The Eye of Everfell

by Bard Constantine

  He tapped the grunnien on the neck, and the animals strode easily on their sturdy legs. They seemed to make good progress, but when Nyori snuck a few glimpses at Marcellus, it seemed that he was frustrated by their rate of speed. He appeared feverishly focused on moving as fast as possible.

  Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.

  I have gone to Asfrior as Ayna said. But there was no safety, and no Tome to recover. What am I to do now? She recalled the shivery chill of the harbinger when she first met Marcellus. Obviously he was important in some way to her. Considering his timely intervention, she could see why. She would have most likely died had he not arrived.

  They stopped only to eat a few crumbs and sip a few drops. He always gave her the larger portion, refusing to heed her protests. He rode with his back erect, his eyes scanning for threats. He seemed inexhaustible, completely focused on the path in front of them.

  He halted the grunnien she sat on, placing a hand on the frayed blanket. "There's faint smoke ahead. Probably someone is camped out there."

  She gave a start at the certainty of knowing that darkened her vision momentarily. A lump rose in her throat; her voice became whisper. "There is death in that camp. We should stay away."

  He gave her a considering look. "They may have food and water that survived the fire."

  She slowly nodded, trying to hold her fear at bay.

  He placed a hand on her arm. "Then I must go. You can stay here until I get back."

  "No." She squared her shoulders and swallowed. "I will go with you."

  "As you wish." Pulling out his sword, he cautiously advanced.

  She followed him to a scene of carnage. Corpses lay on the cold ground like toppled statues, their throats torn out and their flesh waxen as though blood had never run in their veins. The weathered tents in the camp were undisturbed, and there was no sign of robbery. The people were attacked for a singular purpose.

  Nourishment.

  "Looks as though your Dhamphir found some sport. Refugees, from the look of them. Probably got lost in these mountains." Marcellus frowned. "I expected buzzards. Ravens, scavenger animals...but these bodies have not been touched. The beasts are wise. They know this death is not natural."

  He knelt down and motioned as if to touch one of the corpses, but thought better of it and let his hand rest on the ground instead. The deceased woman appeared around Nyori's age. Her eyes stared disbelievingly from her ashen face.

  "It looks as though the creatures feed on blood alone. They suffer no other wounds other than on their necks. I have never seen the like."

  Nyori glanced at him. His face was composed, his voice neutral. She did not understand how anyone could view such a scene and not shudder. "How can you be so cold? Have you taken so many lives that it no longer bothers you?"

  He shrugged. "A warrior must be cold. I was barely older than a boy when I killed for the first time. When you kill a man, it changes you. You will either become ice and steel or lay your sword down and become a monk or a farmer. Anything else will get you killed. I chose to keep my sword. But if my frigidity causes you concern, then I apologize. I know you are not used to such things."

  Nyori shook her head. "I hope I never get used to such things."

  Marcellus did not respond as he stood. "Take only what we need. Food, water, blankets. Change into warmer clothes if you find them. Winter comes swiftly in these mountains, and the winds smell of a storm."

  When she hesitated, his voice gentled. "I will stand guard. Go quickly so that we can be away from here."

  They ducked into separate tents.

  The interior was dark and foreboding; every shadow suggested some dark unseen menace. Nyori found women's clothes inside a battered chest and dressed faster than she ever had in her life, exchanging her ragged blouse and skirt for warm stockings and a soft gray wool dress, topped by a dark blue cloak and a thick scarf to wrap around her head. Even though she knew the woman was dead, she felt guilty for taking the clothes. She quickly said a prayer for the lost family and dashed out.

  To her relief, there were no Dhamphir or any other threats waiting as she half-expected. You have to collect yourself. You're a Shama, not a little girl waiting for her hero to rescue her. You have your senses, and you have Eymunder.

  Marcellus must have dressed while moving because he was already leading the two grunnien into the camp. He had changed into dark breeches, a clean shirt, and a black cloak that covered his shoulders. Though the clothes were anything but new, he still looked better than before. His erect stance and noble bearing somehow made the clothes look more than what they were.

  "We should tarry here no longer than we need to."

  She couldn't agree more.

  After they loaded the grunnien with food, water, and blankets, he hoisted her atop one of the animals. They both paused at the center of the camp, where Marcellus had laid the fallen bodies side by side.

  "We should bury them," she said.

  "No time." Marcellus scanned their surroundings. "There are surely still hunters on my trail, and they will not rest until they recapture me."

  "It just doesn't seem right." Nyori's gaze drifted back to the corpses. Their dead faces seemed to stare at her, pallid eyes accusing. "At least let me honor them with their last rites."

  For a moment she thought that he would refuse anyway. But after studying her face, he finally nodded. "Very well, Shama. If you feel it is important, I will not stop you. But please do not tarry long. I will lead the grunnien down the hill and wait for you."

  She waited until he was out of sight before turning her attention to the dead.

  By the time she reached the bottom of the hill the fire blazed; thick black smoke roiled toward the sky. The burning did not disturb Nyori. Many castes of the Steppes performed the same rites for their dead. Sparks floated upward, tiny dots of fire seeking to reach the stars.

  What disturbed her was forgetting the words that she used to start the fire. It was just like the words she spoke to command the doorway in Asfrior. She again tried to recall the words she had spoken to blind the Bruallians, but they were also as though never learned. It was apparent at that point that the lack of memory was a sort of failsafe to keep masters of Apokrypy from becoming too powerful. She would have been impressed were it not so frustrating. She would have to relearn the words to use them again, but without the Tome that would be impossible.

  She could recall the commands she had not used, the more powerful ones she avoided for fear she would kill the Bruallians. Despite everything, the sanctity of life that the Sha valued had held her back. Still, she wondered what she would have done had Marcellus not arrived. She knew that she would have probably used those commands, calling lightning or other means of destruction.

  She would have killed those men. The thought was disquieting, a mocking whisper in her ears. Not that it mattered. Marcellus had taken care of that. She recalled the savagery, the blood, and the screams. She realized how sheltered she had been at Halladen, away from the true world where men slew one another without regard for the value of life.

  She wondered if it was worth the cost to recover the Tome of Apokrypy. Perhaps it was best that the knowledge vanished. With it, she would become powerful. And with the power, she would become dangerous.

  She was so focused on her thoughts that she didn't notice Marcellus' agitation until she nearly walked into him. He alternated from staring up at the smoldering pyre and back to her with equal amounts of disbelief.

  "Shama, what have you done?"

  She gestured to the hilltop. "When we do not have time to bury our dead, we let flame send them to the heavens. Perhaps you are not accustomed to such in your grand kingdoms, but among the Steppes people it is not—"

  Marcellus cut her off with a raised finger. "That's not what I'm talking about, Shama." He pointed at the plume of smoke that trailed upward. "Did you not stop to think of the eyes that will be able to see that?"

  Nyori felt a stab of regret as she u
nderstood. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Marcellus has already stepped away, scanning their surroundings. His muscles tensed as he tilted his head, straining to listen. The sound became faintly audible to Nyori at that moment. It was still in the far distance, yet instantly ominous when she understood its significance.

  It was the baying of hunting dogs.

  "Narak's hells." The feral look returned to Marcellus' eyes as he cursed softly. "I tried to tell you, Shama. Your actions have put us in danger. We must move swiftly. They know exactly where we are."

  Chapter 16: Valdemar

  Valdemar tried to keep his impatience in check as the man screamed on the ground. After all, Berke was a trusted lieutenant and a fine soldier. It wasn't his fault that his blood-slicked innards refused to stay inside his belly. Running into a pair of ferocious ponginas hadn't been on the agenda when the band of soldiers and trackers began their breakneck pursuit of Marcellus Admorran. The encounter with the gargantuan beasts had been quick, but not without fatalities.

  A massive pongina corpse lay a few yards away, riddled with arrows and gutted by blades. Even lifeless and with dark blood matting its wooly white fur, it still looked dangerous. Dangerous and entirely too large. The apelike face had stiffened with its jagged teeth clenched, enraged even in death. The hulking, wooly beasts had materialized out of nowhere, swiping with their long front limbs and bellowing their throaty cries as they struck with crippling blows. Ponginas were fiercely territorial, prone to violent attacks when encountering intruders. But they were rarely seen in the flesh, being solitary creatures that tended to favor the desolate peaks of the Dragonspine. It was Valdemar's cursed luck to run across the pair so close to the foothills.

  Roua was in the process of slicing open the creature's chest. The man was a warrior monk from Aracville and formerly a cleric of Marset, the old Bruallian god of war and bloodshed. Though Aracville was forcibly converted to Divinity at Valdemar's insistence, they retained as many of their pagan ways as they could. A dark stripe was painted down the middle of Roua's face, matching his hairstyle: shaved save for a crest of raven hair in the middle. His eyes were lined with black as well, fixed in feverish concentration on his grisly task. It was tough work, but the black-robed warrior priest finally triumphed. Sinking his arms up to the elbows into the steaming cavity, he emerged with the beast's massive heart. Dark blood streamed down his arms, drenching his wide sleeves as he lifted the crimson organ to his mouth and sank his teeth into it. Chewing ferociously, he grinned around the mouthful as he offered it to Nergui, a Bruallian soldier who refused with a mortified expression.

  The other pongina had grudgingly retreated after taking grievous wounds, leaving a trail of trampled underbrush dappled with spattered blood in its wake. Valdemar had not bothered to pursue. Like the beast, he had lost enough for one day.

  His scale armor rasped as he dismounted from his horse. The armor was elaborately ceremonial yet fully functional, etched with winding dragons in gold. An intricately carved dragon was featured on the crest of his iron-plated helmet, and a scarlet-lined black cape hung from his shoulders. A lord had to look the part no matter what the task at hand. It was necessary that he never blend in with those who served him.

  The men stepped away as he fluidly unsheathed his double-handed daito sword, striding purposefully toward the mortally wounded soldier. Berke stifled his cries, gazing up at his warlord with agony etched on his face. He clutched the bloody mess that was his midsection, his body shuddering from the trauma.

  Valdemar's sword hummed, and the single-edged blade sliced through flesh and bone with barely a jolt. Berke's head toppled to the ground, followed by his body. Valdemar had already sheathed his sword and turned away, sweeping his cape aside to avoid the blood as he addressed his lead tracker.

  "How many dogs survived?"

  "Still have most of 'em, m'lord." Gile Noman still wore filthy leathers and battered armor, scorning the new garb offered to him. He had proved his worth against the ponginas, standing his ground while half the men scattered. Valdemar still did not fully trust the man, but that was nothing unusual. He trusted no one outside of the Dragonist Order. Gile was an outsider and a betrayer, a man who turned against Marcellus Admorran at the first opportunity to enrich himself. The man was as useful as the tokes used to pay him. When the money vanished, so would the man, unless Valdemar killed him first. A fate Gile no doubt deserved. A man with no master was much like a dog with no master. They only grew more feral and dangerous, eventually forcing someone to put them down.

  Gile gestured over his shoulder. "Rimler is gathering 'em up now. They scattered when the two alphas went down."

  "Collect them quickly. I mean to catch up to Marcellus by the day's end. He can't be too far ahead, weary and on foot."

  "Pressing hard will be tough with the horses," Gile said. There was something insolent about his one-eyed stare, some thinly veiled contempt that he couldn't quite conceal. "They're not made for this terrain. We'll kill more than a few if we aren't careful."

  Valdemar looked at Gile, wasting no words. He had learned long ago that silence was a greater intimidator than words could ever be. The malice manifested in his eyes, giving him a hawkish, imperial stare that demanded subservience.

  Gile was no exception. "Aye, m'lord. I'll check on the hounds." He dipped his head respectfully and turned away, shouting at his comrade.

  Within moments the survivors mounted their horses, leaving their dead as they fell. "Let the buzzards take care of them," Valdemar said. "And pray that your death will be better than theirs."

  A few of the men paled at that, but no one raised their voice to protest. Valdemar knew they preferred to erect a cairn or burn their comrades properly, but that took time. Time was something they had lost too much of. The travel was painfully slow.

  Gile is right, damn the man. The horses found little sure footing in the sloping, slippery crags of the Dragonspine. The men had to dismount and lead their mounts more often than not, forcing the terrified steeds across treacherous trails fraught with sudden pitfalls and crumbling slopes. The dogs were little better. They had yet to catch a proper scent and only grew more skittish the deeper they went into the passes. The jagged peaks of blackened stone loomed over everything, the ground so cruel that only the meanest brush could push through. Bitter winds cold enough to slice through furs and clothing like icy daggers swept in, howling as though enraged.

  "You should not be here, Lord Commander."

  Ganbatar pulled his stallion alongside Valdemar's own. The Dragonist General's stare was severe from behind the red-lacquered face shield attached to his elaborately constructed helm. The facial armor was molded into a hideously leering mask, which along with his ominous armor gave Ganbatar an intimidating edge over most people. Valdemar was not most people, having been raised around the Dragonist Order.

  Every Dragonist knight wore helm and armor fashioned after monstrosities. It was part of their ability to inspire terror in their opponents. Their armor was black and scarlet, constructed of thousands of small rectangular iron and boiled leather plates laced together in horizontal rows, protecting their chest, midsection, shoulders, forearms, and shins. The construction of the scale-like armor allowed more freedom of movement than plate, giving the Dragonists an advantage over heavier armored opponents. Since the Lord of Bruallia commanded the Dragonists, Valdemar wore similar garb, though his armor was without the scarlet threads and lining, and his helmet less elaborate in comparison.

  Ganbatar was one of two deadly guards who accompanied Valdemar for the journey. The other was Khidyr, a soldier around the same age as Valdemar. His face was nearly always covered by an iron mask studded with spikes. Like the rest of the Order, he had little, if anything to say. Not so with Ganbatar. He had resolutely insisted on coming along, something Valdemar found hard to refute, especially since Ganbatar was more than just the General.

  He was family.

  "Still trying to give me unwarranted counsel, brother?
I thought we addressed that issue."

  Ganbatar did not appear cowed. "You are my lord, and my life is yours, but you are my younger brother as well. I would be derelict of my duties were I not to provide the counsel that you need."

  "If you had wished to make the decisions, you should have claimed the throne. It was your right."

  "You are better fit for command." Ganbatar's rectangular shoulder armor creaked when he shrugged. "Like Father was. I care not for that mantle." His gauntleted hand touched the tasseled sword pommel that jutted over his shoulder. "This is what I am. What I was born for. I am the bared blade that defends the Dragon. I live and die at the command of my lord. My world is simple. Focused."

  "Hopefully focused enough to keep me from our father's fate," Valdemar said. "Your predecessor failed the meet your lofty standards."

  Ganbatar's expression darkened. "That was why he was strangled to death by his own entrails. I will not fail you as he did our father." His face relaxed slightly. "You would do well to heed my counsel, Lord Commander. Being attacked by the ponginas has changed things. Our band numbered thirteen men when we rode from Bruallia. We lost our scout when the mountain ledge crumbled beneath him. Three others have died in the pongina attack, and two are injured. You could have been among them, or even one of the dead. This is a task for a lord to delegate to others, not lead himself."

  Valdemar felt his teeth grind together. "What would you have me do? Drape myself in velvets and huddle in my palace while my attacker escapes from my hand? Face the scorn and ridicule of the people who witnessed my humiliation?" His face heated. "Marcellus Admorran did more than defeat me singlehandedly. He trampled my name. My reputation. I am the most feared warlord of our Age for one reason only. Because of the complete destruction of my adversaries. My enemies are blinded, maimed, and impaled at my command. No one has withstood my army or my blade."

  "You are the most feared lord because Deis favors your sword," Ganbatar said quietly.