by Wayne Mee
Cynwulf became in that moment not a trusted friend who had fought valiantly at Thorn's side, but a symbol of foolish, arrogant pride! How dare this strutting Stoner believe himself better than he who carried the Black Blade?! It was an insult that Thorn could not endure! Leaping from his seat to the table, he had bellowed out a challenge. Shard pulsed evilly in the reflected firelight.
All eyes had turned his way, and though at first some thought it but a jest, Thorn's harsh, cutting words soon erased their smiles. Erin, dancing with a radiant Zoean, laughingly called for his little friend to either come and dance with the raven-haired princess or sit down and share some ale with him.
Thorn had sneered at him to go back to his royal slut.
Shocked silence had reigned after that, with even the dogs ceased their endless rooting for scraps. Erin, a frown creasing his flushed features, came forward and offered the wild-eyed Kirkwean his hand. The weapons-man from distant Loamin was spit upon by the small creature with the glittering black blade.
Delgi and Nim-Loth both began to shout at once. The hall erupted in a pandemonium of angry, startled shouts, and over it all Thorn grinned wildly, his blue eyes gone black with maniacal glee.
Zoean made to offer her hand and nearly lost it as Shard darted out at her like a poisonous snake. Several Delgii rushed the small Wee'n from behind but were forced to back away from the pulsing sword that slashed the air around them.
Then Timin was there, standing calmly before the table. His voice had the tone of an indulgent parent speaking to a naughty child. "Come, cousin. It's time for bed now."
Thorn looked down at his life-long friend with the eyes of a stranger. Shard came round seemingly on its own to point at the pudgy Kirkwean's throat.
"That's enough now, Thorn", Timin said in a low but firm voice. "You've had too much ale and not enough sleep. Give me the sword and let's be off to bed."
As he spoke, Timin slowly reached out. Thorn, sweat now pouring down his pale face, grinned like a demented gargoyle. "Withdraw your hand, filth --- or loose it!"
Erin gathered himself for a leap when a stern voice cried out. "Hold! Let none go near him, for tis not young Master Bramblethorn you see before you, but rather one face of the ever-changing Shadow!"
People gasped and backed away, for none doubted that in matters such as this, a wizard was needed far more that a warrior!
Mithdar approached slowly through the silent crowd. His stern eyes catching and holding Thorn's. His lips moving silently, the mage slowly reached out and touched Thorn's trembling shoulder. Instantly the small form stiffened, and from his throat came a tortured cry. Even as Thorn's feet gave way beneath him, Shard swept up for the killing blow. At the same time Timin, heedless of the pulsing black blade, Timin rushed in and caught his cousin just as he fainted. Shard, released from the unconscious hand, fell, piercing the wooden tabletop, where it quivered and pulsed in its own dying light.
Now, months later, with the last bitter winds of winter raging outside the door, Mithdar and Thorn sat in that very same hall. Thorn gazed into the flickering fire, lost in the dark well of his own thoughts. Mithdar, his silver brows furrowed, waited for his troubled friend to reach the surface.
"I --- I remember." Thorn's eyes, as they had on that seemingly long ago night, pleaded for something not even the learned mage could give.
"The next day," Mithdar said in a kindly voice; "when your wits had returned, you begged me to find a way to relieve you from your 'burden'. I could not then and I can not now. If you tried, even now, to give it to someone or even throw it away, you could not. IT would not LET you."
Thorn's tortured eyes closed and his shoulders slumped. "I know that, Mithdar --- for I have tried already --- and failed.
The old man placed a kindly hand on Thorn's hunched shoulders and continued, his tone somewhat lighter. "But take heart, for all is not yet lost. True, you no longer have the strength to put it aside, but you HAVE resisted it, Thorn! All through this bloody war you HAVE NOT succumbed to its dreadful lure!"
Mithdar leaned closer and took Thorn's hands. "Neither I nor Timin nor anyone can relieve you of it, for, like it or not, YOU are the 'Wanderer', the 'Swordbearer'. Your own Erg-Leath, Narya, saw that. SHE had faith in you and so do I! You are a Kirkwean, Thorn, a 'Wee'n'! Your people took the hated blade from Lucfelian ages ago and your people, of all the Free Races of Oma-Var, have best resisted the Shadow's ever-searching gaze, and, I now no longer doubt, are best able to resist his 'power'!"
Thorn's trembling hands clutched at the old wizard's. "But when will I be RID of it?! What must I DO to be able to cast it from me?!"
Mithdar squeezed the small hand and chanted softly:
"Beneath the stars, beneath the moon,
Beneath the heat of the sun.
No rest, no peace, no hearth nor home,
Till the Swordbearer's task be done."
Thorn attempted a laugh. It came out like a dry croak. "But what IS my 'task'? What must I DO to find rest and peace?!"
Mithdar sat up and fixed his furrowed brow on the small Kirkwean. "That, at least, my dear boy, is something that I DO know.You must kill Lucfelian --- and you must do it with Shard."
Outside a wolf howled at the rising moon. It was an eerie, lonely sound, full of an ancient emptiness --- yet it was nothing compared to the empty loneliness Thorn now felt in his heart.
***
Chapter 35:'HIGH GROUND'
The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Every labored breath sent liquid fire into his lungs. His hand, pressed to the stub of the Nim arrow still sprouting from his chest, came away sticky and wet. He had tried to pull the accursed shaft out, but it had apparently lodged in his breast bone. Every breath was like breathing liquid fire! He could not remember ever feeling such pain! He leaned back against the snow covered boulders and glanced around. The icy wind blew stinging flakes into his reddish eyes. Lucfelian's 'host-body' was dying. He would need another --- and soon!
The few Karns not killed in the ambush growled and sniffed the air; fear and rage, mingled with apprehension over what had happened to their 'master', showed in their flat, stupid faces. Of the dozen Balikie he had started out with, five remained alive and of these, only the swarthy Jalar, the manling's so-called leader, had not yet taken a wound. Skatha and Dwill were all that remained of his Nar-Graith.
The 'Shadow Lord' coughed up more blood and braced himself against another wave of pain. They had dogged him for days now; over the snow covered heights and down into the pine strewn valleys. Always close behind, always eager for the kill. And then, yesterday, they had caught up. Somehow they had gotten ahead of him and set their trap. The slaughter had been swift and sure, with only these few escaping.
Lucfelian pulled back the hood of his black robe, revealing the distorted features of the fever-wracked body he now inhabited. The wound in his chest burned with every breath.
At first it had been but a game, a perverse desire for amusement that had caused him not to flee from this fast decaying form. The thrill of using a blade again had been too tempting to deny. Even when the hated Stoners and Nim came close to capturing him the day before he had refused to leave the wreck of his 'host' body. But then the accursed Nim arrow had struck him. HIM! Who was 'beyond death'! Who cast off living shells like a moth casts off its cocoon!
But now something was wrong, terribly wrong.
Despite all his efforts, he could NOT leave this body! He was trapped in this decaying corpse! All the other times he had been able to escape before the pain began. Once, he had set his human hand afire and laughed as the flames licked their greedy way up his arm, for it was not HIS arm, but only that of the poor wretch he had 'possessed'. The searing pain from the flames he had held at bay, and, when they began to burn their way through his will, he had fled laughing, even as Skatha had severed the screaming head.
Not so now! Somehow the Nim arrow had hurt him, and more importantly, trapped him in this throbbing shroud of dying flesh!<
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His mind raced. It had been so long since he had felt real fear that it was almost a pleasure --- except for the pain! Then a thought came to him. Perhaps when this traitorous body died, THEN he would be free! It had been that way the FIRST time, ages ago on the Plain of Fangor. When his great sword Arack had broken and the filth known as Gerdolin the Fair had struck off his head, Lucfelian had been suddenly freed from his fleshy form and reborn in a state he had come to call 'The Shadow'! He had fled southward, blown by a cleansing wind. His followers had gathered up several pieces of the broken black sword and brought them to him. Reforged from the remains of his Blade of Power, 'Shard' had been created. Into its making went far more of himself and his physical powers than his broken blade had ever possessed, for he had become 'The Shadow Lord', and now scorned things material.
Yet as the centuries passed he began to long for that which he had lost, what had been STOLEN from him! Shapes and illusions he could take on, but they were only ghostly phantoms. Wraiths fresh from the grave and a howling black wolf he could 'appear' as, but those could only grip the heart with fear, not rend and tear it with fangs!
Then he had discovered that he could, for a short while at least, 'inhabit' the body of a living creature! It worked best if the creature was human and through long experimentation he found that one race in particular responded better than the rest --- the fledgling group called Man!
'Perhaps now,' his ageless mind reasoned; 'with the death of this pain-ridden body that imprisons me, I will be reborn once again!' Cruel laughter leaked out of his bleeding mouth. Then a worm of doubt crawled into his thoughts. 'But perhaps not! Perhaps with the death of the body my REAL life might also die!'
He needed time! Time to think! Time to plan! But even now he could sense them getting closer! Even now the hated 'others' were coming --- 'moving in for the kill'! Before he would have crushed them with his vast army, but something had gone terrible wrong there as well! His sprawling host of Karns and mercenaries had been beaten! Even most of his deathless Nar-Graith had been destroyed! Now all he had left was a Skatha, dimwitted Dwill, a few stupid Karns and a handful of craven Balikie! Hatred burned in his reddish eyes; hatred so strong that the pain from his wound was momentarily forgotten. His blood-encrusted lips formed a single word. It was a name; a name that had haunted him down through the ages: 'Mythdarian'!
He knew that the Old Fool was somehow responsible for what had happened! It was he who had brought the first rag-tag bunch through the Tarn to help the Stoners! He who had somehow caused Kar'im's death and Skatha's defeat at the causeway! It was his meddling that brought the larger Nim army to the Stoners aid and it was he who had brought these 'others'!
All these things irked him, yet it was this last deed of Mythdarian's that constantly played on his pain-clouded mind; for, along with the small 'slant-eye' that killed so swiftly had come a towering, unstoppable human with black armour and a black blade! At first Lucfelian had thought it was SHARD the tall manling wielded with such strength and skill, but when he had seen it during yesterdays ambush, the weapon was both too large and lacked the tell-tale 'glow' to be his long-lost Sword of Power.
Yet he had 'felt' a strange presence in the Stoner's camp ever since the 'others' had arrived, and now he had seen that Mythdarian the Meddler had also brought two Wee'ns with him! Two of the hated creatures that had long ago rebelled against his authority and stolen that which he now firmly believed he could literally 'not live without' --- Shard!
Shard, he felt, was near, and he knew that he must regain it at all costs! Only when he held the black blade would he truly be 'whole again'!
He thought of sending Skatha and Dwill out to meet them, but he feared even they might fail him! He looked around, desperately searching for something, anything to aid his escape, for if those that follwed found him in this weakened state, trapped in this dying body, he somehow knew in his incy black heart that he truly would die.
Then he saw it. Off to the right a river tumbled down a steep,rocky gorge. Large boulders lay scattered about and high above a fallen pine had made a natural bridge over the river far below. Once across the 'bridge' could be pushed down and not even the rock-grubbing stoners or the high-and -mighty Nim could follow! Not even if they had IT!
Yet still, in his wounded condition he needed time to reach the bridge. Calling Skatha to him, he gasped out his plan. The Nar-Graith grinned, his red eyes burning with a vicious brightness.
"It shall be as thy wish, My Liege. Dwill shall have the stupid Karns and Balikie guard our retreat while I myself shall assist thee!"
"See to it then!", the feeble voice hissed, then Lucfelian the Foul, known also as the Hooded Man, Gorgoroth, and The Shadow Lord, leaned back, smiled and, even as blood continued to flow from his dying body, he sent the dark fingers of his mind outwards towards the following enemy. Though unable to leave completely, the outcast from Oma still mastered enough power to send a portion of himself into the void. It could not soar on the high solar winds as before, yet it need not do so, for the target he sought was not far away; indeed, they ignorantly awaited him at the foot of the hill, their foolish little minds pathetically easy to read, their own ignorance and fear paving the way to their petty hopes, dreams and desires.
***
Thorn waited anxiously for Flynn and Kel to return, trying to calm the restless feeling that had grown inside him over the last few days.
In his hand he held a cloak-pin, a broach twisted round with silver wire, at its center a smooth, green river stone. A parting gift from his betrothed, Fernleaf, when he left The Wold many long months ago. Mithdar had revealed to him that it was Nim-Loth made; ancient, costly and, above all, 'magical'. Legend had it that the Nim-Loth had given this very broach to Brand Silverleaf, the Kirkwean that had both led his race out of bondage from the cruel Lucfelian --- and stolen Shard! The cloak pin had been given to the wandering 'Wee'ns' to act as a warning should ever The Shadow find them. Mithdar had not know just HOW it would give its warning, but he had cautioned Thorn to keep it safe and keep it close. Thorn now wore it pinned over his heart beneath his wool cloak
The words of the old mage came back to him, and he clenched the broach tightly as he looked round for any signs of the 'enemy'. All he saw was the snow-covered forest around him, with a high, pine-strewn cliff rising to the right, split down its rocky center by a tumbling river.
Around him the rest of his 'sodur' also waited, for all knew that those they had been chasing for almost a week now were not far ahead. Yesterdays ambush had worked well, with over half the enemy having been killed in the falling rocks and only one of their own dying and two more with minor scratches. Today they would have them all!
Yet there was something strange about this group. Flynn had thought he saw a Nar-Graith with them, yet all knew that the Narthrond, brave as he was, had developed a fixation about the 'Walking Dead'. Erin had laughingly teased him about it, saying that one good slice from his longsword would put an end to the 'dead walking'!
Thorn's gaze was drawn again to the distant cliff and the snow covered peaks beyond it, all the while feeling both a cold dread and a restless energy travel up his spine. The cloak-pin remained a murky green colour, tinged with that hint of reddish flame. The shortsword at his side also seemed to 'feel' the restlessness. During yesterdays skirmish he had almost given in to the urge to draw the black blade. He glanced at the dreaded sword now as he waited. Nothing, except for a little flicker of light deep in the silver acorn on the pommel. Instinctively his hand went not to the sword, but to the cloudy green broach pinned over his heart.
"Won't be long now, laddie.", Nobert said as he handed Thorn some dried meat from his pack. "Settle with this lot, then it's back to a warm hearth, strong ale n' a hot meal!"
The Kirkwean nodded and began to chew on the tasteless strip, nervous energy still coursing through his veins. Zoean offered him some tea Timin had brewed and sat down beside him. Wrapped in a heavy, hooded cloak against the cold, only her
nose and eyes showed.
"Do you think they'll be alright? They've been gone for some time now." She made an effort to sound casual, but Thorn noted the strain.
"'Course they will!", Nob grunted. "Flynn be one o' the best. N' as for that Chin, why the lad walks like the dead!"
Both Zoean and Thorn's eyes opened wide at that, and the grey haired Dryfallen cursed himself for being such a fool. He knew that Zoean feared the Nar-Graith more than anything else in the world, and he had just reminded her of Flynn's own words the day before.
"I --- I didn't --- "
"That's alright, Nob," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. "They'll both be fine; it's just I don't like this waiting!"
The faint sound of a harp reached them. Off to the left Roary's voice hummed out a tune. Onooga, her golden hair tied down by leather strap around her head, tended a small fire over which a brace of rabbits were roasting. Timin knelt beside her, fussing over some concoction brewing in his beloved pots. Two Delgii stood leaning on their spears watching the fat sizzle in the flames while to the right a Nim-Loth sat carefully checking the points and fletching of his arrows. Two more of the Lake Warders were somewhere on the small hill behind them, silently guarding the camp. Erin stood watching the snow-covered forest that had swallowed up Kel and Flynn some time ago.
Too long ago it seemed for the tall weapons-man. Turning back towards the camp, he called out. "Pack up lads 'n lassies! Smother that fire 'n collect your gear. We're off to find a lost woodsman n' a slant-eyed runt!"
Onooga silently slid the half cooked rabbits off the makeshift spit, wrapped them in a cloth and put them into her pack while Roary gently replaced his harp in its doeskin bag. The two Delgii and the Nim-Loth stood up, instantly ready to leave. Zoean helped the still limping Nob to his feet and moved over to Erin's side. Thorn already stood beside the tall manling, one small hand unconsciously resting on Shard's pulsing hilt.
