by T P Sheehan
Rubea and Altair opened their jaws and let jets of flame consume the pyre. The night was filled with heaving fire that sucked angrily at the cool evening air. Sharp yellow tails of flame reached for the stars, their final rise in the form of oily, black smoke typical of dragon fire.
The pyre still burned hot when Catanya turned away. The heat had brought tears to her eyes. She saw that Eamon shed tears as well and wondered if he too used the heat as his excuse. They looked at one another, each knowing how the other felt, having said their bitter farewells to Joffren. He was Eamon’s Semsarian. He was Catanya’s Semsdi. Could things have turned out better for Joffren? Catanya thought she would never know. She was content, though, that he was honoured with a proper Irucantî funeral. He would have wanted that.
With the funeral over, Eamon had one last thing to do. He hoped it would give him closure on the other, equally bitter death he had long carried the weight of responsibility for. Once this was done, he could finally put the name ‘Steyne’ to rest.
Magnus had been kind enough to bring the suede wrapped fire-sword to Joffren’s funeral. He also insisted he have a word with Eamon before entering the Temple of Fire. Magnus spoke the truth of the sword and its fate known to only Balgur and Gilfieüg—the swords forger. It was a revelation Eamon was ill prepared for.
“So then, it was always destined to kill him,” Eamon said aloud to see if the words would ring of truth.
“Balgur told me himself. It fact, the sword was shaped to do so. Its glyphs held spells that would protect Balgur as he transitioned to…” Magnus seemed unsure how to explain it.
Eamon saw both truth and concern on his face. “I know what you’re saying, Magnus. It seems then, Balgur believed it was best I did not know this for all the years I carried the sword.”
“Aye. It was a cruel thing, Eamon. But if you’d known, would you have let the sword fulfil its fate?”
At last and with a sigh, Eamon understood. “Most certainly not, Magnus. No, I would not. I would have destroyed it long before it was able to fulfil its fate.”
“Using you for such a task seems so deceptive.” Magnus shook his head.
“Yet, Balgur trusted that when the time came, I would know what needed to be done. And… I guess I did.”
“What do you mean?”
Eamon thought matters over in the manner he often did when they occurred so long ago. Memories would come to him glazed with emotion. He would dwell for a moment, allowing the glazing to melt away so the memory could stand on its own. Often, it was difficult to make the separation. Torture for the poet in my heart, Eamon chuckled.
“What is it, Eamon?” Magnus was ever inquisitive.
“I was a priest and this was my sword.” Eamon looked at the wrapped object in Magnus’s arms. “We of the Fire Realm don’t name our swords like the Rhydermere do. Indeed, what name would be given to a sword with such a fate?”
Eamon could see the battle now, as clear as if he was there again. He was on the Southern Plains, by the Little Traas River. “Balgur had fallen upon the river and was wounded after a well-staged attack by the Quag. When first my eyes found the scene, Delvion was standing over Balgur. In his flamboyant manner, Delvion called for the attention of all as he held his poisoned black blade over Balgur’s head. I was cornered, fending off the enemy upstream from Balgur. I hurled the sword. I aimed it true, Magnus. It made a path for Delvion’s heart. Then it happened.” Eamon ran the event through his mind for the millionth time. “It was as if Balgur told him…”
“Told Delvion what?” Magnus asked.
“The way Delvion paused his black blade. He looked into Balgur’s eyes and squinted. Balgur was telling him. I never understood until now.” Eamon remembered Delvion’s face. He was attentive—listening to the great dragon. “Delvion was told to seize my sword. I always put it down to some dark intuition the man possessed.”
“How did it happen?” Magnus asked.
“Delvion looked from Balgur to me. My sword came to him, it…” Eamon struggled for the words. He had never described the incident in such detail before—not even to Marsala. “Delvion released his poisoned black blade. It was the blade that would have cursed Balgur in the afterlife. With the same hand he caught my sword.”
“He caught a sword that was thrown at him?” Magnus’s eyes widened.
“A million times I’ve played it over in my mind. There was intervention at play and Balgur was that intervention. It was fated as Balgur told you it was, Magnus.”
“You need not say anymore, Eamon. I know what happened next.”
Eamon looked at Magnus. He was grateful to have him there, now, when he was about to put the sword to rest. “Thank you for telling me, Magnus.”
“You’re welcome.”
Magnus reached for Eamon’s hand. Eamon gripped it and hoped Magnus could feel what he meant to him in the firmness of that grip. Together, they walked up the temple steps. Catanya was waiting for Eamon, as well as Austagia and Jael. Trax opened both sets of doors leading into the temple nave. Austagia took the lead with Magnus following, carrying the sword. Eamon let go of Magnus’s hand and followed with Catanya to his left. She took his hand in Magnus’s place. Jael was to his right. For the first time, Eamon laid eyes on the enormous, white marble statue of Balgur. His breath caught at the sight. He had forgotten how large Balgur was—how magnificent he was. Eamon’s knees began to shake and he almost fell. Catanya and Jael caught him by the arms and steadied him.
“Are you okay, Eamon?”
“Thank you, Catanya. I am fine. I just need to pause a moment.”
Magnus turned, concern on his face.
“I’m fine, Magnus.” Eamon forced a smile, though knew he need not have in this company. Magnus smiled back.
Eamon took a deep breath and peered up to the dragon’s enormous head. The statue appeared so life-like. Balgur stared down at him. His eyes, though polished white marble, came to Eamon as the sun orbs they once were—the same eyes that would change colour to match his. Eamon’s mind flushed with the memories they once shared. He heard Balgur’s drumming voice peeling through his mind with surety only a dragon purveyed. Eamon wanted to talk to him. He wanted to say he was sorry. Fate or not, he had played his part in allowing the fire-sword to slay Balgur. Fate or not, he could not save him. He was most sorry for that.
Tears came, blurring Eamon’s eyes. He stepped awkwardly down the stairs to the nave floor with Catanya and Jael supporting him. He felt old. He felt tired. For too long, Eamon had harboured regret for Balgur’s death. Magnus caught his eye. Eamon blinked the tears away and looked at the young man before him. Magnus was the reason ‘Eamon’ existed. ‘Eamon’ took the place of the priest named ‘Steyne’ and played his part in a new chapter in Allumbreve’s history as Magnus became the Electus.
“I am so glad you are here, Magnus.” Eamon breathed through a smile but it came out as a sob. “I am glad all of you are here.” He looked to his other companions.
“We are honoured to be here, Eamon,” Austagia said.
Magnus lifted the wrapped fire-bronze sword to Eamon. Eamon peeled back the cloth and lifted the sword with delicate fingers at either end. Then he wrapped his left hand around the pommel, feeling the familiar indents in the leather grip—indents made by his own hand. He carried the sword to the base of the statue, placing it upon the bronze plaque at its base. He read the inscription in the plaque—“Balgur Qewrum Fara—Balgur King of Fire.” He read the smaller script beneath—“Born of fire in the northern Fire Realm. Died at the Battle of Fire, aged five hundred and eighteen years.”
Eamon rest a hand on the front right middle talon and gave it an affectionate pat followed by a final nod. “Farewell, old friend.”
A CURSE
Sarah’s fingers dragged along the black granite walls of the tunnel. She felt the markings where worgriel teeth and claws had scraped and chipped through the ages, forming endless convolutions of narrow tunnels beneath the Corville Mountains. Sarah ga
ve the foul creatures credit for their tenacity. It was a quality she was tapping into. She was being tenacious. She needed to be for the Tenebris spell to work. If she lost focus, the heavy spell would soak all her strength and kill her.
Marsala’s Tenebris spell was dangerously effective. She had passed two packs of worgriels in the tunnels—so close their clammy black skin brushed past her—yet they never saw her. They never even drew on her scent, her body heat or the sound of her footsteps. The effectiveness of the spell, however, was doing more than just cloaking her presence. With her focus always on thoughts of her son, the spell was guiding Sarah to him.
Lucas…
Lucas…
Lucas…
Sarah was not thinking of the countless hours spent walking the worgriel tunnels that interconnected the Caves of Cuvee, for thoughts deviating from Lucas would compromise the Tenebris spell. She knew too, there was no way the tunnels were navigable by humans without spells. Three times so far the tunnels had opened into caves completely void of light. Each cave was either a breeding ground for worgriels or a graveyard of animal remains—the leftovers from worgriels feeding. Each cave became a junction to more tunnels. With each turn and step, Sarah knew she was getting closer to Lucas.
Lucas…
Lucas…
Lucas…
Hours passed and once again, Sarah could hear the scampering of claws approach—more worgriels. However, this time was different. The scampering was accompanied by the dull, rhythmic strike of boots—men. The strikes were awkward and heavy, as though the men were tall and heavyset, struggling in the narrow tunnels—Quagmen. Sarah drew her body hard against the tunnel wall. The worgriels brushed past followed by a legion of Quagmen. Several bumped into Sarah and were mystified by her invisible presence. Sarah fell in behind them.
The procession of undesirables walked on and on, crisscrossing through tunnel after tunnel. Eventually, they came to an enormous open cave that was well lit by two means. Firstly, a dozen or more hulking black chandeliers hung from great chains bolted into the cave’s granite ceiling and secondly, a huge beam of white light came from a cavern that rose hundreds of feet to the open sky above. Sarah looked at the natural light and craved to stand under it. The thought caused her to feel lightheaded. Strength drained from her body. The Tenebris spell was using Sarah’s unfocused yearning to draw energy reserves from her. She leaned against the wall beside her and noticed her shadow beginning to appear.
Sarah refocused. “Telburrow Moosha Canfligetis…” She reinforced the Tenebris spell, refocused her strength and thought of nothing but Lucas again. Her shadow began to fade.
Peering across the vast, open cave, Sarah absorbed the scene before her. The floor of the cave was several hectares in size and was bustling with industry. There were countless forges and as many anvils where muscular Quag blacksmiths wielded tongs and hammers in the manufacture of weapons and armour. Other Quag warriors were stockpiling spears, black blades, shields, maces and other dreadful looking weapons Sarah had never seen before. There were saddles and chamfrons for warhorses and wyverns, bedding for the warriors, and barrels containing food and wine.
The smaller caves Sarah had passed through may have been the breeding grounds of worgriels, but here was the breeding ground of a massive army. It was like Ba’rrat all over again with one malicious difference. There were two long rows of cages, thirty or more to each, holding two different breeds of vile creature. The first row of cages held young wyverns that paced about in confinement, hissing at anything that came near. The second held huge worgriels. Unlike the wyverns who were one to a cage, the worgriels were two to a cage. In some of the cages, one or both worgriels were dead. In the remainder, the two worgriels were fighting tooth and nail for the right to be the survivor. It was a ghastly sight, but Sarah could see what the Quag were trying to achieve. They filter out the weak, keeping the strong stock to help in battle. But why do some cages hold two dead worgriels?
Sarah focused again, letting the Tenebris spell wield its magic—to show her where to find Lucas. On the far side of the cave, eight tunnel entrances were visible. One of them was different. The dark light within shimmered in a hazy shade of amethyst. Sarah felt a yearning to go that way. In ghostly silence and with the presence of an apparition, Sarah glided down the incline, across the cave floor, toward the pull of the amethyst haze. She entered the tunnel unnoticed.
Voices… The voices echoed as a murmur, but as Sarah got closer, she could discern words beneath the echo.
“Keep petty grievances out of this.” The voice was deep and commanding. “Remember ‘Dephkeep Law’. You may challenge a direct superior for position. If you fail, your life is forfeit.”
“Remember this… I may be Quag but I’m not of Dephkeep blood. Besides, we are no longer on the burning lands of Dephaer. This is Allumbreve.”
“Regardless, rules apply.”
“Who is this sorcerer, anyway?”
“Forget it, Muldig. You may be twice his size but he’s ten-fold deadlier than you.”
Sarah turned a corner and came upon a small, well-lit cave. Two large Quagmen were talking. Sarah shifted back a little and watched proceedings.
“That ‘Gretarior’ is just not right,” one said. “Up here.” He pointed to his head.
“He’s not your direct superior,” the other said. “Since Crugion died, Delvion’s invested everything in this sorcerer. That means if you’ve grievances with the sorcerer, you’ve grievances with Delvion. Understand?” He tapped his comrade firmly on the head. “I swear you’re as dumb as muck, Muldig.”
Gretarior? Sorcerer? Sarah shifted around to gain a better view.
The two Quagmen were quick to stand to attention as a tall man—possibly six foot five—came into view. He was dressed in finely smithed and burnished armour with even finer engravings in the metalwork. The black ensemble was draped with a cape so dark a purple that, like Blüflis, it was almost black. The man had thick brows, a strong jaw and an obvious underbite.
Delvion! Sarah gathered.
She fumbled beneath her dress for her blade but froze at a second, even more ominous sight. Following Delvion was another man, though more a ghost than a man. He was cloaked in a black robe that covered every trace of his body and face. The figure stood beside Delvion and drew back his hood revealing his pale face, steel-grey eyes and thinning, curly blonde hair. Sarah had no doubt—Lucas!
Oh, Lucas…
Sarah struggled to focus and felt weak. She took a breath and stared directly at her son. Lucas’s head turned toward her. His lifeless eyes locked on her. Can he see me? Sarah took a step back. Lucas turned his head slowly to the two Quagmen whom Delvion was talking to.
“What of the blood mix?” Delvion asked one of the Quagman.
“My King, you had best ask the alchemist…”
“I am asking you.”
“Sire, progress is slow. The worgriel’s take to the wyvern blood but…”
“But WHAT?”
“But… it makes them an awful lot stronger, more savage, until… they die.”
“They die?” Delvion’s nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw, revealing his lower teeth.
“The alchemist says he can make it take, but never for more than a few hours. The worgriel will always die. The females even quicker than the males.”
Sarah listened but her eyes were locked on Lucas. It was as though he sensed her presence somehow, for his focus wandered occasionally in her direction. His face remained expressionless.
After a moment’s silence and chin rubbing, Delvion spoke again—“I do not care if the worgriels only live for a few hours. If what you say is true, that will have to do. Be off.” The Quagmen hurried away. Delvion glanced at Lucas. “How you took to the wyvern’s blood, I do not know.” Lucas glanced to the ground. “Look at me!” Delvion demanded. Lucas slowly looked up to the Quag King. “My alchemist has administered wyvern blood to men far stronger than you. None have survived more than a few da
ys. What more is there to your conversion?”
Sarah held her breath. Wyvern blood? I thought Lucas was poisoned? She waited to hear Lucas’s reply—to hear her son’s voice. She yearned to sense something more of her boy than the ghost standing here now. But Lucas said nothing. He raised an arm. A black mist formed around his hand and with a flick of his long, skinny fingers, the mist twisted over itself forming syrupy black tendrils that wafted toward Sarah’s face. She took another step back, avoiding the dark matter.
Frustrated, Delvion turned and walked back the way he had come. Sarah pushed hard up against a rock wall and watched the black matter snake toward her. An inch shy of her face, Lucas lowered his hand. The matter dissipated. He seemed to stare into Sarah’s eyes for a lingering moment then turned to follow Delvion. Sarah followed at a distance. She whispered the Tenebris enhancement again, keeping herself invisible in the virtual darkness of the tunnel. A little way along, Delvion turned and pointed a finger at Lucas.
“My scouts report that a contingency of refugees from Brindle have passed into the Southern Plains. Bonstaph of J’esmagd leads them. That man murdered both my sons. I want him dead. Soon, we shall release the infected worgriels. They only need to survive the attack. Have your wyvern queen come. I have a deed for you.”
Delvion looked beyond Lucas in Sarah’s direction and squinted his dark, deep-set eyes. Sarah held her breath. The Quag King looked back at Lucas, then turned and walked away. With his back to Sarah, Lucas continued on down a different tunnel. Sarah followed.
Lucas entered a small, hemispherical room through an opening in the tunnel. He lay down on a simple makeshift bed of roughly sewn sacks and remained still, staring at the stone ceiling. Sarah stood directly behind him.
“I know you’re there,” Lucas said, his voice monotonic and scratchy. Sarah said nothing. She held the words to Marsala’s curse on the tip of her tongue as she tried to find cause to avoid saying it. “Have you something to say?” Lucas continued.
