Alaric stood over her as she convulsed, making sure the repulsion was still present in his consciousness. He did not want to become accustomed to his curse as so many of his people had, did not want to make peace with his fate. He made himself observe the damage every time, forced himself to witness the suffering he inflicted.
If I lose sight of what I am, all that I strive for is dust.
Chapter 18: Nyori
Nyori had never known riding could hurt so much until days later. The grunnien were much different than a horse. Her legs felt swollen, her thighs chafed, and the small of her back was a twisted knot of pain. The nights that had started off so beautiful soon became mocking stretches of time riding in silence, for Marcellus was prone to long stretches without speaking. He was ever alert, however, even long after the sound of hunting dogs faded away.
"I don't know what happened," he said. "Sounds almost as if they are going back toward Bruallia."
"Perhaps they lost our trail."
He shook his head. "No. There has been no rain, nothing to hide our trail. Our tracks are clearly visible and they were close, only hours behind." He gazed back as though trying to see through the tangle of brush and flinty stones. "Something stopped them. Something made them turn back."
Neither of them wanted to give voice to what they thought could have done that.
Although the way was mostly downhill, that did not mean the path was any less treacherous. The mountains were known for their hidden pitfalls and sandy slopes that could send the unwary sliding off a precipice–a fall of a thousand spans or more to certain death.
Marcellus had an uncanny sense of direction, safely maneuvering them through winding passages that led them ever downward toward the plains. When Eymunder became heavy in her hands, she realized that she could reduce its size back to the original wand again. The memory came unbidden in her mind as if it were her own. All it took was a moment of focus, linking her mind to the staff and seeing it as she originally found it. The glassy material glimmered as it shrunk in obedience to her mental command, and she replaced it in the pouch at her belt.
The accomplishment would have been more gratifying had she not been so weary. Her eyelids were heavy, requiring concentration just to keep them open. Several times she found herself nodding in time to the heavy strides of the wooly beast.
"Why do we travel at night so often?" she asked at one point.
The answer was short and obvious. "You told me that you were attacked at night. The creatures you described would be very visible by day. I would wager that they are nocturnal, and I would not want to be sleeping should they still hunt you."
She swallowed and looked upwards, though nothing was visible except stars.
Usually, when the first rays of dawn crept up behind them, he told her they could dismount. If they were lucky, he'd find a rocky hollow or cave, leaving the grunnien to graze what they could of the sparse and stunted brush. At first she was wary of sleeping near him, but he was true to his word and never touched her other than to wake her up after what seemed only moments of sleep. She fell asleep almost instantly after the first few days, exhausted beyond measure.
Marcellus set an unflagging pace, riding or walking beside his grunnien to give it a rest since it bore most of the provisions. They descended into the foothills of the Dragonspine where the air was a little warmer and the land a little greener, though the wind still bore the chill of autumn's breath. Still, coming from the Dragonspine it was like returning to paradise after an exile. Soon they would be out the wilds and back into the Steppes.
With the land less rugged they seemed to make better time. They traveled more in the daylight since they'd seen no signs of the Dhamphir. Marcellus appeared less discontent with their pace, perhaps because he had fixed in his mind that he had no choice. Nyori hoped that he did not consider her a burden that slowed him down. She finally became used to him, even fond of his company. He seemed to feel similar, though it was hard for her to read what lay behind his steely eyes.
At one point he pointed to the distance. "Do you see?"
She squinted. "Where?"
"Do you see the tower in the distance? He pointed southwest of them.
She shielded her eyes, barely able to see the solitary structure. It stood alone and forlorn in the deadened wilderness, but she felt it in her mind; a dark and terrible presence weeping inconsolably like a broken god, sobbing of blood and madness.
"What is it?" she whispered.
Marcellus's face was grave. "That is the Unfinished Spire. We are close to what was once Khelios."
The name sounded familiar to Nyori, but she could not remember. "What happened?"
"It was once a city greater than Kaerleon, once the greatest city of men. A gathering place for the wisest of sages, the mightiest warriors, and the greatest kings. Yet legend says that it became corrupted from within. In time war engulfed the great city as vying factions struggled for power. When the Elious Wars reached their climax, the battleground was in Khelios.
"Talan the Dawnrider, greatest of the Elious, had gathered the forces of Elious and men against the dark and terrible hosts of Anko the Shadow Prince. There, in the shadow of that Spire, the two armies met and slicked the grounds red with the blood of both sides. The great heroes of that time battled: Corat, the Outlander King; Thewan Lorel, the greatest swordmaster; Korielle Alurran, the beautiful warrior princess of the Steppes, and many more. These fought and died with the most vile and horrific warlords of the Wilds."
Nyori could easily picture the surrounding terrain crawling with clashing armies. In her mind's eye she saw flying creatures like the Dhamphir darken the sky as twisted, bestial creatures snarled and roared as they fought and died in battle.
"But Talan did win, did he not? All the stories say the Dawnrider slew Anko and was taken by the Aelon to heal his grievous wounds."
Marcellus frowned as he stared at the foreboding silhouette. "Stories change over the years. I have learned from the ancient verses of the minstrels that none are sure what became of Talan or Anko, or whether anyone truly won that day. Some accounts say that as their men died by the thousands, the two enemies became enveloped by lightning that seared both armies and killed more than the war had. When it stopped, both foes had vanished and most of their men lay dead. Others say that Stygan the Dreadlord slew them both and stole their power for himself.
"What is known for true is that Khelios became cursed that day, soiled by blood and madness. A corruption spread even to the grounds we walk on, so that naught but the meanest of life sprouts from this soil, this land that became fit only for the ravens and every sort of foul being, be it man or beast. To this day no man will pass within leagues of it, for fear that its shadow will snatch him from this world into a realm of eternal suffering. There lies the monument of the greatest of the lords of men and the last of the Elious. All that remains is the Spire, the marker for all who died that day."
Nyori shivered and turned away from the distant silhouette that pointed accusingly toward the heavens like a broken finger. "Is there nothing of good in this place?"
Marcellus shook his head. "I forget myself, sharing tales of woe. They are just stories, legends told in place of forgotten history. Who knows what the truth behind the myth really is? Think of the lands ahead, still green in spite of autumn, which we will come upon soon."
Nyori recalled Ayna's words. The legends of Aelon and their hybrid children, the Elious. Stygan the Dreadlord, Talan the Dawnrider–they are all more fact than fable.
When they stopped to rest, Marcellus went ahead a few paces as usual to scan the terrain. Nyori followed, gazing at the murky evening canvas where the stars shimmered like the ceiling of Everfell. Fireflies winked from the grasses as though the stars drifted from the sky to dance around them.
Nyori was so engrossed that she almost didn't notice Marcellus doubled over, clutching his side.
"You're bleeding!"
His eyes widened slightly before he regained c
omposure and straightened immediately. "The exertion has bothered my wounds, is all." His teeth clenched, a subtle effort to withstand the pain. "If this place were not so dead, I might have found the herbs I need to treat it. I must bear it for now. Do not worry, Shama Nyori. I've survived much worse."
She supposed the turning of the corners of his mouth was his attempt at a smile, but she knew better. When he spoke again, it was with the same quiet strength he always had.
"We should move out."
Nyori felt a stab of guilt. She could have aided him days ago, but she was more concerned for her own safety. She grabbed hold of his arm. "I am a Shama. Let me help you."
Marcellus paused before nodding. "Very well, Shama."
"I am not as skilled as some, though my mentor says I have great potential. I cannot direct the probes without laying hands on you."
"I never shy from a woman's touch, milady." His eyes crinkled in amusement.
Her face reddened. "Take off your shirt."
When he removed it, she gasped at the ragged bandages covering what appeared to be grievous injuries. Just looking at them made her wince.
"How can you even stand?"
His face may as well have been stone. Only his eyes betrayed the pain that he held so tightly within. "It was either live with the pain or lie down and die."
"You should have said something." Her whisper was fierce as she placed her hands on his chest and abdomen. He felt warm and hard as stone. The aura of infection dizzied her, but she fought against it. She Shifted to her Inner mind and focused on Vitalis, the Discipline used to heal.
The alignment of his khara became visible. Normally the whorls of life-sustaining energy glowed golden with health. In Marcellus they flickered a sickly yellow color, overtaxed by exertion and the battle to keep him alive. Yet with the proper stimulus, they could be restored. She linked to him and pulled strongly with Eler, the energy of life.
Her breath left her lungs as though she had been struck, black specks danced across her vision, causing her to stagger dizzily.
"Nyori?" She heard his voice as though he were at a distance. She had fallen against him; he held her upright in his arms.
"It's all right." Nyori's voice was faint. She was grateful that Mistress Ayna was not there to stare at her in disbelief. To heal properly, the Shama anchored to whatever life was nearby–plants, animals, even other people–and gently siphoned from it. Using that clean energy, she would restore the damaged khara and accelerate the healing process. In her haste, Nyori had forgotten to draw from the living energy around them and had only drawn from herself.
"I did not perform the healing as I should have. It has weakened me but a little. I will be fine." She became suddenly aware of his strong arms around her and stepped away, her face reddening. "And so will you."
Marcellus removed the bloodstained bandages. The skin underneath was unbroken, only a few faded scars remained. The lash on his cheek was just a pale white line. His body was still lean, but lined with muscle instead of sheer fatigue as before. His eyes widened. "Your skills are truly wondrous, Shama."
Nyori felt her cheeks flush. "Many would call what I did witchcraft."
He smiled. It was almost strange to see on a face that had hardened in sorrow. "I have learned that we often curse what we do not understand. I have seen too much to question the gift of healing. Have you ever stared into the eyes of a dragon, milady?"
Nyori laughed. "Of course not! Dragons are just stories that..." Her voice trailed off at Marcellus' expression. "Wait, have you—?"
"Would you believe me if I told you that I have?" His eyebrows rose expectantly.
"Well, I—"
He cut her off with a gentle laugh. "Just say that I am not so ignorant of the world. This is not the first time I have experienced the services of the Sha. You have my thanks, milady."
She dropped a mocking curtsy. "It is nothing, milord."
Marcellus laughed. It was a joyous sound that echoed around them. "Are you suggesting that I'm too formal?"
Nyori smiled. "There are only two of us here, Marcellus. Surely you know me well enough to call me by name."
"Very well. Nyori." He grinned again as he strode away to fetch the grunnien.
They continued in the azure twilight, away from the forbidding Dragonspine and the troubles they left in those treacherous peaks. Nyori noticed the sound of crickets and the soft cooing of brush birds that had not yet turned in for the night. The grass under her feet seemed to have a little more life, and the air seemed less oppressive despite its chill. They were entering the Great Steppes, leaving the Barrens behind them.
So why is the menace only growing stronger?
She stopped. "Wait."
"What is it?"
Nyori did not answer. Marcellus tensed; his eyes flicked across the terrain.
"Someone comes." Nyori leaned over to look past him. Silhouetted against the darkness, a man staggered toward them.
Marcellus placed his hand on his sword hilt and loosened it in the scabbard. "Stay here." The wind tugged his dark cloak as he approached the stranger, who stopped and waved a hand.
"Deis be praised!" His voice was ragged and hoarse. "I thought I saw other souls in the wretched place, but I was sure it was a fever dream." He staggered toward Marcellus but stopped cold when greeted by naked steel. The stranger stopped in his tracks and threw up both hands.
"Please. I don't mean any harm. I'm just lost and saw you from a distance."
Nyori saw his face more clearly. The man was old and pitiable; his face dry and wrinkled as old discarded leather. He hunched his shoulders, looking birdlike with his lanky limbs and long, beaklike nose.
Marcellus kept the sword level at the man's chest. "How is it that you have come to be where the bravest men avoid and no town or village resides? Speak quickly, or I swear I will strike you where you stand."
Nyori's heart pounded as she stared. She was sure Marcellus would do exactly as he claimed. His voice was no longer gentle as it had been only moments earlier. It grated like a whetstone on a blade when he addressed the stranger. She recalled the look in his eyes when he slew the Bruallians. He was not just a comforting protector. He was a man of swift and sudden violence as well, something she had allowed herself to forget.
"I was a prisoner." The man cautiously eyed the blade. "I make my living as a meister, entertaining the good people of the villages west of here, on the border of Runet." His voice suddenly grew livelier. "I juggle, eat fire, perform magic, and tell the best and greatest of stories. I—"
"I have no interest in stories," Marcellus said. "Other than how you came to be out here."
"Ah, yes. Of course." The man kept his eyes on the sword only inches from his heart. "My name is Murdon Abchanchu. I was between villages when a band of marauders from Bruallia swept through and captured me along with others from the nearby villages. The dogs in Aracville and Bruallia do this from time to time, run raids along the border."
He paused to spit. "But it was not my destiny to die as a slave. Two nights ago we were crossing the Dragonspine when we stopped to rest. I awoke to the sound of screaming. The shadows had come alive with wings, glittering eyes, and fangs that ripped open a man's throat like a dog does a rabbit. How many there were I could not guess, but in no time the marauders turned from warriors to bloodless corpses.
"One of the prisoners liberated the keys from a slain guard, and we freed ourselves, running into the wild with the fiends above us in hot pursuit. When they closed down on us, I knew my luck had ended. But it was my companion they snagged, lifting him away as his screams rang in my ears."
The old man sighed heavily. "I have been lost since then, with naught to eat but insects and the dew off of plants to sip. Just spare me a crust of bread and a few drops of water, point me in the direction of the nearest civilized place, and I will burden you no more."
Nyori took a good look at Murdon. His graying hair was long and unkempt, his clothes ragged and filthy. He lo
oked like a man who had been taken prisoner, as he said.
Finally, Marcellus sheathed his sword. "I apologize, friend. Times are strange, and evil things indeed stalk the night of this place. You must be famished. Sit, please. We do not have much, but what we have we will gladly share." He gestured to Nyori. "Come, welcome our guest."
Murdon's eyes seemed to flash metallic in the dying light as he turned his attention to Nyori. "Here in this wilderness flowers still bloom, I see." His voice was rich and soothing. She felt foolish as she stammered her introduction, though she could not say why. He was just an old man, after all. She smiled as Murdon took her hand. His grip was surprisingly strong, and his nails long and clean.
Marcellus stood close and placed his hands on Nyori's shoulders. "I am Perris, from Eloren. This Shama is under my protection. I too have escaped the bonds of imprisonment, and head to Runet. Let us sit as friends and share a meal."
Nyori realized that Marcellus still did not trust the man at all. The omitting of his true name and destination confirmed that. There was something too about how he said the word protection. It was as if he were sending a message. She wished she could tell him Murdon was harmless. But men were like animals sometimes, growling and bristling at one another. She squeezed his Marcellus' hand, but he ignored her, giving Murdon a fixed stare as the man settled down and leaned back against a stack of ancient rock.
"Amazing," Murdon said, "to think that the ancient city of Riallo once stood proudly right here where we sit. A grand city of dazzling spires and towers. Built by men apprenticed to the Aelon, so it was a marvel indeed. Right now we sit in what was the Grand Hall of the main palace, where the last king, Vali Ermadon made his decision to war alone against the power of Stygan the Dreadlord, an act that plunged his kingdom to its doom. Now all that remains is this rubble." He ran his hand along the aged stone.
"Not many even remember that Riallo existed, but I know. No tale is unknown to me. I can tell you stories of ancient legend and lore as though I was a witness. Tales of Talan and the fall of the Elious. Tales of the dawn of men, and the first contact with the Aelon. I can tell you stories of young Endran Lucretius, the lion that roared in Kaerleon, and the adventures of his legendary knights. From the heroes of the Wine Wars to the Norlanders and their clashes with the giant Jonarr of Glacia, I know them all. I shall tell you of whatever you desire if you wish."
The Eye of Everfell Page 19
