​​​​41 Temple of Reflection

Present Day

GRIPPING THE BRONZE dagger, the edges glowing red, Threadfin got to his feet. Well now, he thought, that wasn’t too bad. Not as easy as knocking on the front gate, but I’m in.

As he made his way through corridors of smooth black granite, he began to feel trapped. The stone was cold to the touch, and reflected from the polished surfaces was a sourceless light. There were no alcoves, statues, or wall hangings, just black stone. The ceiling was of polished granite too. It didn’t feel like a fortress or a palace. No, it was a temple dedicated to the Fetch.

His reflection was absent, which meant it hadn’t followed. Didn’t mean it couldn’t, but he tried not thinking about it. Surrounded by reflective surfaces, the mage’s fear grew. Somewhere within all this, was Lorn. He walked the long corridors, ignoring turnings, hoping he was going in the right direction. He left it to instinct. In truth, he had no idea.

People appeared in the polished stone, though they didn’t look human. He paused at one point, the corridor going on forever. I might end up walking until my feet fall off.

He studied the growing number of people trapped in stone. A crowd was forming, and they were all gathering to watch him. If he had felt trapped before, he had no words to describe this. He imagined a breather would’ve passed out from terror. They did tend to be soft, except for Lorn and Pole of course. Well, maybe there were exceptions.

He recognised one of the strange people. A face formed in the wall closest to him with a bald head, pale skin, white-orbed eyes, and vicious fangs. The child who had once sat beside him on a bench.

Others formed around it as the reflections took on substance. A chitter chatter arose as though they all spoke in unison. This time the tone wasn’t angry, but filled with hope.

He revised his earlier opinion. Not a temple at all, but a prison. Manic and Mania had claimed the place in the mountains where he had first met them, was a memory fragment. He realised it was a reflection of this place, and not a memory. Surprise, surprise, the shraeds had lied. Something told him these prisoners, though they appeared to be ghosts, lived. Did they have some form of existence within the stone? A world they occupied, where they lived out their lives? He had no idea, but he knew it wasn’t right.

If Manic and Mania sought to defeat the Fetch and free these folk, Threadfin was fine with it. He suspected they had other motives, not to mention nefarious plans of some description. They are shraeds, after all. He ignored the chattering of the kobolds, their pleading orbs and outstretched hands, though it hurt to do so. He moved on through the prison, hoping he might find Lorn, and praying to the Spectrum above she wasn’t trapped in stone too.

‡

AFTER WHAT FELT LIKE hours, he reached what he guessed was the centre. The tunnel mouth exited into a cavern, which stretched hundreds of feet high and as many wide. It appeared to be of polished black obsidian. A vaulted ceiling formed high above, and scores of tunnels opened into the cavern from above. The obsidian floors and walls contained millions of white grooved veins that flowed towards the midpoint, which was maybe five hundred feet away.

As Threadfin bent to examine the floor, he watched the white veining turn red. He jerked his hand back. It drew blood from the prisoners in the tunnels. There was no other source he could think of. The lines of blood touched the base of a giant slab of obsidian, which stood at the midpoint. He realised the reddening lines formed a giant pentagram. The slab had to be the Darklight Stone the shraeds had mentioned. Its edges glowed with a white light, turning red. He judged it about fifteen feet tall and ten feet wide. It might have been bigger.

This was a sacrifice, the blood of prisoners flowing into the obsidian stone. He continued moving forward until he spotted two small figures stood before the slab. Threadfin halted as he recognised Lorn, held by the Fetch. It forced her to turn around and face him. The Darklight pulsed behind them.

With a vicious smile, it turned her back towards the slab, and glanced over its shoulder at him. Lorn didn’t resist. If anything, she appeared submissive. No, it was worse. She had quit fighting. Stubborn and feisty no more, she had quit. The realisation was a knife in Threadfin’s gut. This crime angered him more than reason could explain. The bastard had destroyed her spirit!

‘You are late,’ said the Fetch, its raspy voice carrying as an echo to Threadfin’s ears. ‘You have always been late. Everything you do, everything you will do, I know beforehand because part of me reflects you. You cannot make a move without me. I am you and you are me, Todder. Acceptance is the true course. We will be one.’

Threadfin was running now, down along a slight decline leading towards them.

‘You love her, do you not?’ it called, watching his approach as though it didn’t matter.

‘There is no need to harm her,’ Threadfin cried. The cavern floor was wide, the distance too great. Always too late. Yes, it was true.

‘I hate her, you see. Love and hate reflect one another. You are useless to the master as you are. No, we must no longer reflect one another. We must be one. First love and hope will be cut from you like a rotting piece of flesh. You should appreciate the irony.’

Threadfin noticed something about the vertical slab as he got closer. It reflected the cavern perfectly, but of Lorn and her captor, nothing. The Fetch, he could understand, but Lorn? She was a breather and possessed a reflection.

He slowed, as he got nearer. Maybe he could stall it somehow. ‘I’ll give myself up to you,’ he said. ‘I’m yours. Let her go, and you can take me. I’ll even throw in the Shathra Stone to seal the bargain. Your master will be more than pleased.’

The Fetch’s laugh was cold, devoid of humour. ‘The Shathra Stone was never yours to give and if you possessed it, so would I. Don’t play me for a fool, undead one.’ He shook his captive hard, but she made no sound. ‘She played the game, this one. However, with one in my grasp, I will soon possess the other. The truth of the Shathra Stone is mine alone as will be your power to unlock it.’

As though to punctuate its words, hands grabbed Threadfin by the head, neck, and body. Revenants enveloped him. Though he fought to break free, they held him fast.

Within the Darklight Stone, a small person formed out of white mist. He recognised Astra, despite the distance, and the warping of the image. When the Fetch moved Lorn a step to the left, repositioning her, the image of Astra moved in unison, as though Lorn’s reflection. In a way, he supposed she was.

Lorn did manage to look back, one final time. The image of Astra imitated her. She wept as she smiled at him, and he felt her love. How could she love him? She shouldn’t. But she did.

He screamed, biting into a hand, ripping into living flesh and tasting blood. The hand twitched and withdrew, but others replaced it. The revenants dragged him to his knees, but he caught glimpses as he fought.

The Fetch forced Lorn forward until her body touched the Darklight. The mirror image of Astra also stepped forward. They began to merge, and as they did, Lorn’s body disintegrated. Only the image of Astra remained within the black glass.

Threadfin ceased fighting.

Always too late.

‡

WHEN WITHER RUSHED outside, he headed straight for the old oasis. The others tried to stop him. He left Slither in an agonised heap at the entrance, with a broken nose. No time for subtlety. This was why he’d come. Something told him he needed to be there when they emerged. The zorasts had mounted torches to line the way. They had placed others in a wide circle around the oasis itself. Hundreds of believers stood outside the torchlight, waiting, muttering a low chant. They would not know of the death of their Sword of the Faith. Would it make a difference?

He reached the oasis to discover a gigantic black slab of obsidian occupying its centre. Sand poured from it in streams, suggesting it had risen moments earlier. A Darklight Stone.

Something else poured from its dark surface, and it took him a moment to realise what.

Blood.

The sacrifice had occurred, lives taken, blood pouring through the Darklight into the sands of Mourn. The sands were thirsty, drinking deep of the thick liquid.

The oasis was devouring itself as the sands collapsed. The Darklight Stone remained, and a lone solid path to its base. Whatever held it up wasn’t natural, and Wither wondered at such power. The magic involved was autonomous, ancient, and intoxicating.

He whirled to face Myral and the others who’d followed. Bringing up the rear were several cohorts of greencloaks. Slither was glaring at him, one hand to a bloodied face. ‘You told me,’ Wither said to Myral, ‘I can control them. How?’

Before she could answer, he heard a deep growling behind him. He turned back to face the rising vampires.

They clambered up the sides of the oasis, long limbed with distorted bodies. Though muscular, their forms changed constantly. Muscles and bones forming and reforming. They also possessed human-like faces. Their canines lengthened as they opened their jaws. The leader was the largest and leapt the last few feet landing with jarring force before Wither. It struck him before he could react.

As the dark world came back into focus, Wither found himself sprawled with a worried Myral hovering over him. ‘Get up, you bastard,’ she yelled. ‘If you don’t take control of them, we are all meat!’

She was right, but no one had told him how. He sat up, giving his head a shake, and regretting it. His ribs felt bruised too, breathing difficult. Around him, a battle raged as soldiers fought the vampires. He spied Tystrus, stabbing wildly at one, before zipping at impossible speed to face another. Then back to the first, to strike it from behind. The vampiric virals had become enraged, doing their best to murder him. Magical talent, yes, but Tystrus was as he’d suspected all along; something much more than a man.

Slither was living up to his name. In moments, he’d had two narrow escapes with vampiric jaws by being his usual slithery self. When two of the beasts grappled him to the ground, he managed to slide out, slicing undead flesh with his knives. He always did like it up close.

Myral helped Wither up. Without knowing what he was going to do, he stumbled through the mayhem towards the Darklight. The blood hadn’t ceased its flow, and more vampires rose from the depths. Few of the zorasts who had lined the way remained alive. The vampires were in a feeding frenzy. When several of them attacked Wither and Myral, half a dozen soldiers stepped in to block their path. Myral had found a short sword. ‘Go on!’ she screamed at him, and Wither did.

Reaching the Darklight, he saw the Fetch. It was like looking at someone through a vertical wall of dark water, the image distorted. A hideous apparition, but he saw enough to know it bore the face of Threadfin Todder. As he had suspected all along.

‡

AFTER A MOMENT OF SILENT regard, Threadfin screamed his disbelief. He refused to acknowledge her death. He no longer struggled against his captors. He didn’t wish to exist. Let them rip him apart. First Podral, and now Lorn.

I might as well be next, he thought. Surely, it’s my turn?

‘Soon,’ said the Grim’s servant, ‘I will return for you. You cannot escape Balax. First, I have an army to enslave and feed.’ It turned and stepped into the Darklight, as the image of Astra faded. Manic and Mania had either gotten it wrong or they’d lied. The Fetch had never intended giving Lorn to the Grim. It had murdered her to gain access to Astra, and the Shathra Stone. It had waited for him to witness it too. To break him, to cut away all love and hope, to leave him empty and full of hate. The Grim could then mould him, use him for his purposes.

Nor was it going to Hell’s Teeth. It would enter Threadfin’s world, and it needed to do so through darkness and blood to emerge solid, as flesh and bone. The same magic that had created it, would reinvent it.

The revenants let go of him as snarls and scuffles broke out behind. He barely noticed as he stumbled towards the slab. He reached it and slammed against a hard cold surface. No blood, no sign of anything to say she’d been there.

Threadfin collapsed at the base of the slab. He hammered at it with his fists and yelled his rage, to no avail.

‡

TEETH SANK INTO THREADFIN’S neck. He lashed out to fend off his assailant. A winged apparition collapsed onto the floor beside him. ‘Use,’ it said.

Threadfin stared at Karun, confused, feeling at the damage to his neck. ‘You bit me.’

The shraed’s dark wings fanned as it pointed weakly at the slab. It had broken him free of his captors, and then it had bitten him. Threadfin felt enraged. ‘If you want to finish the job, do it. Destroy me, but make sure you do it properly, shraed.’

‘Dark Light,’ it muttered, and Threadfin realised it was dying. ‘Grim. Gave life. To Fetch. Blade. Contains power.’

Threadfin drew out the dagger. ‘She’s dead, Karun. It doesn’t hold her power anymore.’

‘Not her power. Her power.’

At first, he didn’t understand. Then he remembered Astra in the Darklight. Not Lorn’s power this time. Astra’s.

Karun had given him his strength. He felt it, surging through him. The strength of a shraed. All of it. ‘Use. Give death. Free soul. Free.’ The shraed’s head and arm lowered to the floor, and Karun’s body dissolved into black mist.

Ignoring the throbbing in his neck, Threadfin stood. He gave the dagger a glance before looking into the Darklight. He smiled at his reflection, and the Fetch’s answering grin faltered. It began backing away. Something, however, blocked its path at the opposite end, a looming figure that gave it pause. It was all the viral mage needed. With all the force of a shraed of Tartaros, he stabbed the dagger into the slab up to the hilt, as though the obsidian was made of wax.

The Darklight exploded.

‡

AS THE SLAUGHTER CONTINUED, Wither stared into the Darklight, and spotted the viral mage beyond the Fetch. Todder looked on in horror. At last, Wither understood why he had lost his magic. For years, he had despised the notion of the Viral Age. In part because of Lorn, he had begun to accept it. Doubts had filled him anew after the deaths of his friends at Todder’s hands, not to mention his own loss. Once again, he’d begun to suspect Todder as nothing more than a creature who would doom them all. Those doubts had eaten away at everything he’d begun to believe.

Now, looming through the obsidian was the true face of evil. A creation of the Grim, and in its grip was Lorn. He cried out until his lungs ached and his throat burned, as he watched her disintegrate. Shock and pain threatened to overwhelm him. He stumbled backward.

Then, he saw the creature smile.

The hole her death left in him was filling up with something else. Tears blurring his vision, he stared into the obsidian stone and saw his enemy. All doubts fell away. His tears ceased their flow. It had taken this to break him free from his prison of humanity, of weakness. His love for her had been the final obstacle. Her death had removed it. He swallowed the pain, and buried it in darkness.

He glanced at his right forearm. The script glowed white and felt cold. The Fetch had turned to face Todder for a moment, before moving through the Darklight at speed, growing larger. It would enter this world as flesh and blood. It would steal his inheritance as it had the woman he’d loved.

Wither pressed his forearm to the smooth surface. The fiery script spread across the obsidian, a thin web of white flame. Whatever it wrote, he didn’t understand but he guessed it was a spell. The Fetch appeared to yell as it launched itself at him. It slammed against a hard surface, trapped.

A knot of darkness deep within Wither’s gut unfurled, like a rotting flower. It rose to the surface of his consciousness, spreading like an infection. He didn’t try to stop it, but welcomed it. He no longer cared if it consumed him, and felt the darkness probe beyond him, finding the vampires, recognising them, but unable to command. Something was missing, something he needed ...

Then Wither felt her, and the blood sloshing through her veins, the thumping of her heart. Reaching out, he stole Myral’s magic to command bird and beast. He stole it, and his darkness wove it into something greater, something he could use. Once more, he reached out to the vampires. This time when he touched them, they felt it.

So, thought Wither, this is why she came all this way. To give me what I lacked, to help me unlock my inheritance. He wondered if she had known and who her ancestors had been. Not that it mattered. He had what he’d come for.

In the distance, through a dark haze, he witnessed Todder stab something into the Darklight. The various reflections forming the Fetch split apart and disintegrated. The obsidian slab cracked and splintered. It exploded in a concussive wave of tiny shards.

Moments later, Wither allowed his form to solidify, undamaged. His magic was gone, but in its place was something greater, the magic of vampires. He staggered backwards, and turned to find the vampires watching. Myral lay on the ground, eyes staring. Slither had finally been caught, his body flung among the corpses of hundreds of others. The vampires fed, for they would need their strength.

Davard Tystrus remained standing, bearing no wounds. He was watching the vampires nearest him. ‘They are yours, now, Red Prince,’ was all the fat man said as their eyes met. Tystrus looked down at the woman at his feet. Then the conclavist’s eyes widened, as though he sensed something. In a blur of movement, he was gone.

Wither walked to Myral’s body, the vampires making way. He stared down at her inert form. He cared little for Davard’s spy. She had been nothing.

Nothing, but a key for a lock at the right time.​​​