Lastly, a mirror materialized in front of her. A slender, brown-skinned man wearing a richly cut gray cloak looked at her from the other side with a wry smile on his face. In one hand he held the staff Eymunder. He reached out the other hand as though in invitation.
Nyori took it.
"Hello, Shama Nyori of Halladen. As you might have guessed, I am Teranse. Or what remains of me, I suppose." The mirror had vanished. It was just Teranse and herself, hovering amidst an ocean of dancing blue shimmers.
"Hello," she said.
"You now have access to whatever memories I managed to cram into Eymunder's well. I suppose it will be a bit confusing sometimes, but it was the best way we could think of to make the passing of the Geods easier for a new wielder."
Nyori gazed at the legendary Sage. His face was surprisingly youthful. His brown eyes sparkled with intelligence, but she could have passed him anywhere without mention.
"You look so...normal. And the way that you speak—"
His wry smile returned. "Being a Sage requires nothing special, Nyori. I inherited the position by birthright, but more than mere birth is required to become the type of guide that this world needs. The fusorbs were crafted for the Elious, to aid them in governing mankind. Eymunder is yours now, and you must learn to use it wisely if you would unlock its full potential."
"I was told that the Tome of Apokrypy would help me understand the use of Eymunder," Nyori said. "That is why I sought this place."
Teranse's smile faded. "The Tome is no longer here, Nyori. I'm afraid that someone arrived here before you did. Long before you did. The Tome was removed centuries ago."
Nyori's heart quickened. "The Pale Lord. Alaric."
Teranse's outline shimmered as though he stood in a tunnel of pure light. "I don't know who it was, although your assumption has merit. I met Alaric before his descent into darkness. He was a noble man whose honor was matched only by his ambition. The significant point is that your use of Eymunder will be extremely limited without the Tome."
"What do I do, then?" Nyori asked. "I can't get it back if Alaric has taken it."
The light had enveloped Teranse, his features faded before her eyes. "I don't know the solution to that quandary, Nyori. After all, I am only the visual remainder of my memories. You will have to find out on your own. Let Eymunder guide you, and you might find a way."
Teranse vanished in the blinding luminance. Just as quickly the light dissipated, and the orb returned to its soft golden glow. The visions vanished, Asfrior returned to a tomb.
Nyori shifted back to her Outer mind.
She inhaled sharply and groaned, massaging her temples. Her head throbbed with an agonizing rhythm. She was alone again, but fear did not touch her as before. Eymunder stood beside her as if planted into the ground, still effusing its soft glow.
She hefted it easily. It was as light as the bamboo poles they used for fishing back home, but she knew it was stronger than the toughest iron. She was aware of other things as well. She recognized the paths of Asfrior as surely as Teranse the Theurgist must have. The ghosts of memory guided her through the darkness to a carefully concealed doorway. The outline glimmered the same color of the staff, visible only in its rays. There were no handles or any other visible way to open them.
Nyori focused. It was very similar to the concentration required to Shift minds, but instead of directing her attention inward, she fixated solely on the door. The patterned Glyphs on her arms and hands glowed, illuminating the darkness of the cavern. She pointed Eymunder at the doorway. The orb pulsed and a Glyph materialized in the center of the door. The sequence was important: the Glyph had to be formed correctly as the word had to be pronounced, or nothing would occur. Nyori spoke the word of command that sprang into her mind as though a part of her memory.
"Petah."
The door rumbled open, exposing a tunnel that glowed in the distance with the promise of daylight. She strode forward, feeling almost as she did only weeks earlier when she entered the tunnel that led to the Pools and inadvertently to Everfell. As then, it was a moment of passage from which she would emerge a different person.
After a short time, she squinted from the sun's welcoming light. As soon as the stone door slid close behind her, the pounding in her head faded like a dream. When the door sealed, it looked no different than any other part of the mountain. The forbidding peaks of the Dragonspine towered around her, cloaked in mists and low-hanging clouds. The darkened mountains reminded her of the ordeal that had brought her there in the first place. The gloomy halls of Asfrior seemed hospitable in comparison.
No task can be completed by desire alone.
Nyori took a deep breath and picked her way across the rough terrain until she found a stream where she slacked her thirst. Much to her relief, wild blackberries grew nearby. It seemed like days had gone by since supping with Rhanu and his band, and the saddlebags they had carried were lost with Ironhide and Nando.
She swallowed hard as the memory of her last moments with them resurfaced. But she forced the thoughts away, concentrating on the moment. She was alone in the most dangerous region known, with no food or water. Eymunder could not conjure up her means of survival, nor magically transport her home. But she knew that there were passages through the mountains, and perhaps travelers or refugees from the war would be there. She drank as much as she could and started forward.
The rest of the day was spent braving the Dragonspine. There was a dark majesty to the forbidding jagged peaks that thrust upward like broken daggers. The wind carried strange clouds, swirling masses of yellow-white cotton that danced with flickering lights. Wild goats and bighorn sheep leaped fearlessly across the precipices.
Later, while almost blinded by fog, Eymunder vibrated hard enough to jolt her arms. Nyori watched in fear and awe as a hulking, cloud-colored beast shook the ground as it passed by mere paces from where she hid behind a moss-covered boulder. She knew of apes from her studies, and the creature bore a slight resemblance. But it was five times the size of any ape Nyori knew about. Its fur was thicker, almost like sheep wool. It rose on its small hind legs and sniffed the air as if searching for something.
Nyori froze in her hiding place, praying that she avoid detection. The creature made a low, rumbling sound from deep in its chest. The sound was answered a short distance away by something hidden from Nyori's view. When she found the nerve to peek from behind the boulder, the giant beast was almost lost in the mists, following a more indistinct shape that appeared to be another creature of its kind. She waited until their sounds faded before resuming her journey.
Aside from the one encounter, her travel was mostly undisturbed. She lost herself in dark thoughts, feeling that her isolation was a fitting recompense for her failure to keep Nando and Ironhide alive. She missed the presence of Ayna and even Riodran, despite having known him only for moments.
Hours waned before she found a shallow cavern where she could rest for the night. Yet sleep eluded her. The night was full of foreign sounds: the shriek of an owl that sounded eerily human, strange creaking, the mournful groans of the bitter wind. She considered her pitiable state and sighed, feeling her solitude more acutely than ever. Even with Eymunder's help, I'll wander out here until I freeze or end up eaten by some beast. Shama's burden. She wondered if it ever got any lighter.
She didn't even realize her eyes closed, but she awoke shivering in the grainy dawn to the sound of voices. She gave a start and snatched up Eymunder. Steeling herself, she peeked from behind the alcove.
It was almost a relief that they were not the white-garbed phantoms that had pursued her earlier. Then she realized that her situation was still as bad, or worse. The two men had to be Bruallians, Gutoths by the look of them. Gutoth barbarian tribes were known for their ruthless raids across the border and their particularly vicious nature. They dusted their skin with blue mud and tattooed their faces to distort their features in terrifying ways. They were notorious for adorning themselves with the scalps
, ears and other parts of their slain victims.
The stories played in Nyori's mind as she watched them fearfully from her vantage point. Mismatched furs and scraps of leather gave them a bestial appearance as they stalked in her direction. Jagged daggers dangled from their belts, and they hefted thick spears with short hafts and barbed spearheads. Tall and sinewy, the Gutoths had wild manes of dark hair entwined with beads and bone. One had a shaggy beard as well, which hid most of his tattooed face. He spoke in a coarse voice in a language Nyori did not know.
She clutched Eymunder tightly as she trembled. She felt like screaming, half mad from the thoughts of what would happen if the Gutoths found her. She looked at the staff, but it remained mockingly pale and silent. Teranse, please. Tell me how to get out of this. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face as the Gutoths drew nearer.
Shadows blocked the moonlight. Tall, menacing silhouettes chuckled darkly.
One spoke in the same harsh voice, but in Jenera so that she could understand. "What's this? A Steppes wench, from the look." She flinched when he seized her braid and sniffed it. He chuckled at her expression. "You're good and lost, aren't you, little sparrow? You some trader's spawn? Folks get robbed on the road? Not to worry; we'll take good care of you."
He stabbed his spear into the earth and knelt, bringing his tattooed face close. It was even more hideous than she imagined. His foul breath smothered her nostrils as he grinned, exposing broken and yellowed teeth. "You're an ugly thing, you are. But Rohn and I will make you pretty enough, eh Rohn?"
The other Gutoth laughed. "Aye, pretty as a roasted goat. That's a lovely staff you got there, girl. Where did you steal it?"
Nyori clutched Eymunder to her chest. "It's mine. You cannot have it."
Rohn looked at his companion and laughed again. "You hear her, Charak? This one has spirit, she does. I like a wench with spirit. Like a horse, only the ride is better."
Charak chuckled. His hungry eyes had never left off staring at Nyori. "She don't know no better, Rohn. But she can be taught." He gripped her face under her chin, calloused fingers digging into her skin painfully. "So many ways I can teach her..."
The Glyphs on Nyori's arms pulsed as she thrust Eymunder forward. Certain actions were infused into the staff; one only had to know the command to activate them. And with the Theurgist's knowledge entwined with her own, it was simple to do so.
"Sumu nara."
The orb flashed brighter than daylight, so brilliantly that Nyori could not see the Gutoths although they stood directly in front of her. Somehow she was not blinded, her eyes beheld the surrounding terrain clearly. The barbarians fared far worse. They howled and clutched their faces, stumbling awkwardly. Charak tripped and fell to the earth, clawing at the dirt in panic.
"The witch has blinded me! I...I can't see nothing!"
Charak roared as he waved his long arms about uselessly. "You'll pay for this, girl. You hear me? I'll skin you alive!"
Stepping clear of their sightlessly grasping limbs, Nyori hefted Eymunder and ran, followed by their howling screams and curses.
Chapter 12: Marcellus
Marcellus had no recollection of where he took him. All he remembered was being hauled away and thrown into a prison wagon and driven through the night to a new destination. As the wagon lurched along the battered road, his consciousness flitted in the stratum between dreams and nightmares as voices of the dead called his name.
It was only the single thought, the feeling he had buried when he rode into the heat of battle that dug into his mind's detritus and pulled him from his depressed stupor.
Evelina.
He saw the sky-blue of her eyes, heard her voice murmur in his ear, felt the softness of her skin. Outside his window, the wind carried the squealing laughter of his daughter. Marcellus cursed his weakness, pushing his weariness and depression away as he sat up. The chamber was different than the one where they previously imprisoned him. The darkened stone cell was furnished with only the overflowing privy pot in the corner and dirty, matted straw on the floor.
All dungeons were the same, no matter what land you ended up in.
The voices of other prisoners rose in wordless fury. Marcellus heard cursing and iron-shod footsteps before keys jingled outside his door. Two burly guards entered with drawn swords and lanterns in their hands. Their faces were indescipherable beneath the visors of their heavy burgonet helmets. More crowded the hall outside. He rose before they could reach him. They stepped back warily with their swords upraised.
Marcellus kept his voice calm and showed his shackled hands. "I will come peacefully."
The guards met his steady gaze uneasily. He could almost see the stories about him play in their minds as they cautiously approached to test his bonds. Satisfied, they snapped a lead chain to his manacles before leading him out the cell.
He winced and shielded his eyes when the prison doors opened, allowing the glare of sunlight inside. A deafening roar greeted him as well–the thunder of hate-filled voices in a chorus of rage.
"Where are we?"
The nearest guard thumped him across the head with a spear butt. "You are in Radoth, worm. No more talk. A worm does not speak."
Radoth. Marcellus shook his head as they shoved him out the doors. He couldn't figure a reason why Valdemar would transfer him out of the capitol city of Dragos.
I suppose I will find out soon enough.
Hundreds of guards lined the road outside where an uncovered wagon and horses awaited. The numbers were not because they feared him. They were to hold the riotous crowd back.
Throngs lined beyond the soldiers; a sea of men and women who screamed their rage at the personification of what oppressed them–the Champion of the cursed and hated Leodia.
Missiles immediately struck. He winced as the guards cursed and held up their shields. The people were not marksmen, and the projectiles did not favor guards over him. The soldiers snatched up whips and cudgels to drive the crowd back as Marcellus was hefted up onto the wagon and placed on his knees. The guard chained him to an iron pole in the center of the wagon.
"The prisoner is secured!"
The driver cracked his whip. The wagon lurched and rolled forward.
The crowd roared as the wagon wheeled slowly through crowded, dusty streets lined by buildings of clay bricks and tiles. Shops had their shutters and doors closed. The merchants and sellers had not brought out their wares, for every nook and cranny of the town was crammed to bursting. Muddy fishermen stood shoulder to shoulder with silk clothed merchants, and even bejeweled nobles dotted the crowds, forced to abandon their palanquins. One and all they crowded together to see history made.
Flags and banners bearing the Red Dragon emblem rippled in the throngs. Those who did not curse Marcellus raised their voices in song. Women waved their arms and shook tambourines, while some of the men beat leather-capped drums as they walked behind the heavily guarded wagon. The crowds surged and pushed against the line of guards, only to be beaten back by cudgels and cracking whips.
All the while they mercilessly rained down anything handy to throw. Marcellus' forehead and right cheek stung with cuts, his half-healed wounds throbbed.
But he refused to cower. He stared straight ahead, heedless of the furious crowd. Time no longer existed, pain was a memory, and the roaring crowd faded into whispers. In time they became mere blurs of movement as he concentrated inwardly, shutting out everything around him.
It was only when the wagon stopped that he realized they had reached their destination: the high-raised walls of the Alaku Ehus–the Dying House. He finally understood why they transferred him from the capitol to the less grand city of Radoth.
So he could die in the arena.
Savage gladiatorial fighting had been outlawed in the provinces of Leodia, replaced by more civilized tourneys and the Great Games. King Lucretius declared gladiator battles a useless exercise in bloodlust that turned men into animals. Though it continued in secret where men could
get away with it, the deadliest fighters and their masters had chosen exile beyond the Dragonspine, where in Bruallia they could still perform their opera of death and glory.
No stadium was more notorious than the Alaku Ehus, in the heart of Bruallia where Valdemar Basilis took great delight in orchestrating one bloodbath after another. The most skilled warrior trembled at those gates, where nothing was assured but a grisly death at the hands of men and women so skilled at killing and maiming that at their hands it was an art form.
More lines of soldiers cleared a path to a stone-lined opening outside the wall where large iron-barred doors opened from the ground. Marcellus was unchained and ushered to the steps that led into the belly of the Alaku Ehus. Flickering torches barely illuminated the roughly hewn stone of the walls. Two more armed guards wearing bestial helmets flanked wide, heavy double doors at the end of the tunnel. With them was a very familiar smirking figure.
"The prisoner is to be unshackled before entering." Gile Noman looked as coarse and disheveled as he had when he betrayed Marcellus in battle. As the guards cautiously approached, the traitor directed his good eye to Marcellus. "Good to see you again, m'lord. I trust you've been enjoying the hospitality of our gracious host?" He tilted his head mockingly "Aw, what's the matter, no greeting for your old friend Gile? No?"
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