Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

He had thrown off his cloak now, and there was something in his hands, cupped like a precious flower, but all that Emral — and Mother Dark — could see was what looked like a fragment of forest floor, a flattened layer of humus. Draconus looked into Emral Lanear’s eyes, and then spoke. ‘Beloved, in this gift, I offer you the consecration of this Citadel, and so make of it a temple in truth. You have embraced the Night, yet hold but a modest fragment of its power.’ He paused, and then said, ‘There is a war of forces here, waged in the stone walls, the stone floor. It seems my return was timely indeed. By this gift, all challenge is banished from this place. I give to you, and to all the Children of Night, this Terondai.’

With these words, he let fall the object in his hands.

It landed softly, like folded parchment, and for a moment sat motionless upon the tiled floor. And then it began to unfold, sending out angled projections upon the surface of the tiles, and these projections were black as onyx, and the pattern they formed seemed to sink into the worn marble, indelibly staining it.

Emral felt a growing horror within her, coming from Mother Dark.

The pattern continued to unfold, spreading across the entire floor. It bore twenty-eight arms, like the points of a black star. In the centre was a multi-angled circle. Draconus stood within it. The expression on his face was one of pride, yet there was something fragile in his eyes. ‘Beloved,’ he said, ‘from the lands of the Azathanai, I returned to you upon the Road of Night. I rode through the realm of Darkness.’ He gestured to the pattern, which now spanned the entire chamber. ‘You need reach no longer, beloved. I have brought Night here and offer you, once more, its perfect embrace. It is a gift borne on love. By what other means do we consecrate?’

Emral could feel her goddess, a presence recoiling in fear.

‘Beloved,’ said Draconus, ‘I give you the Gate of Kurald Galain.’

The pattern ignited. Darkness blossomed.

And the goddess fled.

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He had thrown off his cloak now, and there was something in his hands, cupped like a precious flower, but all that Emral — and Mother Dark — could see was what looked like a fragment of forest floor, a flattened layer of humus. Draconus looked into Emral Lanear’s eyes, and then spoke. ‘Beloved, in this gift, I offer you the consecration of this Citadel, and so make of it a temple in truth. You have embraced the Night, yet hold but a modest fragment of its power.’ He paused, and then said, ‘There is a war of forces here, waged in the stone walls, the stone floor. It seems my return was timely indeed. By this gift, all challenge is banished from this place. I give to you, and to all the Children of Night, this Terondai.’

With these words, he let fall the object in his hands.

It landed softly, like folded parchment, and for a moment sat motionless upon the tiled floor. And then it began to unfold, sending out angled projections upon the surface of the tiles, and these projections were black as onyx, and the pattern they formed seemed to sink into the worn marble, indelibly staining it.

Emral felt a growing horror within her, coming from Mother Dark.

The pattern continued to unfold, spreading across the entire floor. It bore twenty-eight arms, like the points of a black star. In the centre was a multi-angled circle. Draconus stood within it. The expression on his face was one of pride, yet there was something fragile in his eyes. ‘Beloved,’ he said, ‘from the lands of the Azathanai, I returned to you upon the Road of Night. I rode through the realm of Darkness.’ He gestured to the pattern, which now spanned the entire chamber. ‘You need reach no longer, beloved. I have brought Night here and offer you, once more, its perfect embrace. It is a gift borne on love. By what other means do we consecrate?’

Emral could feel her goddess, a presence recoiling in fear.

‘Beloved,’ said Draconus, ‘I give you the Gate of Kurald Galain.’

The pattern ignited. Darkness blossomed.

And the goddess fled.

In the Chamber of Night, Grizzin Farl stood before Mother Dark, watching as she grew ever more insubstantial. The unfolding of Night was fast encompassing the Citadel, pouring out from the Terondai to take every room, spreading like blight down every corridor. It swallowed the light from lamps, candles and lanterns. It stole the brightness from flames and embers in every hearth.

He felt it when the darkness spilled out past the walls of the Citadel, rushed like a flood across the courtyard. When it flowed down to the surface of the river, Grizzin winced at the shock that trembled through the water, and he heard in his mind the wretched howl of the river god as the darkness broke the barrier and rushed down into the depths. That howl became a death-cry, and then it was gone. And the river flowed with Night.

The darkness spread rapidly through all of Kharkanas.

‘You wondered at my presence here,’ he said to the goddess seated on her throne. ‘You wondered at my role. I could not let you speak. The silence needed… protecting. Forgive me.’ He then raised a hand towards her. ‘You will recover,’ he said. ‘You will find the strength to resist its pull. That strength will come from worship, and from love. But most of all, it will come from the balance that awaits us all. Alas, the achievement of such balance, so long overdue, will be difficult.’

‘What balance?’ she asked, her voice left hoarse by the denials she had screamed, the helpless cries against what her lover was doing; against what he had done.

‘All forces are arrayed in opposition, Mother Dark. It is this tension that weaves the threads of existence. Even the Abyss stands, and exists, in answer to something — to us. To you, me, and every other sentient creature upon this and every other realm. Will I speak of gods, then, and their dominion over lesser beings? I will not. Such hierarchy signifies little. We must all stand upon this side of the Abyss, and make what we can of words and dreams, of desires and ambitions. The gods are only elevated in the boldness of their arguments.’

‘The river god is slain.’ She brought her hands up to cover her face.

‘An argument lost,’ Grizzin Farl replied. ‘And yes, I do grieve.’

Behind her hands she asked, ‘What will come of the Deniers?’

‘I cannot say, Mother. Perhaps they will walk the shore, in eternal longing for the world they have lost.’

Mother Dark visibly trembled, and then slowly lowered her hands. They stole out along the arms of the throne to grip the elegantly curved ends. She drew a deep breath. ‘And now?’

‘Lord Draconus brought to you his gift, his power. He is the first Azathanai to have done this solely for those who dwell in his domain.’ Grizzin Farl hesitated, and then said, ‘I did not know that your children were ignorant of your Consort’s true nature.’