All right, Krin. Time to get serious.
With that, he broke into a sprint, his eyes locked on its target as he crossed the chamber; his right arm stretched out toward the talisman. He was so focused, in fact, that he failed to see the last free draugr—a tall, reptilian-looking humanoid—barreling towards him from his periphery. The reptile slammed into him, throwing him to the floor with a crash; its three-inch long jagged fangs retracting to snap at Krin’s face as they fell. He pushed against the draugr with his legs, but couldn’t get the leverage needed to kick the creature off. Instead, he swung his sword at its head, but it was easily deflected with a sweep of the reptilian hand.
“Krin!” Finleara shouted from a distance. Though the sound carried well, despite the cacophony around them, her voice sounded weak. Hollow. Fading fast. “Do something!”
The reptilian draugr’s jaw unhinged to an impossible gape; its one remaining eye—milky white with death—blinked, as it dipped its head toward Krin’s face. Krin twisted under the creature’s grasp, rolled to his right, and tossed the draugr off just before its venom-tipped fangs could clamp down on his throat. Instantly, Krin leapt to his feet, raised his sword, and brought it down on the prostrate monster’s neck. Its mummified head popped from its shoulder like a grape seed, but there was no spray of blood from the mortal wound; only a river of loose, flowing sand poured from the incised neck.
Krin looked down at his latest kill, roaring with victory. His outburst did not go unnoticed. The two draugr, that still had Finleara pinned to the ground, turned their undead gazes in his direction. The hag, still siphoning the will from Finleara, seemed unfazed, and unconcerned. Her draugr warriors released their grip on the elf, hefted their weapons, and began shambling as fast as their decrepit bodies were able toward Krin.
Ignoring the approaching undead, Krin focused once more on the Maera-Wif, only a few steps away, but the whirling maelstrom had increased to the point where he was nearly blinded by the flying debris dotted with agonized faces. Finleara’s life was at stake, which meant their mission was, as well. He pressed on.
Leaning into the wind, he was struck by the sudden realization that it was not only the mission that drove him to rescue the girl. Something else. Something foreign. A twinge of desperation that pricked at his brain with the thought of suddenly losing the abrasive, if not outright brutal, young woman who had shown little more than contempt for him since he had known her.
He exerted even more effort, sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him; his right hand outstretched to grab the mystical artifact the moment he reached the witch. But it wasn’t to be. Just as he was within an arm's length of reaching her, something slammed into him, throwing him sideways. His shoulder smashed into the stone floor, and he rolled head over heels with the momentum. When he finally managed to right himself, the two dwarven draugr threw themselves on top of him.
Their stench—a powerful mixture of sewage, sweat, mildew, and death—nearly ruined him as they pulled in for the kill. Their decaying flesh sloughed off against his face, and mouth, further exacerbating his overwhelming revulsion, twisting his gut inside out. But the threat to Finleara’s life, strengthened his resolve.
The draugr, pawed at his armor, and tore into Krin’s bare arms with clawed fingertips. The creature who gripped his wrist, attempted to bite down with broken shards of rotten teeth, but Krin managed to tear it free just in time.
Struggling to keep his assailants at bay, and tormented by the searing incisions to his flesh by long-dead fingernails, he glanced around the room in a desperate search for the Maera-Wif. He knew he had to get to her before she completed her ritual. Before she siphoned all the energy from Finleara’s will. Fortunately, the whirlwind slackened momentarily as it whipped through the chamber, and he managed a quick glimpse of their adversary.
She’s just too far away. “Ow!” He slammed his fist into the cranium of the draugr that had just sunk its teeth into forearm. “Knock it off!” The sudden pain brought a new surge of energy, and Krin bucked, twisting his hips in mid-air to dislodge the filthy creatures. But it was useless. They had latched onto him with skeletal arms, and would not let go so easily.
When he glanced at the hag again, an idea hit him. As best he could, he ignored the draugr, and the pain they were inflicting on him. Krin closed his eyes, and relaxed. He breathed in deeply, nearly gagging again because of the miasmic cloud of putrid odor surrounding him. After a small coughing fit, he rallied himself once more, regaining his composure, and focused. Focused on Wyndter. Focused on rifting…on moving to the Maera-Wif. Focused on doing whatever was necessary to save Leara.
Within seconds, there was an abrupt change in the wind. A frigid gust blew heavily against his face; invigorating him. He felt his breath congealing into a fine crystalline mist as he breathed. Could see the twinkle of ice crystals forming along the ridge of his nose. The draugr, themselves, had even seemed to slow; their limbs becoming rigid with the suddenly chilled air.
Biting back a quick stab of pain in his leg from another bite, Krin grinned at his assailants. “See ya!” He blinked, reached for the Maera-Wif, and…didn’t move a single inch. The two draugr stared at him blankly, the drool hanging from their crusted lips were little more than dangling icicles.
“Blast!” he shouted, elbowing one of the draugr across the jaw in his frustration. Surprisingly, the creature merely toppled over onto its side, unmoving. Confused, he glanced at the other assailant. Its empty eye sockets stared off into space, no longer paying Krin any attention. Its grip on him now eased, Krin wriggled his legs out from under the creature, and waited for its renewed attack. But it never came.
A shriek of rage and anguish shook the very foundation of the cairn, wrenching Krin’s attention away from the frozen tableau. He looked toward the sound to find the Maera-Wif, writhing in agony on the floor, when the shriek ended, she pulled herself up on unsteady legs. She turned to glare at Krin, hissed an undecipherable curse, then shambled off of the dais, and into the pulsating Rifting Stone. With a hiss and a pop, the portal closed. Stillness abounded through cairn.
For several long moments, Krin stared slack-jawed at the now dormant Stone, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
“How…how did you do that?” Finleara asked from behind him, voicing his own thoughts.
He spun around to see she was struggling to pick herself off the floor. She seemed weakened, yet determined. It was only then that Krin realized the wind had completely ceased. The incessant chanting had stopped as well. He visually searched the chamber, looking for any clue as to why the ghastly creature had fled when she was so close to beating them.
“You beat her?” Krin asked Finleara. “But how?”
“I had nothing to do with it,” she said, bending down, and scooping up her sword. She then nodded toward Krin’s right hand. “You did.”
He looked down, and a ripple of surprised shock shot down his spine. He was gripping the dodecahedron with ice cold finger tips. As if it had scalded him, he dropped the object to the floor with a clatter.
“How did I get that?” He glared at Finleara. “I couldn’t even get near her! How did it get in my hand?”
The elven female cocked her head. “You do not know?”
“All I know is that I tried to rift over to her. I was reaching for it with my hand, but just when I thought I had done it, the rift fizzled out.”
There was a pause, then Finleara burst out with a deep-throated laugh. “Oh, but the grace of saints and fools!” she giggled. It was a nice sound. A warm, inviting musical sound, and Krin suddenly found himself wishing he could hear it more often. “You honestly do not know what you have done, do you?”
Krin tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as the draugr bones now littering the floor. All he could muster in response was a half-hearted shake of his head.
“I saw it with my own eyes, yet I hardly believe it myself,” she said, wiping away a small trickle of blood pouring past her brow, an
d blowing back a strand of silver-white hair from her eyes. “Your hand, Master Krin. Your hand suddenly materialized out of nowhere. It latched onto the dodecahedron, and then disappeared with it.”
He stared stupidly at her, his brow furrowing into a scrunched mess.
“Krin, you actually reached into Wyndter with your hand, rifted it to the Maera-Wif, and removed the talisman without so much as taking a single step!” She whirled around the dais, kicking the crumbling remains of the hag’s golden casket, and laughed. “It is the most impressive display of rifting ever performed, and you did so, completely by chance!”
Her laughter echoed throughout the chamber, increasing in volume. Krin suddenly discovered it not quite as appealing as before. He couldn't escape the feeling that the melodic, even angelic, laughter was solely at his expense, and found himself increasingly uncomfortable with it.
“It-it’s not that funny,” he said with a bite of irritation. “I’m still learning how to do this stuff. You’ve had years to perfect your rifting skills. I’m only starting out.” He thought a moment longer, then added with a half-hearted smile, “Besides, if you think it about it, it is really kind of amazing.”
“That is just it, Master Krin. It was amazing. I think you misunderstood my exhilaration.” Krin crouched down. He could feel Finleara’s eyes on his as he picked up the dodecahedron, and held it up to his eye for a better look. “As far as I know, it is a feat never accomplished before. The ability to rift only a portion of one’s body, grab an object…it is…it is nothing short of a miracle! And it could also be precisely what we need to retrieve the Crown without having to step foot within the Tower.”
Krin looked up from the artifact, and eyed her. “Huh?”
“Do you not see? If we can get you close enough to the Tower, you might be able to simply reach in, and take it. The dangers that lurk within—the N’ahk, the mind-warping fluctuations between the Worlds—you could bypass them altogether. All you would have to do is extend your arm, and take what you wanted.”
“But it was an accident.” Krin nervously passed the dodecahedron back and forth between his hands. “I don’t even know how I did it.”
“You might want to put that down.” Finleara nodded to the artifact. “I am not certain what would happen if you were to drop it.” She waited as he carefully tucked it away into his pack, then continued. “As to whether you can rift your arm to the Crown, we will just have to see what happens when we get there, then adapt our strategy accordingly. Now, we should keep moving.” She then pointed to the doorway across the room, and began walking in that direction.
Krin watched as she stalked away; admiring the way the vine-like tattoos etched into her skin, swayed as she moved. When she was no longer visible, he sighed, readjusted his cloak, and followed without noticing the gentle, but ominous hum radiating from inside his pack.
FORTY
Tower of Santhelion
The rest of the journey through the cairn proved uneventful. Krin had questioned Finleara about the Maera-Wif, but she was characteristically tight-lipped on the subject. All she would say was that the Nightmare Lady was the Mother of all dark elves, the granddaughter of the Winterking, and a vile creature that should never be underestimated. Apparently, she was a witch, who used nightmares and waking dreams of an individual’s worst fears to feed on the will of victims. Preferring children, she was known to literal syphon their souls from their bodies, and leave them as little more than empty husks. The dodecahedron, she explained, was the vessel in which the witch would store her food. An energy source that provided her with a near immortal existence as long as she could fill it with fresh souls. When asked about her own relationship with the Maera-Wif, Finleara grew silent, refusing to elaborate, then insisted they continue the rest of the journey in silence.
Within an hour of leaving the Maera-Wif’s draugr chamber, they came to an old wooden ladder leading up into a solid marble ceiling.
“I believe we are here,” Finleara said, taking hold of the first rung. “Stay here. I will take a look to ensure it is safe.”
She ascended the ladder until she reached the hatch cut into the marble, and began running her fingers around the frame. An instant or two later, there was a clink of metal. She let out a satisfied sigh before pushing the hatch’s door open. She glanced down at Krin, and gestured for him to remain silent. Then, she poked her head up past the opening, and glanced around. “It appears to be safe for the moment,” she said, climbing the rest of the way into the chamber above, before peering down at him. “Come on up.”
Taking a nervous breath, he grabbed to the ladder, and slowly made his way up, then pulled himself through the hatch. He stood, dusting himself off, and took in his new surroundings. There wasn’t much to see. They were apparently inside the Tower—more than likely, inside a round foyer of some kind. A great oak door, barred from the inside, adorned the southernmost section of the round wall. A cold, ash-filled fire place was cut into the northeast side of the curved room, but looked as though it had not been used in years. The walls and floor were made of ordinary gray stones, and a rust-eaten spiral staircase ascended far above them. Besides that, there was nothing else. No furnishings. No tapestries. Nothing.
“Well this is kind of anticlimactic,” Krin said with a scowl.
“What would you prefer?” Finleara meticulously scanned the chamber; her sword readied in her right hand. “To be greeted by the nightmarish beast said to haunt this place?”
“Well, no. That would just be silly.” He strode over to the staircase, gripped the railing, and gave it a good shake to test its strength. It rattled, and growled under its own weight, showering his head and shoulders with flakes of rust, dust, and unidentifiable debris. “I just expected…well, something more.” He spun around. “As a matter of fact, I expected something…a bit bigger. Are you sure we’re in the Tower of Santhelion? When we were flying by, the place looked immense. This place isn’t even twenty paces in diameter. Hardly big enough to support something as massive as the tower looked.”
Finleara graced him with a nod. “An astute observation, Master Krin. But you will discover that the N’ahk’s lair is no ordinary domicile. It is guarded by the highest magicks. It shifts from one reality to another, constantly. There is much more to this place than our own eyes can detect.”
“Yeah, but…”
“WICKEDLY…”
“Huh? What did you just say?” Krin asked.
“I said, this place phases in and out of…”
“No, no, no. I heard that. I thought you said something else, but in a deeper, raspier voice.”
The elf eyed him incredulously.
“I’m serious! Sounded like you said ‘Wickedly’.”
“SICKEDLY…”
But Krin had been looking at her at the time, and the smirk on her lips hadn’t moved a bit. He realized the voice had been very different than anything the elven warrior could have uttered. It had the sibilant quality of a viper. Half speaking. Half hissing.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
“Hear what?” She shook her head. “Look, Master Krin, I believe it is time we get on with our mission. Step into the center of the room, just to the right of the trap door, and I will try to guide you in our attempt to rift the Crown to us.
“LICKETY-SPLIT!”
“There!” he shouted. “You have to have heard that!” He spun around, trying to identify the source of the hissing voice, but could see nothing but concern on Finleara’s face.
“Your nerves are on edge,” she said. “You must calm yourself in order for this to work. Portals can only be opened in a state of perfect calm.”
“Calm? Calm! How in blazes am I supposed to be calm when…”
Suddenly, it sounded like a cork popped from a wine bottle, a brilliant flash of light, and he found himself standing alone in a lavishly furnished foyer, almost identical to the one he had been standing in just an instant before. A warm, friendly fire blazed in the fireplac
e casting shadows across the thick, animal-skin rug laying in the center of the stone floor. A book case rested against the wall to his right, with a desk and two chairs of the finest wood Krin had ever seen in front of it.
Curious, he blew out a single breath. He saw no cloud of frigid air in its wake. He glanced around the floor. No sign of frost or ice either. However he had gotten to this place, he hadn’t rifted there on his own. The rift had not been through Wyndter.
“KRIN-GLAL AND THE N’AHK…”
The strange hissing voice echoed all around him. It was louder now. Stronger. Gooseflesh rippled down Krin’s arms at the sound of it.
“THEY TALK. AND THEY SIT.”
“Who’s there?” Krin shouted, reaching for the sword on his belt. But Glalbrirer had disappeared. “What do you want? What did you do with Leara?”
“Yana Nissi,” came a choir of slithering voices. It was distinctly multiple voices speaking at once, yet the tone, pitch…the very sound of the words…all seemed to come from one source simultaneously; which seemed to have originated directly behind Kin’s right ear. He spun around, instinctively throwing a punch in that direction. But the space was empty.
“What do you want from me?”
“What do you want from me?” the voice mimicked.
Irritated, Krin stood up straight, straightened his tunic, and jutted out his chin in grim defiance. “You don’t scare me, monster!”
“You don’t scare me, monster!”
Slowly, Krin turned, scrutinizing the room. He assumed the voice was coming from the N’ahk. He had to still be within the Tower, only a different version than he had originally entered. A glance at the gleaming silver-toned staircase—rust free, and as sturdy as if it had been built just yesterday—seemed to corroborate his theory. He was indeed in the same foyer as the one he had entered. Only, vastly different.
And the N’ahk was in there with him. Toying with him. Playing some wild mind game. Krin had neither the support of Finleara, nor the security of his father’s sword for defense. For the first time in his life, he felt utterly alone. Helpless.
The Legend of the Winterking: The Crown of Nandur Page 30
