Shard

by Wayne Mee

  The captain of the Nar-Graith suddenly felt a fist of fear grip him. Unbeatable Dwill lay cowering like a whipped dog, his sword a broken, twisted stub. Himself no better! The flash from the strange explosion still dancing before his hate-filled eyes, the last remaining Nar-Graith suddenly wondered if the same strange fate that had just befallen Dwill now awaited him.

  Skatha, who had walked uncaringly among the dead and the dying, who had lived with death and decay for countless centuries, who had served a deathless master all his dark days, now found himself afraid to die!

  Slowly he backed up to the center of the log bridge. 'It would be so easy to turn and flee!', he thought. 'Tell him the Wee'n was dead! That I had killed it or that it had slipped and fell!' But he knew he could never lie to Lucfelian. One look and the Shadow Lord would know the truth --- that he, his most trusted servant, had failed Him! His whole body began to shake as the panic set in.

  Then the Wee'n was there, the accursed torch blazing so brightly that he almost had to turn away. The Wee'ns voice too, was strange. Deep and sure and deadly.

  "Stand aside! T'is not you I want, but the one you serve!"

  Skatha attempted to sneer. "M'Lord is gone, fool! Get ye gone as well, before it be too late!"

  Thorn sighed and, just for a moment, his face took on a sad, distant look --- but then it was gone and the chips of ice again glinted in his blue eyes. "So be it," he said, and he stepped out onto the fallen log.

  "Thorn, no!", came a woman's voice from behind, but it was too late. The battle had already begun.

  ***

  Zoean's voice had not yet faded away before the poisoned blade left Skatha's hand. In one fluid movement the Nar-Graith had pulled the small, slender knife from a wrist sheath and launched it point blank at the advancing Kirkwean. Its tip, coated with a dark, sticky substance that attacked the muscles and rendered them useless in moments, pierced Thorn's leather mail just above his heart. The cloak-pin deflected the full force of the blade, so that little real damage was done, yet that little was enough. Blood had been drawn and the paralyzing poison began to do its work.

  Thorn staggered back, his feet sliding on the gnarled, mist-slick bark of the toppled pine. He saw far below him the spray-covered rocks thrusting upwards like the hungry teeth of a stony giant; he felt the strength-stealing drug course through his veins; heard his heart beating like a Delgi bellows in his ears --- and knew that it was all over.

  Ever so slowly, as though in a dream, he felt himself begin to fall. His arms felt like led, his legs began to buckle, his eyes refused to even blink. Shard, still clutched like an ugly growth on his hand, began to flicker; dark, murky colors streamed along the blade.

  Yet there was no urgency to it at all. He was falling, but so slowly that for a brief moment he thought that time itself had somehow been suspended. He heard his name called out as though from very far away. 'Thhhooooorrrnnn!!'

  Yet it had no meaning. It might have been the wind or the wild water sweeping by him far below. All that had meaning were the pair of red eyes that were burning their way into the sticky wheels of his mind.

  'Where is It?!' a disembodied voice demanded.

  Thorn fought for mental balance as well as physical.

  'Where IS It?!'

  'What?', Thorn thought back.

  'The Sword! Tell me WHERE!'

  Thorn felt the obscene presence invading every corner of his mind. His carefree, childhood memories; his joy filled days with Timin and sour little Nori; his wanderings through the thick, green forests of The Wold or lazily fishing on the vast Nal Verg-Loth; his cozy, heartwarming nights before the hearth, listening to Granther Higgs spin out his magical tales --- even his shy, tender love for gentle Fernleaf was laid bare to this probing entity.

  And it repulsed him so utterly that he fought back; fought with all the strength that came from the love of those same things that he held so dear.

  'WHERE IS IT?, CURSE YOU!'

  "HERE!!", Thorn yelled, and even as his paralyzed body toppled off the fallen log, he swung Shard up with all his might.

  Another blinding explosion filled the misty air, followed by the sizzling sound and stinging stench of burning flesh. Skatha, caught unawares, felt the flickering torch swiftly burn its way through his wrist. Wide-eyed with shock, the Nar-Graith saw his severed left hand arc past him and tumble into the roaring gorge far below. The scream that came from him froze the blood of all that heard it; even Thorn, who followed the grisly trophy down into the waiting watery maw deep in the earth.

  ***

  "Oh Sweet Quent! He's gone!" Zoean's voice broke and she felt her heart torn in two as she saw the little Kirkwean tumble off the log bridge.

  "Noooooo!!", Erin roared, even as he charged, quickly covering the remaining distance with his great, long legs. Still he was too late to save his friend. After all the many shared dangers and heartaches, after all the flying arrows and sharp blades, a silent, uncaring river had been the instrument of his ending. It was over. The 'Wanderer' was gone.

  Yet there still remained one thing left to do. The one that had caused Thorn's death had yet to be punished. Never slackening his stride, Erin made for the log bridge and the lone Nar-Graith that was even then scurrying off the far end.

  "Stand n' fight me you great stinkin' pile o' shit!", the weapons-man bellowed, but just as Erin leaped onto the fallen log, Skatha turned. His reddish eyes blazed like coals in a bellows and his mouth was twisted into a skeletal sneer of hatred and pain. His left arm he held across his chest, handless and gore-spattered. His right he held his heavy longsword.

  Words torn from the bowels of the earth hissed from the black pit of his mouth. "Azlac gar curslum! Grevgil karlan fellock! " Then, calling on both his tremendous strength, as well as the ancient, evil forces from a long-forgotten time, he screamed and smote the bridge with his blade. "Cirimoth nui sith!"

  A splintering sound filled the energy-charged air and Erin, several vels onto the bridge, saw the log began to crack beneath his feet.

  Zoean screamed and Nob had to stop her from attempting to rush to Erin's aid. The old Dryfallen hauled his life-long charge back as the ancient log split in two.

  "Jump, you fool!", Nobert yelled.

  Erin jumped just as the far end of the log slid down into the gorge, taking the two halves of the gnarled pine with it. Launching himself back towards his two companions, he almost made the gorge's stony lip. Zoean gave a strangled moan as the tall manling slid down the rocky wall, slamming from one boulder to the next and finally coming to land on a narrow outcropping some eight or ten vels down.

  Landing with a bone-jolting thud, the weapons-man from distant Loamin called on his years of training and rolled. He came to rest, bruised and battered but still alive, on the very lip of the ledge --- and there he saw Thorn's still form, half hanging over the edge, the black blade Shard still clutched in his bloody hand.

  ***

  Chapter 37:'A RUDE AWAKENING'

  Alexis V, the High Gnash of Mighty Slathland, was in a foul mood. From his raised throne at the stern of his great flagship, his dark, restless eyes constantly flicked back and forth from the main deck to the dense, budding trees on both sides of the river. An armada of fully manned Glitch Slaths or 'Dragon Boats' filled the wide river close behind. Wide bellied Kurls with extra supplies, horses and troops followed in their wake. Despite all this, the High Gnash still saw danger behind every branch, rock and root.

  "Nex!", he bellowed, at the same time angrily swatting at a swarm of flies. "How much longer must I endure this accursed river?!"

  Nex, sweating in his costly scale-mail beneath the late spring sunshine, bit back a hasty reply. He, along with the score of other Glitch-Slath captains, had been called aboard the High Gnash's floating castle to witness the punishment of a guard foolish enough to touch one of his master's women. Sighing, he strode over to his liege lord and bowed.

  "Excellency, if you recall, I estimated five or six days travel upriver before
we would come to the Land of the Wee'ns. This is but the third day."

  Alexis V tilted his crowned head, his dark eyes going to the man being flayed to death below even as his ringed hand absently playing with the red locks of his latest female diversion. A thin crease slowly spread across his swarthy features. In the past the more foolish of his subjects had unfortunately mistaken this for a smile.

  Nex, however, had seen that 'smile' before, and knew that he was dangerously close to causing his liege lord to lose his royal temper. Yet, at that moment, Nex didn't really give a flying quiff one way or the other!

  For weeks now, ever since the High Gnash had casually informed Nex and the other captains that he himself would be coming along on the 'Wee'n invasion', one thing after another had gone wrong! Before they even set sail problems had arisen over the food and drink. After all, the 'glorious leader of mighty Slathland' could not be expected to eat or drink the 'common fair of a common soldier'! Then there was the problem of his personal slaves, cooks, retainers, valets, tailors, musicians, priests and historians. There was also the added issue of keeping the soldier's away from the score or so of voluptuous concubines the High Gnash just 'couldn't do without'! The results of that particular problem were even now being visited upon him on the deck below.

  When Nex had tried to explain the impossibility of bringing the 'whole damned court' on the voyage, the High Gnash had flippantly settled the matter by stating that his own royal flagship would easily accommodate all his needs.

  Nex had inwardly groaned, for the 'flagship', grand and great as it was, moved like an old, fat whore on her way to the tax collector's! The 'swift invasion' Nex had so painstakingly planned began to wallow in an over abundance of royal shit!

  Then a spring storm had swept down out of the north. One Kurl had sunk, several seamen were washed overboard, a third of their stores were ruined and the entire fleet had been scattered. A week was lost waiting for the rest to gather at the river's mouth. Only nineteen Glitch-Slath and seven Kurls had made it safely to the regrouping. Nex had lost over a third of his force!

  Going upriver there had been two hangings, the 'flagship' had already run aground once, and now this flogging over an 'attempted rape'! They were three days up the Wee'ns accursed river and way behind schedule, and to crown it all this pompous, pampered fool was demanding why they weren't making better progress!

  Nex felt his temper about to explode. Between Ragnol's haughty attitude, the old priest, Tarus Brag's constant mutterings about 'pagan signs and ill omens', and the changeable whims and frequent rages of this demented monarch, Nex thought he had taken just about all he could take.

  Then the High Gnash's hand shot out and bejeweled fingers closed like a vice on his testicles. Nex sucked in air as searing pain coursed through his loins. Alexis V squeezed harder and grinned.

  "One your knees, little man!"

  Nex bit his lip in an effort not to cry out. He failed. The deck came up to meet him as his legs gave way.

  "Don't you EVER presume to preach to me!" For a long moment Alexis held his grip; then, as though nothing of import had happened, the High Gnash relaxed his intimate hold and sat back, a regal smile on his friendly face.

  Nex slumped forward, then struggled to rise.

  "Rena", the leader of all Slathland beamed. "See to our good captain." The red-headed slave hastened to obey. "Perhaps, dear Nex, Rena will 'kiss it and make it better'!"

  As the girl led Nex off, her master spoke once again. "Preaching, captain, is a sin I tolerate only from my priests --- and then only when I'm in the mood. See that you remember that in the future!"

  Tarus Brag, the wizened leader of the Priests of Slath, shuffled forward at the Gnash's beckoning finger.

  "My Lord?"

  "When he's done with the slut, cut her throat and leave her in his bed."

  "As you wish, Sire."

  The High Gnash yanked the old man back to him by his long beard. "Brag, I did not yet give you leave to retire."

  "My Lord! I only wanted to --- "

  "Yes, yes, my randy old fool. You only wanted to dip your own rusty tool into her first, eh? " Very well then; 'Go my son, and sin no more.'

  The High Gnash's cruel laughter followed the bent priest as he scuttled away. One of the Royal Guard nearly bumped into the old ppriest on his way to the raised dais.

  "My Lord!", the large man barked, striking his mailed chest smartly and going down on one knee.

  "Well, what is it?!"

  "A message, My Liege! From Lord Ragnol on the scout ship!"

  Alexis V stroked his curly, black beard. "Well, out with it, man!"

  The guard snapped to attention. "Smoke, My Lord. The lookout on the lead ship has spotted a small fire up ahead on the westward shore!"

  "At last!", the High Gnash said to himself. Visions of Wee'ns in chains toiling away in their own mines flitted before his eyes, overlaid by images of the long coveted 'Black Gold' being dug up and loaded onto Kurls to be taken back to Slathland. The sound of future smithies pounding the unbreakable black ore into swords, spears, armour and shields filled his ears, as did the drums and war-horns of a mighty Slathland army he would raise; all armed and armored in the mysterious black iron. His mind's eye already saw blades of black glistening in the sun, the red blood of their enemies carpeting the ground before him as he trod undefeated across the very face of the world!

  ***

  Skatha and the Hooded Man stood by the banks of a large river. Lucfelian's reddish eyes gazed ever northward, as though he expected to see something or someone coming up the wide waters. Shag knelt a little ways off cleaning some fish he had caught for their dinner. For months now they had trudged over mountains, through snow-clogged passes and followed tumbling, ice-rimmed rivers. Freezing winter had slowly turned into cold, wet spring and still The Hooded Man had driven them northward; three hungry, hardened, haunted forms passing like wraiths over a cold, empty land.

  Skatha's left arm ended at the wrist, but the severed stump was now fitted with a short, wickedly curved pike blade. The Nar-Graith was slowly working on the hooked blade of his 'new hand' with a file used for sharpening swords. The pain had lessened now, yet he still felt a burning itch in the fingers that were no more.

  The hooded form across from him stiffened and sniffed the air like a dog. A gnarled hand pointed a boney finger at the river. "They're here!" The words hissed out like a foul wind from beneath the black hood. "Fithful Skatha, make ready your blade; for the time has come at last!"

  Shag came limping over on the run, the fish forgotten in his excitement.

  Ever since Skatha had caught up with Shag and Lucfelian after escaping across the log bridge and told him what he had seen in the accursed Wee'n's mind, Lucfelian had become obsessed with reaching The Wold, the Kirkwean homeland.

  "I'll make them pay! All of them! Branch, trunk and root!", the Hooded Man had gasped over and over during those first few days, yet with each passing kilvel they had travelled, the arrow-shot body that Lucfelian found himself trapped in had weakened. It was only his strength of will and his twisted desire for revenge that kept the dying 'host' moving.

  Then, three days after fleeing from the disaster at the bridge, they had come across a mad hermit and a young girl-child living in a cave. The old fool had welcomed them and offered them food. Lucfelian had ordered Shag to hold the old man while he himself slit the child's throat. Then, speaking some ancient words of power, he drank his victim's blood. The warm, rich liquid had momentarily revived his all but dead body.

  "Now, Skatha!", he had hissed. "While I still have the power, strike off my head!"

  As he had done so many times before over the long, death-filled centuries, the last remaining Nar-Graith drew his sword and made ready. At Lucfelian's nod, Skatha severed the head of the creature that had temporarily housed his master's restless life-force. Before the head had hit the ground, the familiar wild wind had filled the tiny cave. A dark, shadowy cloud poured forth from the gore-spew
ing neck and swirled around a grinning Shag and the wide-eyed old man who cringed in the corner. Like a black cloud of smoke, The Shadow descended on the terror-stricken hermit, enveloped him like a cloak and seeped like stagnant water into his very soul.

  The gnarled old man had gasped, stiffened, then began to sag in the drooling Karn's cruel grasp. Halfway to his knees he had stopped. The bent body straightened, taking on a younger, stronger look. The watery eyes suddenly began to glow Shag was thrown back like a bundle of twigs. The old man's twisted grimace of terror became a knowing leer and the once humble hermit gave Skatha such a knowing, sidelong look of malice and evil desire that the Nar-Graith fell to his knees.

  "My Liege! Thou hast returned!"

  Forgotten in the corner, Shag had begun to tremble with a mixture of half fear, half joy.

  The old hermit's lips moved, but it was Lucfelian's demonic voice that came forth. "Yes, my faithful hound! The wretched spell of the Nim has been broken! Once again I am as I was!"

  As Skatha had held up his arms as though at prayer, the filthy stump began to leak through the crusted bandages. In a rare show of concern, Lucfelian had reached out and touched the severed end. "They shall pay dearly, old friend. All of them --- but one in particular!"

  That had been nearly two months ago. Perhaps even longer. Shag had lost track of the times that Lucfelian's 'host' body had weakened and needed to be replaced. In their endless march towards the Wee'n's homeland, 'replacements' had been had to come by; a farmer in isolated cottage, a young man from a charcoal burner's hut, even a band of outlaws that foolishly tried to rob them. All lasted little more than a fortnight before the life-force that was Lucfelian burnt them to a cinder.

  During their wanderings winter had somehow become Spring and Spring was now passing into summer. But, despite the hardships of their journey, the Master was once again whole. After he had taken over the body of the hermit and regained his strength, Lucfelian had fashioned Skatha a 'new hand' of sorts, made from an old curved pike blade Shag had found in an abandoned cabin. Words of Power had been said over it, and since then the Nar-Graith's arm seldom pained him --- though now and then he fancied he felt his missing palm itch.