by Robert Ryan
Ferla nodded. Then she did something surprising. She drew herself up, and spoke solemnly.
“I may not know yet what to do, or how. But this I swear by all the powers of the universe. I will not rest until the evil is defeated, and freedom restored to Faladir. In pledge to this, I forfeit my life.”
Not for the first time, Faran thought she looked like a queen from some old legend, but then his gaze left her and leaped to Kareste.
Kareste struggled to her feet as though something had surprised her. She took a few tottering steps, and her eyes rolled upward before she swayed. Kubodin reached her first, but even he was too late to prevent her falling.
4. A Dilemma of Duty
They all hovered around Kareste, but it was Kubodin who helped her to sit up.
She seemed disorientated at first, but then she gathered her staff and stood again, albeit on shaky legs. It was the first time Faran had ever seen her show any weakness, and he could tell that she hated it. Most people would have remained sitting for a while. But she stood, and she refused to even use the staff as a support, but it was ready to be used if needed.
“What is it, lady?” Asana asked.
She did not answer him, but looked instead at Faran and Ferla.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?” Ferla asked.
“I was wrong. Very wrong. A mind just touched mine. It was only brief, and the distance was great. But I know that mind.”
Faran looked into her green-brown eyes. They seemed strange to him.
“You have seen a vision,” he said. It was less a question than a statement.
“Yes. The mind touched mine, and then I saw what would be if that mind was extinguished into the void.”
“Whose mind?” Ferla asked.
Kubodin gently released her, for he still had an arm around her, but it was no longer needed.
Kareste stood taller, but there was a wild mix of sadness and hope in her gaze.
“Aranloth yet lives. I did not think it possible that he escaped Lindercroft, but he has. I’m sorry for the grief I caused you.”
Faran stepped back in shock. He could not believe this, and yet it was true that they had seen no body.
“How is it possible?” he asked.
He studied her while she answered. She had apologized for the grief she had caused, but he knew she would not have claimed Aranloth dead unless she was certain that it was so. And her own grief, which she had tried to hide, must have been even deeper than his. She had suffered even more than he and Ferla.
“I don’t know. I saw none of the details, yet I saw where he is and how he got there. He was badly injured, both by magic and steel. He should have been dead. But somehow he reached safety, and a place that Lindercroft could not follow.”
Faran felt a sudden chill. Where could he have gone in such a condition that the knight could not have followed?
“How badly is he injured, and where did he go?” he asked.
He saw Ferla pale, and he knew she had the same suspicions that he had.
“Lindercroft would have followed him anywhere to kill him. Except the one place that would have killed Lindercroft in turn,” Kareste said. “He’s in the Tombs of the Letharn, but getting there nearly destroyed him.”
Ferla spoke softly. “Then we must go and help him.”
There was silence for a few moments, but then Kareste shook her head.
“You have a duty to Faladir, and that cannot wait. Things will be moving apace there, for the Morleth Stone is waking and growing stronger the more it’s used. You must continue with your plan.” Kareste straightened, and she was now fully recovered. “I will go to help Aranloth, but in turn I need the help of one other.”
There was silence again, deeper than before.
“I will help you, Kareste,” Asana stated. “Aranloth is my friend, and there is nothing I would not do for him.”
Kareste gazed at him. “I wish it were that simple, but I may need help from someone who possesses magic. Skill with a blade, no matter how exalted, will not protect against the forces of magic that guard the tombs.”
They all looked uncomfortable now, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil that bubbled up inside Faran.
Kubodin stepped forward. “Then take me. I have magic, if magic is needed. But there’s not much that my axe can’t handle.”
“Indeed, not,” Kareste answered. “But your magic is of a peculiar kind. It is not that of the lòhrens, and may not suffice in the tombs.”
The silence returned again. Faran knew what was needed. He had been to the tombs before, and he had learned the protective charm and the secret of holding the harakgar at bay. But fear stilled his mouth, and he could find no words. Worse still, how could he abandon Ferla?
The silence grew heavy, but Kareste made no move to break it. This would be his choice, and Kareste would not coerce him. If need be, she would go alone to help Aranloth.
Faran felt trapped. He was in an impossible situation. He must abandon either Ferla or Aranloth, but he could do neither.
And yet he must. He thought of asking Ferla to choose for him, but he knew what she would advise. He had to go with Kareste. Nor could he shift responsibility of the choice to her. He must make it himself.
He was surprised, when he spoke at last, how steady his voice was.
“I’ll go with you. And I hope,” he continued, turning to Ferla, “that you can forgive me.”
He saw the pain in her eyes, but he also saw the knowledge there that what he was doing was right, and that she understood.
She moved over to him and hugged him. It felt awkward in their armor, but even so he never felt closer to her than at that moment. It was the knowledge of parting from her that made it so, and he learned a truth from it. People took for granted what they had, and gave it greater value when they lost it.
Kareste looked at him when Ferla let him go. Her eyes were suddenly like Aranloth’s. They were deep pools of sympathy.
“I’m sorry. I wish things were otherwise, but wishing is in vain.” She turned then to Ferla. “And I’m sorry for what I do to you, as well. I would have been with you every step of the way, and shared every danger. But that cannot now be. Worse, I take Faran from you as well. This much I will say, though. You have learned well, and your heart is one of high courage. If I do not walk with you every step of the way, know that destiny does in my stead. Your enemies fear you now, and well should they.”
Ferla hugged the lòhren then, and Kareste seemed surprised.
“It is what it is,” Ferla said. “And none of this is your fault. Who knows? Maybe it’s all happening for a reason, and will turn out for the best.”
Faran wished he could believe that. But a wave of doubt rolled over him. Ferla needed all the help she could get, and while it was her destiny to be the seventh knight, he knew what the prophecy said. She would rise as the seventh knight to challenge evil, but it had never been foretold that she would prevail.
But this much he knew for certain. As soon as possible, he would rejoin her. At least, if he survived another journey through the tombs.
5. The Wisdom of the Dead
The smell of ash was in the air. It was the remnant of fire and destruction, and Savanest loved it.
He had established a camp near the lake. But he liked to wander past the destroyed cabin. Charred beams lay in a tumble of ruins. Most had been burned away, but some remained like skeletal bones. The rest of the hovel was gone.
He liked it here. It reminded him that his enemies were fallible. It was true that they had escaped, but that was Lindercroft’s fault rather than any great deed on his opponent’s behalf. This was a testament to the fact that they could be located and attacked. The next time, however, they would not escape.
There was something else about the destruction that he liked here. It was symbolic. All Faladir would be destroyed like this, and then rebuilt into a vision of glory. Not so much the buildings, though many of them w
ere markers of the old order, and for that they must go. It was society itself that must be transformed. The old ways of thinking were wrong. A new light must be shone, a new spirit awakened. And destruction was the beginning of that. A field could not be planted to wheat unless it was plowed first.
He would be a part of that. His brother knights too. The king would lead, and with the stone, with Osahka, all things would be possible. Faladir was just a beginning. When it was broken and remade, then other lands would follow. All lands would follow. It must be so, for while one land endured in the old ways, injustice prevailed. All must think and breathe and live in the new order.
He kicked at a charred piece of timber, and sent it tumbling back into the ruins. He had come here to think, not to dream of the bright future.
What was his next course of action? It was annoying not to be sure. He had men, but he needed information, and that was harder to come by.
He gazed at the small camp back by the lake. They liked it here, fools that they were. They would learn though. Duty came before swims in the lake and days of ease. As soon as he knew where to go, they would be off and running.
They were fools. But they were useful too. He fingered the were-stone hung around his neck on a chain of fine silver. It was a pearl, or what some called a moon drop. It was nothing in itself, though he supposed it was worth quite some money. But that was not its value.
It was cool to his touch, no matter that it rested against his skin. It was always cool, but at times it seemed to change weight, growing heavier. He supposed that it could not, but with magic, anything was possible.
Osahka had led him to it. Of that, he was sure. Why else had he felt a compulsion to dig into an ancient tomb? It was not even recognizable as such, being nothing more than a mound of earth. But he had felt the need to dig into it, and to discover what was inside.
His men had complained. They thought he was crazy, but their muttering died away when they found the body. Nothing but bones was left, for it was an ancient burial. Neither was there a sword nor spear nor armor. It was no warrior laid to rest here.
Who it was, or what, Savanest did not know. Someone who possessed magic though, that was certain, for around his tumbled vertebrae lay the same ornament that now felt cold to Savanest’s own touch. The men had been fearful of it, but he had not.
He had reached into the grave and placed it around his own neck. He knew what it was, and what it did. He was sure the Morleth Stone whispered it in his mind.
So too it had told him to keep digging. And therefore he had ordered the men to do so. Discarding the bones, they dug two feet deeper, and then their shovels struck something hard. A gold box it was, and inside scores of little pearls, replicas of the controlling were-stone that he wore. They too were on silver chains.
The stones he gave to the men. He knew what they would do, but they did not. They thought them rewards for service. The gold box he gave to them too. They could sell it when they returned to Faladir and distribute the wealth among themselves.
Except they would never return. Their fate was sealed now, and their lives belonged to him. He would use them, but how?
He was not sure. He had not known then, and he still did not. He knew now that the transformation the stones engendered would aid him though. But before he pressed too far forward on that, he needed to know where to go.
That was what infuriated him. He knew Lindercroft was dead. He knew their quarry had escaped, yet again. What he did not know was where his quarry had gone.
The king had been furious at that. It was best for Lindercroft that he had died, for surely the king would have condemned him to a worse fate.
How the king knew of Lindercroft’s death, he was not sure. Some magic beyond his understanding, no doubt. All had seemed well until then, too, for Lindercroft had sent the elù-draks back to help subdue Faladir where unrest constantly grew. They had taken a message with them as well. The enemy had been found and surrounded. There would be no escape.
Oh, how the king had railed about that. For the next day he knew Lindercroft was dead, but not the enemy.
The king had told him what he knew, which was little enough. He had warned him too that no more failures would be tolerated. Savanest understood that, and he expected nothing less. He must prove himself worthy to be a leader in this bright new world to come.
Yet he remained at a standstill. Worse, he did not know how his brother knight fared. Sofanil searched for their enemy too, but Savanest had been set the task before him. If he were not the one to neutralize the threat of the enemy, he might well be killed. At the very least, he would suffer a fall from grace that would take years to recover from. If ever.
But he did not know where to search, other than southward, toward the hated forest of the elves. The pressure on him was enormous, but he was a knight. Once a Kingshield Knight, and now a Morleth Knight. He would find a way.
Lindercroft had found the enemy. But how? And why had he not given details of where in his message back to the king? That was an unacceptable failure, and yet Savanest understood it. Knowledge was power, and the other knights a threat. The rivalry between them all was enormous, and secrecy was the rule unless dire need intervened. Lindercroft had no desire to see his rivals come in at the last moment and help destroy the enemy. So he had kept his knowledge secret, and taken it to the grave with him.
Savanest felt a chill. An inkling of an idea came to him, and with it hope but also stabbing fear. Lindercroft knew all that was necessary to restart the hunt. But Lindercroft was dead, his knowledge lost to the world…
But was it?
Once the thought entered Savanest’s mind, he could not banish it. So what that Lindercroft was dead? He still had the knowledge, and the dead could be summoned.
It would be a great risk. Enormous. Savanest was not quite sure of the rites, but his power was growing day by day. He felt his connection over all the countless leagues to the Morleth Stone, and he knew that would guide him. He had also read ancient texts. Yes, he could summon the spirit of Lindercroft and put it to the question.
This was not a decision to think deeply on. The more he thought, the more fearful and indecisive he would become. The risks were great, but they could not be allowed to stifle the potential gains that were greater still. He must act, and soon. Otherwise dread would paralyze him.
Night was not far away, and already his mind leaped toward what rites were needed. Darkness was a necessity. Midnight would be the time, for in that juncture between night and day where the barriers between worlds was at its weakest it was the best time to act. So too the lake would help. It also was a gateway between worlds, being neither of the land nor the sky.
He breathed in once more the sweet smell of old smoke and ash from the ruined cabin, and then he strode toward the lake. His men looked at him as he approached.
“Wait here,” he commanded. “Stay close to the camp, and if you value your lives do not follow me. Move away from here for nothing, no matter what lights you may see in the distance. Or what sounds.”
He left them then as dusk fell. He would walk a mile or so away, and then prepare. Midnight was a good while off, but the hours between would be spent in meditation and communion with the stone.
As he walked, the men behind him lit their campfires for the night, but they were small. Already the transformation was beginning, and they did not like the light, but they did not notice. Soon though, they would. He fingered the were-stone as he strode ahead. The men would cause no problems. He must bring his mind to bear on the task at hand.
Night fell around him, sending tendrils of mist from the still-warm water of the lake. Up on the ridges, owls hooted and something splashed in the water nearby. The valley teemed with life, but soon it would open up to the world of death.
He came to a stop at a place where the bank was green with grass and some willows, dark and still in the shadows, overhung the lake edge. He was far enough from the men here that they should see nothing. But tha
t could not be guaranteed. He had never done this before. Yet if they did flee in fear, he could bring them back with the stones.
He sat and waited. The night waited with him, brooding. Low clouds rolled in, and a hint of rain was in the air. The willows creaked, moving to some faint breeze or a change in the temperature of the air.
Savanest thought on his life, and how the world now was different from that of his youth. His dreams were dust, but a new dream had replaced them. One dream, single and overpowering. It was the world to him, and for a while this made him uneasy, but that passed.
He became one with the night. His breathing was slow, his pulse strong and steady. He allowed his magic to rise within him, feeling it stir like a wild animal, unpredictable and dangerous.
The mist from the lake thickened, and he knew it was time. Half the night was gone, and the world now waited for a new day. But for him, it would bring tidings. For his enemies, it would be the first of their last days alive.
He rose smoothly, and stepped to the edge of the water. It seemed black and unmoving, reminding him of the Morleth Stone itself. The magic came to his palms, and without quite knowing why, he placed both hands around the trunk of the closest willow.
Magic flared. Like fire it drove down through the wood. Steam filled the air, swirling with the mist about him, then smoke followed.
His mind chased the magic. Down through the tree he sensed the years, and a history of bright days and winds and storms. Down into the roots, and he felt the thirst for water and the rising of sap. This was the life of a tree, reaching for the sun and delving the earth for nutrients. He snuffed that life out.
With a crack, the tree split in two and fell to the ground, rolling into the water and sending waves crashing beyond sight. Yet his magic flared out of the roots and into the lake itself.
The water near him bubbled and seethed. He withdrew his magic, and sent it arcing as crimson fire into the clouds above. Thunder boomed, and then a single stroke of lightning answered his call and sizzled into the center of the lake. The world flared bright, and the boom of a second peal of thunder rumbled the earth round him.
