Shadows Out of Time

Bloodlust stirred among the Picts again. Their war drums thundered in the night. It was not unprecedented; they had become restive and ambitious plenty of times before. They were fierce, fanatical fighters, even when they had no particular goal in mind, at least none that anyone not of their number could understand. But it was different this time: the body had a head. This time they had strategy, tactics — and a gifted leader. He was Rang-Thalun, a mighty shaman. Many miracles were ascribed to him. All shamans were credited with healings, communications with the ancestors, predictive visions; these were their stock-in-trade. But this one was reputed to wield control over storms, to lengthen or shorten the hours of a day. All of his colleagues could exorcize devils, but Rang-Thalun could command them. It was, then, no surprise that, once he had appeared, he had united the usually feuding Pictish clans into an advancing tidal wave, sweeping cities and armies before them. The few and only victories against them, albeit no more than tenuous dykes erected against the flood, had been achieved under the direction of Crom-Ya, a powerful Cimmerian war chief gifted with matching brains and brawn, a combination without which there remained no chance to withstand the Pictish swarm.

Just now, the hour was growing late in the Bossonian Marshes, and Crom-Ya was conferring with his baffled lieutenants. The camp fire cast bright orange shadows on the broad cheek bones, high brow, hawk nose, and firm jaw. His mane of black hair was square cut. His eyes, seen in daylight, were glacial blue. His many scars and nicks from years of battling somehow did not spoil his rugged good looks. Just now his brow was furrowed, his eyes squinting in concentration as he and his advisors considered their dire position.

“Where can he have derived such powers?” This question, mostly a rhetorical one, an exclamation of exasperated wonder, had been repeated several times in the last two hours. Almost as often parroted, as if repetition might coax an answer out of the void, was the query, “What can have stirred the damn Picts to an assault on this scale?”

Crom-Ya broke his silence. “Brothers, where Rang-Thalun gets his sorcerous might, I know not. But as to what motivates him and his hordes, and what may be done to turn back his wrath, the two questions may have the same answer.”

Had their enemy himself stepped into the fire-lit circle the astonishment of the small council could not have been greater. All mouths stopped; all eyes widened as their chieftain leaned to one side and retrieved a plain-looking bag of coarse cloth, then pulled from it a strangely angled black stone, inscribed with unfamiliar glyphs.

“Ixaxar.”

“Is…is that…?”

“It is. This is the great totem, years lost, of the Pictish people. It is believed to possess very great powers. It was I who stole it from a guarded cave in my youth when I made my living by thievery among the so-called civilized kingdoms. A Stygian wizard hired me to secure it for him, but once I returned with the Black Stone, I found he had disappeared. Some claimed he had been devoured by some being he had summoned from another world. It seemed he had told no one of my errand or of his plans for the relic. Since no one coveted the thing, I decided to keep it against the day I might learn to unlock its powers. Little did I ever find out, but it might be enough to turn this weapon back against its rightful owners.”

“Crom and Mitra! My lord, forgive me, but why have you not brought the stone into play before now? Before so many of our people were slain?”

“Many times I considered it, my friend, but I felt it posed too great a risk. There is no way to be sure the powers unleashed could be controlled. We might be inviting an even swifter doom. But now I see no alternative. I judge that it is time to invoke the Four Brothers of the Night.”

At this, the faces of Crom-Ya’s lieutenants blanched, though the firelight hid the fact.

The Picts appeared en masse at dawn. The small force of Cimmerians were ready, or hoped they were. Their priest had been killed weeks before, but Crom-Ya had taken the precaution of learning from him the words and voice tones of an invocation. He knew he must grasp the Black Stone as he chanted the unaccustomed syllables. As the enemy sped to the charge, the Cimmerians drew their swords and weighed their dulling axes. Most of them felt a sweeping chill as soon as the chant commenced. Was it the effect of the rousing energies their chief had summoned? Or was it simple superstitious dread — if there was a difference?