by Jesse Teller
He made his way through the sad garden toward the church in the center. The time had come for him to pay his respects and warn the Keepers. The church of Dervo towered in the center of the garden in two stone domes peppered with small holes. Rayph reached the causeway and stopped, stepping to the grass to bow his head and wait.
A low, monotonous sound filled the air, a droning of some low buzz that chilled Rayph’s blood. He knew better than to cast a spell of protection on himself, but the urge would not leave him be. The sound grew in power until he could hear it just above him. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought to calm his breathing.
The air filled with bees, and he kept his head bowed and waited. Soon the bees coalesced, vibrating on some high frequency, before they solidified and the shape took on the legs of a human. Rayph kept his head bowed until he was addressed.
“Please, Ivoryfist, arise. It has been too long, dear friend.”
Rayph stood, lifting his head to see the gentle face of a graying human woman. Her eyes were crowded with laugh lines she had not had the last time he paid her a visit. The years had come to claim Gaydle, but they were being kind about it.
“Please tell me you will stay,” she said.
“I will for a small moment. Dire business has brought me to your hive this season. I need to prepare you for the coming storm.”
“Julius Kriss has come to darken Song’s festival,” Gaydle said calmly. Rayph’s eyes widened as his respect for the priestess grew.
“How has this information come to you?” he asked.
“I felt the one close to him when she entered my domain.”
“Slinter?”
“Yes, Slinter Kriss, wife of Julius. Her foul flesh haunts these city walls. I know not where, but I felt her as she arrived.”
Rayph’s gut bunched, and he shook his head. “I had hoped his wife would have remained in Hell with his tower.”
“No, the demoness bride has come. She has reached her foul hand into our fair city and taken many souls into her torment.”
“She has possessed many?” he asked. His clawing fear climbed his back, settling into his spine.
“Julius has about him an army of the innocent. Slinter wields them to deadly efficiency.” Gaydle looked at him and touched his cheek. “Say you will not harm them. Those she has claimed have done no wrong. They are good people, for the most part. They must be brought back into the fold.”
“They will try to kill my allies and me,” Rayph said.
“Who have you brought with you?” she asked.
“Smear Kond stands beside me, and others are within reach, should things get nasty.”
“When have Slinter and Julius not been nasty?” Gaydle asked.
“They have come for Phomax, Gaydle. I mustn’t let them have him.”
“The one who exiled himself from his home and abandoned his post now fights to save the man he wishes dead.” She took Rayph’s hand and led him into the garden, down paths of perfectly laid stone depicting the flowers around them in bloom. “You are at unrest, at war within yourself for something. What haunts Rayph Ivoryfist?”
His burdens slipping from his shoulders, he nodded. “I am no closer to completing my quest than I was seven thousand years ago, Gaydle. He still languishes within the dagger. He still waits for me to free him, and I would do it were it my own life that was needed. But my mind cannot puzzle this problem out. So he waits as he has for countless generations, and every day he loses a little more of his sanity.”
“The curse of the brothers is one of the great tragedies of this or any time. Scattered to the world they are, every one of them in the hands of a villain, save Fannalis. Many say they cannot be restored.”
“I can’t allow myself to think that, Gaydle. I cannot let that be true.”
“You wish to go home.”
“I do, with all my heart. Glimmer still stands as leader of the Ivory Arm. I know he waits for me to take over leadership before he retires.”
“So why won’t you?” she said. “Put down this burden. Hand it to another, and seek the land you call home and the post you denied.”
A whipping of wind ripped through the garden, tossing the branches of the orchard violently.
“Settle him, or I must,” she said gravely.
Rayph gripped the dagger and vicious barbs sprang from the handle, skewering his hand. “Fannalis, stop. You must control yourself.” Blood trickled through Rayph’s grip, and he cursed as the thorns of the dagger chewed into his palm. The turmoil of his friend churned around him. Gaydle closed her eyes, beginning her prayer, as the wind in the garden grew more violent. Rayph knew the wrath of the followers of Dervo. She could cause great harm to his friend. He closed his eyes and willed himself within.
The Churning Wizard
Rayph felt the garden leave, the power of the dagger binding him. Fannalis screamed in rage, and the world within the dagger boiled and shrieked. Bonds wrapped around Rayph, pulling his arms in tight and his legs closed. He lifted into the air and felt the helplessness of his situation.
“Come out and face me, Fannalis! This cowardice is not becoming.” The air filled with smoke, and Rayph coughed. The smoke seethed, rolling like tossing waves before coalescing and forming the screaming face of his friend. The thorns that grew from his bones bled as he raged. Pity gripped Rayph’s heart, and he shook his head.
“I am not leaving you, old friend. Her advice has fallen on deaf ears.” The darkness engulfing them tolled like a leaden bell, and Rayph winced. The sound continued until Fannalis drew back within his smoke and shadows. “Let me loose,” Rayph said, after the ringing subsided and Fannalis’s whimpers filled the prison. Rayph lowered to the ground, and he crept to his friend’s side, his hands held out wide in disarming fashion.
Fannalis trembled violently. His sobs, roving the air around him, echoed back his despair. Rayph took a knee and unwound Fannalis’s arms from hugging tight to his own body. He pulled Fannalis to his feet and waited for the wizard’s gaze to lift from the ground.
“Stop this tantrum at once,” Rayph said gently. “It is groundless. I am not returning to my home. I will not take up my crystal sword. I will not pick up my training once more. I gave you my word ten thousand years ago, and I will not besmirch it. Until I can free you from this hell, I will remain a citizen of Lorinth. My devotion is to you.”
Fannalis looked up at Rayph, his wounded eyes peering out from a torn face. The thorns that protruded from his flesh spiraled on his face, making a riddle of his features. Rayph tried again to comprehend the pain of bones growing barbs and found it impossible.
“Have you found my brothers yet?” Fannalis said.
“I found Betamus. His great sword resides within the hands of Burke Dreadnaught to the northeast. I have sent missives to him, but have received no word. I believe Harloc suffers in Hell. His long sword is not on this plane or any other I can find. As for the others, there is no sign.”
Fannalis nodded. Rayph took his hands, feeling the agony of the barbs as Fannalis closed his fist around Rayph’s. “You are my priority. Our fates are intertwined until you are free.”
Fannalis looked up with hardening eyes and nodded. Rayph wondered at the limits of his friend’s sanity, and just what he would be freeing should he achieve his goal.
The Guardian
Gaydle flicked water in Rayph’s face until he awoke with a start. He lay on the ground, his head throbbing painfully. He winced and rubbed it, feeling a knot.
“You hit your head hard when you went down. I thought I was going to have to take you to a healer,” she said.
“I am fine, Keeper. Please, just help me to my feet.” She jerked him up, and he smiled. “Thank you.”
“Now what can I do for you, Ivoryfist? You came to talk of Julius, but that is not all. You came to warn me, true, but you must have figured I would know already of the darkness gathering over the festival. So tell me, wizard, why are you really here?”
Rayph nodded, rub
bing his head again, and he smiled. “I did want to visit with you as well,” he said.
“Yes, but you are busy protecting your enemies, so visiting is low on your list. Yet you came here first. What do you need?”
“I must ask for permission to enter your greenhouse,” he said. The gravity of what he was asking ashamed him, but there was no way around it. Entering the sacred greenhouse of the goddess of nature was a favor arrogant to beg, but Rayph saw no other way. The church was the only answer to his problem.
“I will not ask why, but I will tell you that you may take no plant from Dervo’s greenhouse.”
“I know that, Sister, I would not even think to ask for such a thing. But I need to speak to a creature, and this is the only way.”
“You wish to communicate with a fey?”
Rayph smiled at the cleverness of his dear friend. “Of course you are right. I need to speak to a prince. Can you help me?”
Minutes later, Rayph found himself in the greenhouse, standing before a budding mandrake bloom. He cast his spell gently, careful with the old powers of magic here in this natural place. The flowering bloom spasmed once and again before opening wider than possible and producing a small figure.
He wore greens and golds in light, loose fabrics that spoke of a life of leisure. His hair was a shock of white erupting from his head to hang low in his eyes. His lean face was terrifying as a wolf, with eyes just as intense and powerful. His body shimmered with a hard coating like the exoskeleton of some insect. His dragonfly wings hummed as he hovered. He smiled and extended his arms, clapping them loudly in exclamation.
“Ivoryfist, it has been too long. How does the life of a nomad treat you?”
Rayph laughed and shook his head. “Not great.”
“Bored?”
“Very not bored. I wish I could take the time to catch up, but I am pressed for time. I need to tell you something of great import.”
Gentry Mandrake’s face grew dangerous and serious.
“Thomas is in danger, and he needs a level of protection I cannot give him.”
“I am on my way.”
The Demons of Medey
As Rayph sat at his corner table in the Rain Barrel, poring over a map, the beginnings of a rumble rolled from the streets outside. He looked up. Trysliana’s eyes met his gaze with a puzzling look as she served a mug of ale across the room. The din grew until screams of terror rattled down the streets. With a wave of Rayph’s hand, the map vanished. He leapt to his feet and rushed for the door.
Trysliana dropped her tray and ran for the kitchen. She did not seem scared as much as determined. Rayph threw open the door and exploded onto the streets. Citizens rushed past him, their faces bent in terrible lines of fear. He pushed his way out among them and up the side street off the main road. Chaos ripped through the city like a destructive vortex. Rayph uttered his spell and lifted into the air. He looked down, seeing the epicenter of the hubbub, and he flew for it.
With a brush of his fetish, he spoke to the only one of his crew who still walked the town. “Dissonance, do you hear that?”
“Can’t miss it. What is it?” A group of men stomped the streets with riders coming up behind them.
“Rally your brethren. Take to the streets. Just within the city walls, there is an army on the march.” Rayph sat down on the streets in front of the encroaching men and laughed. “Belay that,” Rayph said.
The men before him were some of the most horrible he had seen. They wore demonic masks of brass, bearing terrible fangs and twisted horned visages. They carried their darkened weapons in their hands, as they possessed nowhere else to put them. They wore no sheaths or straps to carry their weapons. These horrifying men wore jagged armor, spiked and bladed, blackened and painted with red accents. Rayph looked upon them and laughed. He looked up to the man riding imperiously behind the front line, and he smiled.
“Come for the festival? Wanted to see the flowers, did you?” Rayph said, holding back his hilarity poorly.
The man snarled a retort, and Rayph laughed again. The face of the commander of these nightmares had been tattooed with war paint of black. A red maw with the white fangs of some beast crowded around his features, as if he looked through the mouth of one of nature’s most fearsome creatures. His hair was stretched back in the high tail of battle. The spear he carried was black and wickedly barbed.
“Ivoryfist, what has brought you to the festival?”
“Oh no, warlord Medey, I asked you first. You have brought with you your legions of Demons.” Rayph motioned to the warriors before him. “And you don the armor you are known for. I cannot imagine you have come to the festival to witness the blooming of the flowers.” Rayph laughed just to think of it. “What in the name of the gods are you doing here, frightening the citizens and making a spectacle of yourself?”
Medey growled and shook his head in frustration. “I have been commanded here.” He looked furious enough to attack Rayph outright, though Rayph knew the anger was not for him.
“Phomax summoned you?” Rayph said.
“He did. He rides behind me with his Sterling Legions, his fanfare, and the wealth he is known to travel with. His bride and son sit beside him. He wished me to be his vanguard into the city, though I begged him to let me cloak my horde. He refused. Said he needed to send the city a message.” Medey shook his head and sneered.
Rayph felt nearly sick to his stomach.
“He rides behind me. I must push on,” Medey said.
“Come find me later. I need to talk to you,” Rayph said.
Medey nodded and kicked his mount. Panic lifted into the streets as the warlord moved on.
Judges and Fines
Konnon felt a kick of excitement when he approached the gates of Song. He closed his eyes and drew in the slightest scent of the air. With the death of the gardens, the strong scent of the Breath of Song was muted. But for the first time in 23 years, he would be in Song for the Festival of Blossoms.
Sadness, and a thread of joy, stitched into his heart as his mind traveled back to the last time he had been in this city at this time of year.
They had been no more than nine. Konnon was still not talking. When they took him in, he had not spoken for two years. Glyss’s father, the man who raised Konnon, had been very gentle and very patient. He had talked to the boy for long hours back in those days, hand feeding Konnon and laying with him in his bed, holding him tight in his arms as Konnon fought for sleep.
Glyss’s father, Brole Crillian, had taken them here for reasons Konnon had not understood. The man had packed his daughter, his son, and Konnon in a wagon with his considerable wealth and traveled weeks to be here.
“You need to see something beautiful, Konnon. You need to see something pure.” The words still rattled in Konnon’s mind and they broke his heart. How long had it been since he was welcome at Brole’s table? How long since he had felt the arms of the man who saved him from Hon, who saved him from the horror he had lived in?
Konnon remembered their second night in this city the most. It was a night he would never forget. Tiera had come to his room. She was much older than he was, already 12 when he was still nine.
She climbed into bed with him and he shuddered and pulled away. Her perfect, round face parted into a beautiful smile, and she crawled to him. He whimpered and mewled and fought to get away, but she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him tight to her body.
“Father cannot be here tonight. He cannot hold you and soothe you to sleep. He has asked me to come to you, has asked me to rock you to sleep. Konnon, can I hold you tonight?” she said.
Konnon studied her face. He looked at her hazel eyes and her thin lips, her round chin and her suddenly serious look, and he nodded.
Konnon opened his eyes and grunted. That was over now. He needed to put it away, needed to concentrate on what he was doing.
Chat’s replacement, Fale, led the caravan straight through the streets of Song, now buxom with visitors and celebrants, a
nd into the heart of the city to the market square. They took a side street that led to a narrow alley that butted right up to the back of the stores, and Fale dropped from his horse to pound on a thick squat door. The muted ramblings of the city beyond them faded away as the door flew open, screaming on its hinges. A large man with tanned skin, no shirt and covered in hair, stepped out of the store and stared at Fale. He extended his hand and Fale shook it.
The man looked at the young guard as if he had lost his mind. He shoved the hand away and snarled. “Manifest,” the man grunted.
Konnon did not like the way this was going at all.
Fale entered the carriage, riffling through a box the dead merchant had with him, until he found a leather-protected sheaf of paper. He handed it over and the man sneered at it for a while before he shook his head and walked the entire line of wagons. This must have been the man the merchant had spoken of, the master he served, Blike Terbem.
“Says seven wagons. I see six. Says a money wagon is supposed to be with this caravan. Where is it?” Blike asked. He looked angry and very sly.
Glyss kicked his stallion forward and looked down at the man. Since the Brothers of Blood camp, they had both been in a lake. They had washed the mud and blood out of their clothing and Glyss looked dapper and proper again. “We were attacked by bandits and the wagon was lost,” Glyss said.
Blike tossed back his black mop of hair and looked up at Glyss. “Who are you?”
“I am Glyss Crillian,” he said.
“Where is Homlin?”
“I can only imagine you are talking about the merchant who was traveling with us. He was killed in the bandit attack. He is wrapped and laid in the final wagon.”
Blike looked at Glyss with a cautious measured gaze. “Wrapped in what?”
