The Draykon Series Books 1-3

Chapter Eight-1

Chapter Eight

The pale moon rose high over Glour. It was almost full today, and cast a strong silvered glow down upon the buildings of the city; but its coveted radiance could offer little comfort to the citizens of Glour. Rumours swept the city streets, whispers of black beasts with the eyes of winter stalking through the houses on silent paws. The bulletin boards continued to issue their sedate, government warnings of danger. Privately printed news sheets offered more lurid accounts of the events of the past two days. Some thoughtfully included artists’ impressions of the three deceased, heavy on the blood content. The mood across Glour was tense.

Eva Glostrum sat shivering in the city library. It was a vast building, so of course it was cold. After hours of crouching miserably in her chair trying to ignore the freezing drafts, she felt like a block of ice. At her left elbow rested a stack of the dailies, all hysterically reporting a great deal of misinformation. At her right lay a leaning mountain of books hurriedly pulled from the library shelves. She had been studying throughout the darkest hours, poring over all the oldest texts on the shelves until her eyes were stinging with tiredness and her fingers coated with dust and ink. She had worked her way steadily through all the tales of the old days - days before the Summoners’ Board had been formed, when creatures of all kinds had roamed the Seven Realms untamed, unrecorded and uncontrollable.

She had read of gloeremes, finruks, gludrais and the inalo, fearsome beasts long banished from the Middles. She copied drawings of the caomdir, the cluine and the ulenath, creatures occasionally sighted in the Lowers but never above. Even the gwaystrel made its appearance between the pages, once a common sight and now so rare. Some of these beasts bore similarities to the creature she had seen, enough to give her a faint flicker of hope; but none perfectly fit the features she recalled so clearly.

By moonset she was miserably frozen, appallingly tired and in a deeply poor temper. But she forced herself to keep reading. Glour needed answers to this mystery, and besides: as long as she kept her mind fixed on the task at hand, she couldn’t sit and dwell, uselessly and destructively, on the events of last night. Meesa’s face flickered through her thoughts hour after hour, chilling her with a new thrill of horror every time she recalled her glassy eyes and blood-soaked hair. Each time she pushed the thoughts ruthlessly away and refocused her tired mind on the texts before her.

She was avoiding the truth, of course. Legend had it that the Board of Summoners had been founded several generations ago because of one particular beast; one animal too powerful to be controlled, too independent to be mesmerised, too violent to be safely approached. It was these qualities that made them popular as companions: their strength, their impressive physique and those chilling wintry eyes were more effective deterrents than even the most ferocious of guard dogs. But they caused havoc, repeatedly evading the control of their handlers and wreaking terrific damage whenever they succeeded in freeing themselves from command. The whurthag was the first name placed on the list of forbidden summons. The penalties for bringing banned beasts through from the Lowers were harsh.

Nobody had defied the ban in living memory. There was no incentive to do so: if the summoner managed to evade the punishments imposed by the Board, then sooner or later they would fall prey to the ferocity of the whurthag. No sane summoner would risk being torn apart by their own companion. The Board of Summoners in Glour took great care to ensure that their trained summoners were stable, responsible people, and she knew that the corresponding organisations in Orstwych and Ullarn did likewise. Nobody, then, would be crazy enough to pull a whurthag through.

So she told herself. Working steadily through all the oldest Catalogues of Beasts, she left the entries for whurthag until last, certain - hoping hard - that she would find an alternative explanation, some other label to place upon the thing she’d seen at the Wrobsley house. But deep down, she knew she was fooling herself.

At length, she found she had worked through every entry in every catalogue, and she’d found nothing that struck her as sufficiently similar to her memory of the creature that had killed Meesa. She could go on fooling herself - doubting the evidence of her own eyes and ears - but she had wasted enough time. She took a long breath and turned over the pages of the oldest Catalogue of Beasts, a book that dated back to before the founding of the Board. There it was, under “W”: whurthag. Several paragraphs of spidery text were scrawled adjacent to an artist’s impression of the creature. She recognised it immediately.

There were the sharp angles, the night-black pelt, the eyes of frozen winter. The whurthag’s claws, rendered in artistic detail, filled her with renewed horror. She recollected too well the glint of cool moonlight off those razor edges as the beast had crouched in the darkness.

She stifled her growing sense of dread, drawing several deep breaths to calm herself. She copied the pages slowly and neatly, drawing a quick, precise sketch of the whurthag as it appeared upon the page. Then she left the library, travelling rapidly to the city council chambers with the book tucked under her arm.

Eva was immediately admitted to Guardian Troste’s office. The Guardian was at work, her fierce black eyes intent on the paperwork before her. She put it aside as Eva entered, her brow creasing with concern.

‘Lady Glostrum. Not more bad news, I hope.’

‘Terrifically bad, I’m afraid.’

Troste’s lips twitched. ‘By all means, break it to me gently.’

Eva placed the book on the Guardian’s desk, opening it to the page she had bookmarked with a scrap of paper.

‘This is what was roaming the city streets the night before last.’

The Guardian needed no explanation. She drew in a sharp breath, and Eva noticed her hand shake slightly as she smoothed down the page.

‘I won’t ask if you’re sure; you clearly are.’

‘Unfortunately.’

Troste looked up, closing the book briskly. ‘Very well. What does our High Summoner suggest?’

‘It’s said that there’s no reliable way to battle the whurthag. Their speed defies attack: they can be killed, but only at great cost to the attacker. The best way to deal with them is to banish them back to the Lowers.’

Troste closed her eyes briefly. ‘Tell me something, Eva. What’s happening here? Has somebody foolishly brought a whurthag through a gate and lost control over it? Are these random attacks we’re seeing? Or worse?’

‘I fear worse.’ Eva quickly related her theory about the ring, including Vale’s reported findings. ‘I fear the whurthag is - at present - under someone’s control. The attacks are targeted. But if legend is to be believed, the whurthag’s handler won’t keep it under control for long. Then we’ll start seeing those random attacks. We need to find it and dispose of it, now.’

Troste nodded. ‘Fine. What do you need?’

‘I’ve already issued a summons to the guild. I’m going to need some sorcerers to open gates. I’d appreciate an armed escort for each group: not to attack the whurthag, they mustn’t do that, but to deal with its handler. If we find him or her.’

‘All right. I’ll get Angstrun here.’

Lord Angstrun arrived within minutes. He marched in unceremoniously, all impressive height, thunderous brow and a stare to turn the moon blue.

‘Is this one of those real emergencies? Not one of the fake ones you lot like to use to keep us on our toes-’

‘Yes, Darae. Sit down, please.’

Angstrun strode back to the door and stuck his head around it.

‘Bring my letters in here, will you.’ Troste’s secretary appeared at the door with a stack of papers. She handed them to Angstrun and immediately retreated, as if Angstrun were a ferocious dog best kept at a distance. Eva chuckled inwardly. She could understand the temptation to view him that way. It was said in the city that Angstrun, the foremost sorcerer in Glour, bathed in moonglow every night and drank refined essence of starine with his breakfast. It wasn’t too hard to believe.

Angstrun sat heavily in a chair opposite to Guardian Troste, nodding absently at Eva on his way past. He sat amid a growing pile of paper, tearing through his letters as Troste explained Eva’s errand. His head shot up at the word whurthag, and he stared first at the Guardian and then at Eva.

‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Genuine emergency. I get it.’

‘Lady Glostrum is going to need some sorcerers, Darae. Some of your best. She’ll need gates opened and closed with as much efficiency as possible. Get some who don’t scare easily, please.’

‘Right.’ Angstrun stood up, but he did not depart immediately. ‘How did it get here? I mean, I’ve never heard of a whurthag coming through a rogue gate.’

‘No,’ said Eva. ‘It was probably brought through deliberately.’ She briefly recounted the connection between the whurthag and the istore stone. Angstrun’s very black brows lifted as he listened.

‘That cursed “istore” nonsense is more trouble than it’s worth,’ he grunted.

‘That remains to be seen,’ Eva replied. ‘Apparently somebody thinks it’s worth a great deal of trouble.’

‘No time to waste, Angstrun,’ the Guardian interjected. ‘Sorcerers, please.’

‘Er, right.’ He crossed to the door, which abruptly swung open before he reached it. Troste’s secretary stood timidly in the doorway, clutching a rolled message.

‘For your lordship,’ she said, thrusting the message at Angstrun. ‘Marked urgent.’ She all but ran out of the room.

‘It never stops,’ muttered Angstrun, unfolding the note. He read quickly, then tossed the paper at Troste.

‘Another emergency for you. Hope you’re in the mood for them today.’

Eva glanced enquiringly at Angstrun. He glowered at her as if it was her fault.

‘Missive from Glinnery. Someone’s f****d about with the Night Cloak. Has to be one of my aides; nobody else could’ve had the right access to it, or the right skills. Seems someone thought it’d be fun to eat parts of Glinnery.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘They’re sending a bloody delegation. Someone remind me why I took this job.’

‘Because you’re good at it, Darae,’ said the Guardian absently. ‘This is your fire to put out, I’m afraid. But get Eva some help first.’

Angstrun left, muttering a string of words that was, fortunately, just about inaudible.

Troste finished reading the note and looked up at Eva. ‘Apparently someone wandered into the Night Cloak - the part that was moved - and ran into an unidentified beast. Black, big, strange eyes.’ She handed Eva the paper. ‘By the sounds of it, that was either before or at about the same time that the attacks occurred in the city. But it might be a place to start.’

Eva glanced at the hasty map drawn on the paper. The location of the whurthag attack was clearly marked: southwest of the city, in territory that ought to be Daylands.

‘Thank you,’ Eva murmured, her quick mind already formulating a plan for the search. ‘May I take this?’

‘Of course.’ Guardian Troste sighed, looking suddenly older. ‘They always told me there’d be days like this,’ she said. ‘Though I think this beats all. We just need giants coming down out of the skies and my week will be perfect.’

Eva smiled wryly. ‘Can’t say I’m enjoying it very much myself.’

‘Oh, that’s right. Meesa Wrobsley was a friend, wasn’t she? I’m sorry, Eva.’

Eva rose briskly to her feet, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Well. To work.’

It took two hours to assemble Eva’s teams of summoners. By that time, Angstrun’s sorcerers had arrived - eight of them, constituting most of Glour’s best. Eva sorted them into groups and sent them off, tasked with searching Glour city and the surrounding forest in sections. The whurthag had been seen in multiple locations already: in theory it could be anywhere.

Her own group consisted of another summoner, a sorcerer, and two armed city guards. Roys Alin was her summoner companion, a woman older than Eva with unshakeable nerves and a strong natural ability for beast management. Her abilities combined with Eva’s should be a match for a single whurthag, or so Eva hoped. All they had to do was dominate its will long enough to send it through the gate.

The sorcerer was a younger man, very tall, with longish dark hair. Eva didn’t recognise him. His features and the green colour of his eyes suggested some Orstwych blood somewhere back in his family tree. He seemed curiously relaxed given the nature of the task at hand.