The Eye of Everfell

by Bard Constantine

  She helped Ironhide to his feet, and they staggered forward. Tears blurred her vision as she heard Nando's roar fill the night, along with the clash of weapons. Ironhide could barely walk; his weight was threateningly close to overcoming her. When he spoke, his voice was a ragged whisper.

  "The temple–the doorway will be lined with Banestone. It will protect you. The akhkharu are loath to cross a Banestone barrier, for it drains them of their Crafts, like the sunlight. Then they can be slain like any other."

  "It is not far." Her weariness returned tenfold from her efforts to support him. "We can make it if we hurry." Behind them, Nando's roar had changed into a wild howl, the cry of the wounded and defiant wolf. She winced, choking back a sob. "It will only take a moment to focus and heal you there. Then I can go back for Nando. I can help...I can heal him too."

  Ironhide shook his head wearily. "It is too late. The spawn of akhkharu is here."

  A high-pitched squeal rang in her ears, accompanied by the putrid stench of rotted leather as something sailed by overhead, borne on unnaturally vast wings. She caught sight of an inhuman visage and glistening fangs as the apparition circled the clearing before landing ungracefully on a broken stump of a pillar. Its ember eyes fixed on them as its wings fanned out, ready to spring and rend them to pieces.

  Her limbs stiffened, ice water froze in her veins. The creature bobbed its shoulders and chittered in a gargled tone that spoke of blood and madness.

  "Don't look in its face, or the darkfear will take hold of you." Ironhide's voice sounded steadier as he eased himself upright. "The Dhamphir will only move if we do. Its task is to hold us here until its masters arrive." Ironhide gazed at Nyori with dead eyes. She wondered how he even managed to stand; she could feel the aura of the poison that coursed in his veins like a river of fire.

  "When I move, you run for the door. Don't wait for me, and don't turn back. You may survive this if the Taevisa is with you tonight. It has been my life's honor, Shama."

  She saw the transformation when he shot forward. The twisting of limbs, the hair that sprouted from his body, the eye-wrenching shift of his skull and face as the man was left behind and the wolf emerged. His howl was answered by the ear-piercing shriek of the Dhamphir. Mortar exploded as it leaped from the pillar, its great ragged wings blotted the light of the moon.

  Nyori saw no more, for she ran as though carried by the wind, her heart a war drum in her chest. She heard the impact as the wolf and beast collided, felt the gasp of breath exploding from their lungs. Their snarls and squeals chased her up the crumbling stairs.

  Glyphs covered the ancient door, the frame carved with the long forgotten runic symbols. There was no handle. She placed her hands on the surface, searching for a way inside, but nothing seemed to work. She slapped the stone with a sob as the sounds of fighting died behind her.

  It was the sudden silence that made her turn around unwillingly, filled with the dread of knowing. A shaggy body fell, but what struck the ground was Ironhide's human form. He lay as though his bones had ground to powder. Nyori felt the menace of the victor's stare. With a terrible shriek the Dhamphir was airborne, rushing with all the speed of a nightmare.

  Nyori's hands fluttered like frantic moths as they sought to open the door. The Glyphs that had burned into her skin in Everfell rippled across her arms, flaring bluish-white. The runes on the doorway pulsed as though in answer, and the door opened so easily that she fell inside, choking with fear.

  The Dhamphir dived at the steps, landing in a spray of pebbles. Its sick garbling threatened to drive her mad. The wings folded, and it advanced with its eyes afire. She froze in place, stiff and helpless. There was nothing to bar its way, and she knew she would die faster and more fearfully than Nando or Ironhide.

  It took another ungainly step, and...stopped. A look of uncertainty flashed across the beastly face as it gazed at the door. Freed from her paralysis, Nyori looked at what held the creature back.

  The doorway blazed, emanating a bright bluish-white glow that made the creature shriek and throw up its shaggy arms to shield its eyes. With another piercing squeal, the wings unfurled and carried the creature away from the molesting rays. Its cries were answered by shouts from the advancing figures below. Akhkharu, Ironhide had called them. As Ayna had named them. The Wraith People. Childhood stories and legends gathered in her mind and shattered.

  Her survival instincts impelled her to kick the door shut, cutting off the view of the broken body of who had only moments ago been a protector and friend. The faces of Ironhide and Nando filled her head, and she wept freely, tears disappearing in the darkness. She almost wished her pursuers would break down the door and end her torment, but it seemed Ironhide had been right once more. Whatever Banestone was, it was enough to ward off those who hunted her. The thought was of little comfort as she huddled on the floor, blanketed in grief.

  Sacrifice is vanity without action to prove its worth.

  She did not know if it was Mistress Ayna's words or her own thoughts she heard, but Nyori slowly felt her resolve return. When her eyes opened, she gasped. She was not in complete darkness after all. Specks of Banestone dotted the walls, glowing like stars in the blackest night. Glyphs, she realized. Her arms also shone, the characters glowing brightly. Enough light glimmered for her to see the vast pillars of what had once been an almost inconceivably massive chamber. She wondered if she had stumbled upon an ancient Aelon temple; if she was under the protection of the wondrous beings that had abandoned humankind.

  Something this large has to have more than one entrance. I just have to find it.

  Determination gave her the strength to rise and advance into the depths. She drifted along, burdened by fear and grief, a lost traveler in a sea of azure runes.

  Chapter 10: Valdemar

  The audience chamber was large and spacious, atop the highest tower of the castle and open to a view of the surrounding countryside by a wide pavilion that could be shuttered open or shut. Valdemar Basilis came there often so he could gaze upon his kingdom. The wind carried the autumn chill inside, but he was the Lord of Bruallia. The cold could not touch him.

  He tilted his head back, letting the breeze stir his long, wavy black hair as he inhaled the scents of his city. Smoke from chimneys and smithies choked the air. The fires constantly ran now as the blacksmiths churned out a steady stream of weapons and armor while repairing gear damaged in battle.

  Another scent hung in the air as well. It was impossible to ignore the stench of the bodies that burned outside the walls, but Valdemar did not mind. It was only fitting to linger in the scent of your slain enemies. It was like perfume in a way.

  He turned from the terrace and strode into the audience hall. He had the room decorated personally: marble stands topped with polished globes of crystal, a marble bath where a pair of kingfishers bobbed, and a fountain gently bubbled. The breeze stirred the rose-colored silk curtains and swept pink and white flower petals strewn along the gold embossed marble tiles, past the silver-gilded Sword of Deis that centered the chamber.

  A slender man in an elegantly embroidered burgundy coat and black trousers played an elaborately engraved harp in the corner of the room. A sash of crimson silk covered his eyes, yet his fingers plucked the melodic notes from memory. The melody was grand, theme music for a momentous occasion. A large panther laid a few paces away, chained to Valdemar's high-backed, dragon-engraved chair. Its eyes were sleepily half-closed as though it enjoyed the music, but it lifted its head and snarled at Marcellus as five armed guards escorted him in.

  Valdemar eyed Marcellus critically. Though undeniably in pain, the knight stood with his shoulders straight, and his head held high. The man was not broken. Bruises decorated his face, but defiance still shone in his steel-gray eyes.

  Excellent.

  A semicircle of men knelt in front of the dais. Komuran nobles, garbed in finely spun woolen shades of tan and auburn. Valdemar washed his hands in a silver basin, staining the waters crimson as his
lip curled in contempt. "Rise and return your apartments. Perhaps next time you kneel before me you will have learned to show respect."

  Every one of the nobles had blood streaming down their faces when they rose. In their pride they appeared not to notice, save for a few whose eyes betrayed their pain. They filed out silently past Marcellus, whose mouth tightened at the sight.

  Valdemar smiled. "Men do not know they are defeated sometimes." He dried his hands on a towel handed to him by his manservant. "So they must be taught. Those pagan fools of Komura refused to remove their cursed turbans in my presence. So I had the idiotic wrappings tacked to their heads with hammer and nail." He laughed softly. "The nails are not long enough to kill them unless the wound infects. They are not to remove them until they learn respect. I am their master now. They will have to learn that soon, or a finely oiled stake will await them also."

  He paused. "My apologies, I meant not to arouse painful memories." He flicked his eyes to the guards. "Unshackle the prisoner and leave us."

  "My Lord." The Captain sounded insulted. "He killed two men and injured a half dozen more just yesterday. Do you think it is wise—?"

  "Do you question my judgment, soldier? Perhaps you think to suggest that I fear an unarmed prisoner?" Valdemar turned to stare at the man.

  "No, my lord." The Captain's voice trembled as he bowed low. "Forgive me."

  "Then obey."

  The guards instantly removed the shackles and filed out, followed by Valdemar's servants. The Captain gave Marcellus a meaningful glare as he shut the door. The harpist in the corner continued to play, his fingers blurring across the strings.

  Marcellus rubbed his wrists and shifted his feet, gazing at Valdemar questioningly.

  For a moment Valdemar said nothing. The sun partially set behind the mountains, casting a red tint across the cloud-streaked sky. Two rapiers lay on a table in front of him. Both had elaborately designed hilts and long, thin single-edged blades made for stabbing. He picked one up and watched the light glint across the edge of the dueling sword.

  "My mother worshiped the old gods." He glanced at Marcellus with a thin smile. "It was whispered that she was a madwoman. She heard voices in the night murmuring in unnatural tongues, and would see people who were not there. The Shadow Children, she called them, coming and going from one shadow to the next, never giving her a moment's peace. No one would believe her but I, though I witnessed nothing. I still believe." He turned to look at Marcellus. "We all have daemons that whisper to us in the night, do we not?"

  He flung the rapier at Marcellus. The sword whirred as it sailed across the distance until it impaled the floor with abrupt decisiveness directly in front of the knight. Marcellus' gaze flicked to the sword, then back at Valdemar.

  Valdemar hefted the other rapier and stepped from the dais. "First blood to the victor. What do you say, Sir Admorran?" He circled Marcellus, who shifted to keep him in view.

  "I'd say that I might not stop at just the drawing of blood, Lord Basilis. It would be too tempting to kill you," Marcellus said.

  Valdemar smiled. The knight was wary of a trap. He did not know the mettle of the enemy that he faced. Valdemar stepped closer. "Eventually my mother threw herself out a tower window to her death, and I lost the only person who may have stayed my path. My father blamed the gods and converted to Divinity, cleansing the kingdom of pagan worship. Purity is achieved through fire, was how he put it. Fire separates the dross from the gold, and he wanted a golden nation. When I think now, I realize my destiny began on that day. Perhaps that is why my mother had to die. They never lie, Marcellus. The voices never lie."

  Valdemar lashed out with his sword. As expected, Marcellus snatched the other rapier up to defend himself. The chamber rang with the metallic clacks of the blades as Valdemar tested his enemy's form. Though stiff and suffering from a battered body, Marcellus was still quick and obviously skilled, one of those men whose sword was an extension of their arm, as though they were born with a blade in hand. A bad limp hampered him, however. Valdemar's men had not been gentle.

  Valdemar cut off his attack and stepped back, moving in time with Marcellus, who warily kept his blade ready. It was too bad the knight was not at full strength. It might have been a contest. Marcellus' breathing was harsh, though his face hardened in concentration. "It's no surprise that you would hear voices," he said. "Do they whisper to you of your own madness?"

  Valdemar stopped in mid-stride and tapped his forefinger to his chin. "No, but that does not mean they will not someday. It is said that no genius can exist without a touch of madness." He winked at Marcellus. "Madness certainly is no stranger to your king, is it not?"

  Marcellus' mouth tightened angrily. He took the offensive, using swift and furious strikes to try to throw Valdemar off balance. For a few minutes the only sound was the clash of blades as Marcellus struck and Valdemar parried.

  Marcellus stumbled as his bad knee nearly gave out. Valdemar stepped back to give the knight a chance to regain his balance. He smiled as they warily circled each other. "Yes. You would call me mad, yet your own beloved king would use you, his Champion as a dog sent on a mission to assassinate me on the battlefield."

  "You know nothing." Marcellus' chest heaved as he fought for breath. "My mission was to liberate, not assassinate. Lucretius did not know you would even be on the battleground. The security of the prince was of chief concern to him. I'm sure you've already slain him, but I do not regret my part in trying to secure his rescue."

  Valdemar peered at Marcellus, considering. Could the knight be telling the truth? It seemed impossible. Yet Valdemar had learned much in his perilous climb to power of when a person lied or spoke the truth. He detected no guile on Marcellus' face. "No prince from Kaerleon ever set foot in these lands, Sir Admorran."

  The certainty of the words struck Marcellus like a blow. He nearly stumbled again when he stepped back as though dodge the statement. "You...you would not be expected to know of this."

  Valdemar laughed uproariously. "Is that what you were told, Sir Admorran? Is that why you traveled so far and led your men to such a tortuous end? Are you so gullible and naive to believe such an obvious minstrel's tale? I know nothing of any prince from Kaerleon. But I have another idea, Sir Admorran. It seems to me that you were sent here for only one purpose: to die."

  "You lie!" Marcellus' eyes blazed as he raised his blade.

  Valdemar flicked his wrist. The point of his rapier caught Marcellus under the chin, just at the point of drawing blood. The knight froze with his sword still upraised, his eyes shimmering furiously.

  Valdemar kept his blade at Marcellus' throat. "Unthinking rage can get you killed quickly. Your fury was impressive in the courtyard, your strength incredible. But where did it get you, Sir Admorran?" He smiled again as he lowered his blade. The two men backed away a few steps before Valdemar attacked. Once again he struck deliberately, testing out his opponent. Marcellus's jaw tightened, his muscles loosened. Their dance grew deadlier, the blades practically thirsting for a taste of blood. The harp music in the background flowed in time with their movements.

  Valdemar spun away from a deadly thrust, upsetting a priceless vase on a marble pillar. The pieces shattered unheeded across the flagstones. "It doesn't matter if you were sent here to kill me or not," he said as he parried and counterattacked. "Your arrival on the battlefield was almost providential. It could not have occurred any better had you been delivered to me wrapped in irons. Strange that you would arrive on the cusp of my victory, when my strength was the greatest. Almost as if you were meant to fail, wouldn't you agree?"

  Marcellus' blade hummed as it clashed against Valdemar's. "Lies." His voice was hoarse. "You might expect that kind of deceit here, but Lucretius would never stoop so low."

  The blades clacked faster, a staccato that guided the choreography of their movements. Valdemar felt a rush, the thrill of danger, the heat of battle against a foe almost worthy. It was nearly sensual. He lived for that sensation, yet o
nly experienced it in a few fleeting moments of his tempestuous life.

  "Why?" he asked as their swords clashed. "Do you serve so blindly that you cannot conceive the concept of betrayal? You are a fool, Sir Admorran. Every man will betray when it serves his purpose, even your precious Regnault Lucretius. It is not a matter of whether or not he sent you to your death. Only a matter of why."

  Marcellus' face remained locked in stubborn denial. He denied the truth, both that of his faltering body and the facts that practically slapped him in the face. His attack only intensified, as though a victory would somehow redeem him of his folly. Valdemar almost pitied him as he casually parried the increasingly errant thrusts and strikes. He knew it would not be long before Marcellus' body betrayed him as severely as his king did.

  As if on cue, Marcellus' leg buckled, and he fell to his knees as though overwhelmed by a weight heavier than any he had ever known. The sword tumbled from his fingers and clattered to the floor. Valdemar imagined that the knight's mind reeled, sought a way to counter what he knew to be true, fought to cling to denial even as all the questions he'd been wrestling with clicked into place. But the reality was unavoidable, forcing him to let his hopes flutter helplessly like the flower petals on the floor, caught by the breeze and swept away.

  Marcellus stared up at Valdemar with his teeth clenched and his eyes rimmed red. Defiance was all that held him erect. Pride had deserted him, leaving him staggering from the inescapable truth that stabbed worse than any blade could.

  Valdemar placed his sword point against Marcellus' cheek, drawing a blot of crimson from the indentation. "In my country we say that you only know a man's worth when you have drawn his blood."

  Valdemar's rapier lashed so quickly it took a moment before Marcellus' cheek opened and dribbled blood. The fallen knight did not even wince. His eyes stared blankly, as though unaware of the moment.

  Valdemar examined the bead of blood that slid down the blade. "And so now I have come to know you, Sir Admorran. You are a noble man, it seems. A loyal man. And an unimaginable fool. I truly believed that you were sent to slay me on the battleground. Instead, it appears that you were delivered to me. But to what end?"