Pandemonium Ascendant

By Dr. S. Fern

Fleeing the Corsair Coast, the fugitive sorcerer Dakuran El-Alamir and his companion Mikhael travel west towards the Plains of Madness in search of power. Seeking to unite the might of the Abyss with that of Pandemonium, Dakuran would rule the whole of the known world. Standing in his way, however, is the kingdom of the Eittendorfer and the fastness of Castle Wundigstein.

Will the stone of Wundigstein and the mettle of those who defend it turn the chaotic tide that has been unleashed, or will the streets of this mighty fortress-city echo with the cries of daemons; a foretaste of the doom to come?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jun 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499087314

Dr. S. Fern

Dr Fern hails from the south east of England. Being inspired by the early fantasy and horror writers of the last century his work tends not to follow the modern template for such work, often resulting in bizarre and sometimes macabre twists to his tales.

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Copyright © 2014 by Dr S. Fern.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4990-8732-1

                eBook           978-1-4990-8731-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/4/2016

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

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Acknowledgements

I would like to express my thanks and gratitude to those people who helped me through the writing and editing of this book.

I would like to thank my family and friends for their patience and indulgence. Special thanks should be given to Roman---I am so grateful for the many hours you gave up editing the manuscript, for your advice and your suggestions. I am exceedingly grateful to Sean---thanks for all your feedback and advice. I would also like to express my thanks to Louise---your cover art is most excellent.

Chapter One

T he old high-banked road wound up the length of the Corsair coast, its ancient paving cracked with age and worn from use. The rain was steadily falling along this stretch, bowing the tall grasses that grew from the road's high banks almost double. As bowed as the grasses, were the heads of the two travellers who trudged northwards towards the port-city of Yusef's Gate. From the state of their garments it was clear that the two had been travelling for some time.

Rain soaked everything. As the old road crested a steep hill the left-hand bank fell away to reveal a wind-swept coastal panorama. The smaller of the two figures, a man of average height and build, pulled his heavy, travel-stained cloak tighter about him as the wind began to bite. His olive complexion and dark, slanted eyes---features typical of the region---were visible beneath his tightly-wrapped black shemagh.

Once over the hill the road's coastal bank once again rose to afford a measure of shelter from the wind and rain. The cloaked man gestured with an ornately carved wooden staff, towards a large tree that had grown up out of the bank but which now leaned over the road. The two travellers halted under the shelter of its boughs. The second of the two figures, much taller and broader than his companion, fully seven feet tall and heavily built, sat to rest under the tree. Little of this person's features could be discerned beneath the heavy black leather robes, gauntlets and deep hood that concealed him. The first man walked behind his companion and un-strapped one of the many packs that he was carrying. Leaning his staff against the bank, he opened the pack with thin talon-like hands and removed a loaf of bread and a packet of cheese.

'How long has it been, Mikhael?' he asked before passing the pack to his fellow traveller. The tall figure accepted the pack and removed from it a cloth-wrapped cut of cured beef, his hood concealing every detail of his face bar a pair of burning red eyes.

'Two and a half weeks, my lord,' the tall hooded figure replied with a deep, resonant, grit-lined voice. As the first man removed the meagre meal from its wrappings his cloak parted, exposing a dark blue shalwar kameez underneath.

'Two and a half weeks fleeing from place to place like outcasts---criminals even. And all because of an unimportant township! The King's Caliphon and ourselves had a tacit agreement that when it came to our work . . .' The words faded into chewing noises. 'Never before had he . . .' the robed man complained.

'My lord, we did burn the entire township to the ground and melt the shrine of his patron god in one night. Never before had we unleashed such powers and wrought so much destruction that demanded such a high price in souls.'

'You are right, as usual, Mikhael. But to unleash the Destroyer, to witness such aetheric annihilation was something, wasn't it? I think that was worth the price. Do you not agree my friend?'

'Yes, my lord. But they burned our tower to cinders and slew your master . . .'

'Fool that he was!' the cloaked man spat, half-chewed bread and cheese flying from his mouth, 'always limiting himself; never pushing the boundaries or testing their limits, forever seeking the gates but not daring to open them once he found them. He was as stagnant as the Lords of Law themselves!' Then, having reached a crescendo, he stopped and composed himself. 'You are right of course; for that one act of revenge we have lost everything except what we now carry. If I could change one thing do you know what it would be, Mikhael?'

Mikhael stopped eating and turned to regard his companion. 'No, my lord. I do not.'

'Nothing! I would change nothing! In burning our tower and casting us from our one place of security the Caliphon has opened my eyes more fully than my late master ever could have hoped to. Do you know where we are going Mikhael?'

'No, my lord, I do not.'

'To Pandemonium! To the Plains of Madness! I saw something in the flames of that township Mikhael, something that called to me . . . and I, Dakuran El-Alamir must answer.'

Mikhael finished his meal and turned, looking knowingly to Dakuran, 'if it called to you my lord, then you must' he concurred, in a tone that indicated that he knew of what his friend spoke

With the last of their supplies finished, the two fugitives gathered their things, adjusted their packs and clothing, before stepping out from their sheltered spot. The rain continued to fall and the wind picked up as they resumed their trek towards the city. The coast road wound round the last hill they had trudged up and when they had rounded the bend to begin the descent towards the sea, even though it was still driving with rain, through squinting eyes they were able to make out the distinctive outline of several massive towers on the horizon.

Yusef's Gate was a prosperous city; its large harbour was home to all manner of privateers and Corsairs from small-time smugglers in sleek, fast sloops up to the infamous Corsair princes with their cannon-armed galleons. The city stood atop a vast hill that rolled down into fertile plains to the north, east and south. To the west sheer granite cliffs marked the limits of both the city and the eastern continent as a whole, forming a narrow entrance to the sheltered bay, giving the impression of an enormous gateway. The tall cliffs shielded the bay from the worst of the weather making it an excellent natural harbour. It was near one of these that the Temple of Yusef had been built with the city growing up adjacent to it and around the harbour over a period of several hundred years.

The temple itself was an impressive structure, seemingly built from a single colossal black stone. The gatehouse and towers could be seen for miles around. A common belief held that the temple building, a truly impressive structure, had been built around the actual Gate of Yusef itself, but nobody knew for certain. No one in the city, barring the Black Priests, was allowed into the temple under pain of death. The believers had to offer their prayers and sacrifices outside in the massive courtyard. Those few unfortunate enough to have been overcome by their curiosity were never seen or heard from again. It was whispered that the guards that patrolled the temple walls and gatehouse were, underneath their baroque bronze armour, all dead men . . .

Like any city along the Corsair coast, Yusef's Gate had a thriving trade in almost any commodity that could be obtained and everything had its price. It was a city of thieves and mercenaries. Few places within its walls were truly safe and only the brave and the foolhardy ventured out after dark.

The temple and the priesthood were inviolate. These were fiercely protected by the ruling Caliphon, Prince Ahmed Mahmoud bin Yuseffi---the self-proclaimed descendant of the great warrior-priest Yusef himself. He viewed blasphemy as a heinous crime: those who spoke ill of the temple and its order were publicly flogged. He allowed---even positively encouraged---the trade in stolen goods, as he profited from the taxes. There was hardly a venture in the city that he was not aware of, and did not have a hand in.

The sun was beginning to set as the two fugitives slunk into the city, passing under the foreboding shadow of the great black temple. The rain had stopped a couple hours before, and they needed to find somewhere to rest and dry off their wet clothing. Down numerous streets they walked looking for a quiet, nondescript inn where they might stay the night. It was after a great search that they found themselves standing outside an inn at the end of a gloomy, unlit street. The Block and Tackle was an old building, built from timber and red-green clay bricks roofed with red clay tiles. It was typical of the architecture on this stretch of the Corsair coast. Something about its appearance told them it had seen better days.

Dakuran opened the low wooden door and he and Mikhael stepped inside. Guttering candles in soot-coated shades barely lit the gloomy interior of the inn. In the wall opposite the bar, a feeble fire struggled to stay alight in a small, filthy, ash-chocked fireplace. Behind the ancient, scarred bar a cadaverous barman was pouring a glass of what appeared to be wine into a notched chalice, evidently for the inn's apparent sole occupant; a hawk-faced man with slanted eyes and a long oiled moustache reaching beyond his chin, who watched as they entered. As the two of them approached, they could see that the hawk-faced man was well presented and obviously affluent. His appearance was at odds with his surroundings. Giving them a cursory nod, he picked up his drink and left the bar to take up a seat in a shadowed alcove next to the fire.

The barman turned to regard the two newcomers. 'What'll it be, sirs?' he asked, 'bed and board I suppose, looking at the state of your clothes, if you don't mind me saying so?' His voice was old and hoarse.

'Aye, we are,' Dakuran responded, 'although the less you say the better; my friend, here, and I are private individuals.'

'My apologies sir, if you'll follow me I'll show you to your rooms and sort you out something to eat. We've got stew.' Picking up a dirty lantern that stood at the end of the bar he led the pair down a damp, mouldy corridor and into an altogether older wing of the building. They were shown into a cold, dank room with a couple of rotten cots for beds and a single basin bolted to one wall. A rusted jug hung from a hook just below the basin. The barman lit a candle and left.

Looking around with obvious distaste Dakuran turned to his companion, 'I would suggest you sleep on the floor my friend, I doubt this 'bed' will support you!' A guttural noise that could have been a laugh or a snort of derision was his only reply, as he began to unbuckle the packs that he had been carrying for the past two and a half weeks. A few minutes later a large pile of packs lay stacked in the corner and Dakuran had removed his sodden cloak. Mikhael began to un-strap his leather robes with obvious relief.

'At last I can breathe!' he said, casting the last of his damp robes onto the floor and stretching. He arched his back and spread his huge arms wide. Mikhael was no man . . . His red-scaled skin was testament to that; as was his mouth that opened vertically rather than horizontally to reveal three rows of huge yellow teeth, each as long as a child's forearm.

'I am sorry Mikhael, you are a daemon of the Abyss, you know as well as I do the consequences if we reveal ourselves . . .'

'I do, my lord, but I seek only temporary respite.' Mikhael unpacked some fresh, dry clothes and began to re-dress, this time in a lightweight cotton Shalwar Kameez followed by a deep-hooded robe. Both garments were black.

'I will go and get us some food while you change, my lord. Shall I bring it here?'

'No Mikhael, we shall eat in the bar; we do not want to arouse suspicion, and besides, this place appears to be quiet enough for our purposes.'

Nodding, Mikhael waited while his friend changed his clothing and led the way back to the bar.

'Barman!' Mikhael called out as he reached the bar, 'two bowls of stew and something to drink.' The old barman shuffled over to where Mikhael and Dakuran were standing at the end of the bar. He reached beneath the bar and produced a pair of old dented pewter chalices and a green glass wine bottle. The label on the bottle was old and peeling, its writing barely legible.

'The stew's still warm. I'll bring it out presently,' he said as he struggled with the bottle's cork.

'Allow me,' Mikhael said, taking the bottle from the old man and removing the cork with a single pull.

'Thank you sir,' the barman said as he turned and walked out to the kitchen.

No more than a few minutes passed before the old man returned and the two companions sat down to their meagre bowls of lukewarm thin broth. Once finished, Dakuran turned to Mikhael.

'Our moustachioed friend appears to be taking an interest in us.'

'Shall I take care of him, my lord?

'No! At least, not yet. I would find out who he is and what his business is first. Just keep an eye on him.'

Mikhael refilled his chalice and turned to eye the alcove and its curious occupant. His eyes glowed in the shadows of his hood as he sat, quietly observing. Dakuran emptied the bottle into his chalice before nodding at Mikhael, then picking up his drink, he slowly rose.

'Good evening, my friend,' Dakuran said, greeting the stranger as he made his way towards the alcove. 'You are not from around here. You are Muskovian, if I am not mistaken?'

'You are not,' replied the hawk-faced man in a smooth, measured tone. 'You, however are far more local than I, though less welcome of late, if I am not mistaken, Dakuran El-Alamir.' The robed man moved further into the alcove, inviting Dakuran to join him at the table. Accepting the invitation Dakuran sat down opposite the Muskovian.

'How do you know who I am and what do you know of me?' asked Dakuran with evident concern.

'Only what I have overheard. A rider entered the city two days ago. He had ridden hard and was demanding immediate audience with the Caliphon. He was denied an audience and ordered to render his message to the captain of the guard who would then deliver it. This he promptly did, and all those around heard as well. It seems that the Corsair King, King Hamidd, is anxious to lay his hands on a pair of rogue sorcerers who, after some dispute with the Caliphon of Uttir-na-Kesh, torched one of the villages under his protection, annihilating the population---some hundreds of people, in the process before fleeing the region. From what he reported, and the descriptions he gave, it was not too much of a stretch of the imagination to conclude the two of you, seeking shelter in possibly the dankest, most rotten hole that Yusef's Gate has to offer must be the two individuals this messenger was referring to. Am I in error?'

'You are not in error, sir,' Dakuran shot a brief sidelong glance to Mikhael who immediately rested his drink on the table and adopted an aggressive posture.

'You needn't fear me, at very least because I do not like the look of your friend, although I mean no offence. My name is Barunbataar and I am a merchant . . . of sorts. You may believe me when I say that I would be as welcome in this city as are yourselves should it be known that I were here.'

Somewhat relieved, Dakuran motioned for Mikhael to join them. As he settled down in the entrance to the alcove Barunbataar turned to him, 'You can relax my friend, old Nabo the barman can be relied upon; he gets good business from the city's more private individuals.'

'I believe we can trust this man Mikhael, go ahead, you must be stifling under that hood.' With a grunt of either satisfaction or agreement Mikhael lowered it and took off his outer robe. The merchant gave only the slightest sign of surprise before regaining his composure and finishing his drink.

'Gentlemen, another drink? I am heading north in the morning and don't expect to enjoy company for some time after this evening.' The Muskovian signalled and Nabo came over, placing a fresh bottle of wine on the table before shuffling off. He seemed entirely unperturbed by Mikhael's true appearance. Mikhael uncorked the bottle and refreshed their chalices.

'Sir,' Dakuran began, 'we are looking to travel west, all the more immediately since learning that our pursuers have caught up with us. Do you know of any ships leaving the port imminently?'

'Ships that'll take passengers such as yourselves?' Barunbataar thought for several moments before replying. 'There is one that might serve you well, no bigger than a sloop but fast as hell; Sprite her name is. She's taken me aboard before now. Her captain, a man by the name of Khamil Al-Amir boasts she's the fastest ship on the eastern coast barring Prince Odisha's Brazen Spear, and the Dead Man's Hand---one of the caliphon's frigates. You'll find her moored on the south docks. I believe she sails on the noon-tide.'

'I thank you for your help sir. Is there anything we can do for you, in return?'

'No, thank you my friend. I appreciate your offer but I have everything in order. I must bid you good night for I leave at dawn.' Barunbataar finished his drink and rose. He lifted a large leather case from under the table where it had been concealed. The case was dark in colour, much used, although the three locks that secured it looked new.

Dakuran watched him leave. Turning to Mikhael he lowered his voice. 'Did you notice the thin smoke emanating from his case, Mikhael?'

'Yes, my lord, I did.'

'Souls, Mikhael. It would appear that our friend Barunbataar is a trader in souls. No wonder then that he wishes to keep a low profile in this city where the dead are worshipped alongside the gods of the night and its creatures. The spirits of the departed are held in great reverence here, and to steal a person's soul is the most odious crime. If he were discovered, the Black Priests would flog him to death in the temple courtyard for all to see, and leave his body for the vultures. I am grateful for the advice he gave us but we should not be seen with him again.'

With that, Dakuran tipped his chalice and downed the last of his wine. Wiping his lips, he nodded towards Mikhael's chalice.

'Finish that, my friend. We need to rise early and find this Captain Al-Amir before he sails. We must not remain here any longer than is absolutely necessary.'

'No, my lord, that would not be wise.'

Chapter Two