screaming in agony.
Orlac did not want to be told what to do next. This was his show, not Dorgryl’s and he would take charge. Turning casually towards the stunned audience, with one man dead but still smoking and another flailed to his death, he loosed his Colours—again it was but an arrogant trickle of his power.
People began to scream as blood ran freely from their noses, eyes and ears. Chaos broke out amongst the crowd and bloodied, mostly blinded bodies began to run in all directions. Orlac turned his calm attention towards one end of the square. It seemed a pity to ruin this dignified architecture, but he pushed again with his Colours and at this bidding the area of buildings began to cave in, collapsing swiftly under their own sudden shift in weight. The grinding and groaning of stone, as it bent to Orlac’s will, sounded even worse than the shrieking, panicking people it threatened, and it brought back all his memories of when he had begun the destruction of Caremboche all those centuries previous.
Good…good, my boy. Are you enjoying yourself? Dorgryl asked, impressed .
He was, and Dorgryl was disappointed when hisnephew pulled back the Colours, allowing them to soften to a glow within whilst he surveyed the damage. Dorgryl so badly wanted to touch that well of power, but this was not the time to reveal himself. He relished the day such power would be his. For now, though, he must be the ‘guest’ and learn more about his host.
The people who had been hurt were lying on the polished stone, crying and begging for help as their blood ran freely. Some had been crushed under the toppling stone of the buildings. Others, not many, had escaped the touch of his Colours but they were in shock, walking from person to person, trying to find their own and seeking help. Why was this happening? What could cause such a thing? they wondered. Orlac noticed a woman fleeing the square; her shapely ankles above jewelled sandals caught his eye. Obviously one he had spared, he thought carelessly, and felt smug that she had escaped his attentions. Perhaps she was pretty? She would certainly help spread the word.
Hela had picked up her long skirts, revealing her jewelled sandals and, not caring that her veils were askew, ran for her life. This was it. This is what Lys had warned her about. There was magic afoot in Cipres and it came accompanied by death. She had not missed the unaccountably tall, impressively handsome young man who had taken the stage and looked calmly around whilst two men died behind him for absolutely no reason. He had reminded her of someone, but that thought had gone the instant everyone about her had begun to bleed.
They must forgo the night’s grace she had promised Sarel. She must get the Queen away from Cipres now.
Hela’s voice was urgent; her terror causing her to forget whom she addressed. ‘Sarel!’ She shook the sleeping Queen. ‘Sarel! Wake up!’
The young woman opened her eyes, suddenly in shock, her body tensing. ‘What’s happened?’
‘No time. Get up. Move!’ commanded her maid and friend. ‘It’s begun. There is killing in the square. We must flee.’
Hela pulled the dazed woman from her bed, ripping off her nightgown not caring for the chill it caused to the pale, perfect skin. ‘Climb into these. Waste no time, Sarel. We leave immediately.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know—a golden man—but there are people dead in the square for no reason. I saw them with my own eyes, bleeding from their noses, bursting into flame…buildings which have stood for centuries, collapsing as one, killing all in their path.’
Hela had not realised she was weeping as she spoke. Now Sarel’s eyes were filled with tears and confusion as she tried to make sense of the babble.
‘I don’t understand,’ said the young Queen.
‘Neither do I,’ Hela admitted, her nervousness betraying her. ‘It is magic…beyond my comprehension, but you can be sure that the man who wields it is
Orlac did not want to be told what to do next. This was his show, not Dorgryl’s and he would take charge. Turning casually towards the stunned audience, with one man dead but still smoking and another flailed to his death, he loosed his Colours—again it was but an arrogant trickle of his power.
People began to scream as blood ran freely from their noses, eyes and ears. Chaos broke out amongst the crowd and bloodied, mostly blinded bodies began to run in all directions. Orlac turned his calm attention towards one end of the square. It seemed a pity to ruin this dignified architecture, but he pushed again with his Colours and at this bidding the area of buildings began to cave in, collapsing swiftly under their own sudden shift in weight. The grinding and groaning of stone, as it bent to Orlac’s will, sounded even worse than the shrieking, panicking people it threatened, and it brought back all his memories of when he had begun the destruction of Caremboche all those centuries previous.
Good…good, my boy. Are you enjoying yourself? Dorgryl asked, impressed .
He was, and Dorgryl was disappointed when hisnephew pulled back the Colours, allowing them to soften to a glow within whilst he surveyed the damage. Dorgryl so badly wanted to touch that well of power, but this was not the time to reveal himself. He relished the day such power would be his. For now, though, he must be the ‘guest’ and learn more about his host.
The people who had been hurt were lying on the polished stone, crying and begging for help as their blood ran freely. Some had been crushed under the toppling stone of the buildings. Others, not many, had escaped the touch of his Colours but they were in shock, walking from person to person, trying to find their own and seeking help. Why was this happening? What could cause such a thing? they wondered. Orlac noticed a woman fleeing the square; her shapely ankles above jewelled sandals caught his eye. Obviously one he had spared, he thought carelessly, and felt smug that she had escaped his attentions. Perhaps she was pretty? She would certainly help spread the word.
Hela had picked up her long skirts, revealing her jewelled sandals and, not caring that her veils were askew, ran for her life. This was it. This is what Lys had warned her about. There was magic afoot in Cipres and it came accompanied by death. She had not missed the unaccountably tall, impressively handsome young man who had taken the stage and looked calmly around whilst two men died behind him for absolutely no reason. He had reminded her of someone, but that thought had gone the instant everyone about her had begun to bleed.
They must forgo the night’s grace she had promised Sarel. She must get the Queen away from Cipres now.
Hela’s voice was urgent; her terror causing her to forget whom she addressed. ‘Sarel!’ She shook the sleeping Queen. ‘Sarel! Wake up!’
The young woman opened her eyes, suddenly in shock, her body tensing. ‘What’s happened?’
‘No time. Get up. Move!’ commanded her maid and friend. ‘It’s begun. There is killing in the square. We must flee.’
Hela pulled the dazed woman from her bed, ripping off her nightgown not caring for the chill it caused to the pale, perfect skin. ‘Climb into these. Waste no time, Sarel. We leave immediately.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know—a golden man—but there are people dead in the square for no reason. I saw them with my own eyes, bleeding from their noses, bursting into flame…buildings which have stood for centuries, collapsing as one, killing all in their path.’
Hela had not realised she was weeping as she spoke. Now Sarel’s eyes were filled with tears and confusion as she tried to make sense of the babble.
‘I don’t understand,’ said the young Queen.
‘Neither do I,’ Hela admitted, her nervousness betraying her. ‘It is magic…beyond my comprehension, but you can be sure that the man who wields it is
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