The Eye of Everfell

by Bard Constantine

  "Han, we are to have guests with us this evening," Rhanu said. "They left a horse and a pack mule on the hill there. They're just out of sight, but if you don't mind, could you bring them to the camp?"

  Han nodded and shot up the hillside. His movements were fluid, as if he were about to float across the ground.

  "He seems young to be around..." Nyori trailed off, not knowing how to describe the band of battle-weathered men. As they entered the camp, she caught their stares. Her face flushed, and she avoided their eyes.

  "Ruffians?" Rhanu laughed. "Mercenaries? Cutthroats? Robbers? I assure you miss; we are not such men."

  Ironhide had silently observed until then. "What kind of men are you?"

  "We track down those who have done evil and bring them to justice."

  Nyori nodded. "Whom are you hunting now?"

  "A pair. Man and woman. Quite a number of murders notched up between the two. We follow their trail west. Almost had them in Bruallia, but they managed to escape in all the chaos that overwhelms the region on account of the war."

  She studied the assortment of men. "This seems to be a large band to hunt just two people."

  Rhanu stopped short. His face was deadly serious, giving his words extra gravity. "You have no idea. You have no idea how dangerous those we hunt are. You would not believe it if I told you." He shrugged. "Best if you never find out."

  Stones were arranged in a circle at the center of camp, where a fire eagerly licked the dry kindling. Slabs of what appeared to be venison were already hoisted on stakes above the flame. The men who gathered around the fire seemed the jovial sort, jesting and laughing amongst each other. When introduced, they gave Nyori and her companions a friendly nod or handshake. They were men of all sorts from around the region. A short, olive-skinned Epanite man strummed a lute as he lounged against a sandy boulder, and a fiery-haired, burly Norlander roared laughter louder than the others combined.

  A pair of Mandru turned to stare. Their caste differed vastly from Ironhide's, both in appearance and customs. Their skin was dark brown, and their heads shaved save for coarse, braided topknots that hung to their waists, colored red as if dipped in paint. Ivory clattered on their necks, and large, decorated disks stretched their earlobes into widened circles. The two men frowned when they caught sight of Ironhide.

  Difiju caste. They probably have an ongoing feud with Ironhide's caste. Nyori hoped they wouldn't cause any problems.

  The rest seemed to be woodsmen and former soldiers for the most part. In all, there looked to be around a dozen men. Though they were worn, they were not ragged or unkempt and appeared committed to staying alert and organized. A bonus, no doubt, to the life they led.

  To Nyori's surprise, a woman emerged from one of the tents. She was tall as most of the men, her muscles almost as hard. Golden hair hung loosely to her shoulders, framing a tanned face that would have been pretty had it not been permanently hardened. A glittering eye patch beset with jewels covered her scarred right eye. A weathered leather vest was all that covered her small bosom, which appeared more muscular than soft. Yet her earth-toned breeches were snug, displaying the shapeliness of her hips and toned legs. Beaded tassels swung and clicked with her catlike strides.

  "I heard we had guests." Her words were slightly halted as though unfamiliar with Jenera–the common tongue used by the civilized lands of Erseta. "I am pleased you have joined with us. My name is Meshella."

  "A pleasure." Nando eyed her appreciatively. The expression on his face made Nyori want to slap him.

  Meshella eased down beside Nyori. A necklace of what appeared to be either claws or fangs hung loosely around her neck, and bracelets of polished wood and beads clattered on her wrists. Her smile softened her features somewhat.

  She had to be from one of the castes that lay to the east of Epanos, dwelling in the outer Steppes near the Barrens. Nyori had heard of woman warriors before but had never seen one in person. The woman's nose was delicate, and her lips curved almost sensuously, but those features did nothing to take away from the deadliness that pulsated from her. A large, curved blade hung from her waist in a beaded scabbard. She is a woman who kills. It was like seeing a lioness up close, both fascinating and chilling.

  Seeing her inquisitive look, Meshella gave a throaty chuckle. "It is all right. I will not bite you." Some of the men laughed, and Nyori flushed in embarrassment.

  "No, we have already fed her for today," Rhanu said, seated nearby. The men laughed again, as did Meshella. Nyori found herself smiling despite her blunder.

  One of the Difiju warriors turned to Ironhide with an expression completely devoid of humor. "You are Onasho?" The question was more of a demand. He and his companion glowered as Ironhide regarded them with an air of calm.

  "Yes."

  "We are Difiju." The statement had a ring of a challenge.

  Nando's hand casually strayed toward the sword he had laid beside him.

  Firelight glinted from the Difiju warrior's dark eyes when he leaned forward. "These are our lands. Our companions have permission from the elders to cross in peace. You know trespassing demands payment in blood."

  An electric current seemed to crackle in the air, as though the herald of violence had announced its presence. Everyone in the camp tensed.

  Only Ironhide seemed at ease. He dipped his head respectfully, but there was no fear in his eyes. "Blood is a payment that never fulfills its debt, I am told by men wiser than I. True, we have not permission to cross your lands. But you should know that you speak of violence in the face of the Shama. Your curse is on your head, should you wish to proceed."

  The Difiju warrior looked at her, surprised. "I...did not know. She is—"

  So young, is what he means to say. The thought was bittersweet. To become a Shama at her age was a feat to be proud of, but Nyori knew she did not have the regal bearing of Ayna or the other Shama that she had encountered.

  "—not what I expected," the Difiju warrior said. He and his companion stood and nodded respectfully. "My apologies, Shama. I am shamed for my conduct."

  Nyori nodded in return. "You did not know. There is no shame in that. I hope there will not be trouble for us as we continue our journey on the morrow."

  "The word will be sent ahead, Shama. You will not be disturbed, I assure you." The others gazed at her in a reassessing way.

  "Well." Rhanu's voice was dry. "That settles that. Perhaps we can eat now."

  Meshella touched Nyori's arm reassuringly. "Don't let Rhanu fool you. He would never have let anyone be harmed while under his hospitality. He would have stopped them with just a few words. Rhanu is a hard man, but a just one."

  Han returned to camp and dipped a bow to Nyori. "Your horse is tied with the others. She will be brushed and fed as well before we retire for the night."

  "Thank you."

  He grinned and passed her a deep wooden bowl and spoon. The steaming stew was thick and filled with large chunks of venison and spare on vegetables. Just the sort of thing a man would cook up. Still, she had been living on rabbit and dry bread for the last few days, so any change was a good one. She ate eagerly, impressed by the seasoning that made the food taste better than expected.

  "What is a Shama?" Han gazed at her with familiar intensity. She had seen the same gaze from some of the men in Halladen when they thought she wasn't looking. It always stirred both embarrassment and a small thrill to find herself the object of attraction.

  "We are healers and vision seekers. Keepers of lost arts and guardians of secrets. I can tell you no more than that, I'm afraid." She ignored Nando's sour grunt.

  "Such is the Shama's burden," Ironhide said softly. "To hear but not speak, to seek but not share. For whom have the understanding but they?"

  Han nodded. "We have Sovereign Ones in my homeland. They speak as you do, though are always in their autumn years. None so young and lovely as you, Shama. Meshella is the only woman I've had the pleasure of viewing since crossing the Dragonspine, and she bites." H
e winced as Meshella absentmindedly punched him in the arm.

  "You must ignore this puppy," she said. "He is not yet weaned on his first taste of women."

  Nyori felt her face flush. "Where are you from, Han?"

  "Honguo."

  Honguo. She had only heard of it from tales from traveling merchants and in exotic stories. It lay beyond the Eastland Wilds, so far from their lands that it had achieved mythical qualities when spoken of. Tales were told of strange creatures, flying men, and devastatingly beautiful women. Despite his foreign looks, Han was almost disappointing in the face of the stories.

  "What brings you so far from your home?" she asked.

  "Adventure." He smiled. "I have not much except my sword and my skill at using it. Fortunately, both are phenomenal."

  Nando scoffed. "Skill? You're probably younger than Nyori. How much talent do you expect us to believe you have?"

  Han grinned around a mouthful of stew. "Youth is my advantage. I have trained with a blade since the age other children play with stones. I am to swordplay what poetry is to words."

  "You forget to add modest as well," Nando said.

  Han paused in the act of lifting his spoon. "I'll wager my sword against yours I can disarm you in ten drumbeats."

  Nyori studied Han. He was completely at ease, his eyes twinkling with amusement. She realized he wasn't jesting. He truly believed he was that good. Nyori cut Nando off just as he opened his mouth.

  "We are not here to make wagers or contest any of you, Han. There is nothing that needs proving."

  Han shrugged and continued eating. "As you say, Shama."

  Ironhide looked disappointed. "And here I was looking forward to making a few easy tokes. Not to mention seeing young Nando graced by the spirit of humility."

  Nando reddened, but Nyori caught him glancing at Han in an evaluating manner. It might have suddenly occurred to him that there might be good reason why Han could hold his own at such a young age in a band full of weathered warriors.

  "I have not seen such a diverse band as this," Ironhide said. "How is it that so many different people have banded together just to hunt criminals?"

  An awkward hush fell over the camp. Nyori held her breath as the band looked at one another. For a moment she thought Ironhide had somehow inadvertently insulted them.

  Rhanu finally broke the silence. "We have all suffered...losses. When something you love dearly is taken, you look for something to fill that gaping hole. Something to keep you from sinking into the depths of despair. That common experience is why we have bonded."

  "I thought you said you were hunting a pair of murderers," Nando said. "You make it sound now as if it is much more than that."

  Firelight flickered in Rhanu's eyes. "Micholas! We are in need of entertainment. Regale us, if you will, with your bardic songs of glory and valor."

  The Epanite man stood to the applause of the others in the band. Nyori looked at Ironhide, who shrugged as if to say: We have our secrets; let them keep theirs. They turned to listen as Micholas strummed his lute with expert fingers. He was garbed in a finely embroidered coat and trousers, better suited for a banquet than the hardy outdoors.

  "Micholas once played in the court of the High Don in Epanos," Han said softly. "Or so he has said."

  "What happened?" Nyori asked.

  Han smiled sadly. "Life."

  Micholas' eyes closed as the melody of the lute strings took him to another place. He sang in a tenor that soared, accompanying the plaintive tunes of his instrument.

  Upon a rock amid a stream;

  the lass sat down, her face serene.

  The wind toned down, the birds fell silent;

  the wildwoods waited, their voices quiet.

  Her hair rippled and flowed like fire

  as she sang sweetly of desire.

  Her voice like razors, slicing deep,

  so that the sky began to weep.

  Her song was thunder in the rain

  as words of sorrow she then sang.

  Her fingers bled upon her lyre,

  and swiftly set the world on fire.

  Then at the last note of defiance,

  the sky sagged in relief of silence.

  And as the distant fires died,

  the sun shined on a lass who cried.

  Nyori applauded with the rest of the band as Micholas finished strumming and bowed in acknowledgment. She motioned to him. "That was very lovely. Who was she?"

  Micholas smiled. "Ah, thank you, mistra. You inquire of the lass in the song? You have not heard The Tears of Fire before?"

  "I don't think so," Nyori said. "Is it old?"

  His fingers caressed the strings of his lute. "Very old. Perhaps that is why you have not heard of it. It belongs to the Age of Despair, where legend speaks of how Stygan the Dreadlord was deceived into entering the realm of Narak, where he was imprisoned for all time. This same woman was the one who betrayed him. Some say she did so out of spite, but we who sing the songs know better. Before spite there was love, love that Stygan trod on time and again. This woman led him into his prison in revenge, but wept for him after the deed was done."

  Nyori closed her eyes, trying to picture the bittersweet scene. "What was her name?"

  Micholas' fingers paused as he tilted his head back in thought. "That name is old as well, and nearly forgotten. But the old songs say her name was...Leilavin. Yes, that was her name." He looked at her in alarm. "Are you all right, mistra?"

  Nyori nodded, waving away his concern. "I am fine. The smoke from the fire has me lightheaded." Her head spun from the mention of Leilavin's name. The woman's chalk-white face and crimson eyes peered knowingly from Nyori's memory. What have I gotten myself into?

  The others did not notice her discomfort. They called to the Norlander, who apparently was an admired storyteller. "What say you, Fregeror?" said Rhanu. "Will you let Micholas be our only entertainment tonight, or do you have a tale left under your belt?"

  "Tell us of Reynar and The Three Wise Fools," someone called out.

  "No, the Lion and the Dragon."

  "The City of Glass!"

  "How now?" Fregeror's voice boomed when he stood to tower over them. "I need no suffer you with such tales. Let the sniveling minstrels spew such drivel. I shall acquaint you of the legends of Norland, where true warriors are made. Let me tell you, my hardy fellows, of how mighty King Torsten did venture into the last Jonarr stronghold and slew the Lord of the Frost Giants, thus gaining the Stone of Dunnar and the glory of Norland." He rubbed his massive hands together as he prepared to relate his tale.

  Nyori tried to listen but found the thrill she might have experienced had soured. The stories are all real, she thought, and I am in the middle of one. But I am no hero. I do not even know what tomorrow will bring.

  The tales went on into the night, but Nyori found herself weary from the days of travel. The laughter and applause became murky and indistinct as she nodded drowsily before finally succumbing to the embrace of sleep.

  Where darkness and weeping awaited her.

  Chapter 8: Marcellus

  "Evelina..."

  Marcellus smiled at the sight of his wife. Her eyes lit with laughter, and the sunlight danced in the reddish-gold strands of her hair. She never aged in his eyes, always remained the same as when he first met her. Like the sun that warmed her face, she was dazzling as she held Alexia to her bosom.

  Marcellus reached out for them, but the light brightened, blazed so intensely that it nearly obliterated her. Her eyes widened as she faded, her mouth opened in a voiceless cry. He squinted, stumbling as he clawed through swirling tendrils of dreary fog. When Evelina's voice finally reached him it was only screams, shrieks of such terror that he fell to his knees and clutched his ears to sever himself from the sound.

  He awoke with a start, wincing from the sunlight that assaulted his eyes from a small barred window. The slatted rays painted his bed in glowing stripes. He groaned and tried to sit up. The effort of rising sent a
wave of dizziness that nearly capsized him. The pain surged, exploding in his head with a recurring throb. He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on his new surroundings.

  The room was tiny, hardly more than a cubby. He lay on a straw mattress covered by threadbare sheets. A small table stood at his right side, and on it was a cracked porcelain vase. There was nothing else. Gritting his teeth, he threw back the sheets. The sight made him wince as though the wounds flared anew.

  He was naked save for his loinclothes and crimson-spotted bandages. He counted five punctures; on his left shoulder, his left arm right through the bicep, his right side, and two in his right leg above the knee. It was not the first time he had suffered serious injueries, but the pain was no less for it. He settled agonizingly back on the mattress. Small wonder no guard stood in the room. He was going nowhere.

  But his mind was uninjured and swirled with dark thoughts.

  Gile.

  Marcellus touched the wrapping around his head. The strike from the man's mace had been glancing, but the treachery much more painful.

  How could I have been such a fool? I should have known he wouldn't hesitate to betray us! His fists clenched. If there were any balance in life at all, he would see the one-eyed man again. Yet Gile Noman wasn't even the worse of things.

  Lucretius. Marcellus saw the king again in his mind, regal and unkempt, his bearing both royal and bizarre.

  Was the king truly a madman? Had he no idea of what he had sent the Companions into? Where was this bastard of his? Was the lad slain, or even worse, had he ever existed? Marcellus' head pounded. Jaslin, Jolgeirr, and the other Companions. Had any of them escaped alive? Were any held captive as he was? The loneliness of ignorance crept upon him with unexpected intensity. He angrily scrubbed his eyes, ignoring the pain that jolted his arm.

  You can't lie here sobbing like a scatterbrained child. You have to think.

  His memory was a hazy blur of washed out images. He remembered little except painful flashes of his time from the battlefield to his current surroundings. He suspected he had been there for days, at least.