Zellohar

by Chris A. Jackson

  "Good," Darkmist said. "Remain here."

  He strode across the room to a set of double doors. The guards stationed to either side snapped to attention and swung the doors open. A wave of noise assailed Darkmist as he stepped onto a balcony overlooking an immense chamber. The room was dominated by twelve polished granite pillars, ten feet thick and ten times that from floor to ceiling. As he looked down at the tightly packed horde, the roar became deafening. He raised his hands and the din subsided. Finally he spoke.

  "We have been brothers," he began, and the crowd fell utterly silent. "Not brothers of blood, nor brothers of race, but brothers of a different kind. Brothers of a kind that outlasts mere ties of kinship or allegiance. For we have been brothers in captivity. This brotherhood has lasted throughout most of your lives, and a large portion of my own. From the beginning I have pledged that I would end our captivity, and that you would reap the wealth of the undeserving surface dwellers."

  A murmur rose from the crowd. Although most of them lacked the basic faculties to grasp his meaning, they could tell by his tone that he was building up to something important.

  "And now it is time for my promises to be fulfilled, for our captivity is at an end! We are free!"

  The crowd erupted and surged forward in a futile frenzy to reach their lord and commander. Many of the smallest in the crowd were trampled in the crush, but Darkmist did not notice, for he had already turned away and reentered the chamber where his squires waited. He immediately began giving orders.

  "Keep one battle group in the upper keep. Post sentries in the outer court day and night. Send out patrols to scout the area and return with detailed maps and any supplies they can plunder. I want the zykell sent out on long-range scouting missions. Have them report with detailed accounts every other day." He whirled with a wave of dismissal and started out of the room, then stopped and turned back to the group. "And send my fastest flyer to inform my sisters of recent developments."

  Turning away before they had time to bow, Lord Nekdukarr Iveron Darkmist was halfway to his private chambers when next his cruel smile parted to form words.

  "And so it begins again, after nearly a hundred years..."

  CHAPTER 3

  Please Gods, have mercy on me, and get me off this accursed boat," Avari moaned, staring blankly across the open expanse of grey water. Great oily looking waves tipped in frothy white rose and fell as far as the eye could see. She tried to concentrate on the horizon like one of the sailors had told her, but the sky was the same color as the ocean. Her gaze kept dropping back to the sea. Avari gripped the rail tighter and shut her eyes, but it was no use. Up she went, leaning over the rail to retch violently, bitter bile scalding her throat. The pervasive ache of the dry heaves, unending nausea and raw sorrow left her more miserable than she had ever felt in her life.

  A cry caught in her throat as she wondered for the thousandth time why she was even here. Avari had not lasted long in the press of passengers' quarters before being compelled to find the rail and some fresh air. She huddled on deck, clutching the rail, and trying to keep her thoughts on something besides the endless waves of nausea. The sailors sometimes glanced at her in amusement, but her size and the sword at her hip kept them from insisting she return below decks.

  Avari reached into her shirt to grip the medallion that hung there. It had been her father's, given to him by a faerie queen as reward for a good deed, he had said. She had never been sure which of his stories were true and which were only meant to entertain her, but she had loved them all.

  "Oh, father, I'll never hear one of your tales again, true or false," she murmured as tears rose in her eyes. It had been only one week since she had laid him to rest in the small grove behind their cabin. Three days and two nights of walking and little if any sleep had brought her to Isleport, where she had discovered that a shipment of horses had left for the mainland that very morning. The next ship was not due to leave for three days. Merchants who had traded with her father had offered consolation, but not much more. Only Felton Hammerhand, the old blacksmith, had offered a dozen silver pieces and some free smithing. She had nothing but her thanks to give him in return for altering her father's chainmail shirt to fit her narrower frame.

  In a pouch at her belt was another medallion; this one she would not touch without a glove, it revolted her so. It bore the thorned chain of Pergamon the Punisher, Lord of Pain. She had taken it from the neck of one of the thieves she had killed. Their bodies had not deserved burial. Instead, she had dragged them deep into the forest and left them for the scavengers.

  "And that's what I'll do with the rest of you when I catch up to you," Avari pledged. "If it's the last thing I—"

  A violent heave of the deck interrupted her murderous thoughts as the ship plowed its way up and into an enormous swell. Avari hung on for dear life, retching again as the ship careened down the back of the wave, the spray drenching everything and everyone on deck.

  "Well," she mused, shivering at the chill, "what else can happen to me? Now I'm sick, sad and soaked."

  "Pardon me," a soft, penetrating voice said from directly behind her. Avari's first thought was to defend herself, but she failed to muster the strength even to grip the hilt of her sword.

  Behind her stood a figure in crimson robes, the cowl drawn up against the wind and spray. The material looked thick and soft, although somewhat worn. She could barely make out a man's face within the shadows of the cowl, just a hawkish nose and an immaculate goatee.

  "Pardon me," he repeated, "but I could not help noticing that you look rather ill, to put it mildly. I have an herbal preparation that works well for ship's illness, if you would care to try it."

  Avari stared at him, her mind sluggishly sorting through his words. Whatever it was he was saying, he did have a wonderful way of saying it. His voice was the most pleasant she had ever heard, almost hypnotic: his tone was low and soft with a touch of laughter and joy hidden beneath, a voice ready to relate a grand secret. She wanted him to keep talking just so she could listen.

  At that moment a gust of wind caught his robe and swept it aside, revealing gleaming chainmail and a dark war hammer.

  Startled into wariness, Avari pulled herself up the rail to her full height. Trying not to look as if she needed the support, but desperately praying that she would not slide back down to the deck, she glared down at the stranger. She reached for the hilt of her sword, but the weapon was tangled in her traveling cloak. Fumbling for a moment, she finally gave up with a sigh.

  "Please leave me alone," she said. "I don't need a cure from someone who offers aid, but conceals a weapon. So if you don't mind—"

  The sea ended Avari's bravado by wrenching the ship savagely. Her tenuous hold on the rail failed and she pitched toward the stranger, who seemed less affected by the violent motion. She brought up her arms to break her fall but, instead of the rough planks of the deck, she felt strong hands catch her. They held tight until the ship settled down, then led her to the rail, where she immediately turned to retch over the side.

  "Lady," he continued, "I have no wish to insult you, but my nature compels me to assist those in need. If you truly desire no help, I will go, but once again, I offer you a remedy to the illness that now assails you."

  Too weak to protest, and not knowing what else to do, she nodded shortly at the robed figure. Jaw clenched against another bout of nausea, she allowed him to help her across the foredeck and down the stairs to the main deck. However, at the entrance to the passenger's quarters below, she balked.

  "No, I can't go down there. That's why I was up on deck. The smell... the crush of people were making me sick."

  "Don't worry, we will only pass through," the stranger reassured her. "The mid-deck is frequently awash and we would be hard-pressed not to be swept away. This route will take us safely to the aft of the ship, where I have a private cabin."

  With that, he led her below decks. Avari gasped, holding her breath to keep from gagging at the stench. Sh
e had only boarded the ship the night before, but some of these people had been traveling for a week. The stale air smelled like sweat, rotting grain and the illness of those without the strength to climb onto the deck. She cast her gaze down to avoid the eyes that pleaded silently up at her. They passed a door, squeezed through the packed hold and the cramped crew quarters, her crimson-cloaked companion earning nods of recognition if not exactly approval as they passed.

  Finally they climbed a narrow companionway into a passage just inside the aft deck house. The breeze blew in the hatch and Avari sucked in a great lung-full of clean, cold air. A few steps further and they entered a small, airy cabin. Avari struggled to a settee and collapsed into it, her head spinning from the effort.

  The cabin had a bunk, two settees, a small, two-legged table mounted to one wall with hinges, and a chest. Hanging lanterns poured forth a homey glow that lit even the corners of the room. The smell of spices and herbs permeated the air, and if she closed her eyes, the aroma and the sound of the stranger bustling around reminded her of evenings in her own kitchen with her father preparing a meal. Avari opened her eyes and the stranger was standing at the table with a steaming cup of liquid.

  "Drink this," he said, handing her the cup. He laughed as she wrinkled her nose at the smell. "Don't worry, it tastes better than it smells, and I guarantee it will cure you."

  "Gods protect me," Avari murmured as she sipped from the cup. Surprisingly, it tasted of the spiced cider she loved from the autumn fair. She drained the cup, wrapping her chilled hands around its warmth. She huddled over the cup, concentrating on not being sick. This train of thought vanished, however, as she felt a subtle heat spread to her stomach and wash away her nausea. She glanced up with relief in her eyes and words of thanks on her lips, but her smile faded into astonishment as he pulled his cowl back, revealing the most handsome face she had ever seen. Wavy black hair and a black goatee framed his visage and contrasted starkly with bright violet eyes. The stern nose did not detract from his looks, but rather lent them a distinguished individuality. Most startling, though, were the tips of pointed ears poking through the thick hair.

  "An elf?" she blurted out. "With a beard?"

  He chuckled, making her realize how rude that must have sounded. And here he was, trying to help her.

  "I'm sorry," she stammered. "It's just... I never..."

  "That is quite all right," he reassured her. "I often get that reaction. My mother was elfin. My father was human."

  "I apologize again," she said, trying not to stare. "I've seen few elves in Isleport. My father told me tales of elves he met during his travels, but I never realized that elves and humans..." Her voice trailed off and her face reddened as she realized what she was alluding to. Again he laughed, the light tenor of his voice musical and heartening.

  "Each has his or her own preference for companionship. Myself, I... But, enough of interracial love. Allow me to introduce myself. My mother named me Szcze-kon,"—the name was both delightful and unpronounceable—"but my father and most humans prefer to call me Shay. And you are..."

  "Avari."

  She held out her hand, but it suddenly felt very heavy. As a matter of fact, her whole body felt heavy and rather detached from her mind. Panic welled within her as she tried to stand, but could only sink back into her seat.

  "What have you done to me?"

  "I am sorry, Avari, I should have warned you. This remedy works quickly, but does tend to cause severe drowsiness."

  She fought the overwhelming urge to sleep and tried to grab for her sword, but it was no use. The last thing Avari saw as her vision narrowed and she slumped to the table were the half-elf's bright eyes twinkling above that irresistible smile.

  CHAPTER 4

  Leathery wings beat the air of the twisting passages that served as highways for those dwelling deep within the earth. The flyer was so swift that any creatures it encountered were left far behind before they could even react. The stalactites and columns obstructing the passages at every turn were dodged effortlessly, even in the absolute darkness. Finally it shot from the winding caves into a vast cavern, its wings blurring, trading obsolete maneuverability for even more speed.

  Whether this cavern had originally been formed by some cataclysm or carved out through the eons by a mighty underground river, the gods themselves may not even remember, but the result was breathtaking. What looked like a polished black onyx floor was actually the glassy surface of an enormous subterranean sea. Light from fluorescent growths both above and below the water dispelled the darkness enough to illuminate the ceiling a thousand feet overhead, from which massive stalactites hung like teeth in the maw of some immense beast.

  After several miles, a glow of the beast's final goal hove into view. The light coalesced into a huge pillar of rock seeming to flow from the ceiling like dripping wax to plunge into the depths of the sea. The pillar was shaped like an hourglass, with much of its lower half covered by inky black water.

  Buildings honeycombed the surface of the formation to form a city of twisted black stone. Near the shore, squat structures reached out over the sea, and a few small ships floated in the dead-calm water. Farther up the slope, towers and spiraled minarets stretched toward the cavern ceiling. Even on the underside of the top half of the column, buildings clung precariously, with inverted towers carved from stalactites, their windows blazing with red or green light.

  This city, a mile beneath the roots of the World's Spine Mountains, loomed as the sole haven in the northlands for the most fell worshipers of the Dark Gods, a nexus of evil far, far away from the light of day. The originators of the subterranean city had named it Xerro Kensho, meaning 'dark joining', but its denizens had for centuries simply called it Hourglass.

  The creature flew on, inattentive to the wonder of its surroundings, homing in on the center of the huge pillar. Here an immense structure was carved into the side of the column. It consisted of four layers set atop one another, each projecting farther than the one below it, the uppermost with an open courtyard hewn out of the stone. This was the little creature's destination, the unique construction having been firmly implanted into its tiny mind as 'home'.

  It swooped over the courtyard and flew directly through the topmost window of the center column at nearly full speed, then braked, flapping its leathery wings crazily. Settling onto an empty roost, the little beast squawked for attention.

  A figure entered the room. It was this being's sole duty to care for the flying messengers, and he took his duty very seriously. One never knew what information might arrive, and what that information might be worth. He passed a hand in front of the beast's face, which immediately calmed it. The small animal held perfectly still as the eyrie master opened the case on its chest and withdrew a rolled parchment. Scanning the note, his eyes grew wide in surprise and he rushed from the chamber, shouting for his mistresses.

  Deep within the castle, the two most powerful members of Clan Darkmist pondered the news. Lysethra, the eldest, scanned the parchment, her dark eyes narrowed in scrutiny. The simple yet elegant robes that draped her slim, erect figure bespoke of an innate nobility and power, not the two centuries that weighed on her shoulders. She was a High Priestess of Xakra the Tangler, Mistress of Chaos, and years did not touch her.

  Her younger sister, Calmarel, balanced her chair on two legs, one boot scraping against the ornate shroom-wood table. Her flamboyant attire covered her sparsely, the cacophony of silks, leather and jewelry accentuating her lithe curves. A bracelet of teeth and tiny bones clicked at her wrist as she fingered a spider amulet that hung from a thorned chain around her neck. If the image she desired was one of unbalanced and dangerous power, she succeeded.

  Despite her fewer years, Calmarel was the dominant of the two, for she had been blessed—or cursed, as some said—with unusual strengths. The pendant about her neck bespoke of the dark union that was the crux of her power. The obsidian spider set with diamond eyes was the symbol of Xakra the Tangler, but the thor
ned chain binding it to her was the icon of Pergamon the Punisher, Lord of Pain. No other, in this or any other city of the Dark Gods, had ever been chosen to serve two such powerful deities. Calmarel's power was without equal, and had earned her a seat next to her sister on the council of the Ten Clans.

  "How can he have escaped?" Lysethra shook her head, vaulting from her chair to pace back and forth. "There was more energy bound up in that enchantment than the whole of Clan Darkmist could muster. He must have had outside help."

  "Irrelevant," Calmarel stated flatly, studying the sculpture over the dormant fireplace, a tangle of twisted figures locked in the throes of tortured copulation. She enjoyed sculpture, and had personally supervised the slave labor during the castle's recent renovations. She enjoyed viewing the works almost as much as she had enjoyed the traditional sacrifice of the slaves at the consecration ceremony.

  She stood, her steel-heeled boots clacking like hooves as she walked to the mantle to run her fingers over the lifelike figures. Lysethra interrupted her own pacing and slumped into her chair, muttering a short prayer to Xakra to aid in keeping her temper.

  "The fact is, our dear brother has freed himself and appears to be just as ambitious as ever." Calmarel turned away from the mantle and began pacing the floor where her sister had before. "You'd have thought that so many years locked inside a mountain would have tempered his thirst for conquest, but apparently not."

  Their brother had always been dissatisfied with his station; though a Nekdukarr and a powerful sorcerer, he was younger than Lysethra, and had not received Calmarel's unique gifts. Therefore, he was relegated to the dominion of his older sister and the maniacal whims of his younger one. Even Nekdukarr must follow laws, after all. Flouting the rigid set of edicts that governed their society would lead to open warfare between the clans. Yet it rankled him to know that he would always be subservient to his sisters.