‘Like the sound of that.’ Gared met Rockslide’s eyes. The horse tried to pull back, but though Gared was not as strong as Renna, he was still the strongest man Arlen had ever met. His thick arm bunched and the reins creaked, but Rockslide’s head did not move as Gared laid a hand on his neck. After a moment, the stallion relaxed again.
‘Don’t deserve this,’ Gared said.
‘Ent for you to decide what folk give you,’ Arlen said. ‘You earned that horse ten times over.’
‘Din’t just mean the horse,’ Gared said. ‘All of it. Count has men making me a coat of arms. Me! Gared rippin’ Cutter.’ He shook his head. ‘Feels like I’m about to be caught in a lie and sent back to choppin’ trees. Need you to tell me what you want me to do.’
‘Want you to man up and think for yourself,’ Arlen said. ‘Like it or not, you’re Baron of Cutter’s Hollow now. Your job is to look out for the people under you first, and be the count’s man second. He asks you to do something you don’t think is right, you follow your conscience.’
‘Don’t want all that responsibility,’ Gared said. ‘Ent clever or anything, and my conscience gets me into trouble, oft as not.’
‘Don’t need to be clever to know right from wrong,’ Arlen said, ‘and I know all about being saddled with responsibilities you don’t want. But life ent fair, Gared Cutter. Won’t always be someone around to tell you what to do.’
22
333 AR Autumn
First Night of New Moon
The new moon left the cave mouth dark as pitch. Barely more than a fissure, it gaped like an open wound from a rocky outcropping on a forgotten hill. The space within narrowed tightly but never truly ended, leading to an endless maze of cracks and tunnels, some cramped and others opening into huge caverns, all the way down to the core of the world. Here, even starlight failed to give faint glow, and there was true darkness.
From out of that darkness came something darker still, a corruption beyond the absence of light. It flowed like ink, coating the cave floor in oily blackness and spilling out into the night. There along the hill, forms rose from the stain, growing tall as they branched out, solidifying into a stand of six trees that stood around the cave mouth like teeth.
A great stalagmite formed at the centre of the cave, coalescing into an enormous mimic demon. Row upon row of teeth formed along its massive jaws, and its limbs ended in great talons. The rest of its body, sharp in some places and smooth in others, flowed like the coils of a snake, never truly settling.
The coreling studied the area intently, then slithered to take up position at the rear of the cave. There it kept watch as the Royal Consort took form.
He was slight, and hunched as if weighed by the massive head atop his small and slender body. His horns were vestigial, and pulsed like the smooth bumps and ridges flowing up the charcoal skin of his cranium. His nails and teeth were sharp, but more like needles compared with the massive rending instruments of the mimic.
Not that the consort had need of such things. The bodies and senses of his mimics were mere extensions of his own. He saw through their eyes and killed with their claws, tasted the surface air through their nostrils. It was cold and bland, almost devoid of magic, burned clean each cycle by the hated day star. At court, the air was hot — thick and heavy with the magic radiating from the Core, every breath delicious and brimming with power.
Instinctively, the demon Drew magic from the fissure, a wellspring of power leading all the way to the source. He filled himself with it, suffused with power, then moved to the cave mouth. He squinted in the dim starlight, feeling a slight drain of power, like a soft breeze stealing the barest touch of heat.
The cave was high in the rocky hills, and afforded a wide view of the surface. To the southwest and northeast, humans were swarming, their breeding grounds overflowing as they relished their newfound strength. Even many miles away, the consort could sense the magic they were collecting. It took the barest effort to take over the rudimentary consciousness of wind drones in the areas, collecting more information.
The results were impressive. It usually took humans millennia to build back this kind of strength, especially with the drones culling them for sport. All this, in barely a turning.
He had thought the initial reports — culled from the less-than-trustworthy memories of drones — nothing more than an anomaly, and sent two minor princelings to deal with the matter. Their reports had been disturbing. Humans in three of the local breeding grounds had regained both the fighting wards and spirit, two things thought crushed beyond repair. With their drones strengthening, human minds were beginning to form. The Queen had no desire to make humans extinct — what would her minds feed upon? — but neither could this insurgence be tolerated.
But the princelings, eager for the favour of consort and Queen, had assured him they would have little trouble killing the minds and scattering their armies before their corruption could spread to the other breeding grounds. Their last report had them moving to strike.
And then, nothing.
The entire mind court had waited on their return, but there was only silence, and the growing realization of the unthinkable. That they failed was obvious, but that alone was not disgrace enough to prevent their return. Not when the Core could restore their power and replenish their drones, allowing them to return even stronger. The answer was far more ominous.
They had not simply failed, they had been destroyed.
The princelings had been young — weak by the standards of their brethren — but still cunning and cautious, in full control of their magic where the humans played with it like hatchlings drawing their first wards. How could they have been so utterly defeated?
The Queen had raged when the truth became clear. Every prince, from the weakest to the strongest, was a potential mate and precious to her, especially now. Her fury, and the incoherence with which she expressed it, made clear what his brethren had known for some time — she was close to laying, and soon the entire court would tear itself asunder as the princes fought for the right to imprint upon her egg sac.
The consort hated the surface, and hated more having to come here now. He should be at court, attending the Queen and keeping his rivals at bay, not up here tending stock that had forgotten it was food. But the Queen had demanded he go himself, and though her mind was confused this far in her cycle, it was still powerful enough to compel any demon fool enough to refuse her — if she did not kill them with a casual stroke of her claws. She owned him utterly, and he hated her for it.
He reached out, searching for the minds of the other coreling princes that had risen on the moonless night, many miles distant. Three to the north and three south; the consort had persuaded the Queen to send his greatest rivals to the surface with him to do his bidding as he put down the rebellion.
It was a risk. The farther the princes were from the Queen, the less her power over them. With every hour that passed, they would have more freedom to disobey her commands — and those of her consort. The fighting would make them stronger and more experienced, and amid the battle they might even take the opportunity to strike at one another. Feasting on the mind of a rival could double a prince’s power, perhaps even enough for one to grow bold enough to strike at him. They could even strike in unison. Few things could make the more powerful coreling princes work together, much less conspire to kill one of their own, but unseating a consort when a mating was near was one of them. The consort was stronger than any of them, but he was not stronger than all of them.
But for all the risks, it was better to remove them from court entirely. The Queen was bloated with eggs, and at any time she could croon her laying, sending them all into a frenzy to be the first to her side.