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Honjir, teaching bloody lessons to Carver trespassers. But the sight of this made him realise that something fundamental in Jumil had changed, for the bloody performance had been as much for his benefit as for the three new hirelings. And Vorik had more knowledge than they of the great powers Jumil had at his disposal, powers that Vorik often dreamed of possessing.
    It was this ambition that had drawn Jumil to him some months previously, leading firstly to the Revelation Initiation, a sorcerous ritual which made manifest the powers of Shadow, drawn from the Lord of Twilight himself who had yet endured. Although much diminished, he was still at one with the Wellsource which enable him to conduct his stratagems from a refuge hidden beyond the many veils of the Void. Secondly came his ordination as Master of the Flock which brought with it the responsibility for recruiting Nightkin and the promise of power.
    All of this trailed through Vorik’s thoughts as he hurried and stumbled along the strange tunnel which wound this way and that, steadily descending into the cold bedrock beneath Sejeend. After a time the tunnel turned and opened out to a low chamber lit by torched jutting from sockets in the walls.
    “At last. Your sense of urgency leaves a great deal to be desired.”
    Jumil was over at the far wall, garbed in his customary long black robes. Next to him, standing with face to the wall, was a naked man, his arms and leg trembling, his head covered with a hood.
    “I came with all speed, honoured one,” Vorik said carefully, as if his anger was an obstruction he had to speak around. “But I did not realise how long the passage was…”
    Jumil waved aside his excuses. “No matter — you are here, thus we can begin. From my own discernings, these Watcher fools are holding council at this very moment…” He smiled. “Which is the best moment in which to serve our notice.”
    “How can I serve you in this?” Vorik said.
    “This tactic requires me to carry out two strenuous incantations,” Jumil said, studying the wall nearby. “And even thought we have a sacrifical source, the effort shall still render me near helpless at the conclusion. At that point, I need you to carry me from this place along that passage —” He indicated a second dark entrance which had escaped Vorik’s attention, “— to the ancient chamber of wards where you will place me on the floor by the face of the Great Shadow.” He glanced at Vorik. “Is that clear? Have you any doubts about your task?”
    Vorik felt the heat of his anger at this patronising prod. “No doubts, master,” he with forced calmness. “I understand — completely.”
    Jumil regarded him with amusement for a moment then turned to the wall and the other man. “Good, then let us proceed.”
    The naked, hooded man had made neither sound nor motion during all of this and remained so as Jumil laid one hand on the dark grey rock and began to recite some kind of spell. Vorik felt a chill go through him as the sorcerer crooned strings of syllables in some ancient tongue from before the fall of Jagreag. Then bright threads began to appear on Jumil’s bare upper arm, weaving along towards the wrist like burning veins. Across the back of his hand they writhed, growing brighter as they entwined about his fingers, and from where his fingertips were pressed against the rock the threads continued to spread.
    “The call shall be uttered,” Jumil muttered, “and the call shall be heard. Even that Calabos and his vermin will hear but only he will know what it means.”
    “What does it mean...ah, master?”
    Jumil glanced at him for one tense moment, then gave a wintry smile. “You know the fiction that the self-deluders of this empire tell themselves about the downfall of the Prince of Dusk…”
    “Yes,” Vorik said, unsure of where this was leading. “The final battle in the depths of the Void, Tauric the First vanquishing our Lord….”
    “Just so, but it was a