They were extremely tall beasts, with four legs and two arms, their bodies covered in heavy fur, horns protruding from the sides of their square heads. The monsters roared as they advanced, and Caiaphas threw himself in front of Timothy to protect him from attack.
“Hold!” bellowed one of the ghastly beasts, and Timothy saw that these were not monsters at all, but armored soldiers on horseback—soldiers of the Legion Nocturne.
“You are trespassing upon the game preserves of Lord Romulus, Grandmaster of the Legion Nocturne,” said one of the soldiers from atop his steed, his voice echoing through the metal of the helmet he wore. “A crime that is punishable by death.”
The legion drew their weapons; even over the howl of the winds, Timothy could hear the swish of the razor-sharp swords as they were pulled from their scabbards.
“Please,” he cried over the winds. “We mean no harm. We’ve come seeking an audience with your master—with Lord Romulus.”
“Audience with the Grandmaster?” one of the soldiers scoffed. “Why would he speak with the likes of you, lad?”
Timothy moved closer so that he could be seen better. “This is Caiaphas, navigator for the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred, and I am Timothy Cade—the Un-Magician.” He hated to use the insulting title, but it was one that had stuck with him, whether he liked it or not.
“Timothy Cade?” a soldier asked, glancing around at his brethren.
“He says that he is the Un-Magician,” said another.
The lead soldier moved his horse closer to the boy, the animal’s large head mere inches from Timothy’s face.
“If you are lying to us, boy,” he growled, “we’ll feed you both to our horses.”
The great beast snorted, and Timothy felt the warmth of its powerful exhalation on his face, but he did not flinch or move away.
“I’m telling the truth,” he said. “I am Timothy Cade, and I need to speak with Romulus right away. Lives depend upon it.”
“Yes,” said one of the soldiers, grinning. “Yours.”
With those words, the horsemen reared back upon their powerful steeds and began to turn. All save two of them, who spurred their mounts toward Timothy and Caiaphas. They had no chance to react, never mind object, as powerful arms pulled them up to sit behind the two riders. They were forced to hold on for dear life as they galloped at a breakneck pace through the woods.
The storm seemed to be lightening a bit, and from his place at the back of the steed he saw Lord Romulus’s city coming into view in the distance.
Caiaphas was right, he thought. They hadn’t been that far away, but the question still remained: Would they have made it to their destination in the snowstorm? Timothy wasn’t sure, but he was grateful that Lord Romulus’s guards had stumbled across them when they had.
He had heard the name of Romulus’s city mentioned once or twice before, and searched his mind for it as the place came more clearly into view. It was awesome to behold, a vast, sprawling empire, seemingly built onto the side of a mountain. From what he could discern, the structures were made entirely from stone, yellow lights burning in many of the windows, and Timothy wondered if they were lanterns of ghostfire that he was seeing. And then he remembered the city’s name.
Twilight.
Up a winding path toward an enormous stone bridge that spanned a yawning chasm, they rode, galloping toward the great gates that began to open wide in welcome for the patrol’s return.
The horses came to a sudden stop in a courtyard, multiple sentries all adorned in fur and armor converging on them.
“Inform Lord Romulus that we have brought Timothy Cade, the Un-Magician, and that he requests an audience,” the captain of the patrol proclaimed.
Two of the sentries bowed their heads and were gone in a flash with the message. Timothy was helped down from the steed by the captain, and directed toward a large door in the face of an imposing structure of gleaming black stone.
“That way,” the captain of the guard said, placing a gauntleted hand against the back of his head and pushing. Timothy turned to scowl at the man.
“Lord Romulus hates to be kept waiting,” the soldier said. “And if you are who you claim to be, he will be most anxious to speak with you.”
Caiaphas joined him, and the two walked toward the impressive door, which swung open as they approached. There was another armored guard waiting on the other side, and he directed them down a long passage with the point of his sword. The Legion Nocturne was rare among the guilds of Parliament in that they forged their own weapons and hunted without magic. It was their tradition. Somehow Timothy felt he understood them more than he did other guilds, and yet he feared them more as well.
Timothy had started to regain the feeling in his feet and hands, and despite the uncertainty of their situation, was quite pleased to be out of the cold. At the end of the stone passage, another sentry awaited them. The man was huge, clad in heavy armor, and he stood with such unwavering attentiveness that he could have been some sort of intricate sculpture.
“Who seeks passage into the chambers of the lord and master of the Legion Nocturne?” the guard growled, his booming voice reverberating off the walls of the stone passage in which they stood.
“Timothy Cade and Caiaphas,” he answered nervously, uncertain if the fearsome sentry would allow them entry.
The armored sentinel turned his awesome bulk to face the metal studded door. He raised a gauntleted fist and pounded three times upon it.
THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!
“Who seeks passage into my chambers?” came an equally fearsome voice from the other side of the door.
“It is Timothy Cade and a Caiaphas,” the guard said.
There was silence that seemed to last for an eternity, and then at last the reply came.
“Grant them access,” the voice on the other side proclaimed, and the sentry pushed open the great door with a grunt and bid them enter the hall beyond.
“He is waiting,” the sentry said as they stepped into the room, and he closed the door behind them.
The room was huge. Its wood-beamed ceiling was at least thirty feet above Timothy’s head. On every exposed inch of wall there hung the head of an animal, many of them with large, curved horns. He presumed they were local creatures from the forest of Yarrith.
An enormous fireplace, constructed to form the face of a fearsome, screaming beast, stood across the room, a fire roaring in its maw. Timothy could feel the comforting warmth of the flames and had to fight the urge to lie down on the floor and go to sleep.
“It is you,” said a voice from the other side of the room, and he and Caiaphas turned to see the grim visage of Lord Romulus. The mage stood up from a large, high-backed chair that could very well have been considered a throne.
Timothy had forgotten how large the Nocturne Grandmaster was. He was even bigger than the sentry that had allowed them access into the room, and Timothy had thought that man gigantic. Lord Romulus was nearly nine feet tall, and three and a half feet broad at the shoulders. He was clad in armor of gleaming black, a cape of gray fur hanging from his broad shoulders to the ground. Upon his head was the ever-present helmet that concealed all the man’s features except for his eyes.
The Grandmaster came toward them, crossing the great room in three strides.
“How dare you come here?” Lord Romulus growled. “To my forest—to my home?”
Caiaphas stepped forward as if to shield Timothy from his wrath. “Greetings and many thanks to you, my Lord,” he said with a slow bow of his head. “Your hospitality is greatly appreciated this cold and stormy day.”
“I should have let the storm take you,” Lord Romulus snarled, looking past the navigator to glare at Timothy. “Should have let it take you both.”
Timothy guessed that the Grandmaster of the Legion Nocturne was still a bit upset from the last time they had seen each other. The boy had used his unique ability to cancel out the Grandmaster’s magic in front of the entire Parliament of Mages. It had been completely necessary, but Timothy could understand why Romulus was still perturbed.
“But you didn’t,” Timothy said, stepping up to stand beside Caiaphas. “And for that, we thank you—I thank you with all my heart.” He placed a hand, still trembling from the cold, upon his chest.
Romulus said nothing, choosing to only growl before abruptly turning away from them to pace about the great room.
“I have heard recent reports that you were missing and presumed to be dead,” the Grandmaster said. He spun around again to face them, his eyes blazing from within his horned helmet. “How easy it would be—and, might I add, quite pleasurable—to make those reports a reality.”
Timothy said nothing, depending on his faith that Romulus was primarily an honorable man and not a murderous monster like Nicodemus and Constable Grimshaw.
“Why do you continue to plague me, boy?” the massive warrior asked, clenching and unclenching his powerful hands, which were covered in studded black gloves. “The world has changed far too much since you have been in it—and there is nothing I’d like more than to forget that you exist.”
Timothy swallowed hard before speaking. “We’ve come to ask for your help.”
Romulus laughed, but there was little humor in it. “You’re asking me to help you?”
“Not only for ourselves, but for Parliament, and quite possibly for all of Terra, as well.”
The Grandmaster tilted his helmeted head to one side quizzically. “What nonsense are you speaking, Cade?”
“It’s not nonsense,” Timothy said. “Doubtless you’re aware of the expedition to Tora’nah, and the efforts of Parliament to mine Malleum from the ground there to make unbreakable armor and weapons, to prepare for an invasion from Draconae.”
“An invasion I am still unconvinced will ever come,” Romulus scoffed.
Timothy sighed. “You say that, but I don’t believe you mean it. You have seen Verlis and his family, his clan. You have heard the stories of the violence and oppression on Draconae, and the evil of Raptus. The Wurm on Draconae are working tirelessly to tear down Alhazred’s Divide, and they mean to slaughter all of Parliament as well as all of their kin who escaped their tyranny. Like it or not, Lord Romulus, you and Verlis share the same enemy.
“Regardless, at the moment, there is another enemy who threatens us all. While in Tora’nah, Grandmaster Maddox fell ill. Days ago Caiaphas and I were transporting him back to Arcanum. He had been behaving . . . strangely. Belligerently. And then he fell ill. But on the journey home, he tried to kill us.”
Romulus pulled his fur cloak tighter about his body as he moved closer. “Maddox tried to kill you?”
“I believe it was Leander in body only. It was as if he was no longer in control of himself—almost as if something had taken possession of him.” The memory of the horrible event chilled him more than the storm raging outside Twilight.
Romulus grew silent, moving past them to return to his great seat. “Sit by me,” he instructed them, gesturing to pillows that had been laid upon the floor in front of the chair.
Timothy and Caiaphas complied instantly. The boy was weak with relief at the realization that Lord Romulus might hate him, but did not consider him a liar.
“Obviously you escaped,” Lord Romulus continued as he lowered his massive, armored body into the chair.
“Barely,” Timothy said, making himself comfortable upon the cushions. His ribs still ached, but the pain was starting to lessen. The scratches on his cheek had stung him before the cold weather had numbed his face. Now the warmth of the fire reminded him of the claws of Alastor. He realized how extremely tired he was, his body overjoyed by the opportunity to sit. “We were thrown from our sky carriage into the Yarrith Forest, and were lucky not to be killed.”
“That was days ago. Where have you been since then?” Romulus asked. There was a bronze goblet and pitcher upon a pedestal by the Grandmaster’s chair and he helped himself to some refreshment. This served only to remind Timothy how long it had been since they’d last had any food or drink.
“We spent some time with the Children of Karthagia,” he explained.
“Truly?” Romulus asked, taking a sip of his drink. “The Children usually do not concern themselves with matters that occur outside their ziggurats. How did they react to your tale of impending doom?”
Timothy’s stomach growled noisily. “Excuse me,” he said, embarrassed, before continuing. “We did not yet know the extent of this danger, for we had yet to be attacked by Constable Grimshaw and his monstrous beast.”
Romulus paused mid drink. “Constable Grimshaw?” he said. “But he has been reported missing, included amongst the mages no one can seem to locate.”
“Exactly,” Timothy said. “He and the Lake Dwellers—who we mistakenly believed might help us get back to Arcanum—held us captive by the command of . . .” He paused, reluctant to continue for fear that he would not be believed.
Lord Romulus leaned forward on his seat, setting his goblet down on the side table. The red eyes within his helmet seemed to glow brightly in the ghostfire light. “Under whose command?”
Timothy glanced at Caiaphas, not certain if he should continue. But the navigation mage nodded, urging him on. The boy took a deep breath.
“As impossible as it seems, we heard them speak of Alhazred.”
The Grandmaster of the Legion Nocturne rose quickly from his chair. “Alhazred?” he questioned. “Are you certain that you heard correctly?”
“I heard the name spoken as well,” Caiaphas announced. “It is indeed Alhazred that Constable Grimshaw and the Lake Dwellers serve.”
Romulus began to breathe deeply, as though a fire of rage burned within him. He sounded to Timothy like one of the horses his forest soldiers rode. The mage strode away from them, his fur cape flowing behind him. “How is this possible?” he muttered beneath his breath.
Then he paused and nodded slowly. “And yet, it would explain so much of the recent troubles in Arcanum.”
Timothy stood up from the pillow and approached the enormous mage. “You believe us?”
Romulus looked down upon the boy with burning eyes. “Though it pains me to side with the likes of you, in light of recent events I am left with little alternative.”
Timothy actually found himself smiling at the fearsome countenance of Lord Romulus. “Then you’ll help us?”
“You will stay here tonight in my great hall and know the hospitality of the Legion Nocturne. In the morning you will be given horses to make your way back to Arcanum.”
And with those words, the Grandmaster abruptly turned and strode toward the room’s exit. “But now, I must think upon what you have told me, and ponder the fate of my people, my guild, and quite possibly my world.”
* * *
Blending with the surroundings of SkyHaven’s vast hallways and corridors, Ivar searched for further evidence of the evil that Leander Maddox had accidentally uncovered. The servants and employees of this vast, floating fortress went about their business, totally unaware that he was among them. He listened to their whispered gossip, and watched as some shirked their responsibilities when they believed themselves to be truly alone.
Ivar imagined the look of absolute terror that would have appeared on their faces if he had allowed himself to be seen. But he would not allow this to occur. Cassandra had entrusted him with this most important mission, and he did not wish to disappoint the young Grandmaster in training.
In the raving of his illness, Leander said that he had been researching Torah’nah, when he had found something—something evil. Now Ivar moved down a darkened corridor toward a storage compartment where older records and documents pertaining to the business of Parliament were stored. He was certain that Leander would have looked here for the sort of information that he had sought.
The Asura stood before the large door, sealed tight by a spell of security. First making sure that he was alone, Ivar willed the hue of his skin back to normal. Cassandra had expected that in investigating Leander’s mad ramblings, he would need access to places that normally would be forbidden to him. Individual locks required specific spells to open them, but Cassandra had given Ivar a spell of opening that would act as a key to override whatever magical locks he might encounter.
Ivar looked at his palm, where the young girl had drawn the symbols that made up the spell. He held his hand out to a magical orb that was built into the frame, and the door slid slowly open to grant him access.
The Asura had found himself growing fond of Cassandra Nicodemus, seeing in her a chance that the future generation of mages could actually learn from the mistakes of the past. He liked the fact that she seemed to have a special fondness for Timothy, and he for her.
Timothy. There was still no word on whether his young friend had survived the attack upon their sky carriage. With the thought of the boy heavy on his mind, Ivar entered the storage room. The door to the large room closed, and lanterns of ghostfire immediately were illuminated. Ivar gazed about the vast chamber at the multiple shelves that adorned every wall. Upon each of the shelves were boxes within which countless scrolls and documents were stored.
Ivar carefully moved through the room, extending his finely attuned senses to seek anything that seemed out of the norm. The room smelled of ancient parchment but, for the briefest of moments, he caught the scent of something else. He prowled toward the back of the chamber, seeking out the odd aroma that now sought to elude him. He was certain that he had smelled it, a scent that did not belong. Ivar shut his eyes. To someone other than an Asura, the scent would have gone completely unnoticed. He imagined his senses as a kind of net, cast upon the still waters of the room. He did not know how long he stood there, eyes closed, but he had almost begun to believe that he might have been mistaken when he found it again.
This time he held on to the scent, following it.
Ivar found himself standing before a particular bookcase in a darkened corner. The bookcase was huge, made from heavy timber, and pressed flat against the far wall. The smell originated here, he thought as he eyed the shelving unit. He carefully examined the floor around it and found scrapes there. Something heavy had been moved across the floor. He crouched lower to the ground at the base of the bookshelves and felt the slightest draft from beneath them.
There is something beyond this wall. He ran his hands along the shelves, searching for access.
There came a sudden click as his hand passed over a decorative engraving in the wood. At first he was unsure what he had done, but then he remembered the spell that Cassandra had drawn upon the palm of his hand. The unlocking spell had worked upon the enchantments that kept the heavy shelving unit attached to the wall, concealing what was hidden behind it.
He leaped back as the storage unit swung away from the wall, scraping along the floor, to reveal a doorway. Carefully the Asura approached it, peering down through the darkness at a winding staircase that descended deeper into the bowels of SkyHaven. His hand went to the knife that he wore in a sheath attached to his belt, just to be certain it was still there, in case it was needed.
As Ivar began his descent, a faint breeze was kicked up from somewhere below and he again caught the scent that had aroused his suspicions before.
The scent of death.
* * *
Timothy held tightly to the reins of his mount, the powerful animal beneath him trotting along through the freshly fallen snow.
The cold morning air felt good in his lungs, clearing away the last vestiges of the previous night’s deathlike slumber. He could not recall a time when he had slept so deeply, certain that it had much to do with what he had been put through since falling from the sky carriage into the forests of Yarrith.
He and Caiaphas had been escorted for a time by a patrol of Lord Romulus’s best horsemen, but had been left to go it alone once they were past the Legion Nocturne’s borders.
Yarrith Forest was incredibly beautiful covered in snow, and he could appreciate it more now that he was dressed more appropriately for the chilling weather. Romulus had ordered that they both be given more suitable dress for traveling upon horseback.
He had never ridden a horse before, but found it quite pleasant, almost relaxing. It helped him to forget, just for the moment, the problems that would be facing them once they at last returned to Arcanum.
“How are you doing back there?” Caiaphas called to him. His horse was a beautiful animal, the color of night, while Timothy’s was pure white, blending with the snow.
The boy reached down and patted the animal. “We’re doing just fine.”
“It has been quite a journey, hasn’t it, Timothy?”
“It certainly has,” Timothy said, but deep down he knew that the troubled journey was far from over.
The farther they descended from the mountainous elevations, the warmer it became, and Timothy found himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable in his new heavy clothing. He fumbled with a clasp at his throat to remove the cloak draped over his shoulders.
“Could we stop for a moment, Caiaphas?” he called, pulling back the reins on his mount.
The navigator stopped his horse as well, turning it around to face him. “Do you need some help with that?” he asked good-naturedly, watching as the boy attempted to unfasten the clasp with little success.
“Perhaps you have a special spell for uncooperative clasps,” Timothy suggested with a smile. Twilight’s healers had been in to visit the navigator after their hearty meal of stew and bread, just before they had retired for the evening in front of the great roaring fireplace. Caiaphas’s hands now looked as good as new. It was unfortunate that the magic they could cast would not have any effect on him, or his troublesome cloak clasp.
“Here, perhaps I can help,” Caiaphas said, urging his horse closer to the boy’s.
A crackling bolt of pure magical force descended from the sky and struck the navigation mage, hurling him from his mount.
“Caiaphas!” Timothy screamed, jumping down from his horse to go to his friend.
The navigator lay upon the damp forest floor, his body twitching uncontrollably as the punishing spell coursed through him like snake venom. Timothy laid his palm where Caiaphas had been struck to disrupt the spell, and immediately felt the navigator begin to calm.
Maniacal laughter filled the air, and Timothy looked skyward through the canopy of trees to see Constable Grimshaw hanging there, shimmering supernatural energies keeping him aloft.
“Why won’t you leave us alone?” Timothy shrieked, his fists clenched in rage.
“And here I was thinking that you were a smart boy,” the Constable said, drifting to the ground. “Isn’t it obvious? We hate you—hate you for what you are, and for what you’ve done to us.”
Timothy heard the rustling of leaves behind him and spun to face the most horrific of sights.
“Isn’t that right, Alastor?” Grimshaw asked his monstrous companion.
He didn’t believe it was possible, but somehow the cat had changed even further since the last time Timothy had seen it. It had become even more manlike. The cat-creature was even bigger than before, and was now walking erect upon its hind legs. It padded toward him, clawed hands extended.
Timothy stared into the face of the animal and again was struck with an awful sense of familiarity. What was it about this horrific creature that struck a nerve, making him look upon the beast as something more than animal?
And then it tried to speak, the words coming from its fanged mouth in a growling slur.
“Hate . . . you,” it spat, saliva dripping from its open maw.
And Timothy understood why the monster seemed so familiar. He saw it in the cat-creature’s eyes, and in the shape of its face. Timothy Cade knew that face, though the one who had worn it was dead. Or so he had thought. Now, staring into the advancing beast’s hateful yellow eyes, he knew that he had been wrong.
“Know me . . . Cade?” it asked him, a hideous smile stretching its animalistic features.
And the boy did know him.
“Nicodemus,” Timothy said in a whisper of equal parts fear and utter revulsion. “But how?”