higher and flew across the dark mountains, skirting their ice-crowned summits. He observed stalking nocturnal beasts, tigers and stranger creatures roaming the wild slopes. He felt, rather than saw, open fissures like gaping wounds in the sides of the mountains, the openings to ancient warrens where the Old Wyrms dwelled in ages past. He sensed the lurking presence of entities that dwelled there still – shadow-things without name or purpose, lurking in the sunless sn t the depths.
The birds of night soared about the peaks, but he was invisible to them. Darker presences lingered here and there in the husks of abandoned towers and castles, the bones of forgotten kingdoms. He sensed now the incredible array of spectral life that inhabited these mountains. Ghosts and wraiths roamed here like tattered memories… Often they gazed up at his immaterial presence, some crawling after him as he passed. Dark and pulsing they gleamed through the scarlet film of his vision.
He flew back to Steephold and stood like a ghost himself atop the central tower’s roof. She stood there, flickering like a pale torch… Ianthe the Claw… Ianthe the Sorceress… Ianthe the Lovely, who had opened his mind to the true power of the bloodflower and a world of immortal shadows.
“Now you see?” she said, smiling her pantherish smile at him. Was she truly here? Or a manifestation of his elevated consciousness? He saw the rim of the battements through her gossamer frame. This was her soul, speaking to him as it had in the Red Dream, but this was more than the Red Dream. It was his first lesson in her familial college of sorcery.
Blood magic.
“I see,” he said “all the things that were unseen… I see them now, Grandmother.”
“Yes, my Gammir. You begin to perceive, but there is much more.”
“What must I do?” He lusted for more of this power, more of this invincible freedom.
“Blood is the source of all life, all power,” she told him, stroking his phantom chest with her clawed fingers. Her eyes of black diamond sparkled close to him. He longed to kiss her, but there was no flesh here… only naked spirit… naked power. “From the lifeblood of a tiny mammal you have gained all this. How does it make you feel?”
“Like a God,” he said.
She laughed. “You have barely entered the gates of sorcery. But you learn quickly. Soon you will be ready to come to me. Now you must learn to call upon the Dwellers in Shadow – they will be your escort.”
“How?” he asked.
She whispered more impossible words into his ears, and made him repeat them.
“The blood of a living man will be required,” she said.
“My servant?” he asked.
“Whoever you wish,” she breathed. “Only do not hesitate. The Shadow Dwellers in this place have noticed your presence. You must call them together soon…”
He awoke in the King’s Room, his vision still wrapped in vermilion gauze. Rathwol lay on a nearby rug, snoring horribly.
Fangodrel who was now Gammir rose to his feet, reveling in a fresh and heady vitality. He still tasted the sweetness of the animal’s blood on his tongue. How much sweeter must be the blood of a man? Even a poor wretch like Rathwol…
The body of the slain hound lay spitted and roasted over the hearth fire. Rathwol was not one to waste edible meat.
Fangodrel/Gammir smoked five petals of the bloodflower from his jade coffer, then took up his dagger, whose blade he had licked clean. Midday sun limned the curtains drawn over the windows, and it pained his eyes. He ignored the discomfort and approached the sleeping form of Rathwol, the dagger clenched in his fist. A stray sunbeam sent a spark of fire leaping from the blade as it hovered above the sleeper’s throat.
Fangodrel/Gammir paused. He weighed the value of Rathwol’s continued service against the value of the potent blood flowing in his veins. Against the power that blood would bring him. In the corners of the room, shadows shifted and flowed, watching him with expectant non-eyes. A trail of spittle drooled from the sleeping man’s lips.
A heavy knocking at the chamber door disturbed Rathwol’s slumber. He rolled over onto his stomach, still snoring.
Fangodrel/Gammir kicked him awake.
“Ah! Master! What is it?”
“Get the door.”
“Aye, My Lord.” Rathwol crept across the chamber. His blearing eyes lingered on the dagger in his master’s hand.
Fangodrel/Gammir placed himself to the left of the entrance, well out of sight.
“Prince Fangodrel!” came a commanding voice from the other side of the door, followed by more knocking. “I bring a message from your brother!”
“Yes, yes,” said Rathwol, unchaining the door and sliding back an iron bolt. He opened the door enough to poke his head out. “Good morning, Captain Jyfard.”
“ Afternoon,” corrected the captain. “I must speak with your master. Immediately.”
“I shall relay the message,” said Rathwol.
“No,” said Jyfard, pressing his way into the chamber. His mailed chest bumped Rathwol, knocking him on his rump. Rathwol cursed. Jyfard stepped over him. “Where is-”
Fangodrel/Gammir brought the dagger down swiftly, sinking it into the captain’s neck while his free hand went round to muffle the man’s mouth. Jyfard struggled, twitched, and finally shoved himself free of Fangodrel/Gammir’s grip. He fell to the floor in a gush of blood.
Rathwol, needing no prompt, sped to close and latch the door. When he turned around, his master knelt over the dying man as if to kiss his lips.
Fangodrel/Gammir pressed his lips against the seeping wound and sucked, drawing the captain’s lifeblood into his mouth, swallowing in thirsty gulps. The blow had been fatal, severing the jugular, and Jyfard was already dead. Rathwol hesitated, watching the grisly feast. His master continued slurping, licking, and drinking. Fangodrel/Gammir paid him no mind. He squeezed the neck and pressed on the torso, as he had often squeezed the juice from a ripe pomegranate.
“Prince Fangodrel?” Rathwol asked, when he was sure the captain was dead.
Fangodrel/Gammir lifted his face, red-stained and dripping.
“My name is Gammir,” he said. “Call me Prince Gammir.” Drops of blood flew from his smacking lips as he spoke.
Rathwol nodded, his terror obvious.
“Help me lift him,” said Prince Gammir. “Hold his neck over the fire.”
As he had done with the dog last night, Gammir held his victim over the bowl of blazing coals and the last of Jyfard’s blood smoked and steamed into the brazier. At last he tossed the body to the blood-drenched floor and sang a terrible song above the scarlet flames.
The shadows in the corners of the chamber crept closer, and Gammir raised his arms, his eyes, to the ceiling. His spirit soared once again into the sky, a flaming eagle defying the light of the sun. Dark clouds gathered above the keep, and he entered them, broke through on the other side, and soared over the mountainscape once more.
Dark things climbed up from the deep ravines and the cellars of ancient ruins, straining toward the sky. A storm broke over the mountains, and Gammir flew unhindered through the roaring center of its wrath. Thunder sang in his veins. Lightning bolts played about his ethereal presence.
He felt them all now, down there below him in the lost and forgotten places… the Dwellers in Shadow… and he called them toward him.
Come, he told them. Your Lord has arrived.
Come. There is blood for all of you.
Come…
Atop the tallest tower of Steephold, the shade of Ianthe laughed into the raging storm.
“Your time is almost here, sweet Gammir,” she whispered.
