ten? Five? No it would not be that long. Undoubtedly they would already be preparing for the next wave in their thirst for conquest.

                    ________________________________________

ADRIAN COLE is a native of and lives in North Devon, England.

First published work was a ghost story for IPC magazines (UK, 1972)  followed by a trilogy of sword & planet novels, THE DREAM LORDS (Zebra, US, 1970s). Subsequently have had more than 2 dozen novels and numerous short stories published, many translated into foreign editions.

Have written science fiction, heroic fantasy, sword & sorcery, horror, pulp fiction, and Mythos as well as two young adult novels, MOORSTONES and THE SLEEP OF GIANTS (Spindlewood, UK, 1980s).

Best known works are the OMARAN SAGA and STAR REQUIEM fantasy quartets, both reprinted recently as e Books (Gollancz SF Gateway) and as audio books (Audible).

NICK NIGHTMARE INVESTIGATES (Alchemy UK), first arc of stories about the hard-boiled occult private eye, won the 2015 British Fantasy Award for best collection. Recently reprinted by Pulp Hero Press, with 2^nd volume out, NIGHTMARE COCKTAILS and third due, NIGHTMARE CREATURES. Other works include the 3 volume VOIDAL sword and sorcery saga and ELAK, KING OF ATLANTIS out now from Pulp Hero Press.

Have contributed to the recently published WEIRD TALES STORY (revised and updated) from PHP, and REH CHANGED MY LIFE from Rogue Blades Entertainment, and am currently writing an appreciation of Karl Edward Wagner’s Legion From the Shadows for Phantasmagoria’s KEW Special, due in the Fall.

More Elak of Atlantis stories are due, including Jewels of the Sea Hag from Tales from the Magician’s Skull. A brand new sword and sorcery series kicks off in the forthcoming Sexy Fantastic Magazine 4 (Dream Tower Media US) with The Burning Blade.

He’spreviously appeared in Year’s Best Fantasy and Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror anthologies.

 

Andrea Alemanno  is a compulsive illustrator  who fills the line spacing, preferably at 300 dpi.
She’s  from Italy and loves to move into a new city searching for inspiration. In every city,  she constantly keeps drawing.
Now, 3 decades later (and a little bit more), she is  still drawing and learning something new everyday.
She loves the traditional touch into a digital tools world so uses pencil, ink and digital colors to give life to her artwork.
Sometimes she shares her knowledge with wannabe illustrators.
 Her work has been selected for several awards and she’s currently working for Italian and international publishers. 

 

Gary McCluskey has been a professional artist for more than 15 years. He’s done book covers for every genre imaginable (such as the memoir of a coma survivor’s trip through the afterlife), as well artwork for comic books, children’s books and RPG games. Recently he completed 5 ebook covers for Roger Zelazny’s Amber series and several interior illustrations for a new hardcover version of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ ‘The Oakdale Affair’. He’s currently working on a comic book about a vampire-shark.