Return to Canifis

But then all such thoughts were cast aside. A pale mist drifted toward them. It formed into a tall column and deposited quickly into a solid form of a cloaked man.

Kara gave a gasp as she turned to see.

Gar’rth fell to his knees.

Castimir sensed the man’s power as a wave of coldness that chilled his bare skin. The newcomer’s face was an unblemished white, reminding Castimir of a polished alabaster sculpture. It was topped with silky black hair that narrowed to a point on his forehead. His eyes were an animal yellow, like the Wyrd’s but even more calculating and malicious.

Unwillingly, he felt himself begin to kneel.

“Malak,” Despaard murmured from behind him. Castimir shook his head and straightened his back, fighting the urge to kneel or flee.

So this is a Lord of Morytania.

“You have returned, Gar’rth,” Malak said, his voice clear and powerful. “And of your own free will, bringing with you enemies of our lord. People have been executed for crimes a thousand times less severe than yours, wolf. Yet you will be spared, for I have given my word to your embassy.”

Malak made a single sweeping gesture with his hands and from around him the very shadows moved, abandoning their positions and racing to merge behind him. Very quickly they grew in shape and volume, forming a throne of blackness upon which he sat.

How did he do that?

Malak looked at Castimir with obvious amusement.

“You are a wizard. I have always thought it very arrogant of humans, to label themselves as such, for your command over nature has never been more than rudimentary at best. So dependent on your runes. It is quite… pitiful.”

“Master Malak,” Kara said firmly. “I speak with the voice of the King of Misthalin. These two youngsters are under my protection. I demand their instant release.”

How can you dare to make demands of such a being, Kara?

Casimir shook his head, his sudden anger at Kara’s impertinence fading. Why he should have felt that way, he had no idea.

Malak was unmoved.

“The werewolves are starving,” he said. “Your chattels entered Morytania unbidden, of their own accord. They will die tonight.”

“But my lord Malak, is there nothing we can offer in their place?” Gideon Gleeman spoke quickly, and with reverence. “May we not offer a trade, perhaps?”

Clever jester. But what would you offer?

“The fool speaks with a surprising tongue,” Malak smiled, his lengthened teeth dropping down over his lower lip. “But really, look about you. Does it appear as if these creatures can afford to give their food away?”

Castimir looked behind him as Malak nodded. He saw a woman with a silent infant in her arms, watching the three prisoners with hungry and desperate eyes.

He’s right. These wretches cannot spare anything. Least of all food.

“But we can offer more than these three humans,” Theodore said boldly, following the jester’s lead. “Our steeds would feed more of your people than the prisoners. Surely you are gaining more from such a bargain.”

Malak laughed cruelly.

“These requests will not be entertained. You have nothing to offer in their place. Horse flesh is no substitute for the tenderness of youth. Would you be satisfied with nettle broth instead of steak? No. Tonight, the prisoners will die.

“But I sense the truth of what you speak, Kara-Meir. These two were your property in the unholy land across the river. Their belongings will be returned to you shortly. Roavar will see to that. I have respected your embassy, but now I must know of its purpose.”

He leaned forward and locked eyes with her.

“What is it the King of Misthalin wants?”

Despaard stepped forward.

“He requests the return of those unlawfully taken from his lands. He wishes this creature we call the Wyrd to be destroyed, withdrawn, or better still to be handed to us for punishment. And finally, he wishes to have the assurance from Lord Drakan that the prophecy foretold by the High Priest of Entrana will in no way be acted upon.”

Malak remained silent for what seemed an interminable time.

“Very well,” he whispered silently, rising from his throne of shadows. “I know you have come to this land with the King’s Seal to prove your status, but I will not require that from you. I will take these requests to my master. In the meantime, you must all remain in Canifis.”

The shadows that composed his throne drifted apart, falling rapidly back.

Incredible, Castimir marvelled. What would I have to do to gain such power? Think what I could do with it.

“You should put these three from your mind, Kara-Meir,” Malak told her. “If you attempt to rescue them, you will violate the terms of your embassy and your lives will be forfeit, in ways you cannot imagine.”

Malak’s body shimmered and then the details of his being began to fade. The folds in the robes of his cloak blurred and the colours merged into a subfusc blandness. His face lost its detail. Soon, his solid form sublimated into a pale mist, vanishing on the breeze.

Castimir felt as if a foot had been taken off his chest. He breathed easier, and was aware of a cold sweat upon his skin.

I felt myself agreeing to everything he said. Was I alone in that, or were the others affected likewise?

He shook his head, aware that Kara was talking to Pia, aware of Theodore interrupting her angrily, and of Gar’rth and Despaard joining in on the Knight’s side.

Suddenly, a snarl silenced them all.

It was Imre. Behind him walked Arisha, with Albertus leaning on her arm. The old man looked older than when Castimir had seen him last, paler and weaker, his skin more wrinkled than before.

“I wanted to… wanted to come with you.” Albertus’s voice was faint and slurred. “Have I… have I missed anything?”

The old man’s presence surprised them all, and a brief silence fell. Then it was shattered.

“Help us! Please help us!” Pia shouted. “Please, you can’t leave us here.”

Vanstrom Klause pursed his lips and shook his head.

“You have to go,” he said to them. “Now. Your friends are right, Kara-Meir. There is nothing you can do for us. I thank you for trying, but we three are dead. When the time comes you must not interfere. If you do, you will suffer a far worse fate than death. It will be an eternity of suffering.” Vanstrom pressed his face as close to the bars as he was able.

“And you should know, our lives have not been wasted. We will be dead soon, but our sacrifice will mean many others will live. Promise me, promise me you won’t interfere.”

Kara took Pia’s hand in her own. Castimir could see her body shudder as she wept. Doric lowered his face in shadow and Arisha, moving among them with Albertus still on her arm, put her free hand upon her friend’s shoulder.

“I promise,” Kara said finally. “I promise I won’t interfere. Pia, I’m so sorry.”

“No!” Pia yelled angrily, wrenching her hand away from Kara’s as if she had been burned, her face a mask of rage. “You promised us, Kara! You promised you would help us! You promised…”

Suddenly Kara broke away and ran. Castimir leapt aside as she fled toward the inn, its outline barely visible through the swirling mists. Pia shouted after her.

“You promised us, Kara! You gave your word! Please… please don’t leave us. Please!” She grabbed the bars and shook with all her strength, yet the metal was unyielding.

And Jack, behind her, stared blankly ahead as if they were all strangers.

It is the gaze of a person waiting to die.