Facets

Shan’Kobe’s Lair

His heart beat faster than it had ever before. Fear coursed through his veins as he scuttled through the maze of dark corridors. He had never seen Shan’kobe. Very few had. They had all heard stories about those few, horrifying stories of lives that never ended pleasantly. No one went to the Fields and lived to see another day. And no one went of their own accord, as he was doing. None had been so brave. Or so foolish.

He had no choice, though the fact brought him no comfort. He had come across the stone quite by accident, and had not thought twice about keeping it, naturally. The smoothness of the lucid blue sphere had intrigued him, and he had jealously guarded the treasure from prying eyes. Yet when time revealed the stone’s function, he had known what must be done. Shan’kobe must be informed, the treasure relinquished, and all consequences met with bravery.

The sound of his footsteps echoed through the poorly lit corridors. His breath came in shorter, shallower gasps, and he knew he was close. Around the next corner were the Middle Fields. The Great Gates loomed. Walk through those gates and he would find himself…

He did not know where. Perhaps he would meet with death, or perhaps he’d meet first with a reward. Shan’kobe could be thankful, he supposed. Unlikely. The fables did not make any mention of shows of mercy on the mistress’s part. They did refer, on numerous occasions, to the black anger she displayed.

He gripped the precious stone firmly in one hand, not wanting to give it even the smallest chance of slipping through his bent little fingers. He shuddered as he contemplated what lay in store for him. He would be the cause of, and focus for, Shan’kobe’s fury. Of this he was certain.

He paused before the Great Gates, lost in his thoughts. The Middle Fields, it was called, and yet most knew it as the Death Lair. They were not given to exaggeration, and they named the place in a most literal sense. This was where death, in the most unspeakable form, took place.

For some reason he felt proud to be the one delivering the news. He was important. His name really ought to be recorded in the History. He suspected it would not be, but found comfort in the fact that his comrades, at least, would remember. At least some would remember him as the first man in recorded history to brave the Death Lair in order to deliver a message of life and death. The thought gave him the strength to go on.

The en’kahl regarded him sharply as he entered the Fields, weapons drawn and propped. Yet they made no move towards him. Their eyes were blank, and he wondered if they were really alive. A chill coursed through him, and he clenched his jaw resolutely. He stepped inside, and more en’kahl intercepted him. The tips of four swords rested against his neck, and they enquired in their guttural tongue what business he had here. He spoke of ground-breaking, earth shattering, soul-stealing news, and the great price that Shan’kobe (referred to here as ‘The Mistress’) would pay without it. The en’kahl studied him suspiciously through narrowed eyes, but finally one of them grunted, and the others moved to bracket him. He was dragged along like a prisoner, and had the presence of mind to be angry. Yet that very presence of mind prevented him from challenging them. The fables told of those who struggled, too. He did not want to become a fable.

They led him through several more sets of ornately decorated doors, supposedly dating from a time long before the Czenzine War. In those days the Middle Fields had been used by the Disillusioned, the men of the Immortals. He found it difficult to believe that this place had ever been used for good. He might be Shaded, but he still had his senses about him. He knew good from bad, and the fortress definitely served the latter.

Finally they reached the Inner Chamber, which had once been a Throne Room for servants of Laman. On the old gilded throne, Shan’kobe reclined. She was a creature out of nightmare, and he wondered if he would die there on the spot.

Of all the fables, not one accurately described the horror that sat on the throne. It was not so much her appearance, for despite himself he could recognise her fundamental beauty. She was truly breathtaking. Yet the evil that surrounded her, the darkness that pulsed in the air around her, was oppressive. It threatened to crush him.

“You will await the Mistress’s command,” one of the en’kahl spoke suddenly. His heart lurched in his chest. The unspoken message was, Until that command is issued, you will remain silent, and you will fasten your gaze to the floor.

As if by force his eyes moved down to regard his feet, and he found that he could not raise them again. His hands were clasped before him, and he could not unclasp them. His mouth was poised as if in preparation for speech, and he could not close it. He was frozen on the spot, and he was utterly helpless. He had never known such terror, but he thought it was something else that held him here like a small sculpture.

Hours passed in a shadowy blur, and he thought he might even have slept for a time. He started to regret coming, eventually deciding that he would rather die than stand trapped here any longer. He began to shiver as the cold of the subterranean rock seeped into his bones through his feet. He began to long for death, for anything that would release him from his bonds. He began to count slowly, and soon decided that, if he were not mad already, he soon would be.

“Face me, worm.”

The voice crashed into his very being, seeming to split his skull, wrenching his brain, traumatising him. Suddenly he was able to move, and he stumbled, feeling weak and ill. It took every ounce of his strength to stand up straight. He raised his eyes slowly, reluctantly, and met the gaze of Shan’kobe. She stood mere centimetres from him.

Her dark-skinned, angular face was framed by a magnificent crest of yellow-white hair, the same colour as her arched, sandy brows. Her lashes were dark, her cheek bones prominent, and her green eyes were almost luminous in the darkness. Her wide mouth curved in a half-smile, and her eyes flashed knowingly.

“You react promptly, I am glad to see,” she murmured, and the soft words slammed his skull like a sledgehammer. “You know your place and worth—or lack thereof.”

Her statuesque figure was enshrouded in a hooded black robe. The fabric was laced through with tendrils of scarlet which seemed to fade and reappear with unsettling regularity. The robe, reaching from her neck and shoulders to the ground, seemed to breathe: it was alive. As she paced the chamber it swept along the ground behind her.

“Now you may speak—before you die.”

He stood rigid, nerves wound tight enough hold him on the spot. To his surprise he spoke. He had not expected to be capable. “Great Mistress, I have made a most disturbing discovery.” He paused, and shuddered involuntarily. “I stumbled upon this stone.” He withdrew the sphere from an inside pocket of his coat, and shuffled forward a few paces to place it at Shan’kobe’s feet. “It is of things mystic, Great Mistress,” he added, his voice now barely a whisper.

Shan’kobe laughed, enjoying his grovelling. She motioned for one of the en’kahl to retrieve the stone for her, and grinned as the sphere dropped into her palm. “Magic?” she said doubtfully. “Wherever did you ‘stumble’ upon such a find?”

“In the prospecting fields, Great Mistress,” he said automatically, not sure where the words came from. He had come here to tell the truth, but he felt now like the words were being dragged from him. “I was awork in the fields.”

“When?”

“Three days gone, Great Mistress.” He knew that he had sealed his fate now, admitting that he had kept the treasure for so long before approaching her. He would die this night.

“And…” She examined the stone with mild interest. “…What does it do?”

The words were dragged out of him. “It is a linking stone, Great Mistress. It belonged to a great enemy.”

“Which enemy is that?” she asked, an element of amusement in her voice.

“The Bane, Great Mistress. Willard Anarran.”

She stopped pacing, and turned to face him. Her expression was calm, but he knew better than to assume she was. Gazing into those murderous eyes, he knew that his seconds were numbered. He decided to continue, thinking he might as well. He would make certain that Shan’kobe knew the extent of the situation.

“Great Mistress, the stone was designed so that the holder could locate and identify any living descendant of the house of Anarran, hence the name ‘linking stone’. Anarran wished to be able to locate his family members should he lose track of them. I have looked into the stone…and I have seen…the descendants. They are the children of Anarran.” He swallowed. “They thrive.”

In spite of himself he was fascinated to see Shan’kobe trembling. Whether it was from fear or fury, he did not know.

He prepared himself for death, feeling strangely relieved. Perhaps now he would go to his well-earned rest. His life had been long and arduous, and the thought of ending it did not horrify him as much as he would have expected.

Shan’kobe’s eyes settled upon him one last time, and one hand rose, a finger pointing straight at him. White light danced at the Great Mistress’s fingertips. It suddenly darted out at him, and he was dust.