by Robert Ryan
“I had word on the last night that I would be executed in the morning. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. And that was just as well.”
Kubodin looked at Ferla, and to her surprise he winked at her.
“Even though there were a pair of guards set to watch my prison, with a horn to call for aid should anyone attempt to rescue me, a girl I knew, at great risk to herself, had recovered my axe and slipping past them whispered to me and lowered the weapon. I’ll be forever in her debt.”
Ferla grinned. Kubodin was not like Faran at all, but she could understand why a girl would help him. He was impossible not to like, and no one would ever doubt that he was loyal and would stand by a friend’s side until death. For all his imperfections, he was perfect.
“I slept well after that, fearing nothing. For I had my axe, and though weak and tired I could still wield it. When they came for me at dawn, I was ready, and I slew the five men sent for me when they opened the prison. Then I ran, finding a pony and fleeing for my life.”
He shuddered then. “That poor pony died a terrible death. For my brother came after me with his men, and it seemed they filled the hills. And they had beasts with them, foul and terrible and summoned from some other place. My brother had a shaman in his retinue, and he it was I believe who supplied the poison to kill my father. And he was rumored to perform terrible rites of sorcery, which I learned was true. One of the beasts killed the pony, but I killed the beast. But now I was not just tired and weak, but badly wounded. I left a trail behind me that I could not hide, and it was of blood.”
Kubodin sipped again at the water. “Two days I fled, as best I could, but a group of my brother’s men caught me. A pity that my brother was not among them. For if he was, you would have killed him, Asana. Then again, that pleasure may yet be mine, one day, so it is just as well.”
The little man ran his hand along the blade of his axe, and Ferla knew that in the future there would be a reckoning between him and his brother.
“Anyway, you know the rest of it. You saved me, Asana, even as I was close to death. They were trying to make my torture last until my brother arrived, but I’m not sure I would have survived that long. And you healed me too after we escaped, and those were dark days and the memory dim because of the fever that gripped me.”
Kubodin stood and bowed. “Thank you again, Asana. I’m sorry I hid this from you, but does it make any difference to anything? Anyway, I wanted to forget my past. My father was probably already dead by then. But the truth is, the past can no more be forgotten than the future predicted. From that day onward, there has been nothing but death at home for me, and you have become the only family I have.”
Asana sighed. “It makes no difference, my friend.”
Kubodin nodded. “Hey! That was a long story,” he said. “Now it’s time for some sleep.”
Saying no more the little man moved away into the trees and lay down to rest.
Ferla looked at Asana, and she was sure there were tears in his eyes now. But he lay down as well and hid his face.
The watch was Ferla’s, and she knew she would not have been able to sleep anyway.
The sun rose higher, and she realized that great though her troubles were, they were not the only ones. Evil did not always come from a Morleth Stone. It was in the hearts of men first.
9. Unwitting Fools
Savanest had wasted no time, and he and his men had hastened to the lone mountain known as Nuril Faranar. He did not like that name. He liked nothing about the immortal Halathrin, and Alithoras would have been better if the elves had never come here on their great exodus.
He was not sure that he had always felt that way. His youth was hazy to him these days, his memory not what it was. Oftentimes he reached for thoughts that he knew he had once had, and found new ways of thinking there instead. It was disconcerting, but it was the least of his worries.
Death. Now that was a greater concern, and he contemplated it now. For now he sat, calm and reposed in meditation before a grave. Nor was it just any grave, but the grave of Knight Lindercroft. His sword it was that marked this resting place, and Savanest would know it anywhere. The weapons and armor of the knights were all similar in their making, but never identical.
How many times had he sparred Lindercroft, the knight wielding that same sword? How many times had he spoken to him, noticing how his hand never rested far from it? All the knights were trained to do that. A weapon should always be able to be drawn quickly. But Lindercroft often hooked his thumb in his belt to remind him to keep it close. It was a novice training aid that he had never grown out of.
Nor would he ever. He was dead now, buried in the cold earth on the top of this inhospitable mountain. He would never feel the sun again. He would never walk or talk or enjoy the simple pleasures of a cold drink of water after a hard training session. He was dead, and everything he felt or thought or dreamed was dead with him.
Whatever remained of his spirit was in the void now. Some claimed that in the void the spirit found its true home. Others that there was no such thing as a spirit at all.
Savanest knew better. He had summoned the dead now. He had spoken to Lindercroft across the barrier between worlds. But he remembered that Aranloth had told him once that this was not proof of the existence of a spirit. There were those who believed that a spirit was no more than the shadow of a person’s life. Or a reflection of the real thing. But as neither shadow nor reflection was the thing itself, so too a ghost was not the real person. He could not recall Aranloth ever saying what he had believed himself though, which was typical. Always he held back his higher knowledge, if he had any.
The Morleth Stone was better. It was a true Osahka, and a better guide to the mysteries of the cosmos. Not that serving it was easy.
It was depressing to meditate by a grave, and Savanest stood. Earlier, he had sent out scouts to find a trail, but he was not convinced they would find anything. But he had to wait on whatever news they would bring. In the meantime, he must wait, inactive, and that annoyed him.
He decided to walk to the southern side of the plateau. He knew what he would see from there, and he would not like it. But a knight must confront his own emotions and control them. Otherwise, they would control him, and that was a fault of lesser men.
The gardens he passed through meant nothing to him. What use was beauty? It was a construct of emotion only, and it served no practical purpose. A sword though, that was a thing of true beauty. It was designed well. It was efficient. It could kill or protect, and the skill to use it successfully only came after great devotion.
It did not take him long to reach the side of the plateau. The slope tumbled down before him, and he enjoyed the sensation of height. Far away and far below, was the smudge of forest that he knew was Halathar, the forest of the elves.
How he hated them! The elves had thwarted progress long ago. Since then, Alithoras had stultified. It had not moved forward. Things now were as they were then, and they could have been so much better long ago.
But change was coming. He felt it. He lived it. He was an instrument of destiny, and he would help to bring a new order to the world. Everyone would be equal. Everyone would live in prosperity. There would be no conflict to annoy and distract, for those who contested the new order would be destroyed. Utterly.
Several hours passed, and the delay vexed him. But he could do nothing without information, and it took time for the men who had been sent to scour the land to do so and then return.
It vexed him also that he had no elù-draks. Lindercroft had been given full use of them, but he had not. The king had claimed that they were needed in the city. It was certainly true that there were rebels there, but the king had an army and he had only fifty men.
His vexation was forgotten as the captain approached him. The scouts would have returned and reported to him.
“My lord,” the captain said, and he saluted crisply.
“What news?”
“The scouts report tra
cks everywhere. Even down the mountain at many points, and some of these are recent but they cannot tell which was the most recent. They are all at least several days old, even a week or so old. They followed them, as best they could. Some circled back up to here. Others they were not sure. The ground is hard in many places, and a trail hard to follow.”
It had been wasted time, but Savanest was not surprised. He had trackers in his group, but they were not highly skilled. The enemy, however, were.
The captain looked fearful to bring bad news. Well should he be, and fear was a good motivator. Yet a man who was always afraid was prone to make errors and then to try to hide them.
“It is not your fault, captain.” Savanest told him. “The men are assembled in the gardens?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then I will go and speak to them. I have a plan, and I know they will like it. The enemy are skilled at hiding their trail, and they have a lead in time. But I am skilled also. They will not escape.”
He strode back to the center of the plateau, the captain walking respectfully a half step behind him. He knew his place, and Savanest was glad he had not lost his temper and killed him.
They came to the men, and he saw they were nervous, for word must have spread from the scouts. He would do something about that first before he did what he really intended.
“Men!” he called. “You have done well, and I am proud to lead you. Never forget that. It is not your fault that the enemy, just now, eludes us.”
He pointed toward the grave of Lindercroft. “It was Knight Lindercroft who failed. Not you. And he has received the profits of his investment. He sowed failure, and he reaped death. That will not happen to you, for I lead you, and I value you, and together we will succeed.”
He looked around at the men. The anxiety was dropping away from them. They knew now they would not be blamed for not finding a sure trail to follow. He needed more than that though.
“Lindercroft was tested, and he failed. He was slain by the girl Ferla. He has allowed the reputation of the knights to suffer, and for that I will never forgive him.”
He studied the faces before him. They did not know where this was going, and they had never heard a knight criticize another knight before.
“We will all be tested, just as Lindercroft was. It matters not that I am a knight, and you are soldiers. Some of you are young. Some older. Some are skilled with a blade, others have a background as smiths, or farmers, or any number of other things. None of that matters. What matters is this.”
He paused. He would let them wait for what came next. Anticipation seasoned a speech like salt gave flavor to meat.
“What matters,” he continued, and now he lowered his voice, “is that we are all equal. We all serve the Morleth Stone. But that, my friends, is only a symbol. What the stone will bring is what we truly serve.”
Some of them knew about the stone. Probably all had heard rumors. Most, likely, did not care so long as they received their monthly pay. But it was time to change that. It was time they knew the purpose they served, and to feel the zeal of that as he did.
“The Morleth Stone is the future. The world it will bring about is different from that in which we live. Rivalry? It will be a thing of the past. All men will be as brothers, and all women as sisters, all working together in unity. Poverty? That too will fade away. The new order will see to it. There will be no rich men, nor poor men. There will only be opportunity to prosper for all, and for all, tasks to do according to their temperament and skill. Our nation will prosper as it never has before.”
They did not need to know that some favored few, like himself, would receive a greater bounty from this than they.
“Did I say nation? That is an old way of speaking. Faladir will be no more. Rather, all of Alithoras will become Faladir, and Faladir all Alithoras. There will be no more nations, nor borders nor realms. All will be one. There will be no more wars. One rule will govern all people, and all people will enforce the one law, and that law will be just for all.”
He watched them closely now. Some saw the vision of this new world, and he saw the birth of desire in their eyes. Others were uncertain. That was the usual way, but all would believe in the end.
“You are at the forefront of this. You are the pioneers who will go before. You will become a legend, and in the days to come men will speak your name with reverence. But that will come at the cost of sacrifice. Are you men enough to do this? Will you pay with your blood, sweat and tears so that others can reap rewards and your name live in glory after your death?”
Again, the men took this differently, but there was a gleam of zealotry in some eyes, and where it came to the front in some the sparks could be fanned to life in others. This he needed, for what he was about to do would scare them if they were not swayed to his cause first.
He touched the master were-stone that hung around his neck, and it was cold against his fingers. Subtly, he sent his magic into it, and felt it spread out through invisible lines to all the men. They did not know it, but many touched their stones just as he did.
Strangely, he sensed the Morleth Stone from afar. He knew he was connected to it, and loved that connection. But for a moment, he wondered if the stone was doing to him in some way the same thing he was doing to these soldiers. But then the thought was gone, and he knew he must concentrate on the task at hand to bring success.
“Who among you?” he called, and his voice was now loud and full of passion, “will come forward and accept a great task. It will be one of glory, and one that best serves our needs.”
There was hesitation, and he felt many pull away in doubt, but that would not last long. Each time he used the stone, his control over them grew greater. What mattered now though was that at least one stepped forward.
More than one did so, though, and he was pleased. Three men stepped forward, offering themselves to his service. They were unaware of what form that service would take, but in the end none of them would care.
He studied them carefully. They were strong men, and warriors. He could almost see the pride in them, the desire to achieve the task he had set, and the unwavering righteousness that he himself felt.
But the gaze of one man was hotter. His eyes burned with passion, and Savanest made his choice.
“You,” he said, pointing at the man, “step forward.”
The man did so, and his eyes burned even hotter.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“Maldurn,” the man answered.
“Are you ready for glory?”
“Yes, my lord!”
“Are you ready to serve our cause?”
“Yes, my lord!”
“Are you ready for your name to live through eternity?”
“Yes, my lord! I live to serve!”
“Then you will be rewarded.”
Savanest stepped forward. He did not touch the man, but he stood close to him, and he looked into his eyes. He wanted to study the change.
He sent more magic into the master stone, and he felt it tremble against his chest. It was cold as ice one moment, then hot against his skin like fire. But it would do him no harm.
His power surged through it, joining with it, and activating the ancient magic within. That flared to life, and it roiled uncontrollably before suddenly stabbing like lightning into the soldier’s own stone.
The man stiffened, and his eyes sharpened. He did not know what was happening, not yet. But he would.
The change began slowly, but then it hastened. Hair thickened on the man’s head, and it lengthened on his arms. It darkened, and grew coarser. His muscles bulged next, and Savanest saw surprise in the man’s eyes as he flexed his muscles and felt increased strength.
But he screamed as the magic in him grew and waxed to full strength. His muscles bulged more, and his shirt split and hung in tatters. His eyes held pain and fear, then darkened, and a growl escaped his throat. He collapsed, but he did not fall. Rather, he went down on four legs, for
his arms had lengthened, and he was become a beast, half man and half dog.
The change continued. The beast that had once been a man howled, and Savanest still gazed into his eyes. His humanity was gone, but there was still intelligence in the fierce look that gazed back at him.
And, perhaps, hatred. But did a beast feel hatred? No matter if it did, for it must obey regardless. It was now a were-hound, and the were-stone still hung around its neck, nestled tightly into the fur of its upper chest.
The huge dog panted and whined. The men behind it were shocked, but only some in an unpleasant way. The others were wondering how this new development would aid them.
Savanest pulsed magic into their stones. Approval was the thought that went with it, and the men stirred. A moment they hesitated, and then a few cheered in support.
That was only the beginning. Others fell in, raising their voices in wild shouts and cheers. Soon it became a roar, and the sound of it filled the sky and surely the mountain had never heard anything like it.
He that was once Maldurn, yelped and howled, capering around and thrashing his tail. This caused the men to roar louder.
Savanest watched them silently. Unwitting fools that they were, they did not realize that from the moment the were-stones had gone around their own necks the same fate awaited them. They would all turn, in the end.
Savanest raised both hands high, and then lowered them. The roaring slowed and then halted. The men watched him, waiting.
He looked down at the hound before him, and he gave his command.
“Maldurn that was, you will lead the hunt. Find the scent of our enemies. Find the freshest trail, and follow it.”
The dog understood him, as he knew it would. Through his own stone he felt a vague sense of its emotions, but greatest of them all was the desire to hunt. The change had made it hungry.
With a leap, the hound set itself in motion, nose to the ground and tracing the many scents that came up from the earth. A good while it did this, crossing to and fro and circling. Then it stood rigid and trembling, before loping toward the southern slope of the mountain.
