by Wayne Mee
"Dingle's work," the weapons-man grunted, his flippant manner gone now, replaced by cold, detached professionalism. Mithdar sadly nodded and placed his foot on the first stair.
Slowly they climbed, passing from the mid-summer sun into the cooler, darker shadows of the great trees. The scent of pine needles filled the air. From somewhere high above a treetoad chirped, basking in the noonday sun. Off to their left a grey squirrel chattered, merrily oblivious to all save his little world around him.
On the first level they halted. To the right an arched bridge connected another great pine with the one they were on; to the left a wooden walkway curved out of sight. Above them the stairway spiraled upwards through the thick, green boughs, each one nestling a snug little cottage. On all sides quaint bridges, walkways and ladders led to other levels and other trees. The entire complex was a warren of places to hide.
"Here is where we split up," Mithdar said. "Thorn, you take the right, I'll take the left. Erin you continue upwards. We will all meet on the top level if not sooner. If you see anything of Lucfelian, move a safe distance away and call out. The other two of us will come to your aid. Above all, do NOT attempt to face him alone! Understood?!"
"Quiff, man!", Erin exclaimed. "It's stickin' together we should be! A dragon be bad enough, but I've seen this bastard's eyes! I've no wish to meet him by way o' a quiffin' dagger in my back!"
Mithdar frowned. "We have to put an end to this before nightfall or we run the risk of him slipping away in the dark. We CAN'T let that happen yet we CAN'T risk bringing others up here to help in the search."
Erin breathed deeply, then spoke his piece. "But WHY don't we have more up here looking for him? Why just the THREE of us?"
When Mithdar looked away, Erin pressed his point. "There be somethin' more that you've haven't told us, grey beard! Come on, out with it! Why just us three?!"
"Because, my inquisitive friend, I fear Lucfelian shift his 'spirit' to any body that he's close to."
Both Erin and Thorn frowned at the old mage, but it was Thorn who spoke first. "You mean he can 'jump' from one body to another?!"
Mithdar nodded. "I believe so. The only way he can take on 'real' form is to 'inhabit' someone else's body.
"N' just how long have you know this little tidbit of news?!" Erin demanded.
"I don't 'know' it for sure," Mithdar shot back, "but I do believe it."
"So that's why you only wanted us two with you!" Thorn put in. "You think he could 'take over' any other searchers we had up here with us!"
Mithdar nodded. "Exactly. If he truly can shift from one body to another, we would never find him!"
"Quiff!" Erin swore. "N' just whose 'body' is the bastard in now?!"
"I believe some time ago he took over the Grand Nash's form --- and he's still there."
Erin's jaw dropped. "The quiffin' king o' these bloody Slathers?!"
"It would explain all the 'changes' that Alexus V has made since first coming to the Wold. Also the sudden appearance of the Brakarns, the dragon, the Nar-Graith Skatha."
"Shit!" Erin swore again
"We have no choice but to split up." the mage said. When the gaunt weaponsman showed no sign of agreement, Mithdar continued. "Erin, the Cloak Pin you now wear will warn you of his presence, and Shard will warn Thorn. As for me, I have my own ways. Go now, and wait for me on the top level. And remember, your job is only to locate Lucfelian, NOT to do battle with him!"
***
Erin's climb to the next level was done in complete silence. Even the chirping of the treetoads had stopped, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Under his black chainmail sweat trickled down his back. Every muscle in his body screamed for release, yet still he continued to climb. Once off the ladder, he drew Glenrig. Walking over a narrow, intricately carved bridge, he stopped before a small cottage. The round door was slightly ajar. With beads of sweat forming on his soot-blackened brow, he gently nudged the door all the way open.
The creaking of the hinge was like nails dragged over slate. Shivers coursed down his spine. With a muttered curse, he thrust himself through the doorway.
Nothing.
Just a small, empty room. The sleeping quarters proved also to be empty, as did the next cottage and the one after that. The fourth home he came to was locked. Erin glanced down at the Green River Stone and saw a faint reddish glow in its emerald depths.
"Faith!", he breathed to himself, almost grinning. "The quiffin' thing works!" Then, heedless to Mithdar's warning, Erin stepped back, raised a booted foot and kicked out. The door flew inward and he followed, Glenrig raised and ready.
Another empty room greeted him. Lowering his blade, he was about to check the bedrooms when a sudden noise behind him caused him to whirl about. His heavy sword swept down and bit into something solid and hard. A scuttling sound followed and something bolted for the door. In a burst of laughter Erin saw that his 'enemy' was no more than a common raccoon making free with some Kirkwean's sugar supply. Still chuckling to himself, he pulled his sword free of the shattered table. Behind him an errant breeze caused the bedroom door to slam and his heart to pound wildly against his ribs.
"Quiff! I could use a drink!", he muttered to himself; then, remembering that the next building was one of the larger pubs in the tree-village, he hastily departed the small cottage.
Outside he could see no sign of either Thorn or Mithdar. Through the thick boughs he could just make out the roof of the Forge. He also noted that the sun had seemed to leap westward. Part of his brain told him to press on with the hunt, but another part, the part he most often listened to, urged him to 'check out the pub'.
The large commons room was as empty as all the others. Not even a four legged thief was there to greet him. The fire in the stone hearth was only cold ashes and though cooking smells still lingered, they were at least a day or so old. With its deserted tables and chairs, the single oil lamp burning above the hearth gave the inn a feeling of quiet solitude. He returned Glenrig to its scabbard and walked over to the bar. Pouring himself a cup of a fiery, dark spirits, he downed the heady brew and leaned his weary body against the age-darkened wood. As he did so the pulsating glow in the broach caught his eye. It was bright red!
"Well, slave," a vaguely familiar voice said from behind him. "I told you we'd meet again!"
Turning, he saw the powerful form of Nex standing in one of the backroom doorways. The Slath commander looked bruised and battered. His usually shining armour was covered with a mixture of mud and blood and his helm had lost its crest. The entire right side of his face was a purplish bruise and there was a still bleeding gash on his left forearm. Yet there was no denying the hatred in his dark eyes; nor, for that matter, the sting of death in the long, iron-studded whip he carried.
But it was the pulsating, newly-cut reddish star in the center of his forehead that drew Erin's attention. The weaponsman had seen such a thing only one place before --- in the swirling depths of the blade called Shard.
***
Mithdar was uneasy. It was taking him far too long to locate Lucfelian's life-force. Time now was as much his enemy as anything else, for he knew that Lucfelian had not been named the Shadow Lord for naught. With the setting of the sun, Lucfelian's powers would increase ten-fold.
He tried once again to concentrate, but, aside from a feeling of evil all around, he could not be certain just where the hated creature might be.
"Perhaps he's using a warding spell," the old wizard muttered to himself. He focused his a attention once more on the houses and walkways above. He had come to a long, high bridge that spanned a gap all the way back to one of the older pines. Long ago he and a much younger Granther Higgs used to stand on this very bridge, smoking their pipes and gazing at the stars, telling outrageous lies of their various 'adventures'. Now Mithdar stood there alone, probing the pines for Lucfelian's life-force.
Suddenly he had a strong premonition that Thorn was is danger. Somewhere up ahead the little Kirkwean was about
to come face to face with his destiny. Mithdar had to get to him first! With surprising speed the old mage started across the bridge. He was near the halfway point when something dark and huge stepped out onto the far end. Black as a piece of the midnight sky it was; all muscle and hair, with yellow fangs that shown in the halflight. A Brakarn!
Instantly Mithdar raised his gnarled staff and held it before him. His voice, steady despite his need for haste, rang through the towering pines. "Get thee back, vile spawnling! Back to thy black hearted master that created thee!" A wave of golden light radiated out from the end of his staff, flowing like sunbeams across the bridge and bathing the black creature in its brilliance. For several heartbeats the Brakarn was engulfed in the dazzling light; then, amid guttural laughter, the creature shook free of the golden rays and pointed at the mage with his spiked club. Laughter like thunder rolled across the span.
"Wizard light not harm Fang! Fang crush greybeard's bones n' drink his blood!" To add emphasis to his bellowed words, the Brakarn swung his heavy mace down on the railing, splintering the intricate scrollwork and sending several vels of the railing spinning off into the air.
More puzzled than afraid, Mithdar raised his staff again and prepared to cast an even stronger spell. It was when Fang lifted his shaggy head and roared out his mocking laughter that Mithdar saw the glowing red star on his forehead.
"Ishthrach Thezquin!", the mage hissed, recognizing the ancient sign of evil. Long had been the years since last he had beheld that repulsive emblem. Not since the corrupted Elders of Ishthrach had been cast out of the Blessed Isle had he seen it, for by that sign alone had they recognized their evil brotherhood. Ages ago the Wise had disbanded their vile order and sent them forth from Oma, never to return.
That had been long before Lucfelian's time. Though never proven, it had been suspected that he had attempted to revive that ancient, infamous order. Not until now had Mithdar wanted to believe it! Now however, as he stood facing the hulking Brakarn, so very much became clear. It was as though a veil had been lifted from his thinking and he saw clearly what had been hidden from him for all his long life.
Lucfelian was a follower of Ishthrach! Somehow he had rediscovered their twisted, ancient lore and was using it for his own ends! That would explain why he didn't die ages ago when Gerdolin slew him back at the ending of the First Age! It would also explain his ability to 'possess' other humans, taking control of their souls as well as their bodies!
Almost pleased with the terrible discovery, Mithdar didn't notice until too late that Fang was upon him! Mithdar threw himself backwards as the spiked club come crashing down. Pain exploded in his leg as the spike drove through the fleshy part of his calf. The bone might not be crushed, but plenty of blood pumped out of the old man's leg.
***
Moving across the swaying rope-bridge, Thorn could see the backdoor of his house. The vibration of the blade against his leg grew in intensity with every step he took. Sweating now, despite the coolness of the late afternoon, he gingerly put his hand on Shard's hilt. A searing pain raced up his arm, yet he could not pull away. The pain was strangely compelling, almost like the bitter-sweet feeling of coming home again and seeing all that you once loved changed.
Yet that was exactly what he was doing; coming home again --- and all HAD changed. The Root and the Kirkwean were still here, but their lives had been altered forever with the coming of the Slathlanders. They had brought cruelty, slavery and death with them. They had trampled the neat, age-old fields and shattered their beliefs in a happy, peaceful existence. In short, the invaders had stolen their innocence.
And then Lucfelian had come and tried to take the one thing that the others could not --- their very souls.
Thorn decided he would die before letting that happen. With an effort of will that brought tears to his eyes, he drew Shard not in anger, but in love. Love for the people he had sworn to protect; love for those that had placed their hope and trust in him; love for the lush green land itself.
He looked down at the black blade. For the first time he clearly saw this thing that had ruled his life for over a year. Deep in its murky depths, hidden by the pulsing, swirling colors, blood red runes were etched above a crimson star. Thorn knew the meaning of the runes. 'Cirimoth nui sith!' --- 'Death to all!' Yet there was something else engraved beneath the blazing star; fainter and harder to see than those above. His lips slowly formed the strange words. "Ish thra -- Ishthrach Thezquin."
Even as he spoke the dreaded name a fell wind suddenly sprang up, moaning through the tall pines like the passing of a bodiless wraith. A shiver moved through him, leaving him colder than he had ever been in his life. His hands trembled; his heart raced --- and Shard, the blade now vibrating frantically, rose up all of its own accord and pointed to the door directly in front of him.
His own door.
Thick and solid it looked, just as it had in the long, peaceful years of his youth. Set in the middle of it was the familiar pane of stained glass, showing a full moon silhouetting an owl perched on a branch. Yet Thorn knew that beyond the familiar looking door, Death waited with the endless patience of a hungry spider.
***
Erin saw Nex step casually out into the center of the room and lazily cast the long, snake-like whip out behind him. The single oil lamp burning above the hearth made his shadow seem twice its normal size. Then, with a precision only a seasoned slavemaster could achieve, the Slather flicked his wrist and sent the iron-studded strip of pain streaking outward. The flesh on the back of Erin's hand split open. Blood spurted and Nex laughed.
"Remember that, filth?! Back in the 'good old days'! When scum like you were chained to an oar!"
The leather snake struck again. Erin felt its bite on his cheek. Again Nex laughed, the madness in his eyes outshone only by the crimson star pulsing on his forehead.
"Or perhaps you remember the time you tried to bury me alive, eh slave?!"
The whip cracked again, this time on the leg. More blood flowed.
Erin dove over the bar, landing heavily on his battered ribs.
"Stole my best armour then and left me for dead!", Nex raged, flicking the heavy snake out again. The clay cup Erin had drunk from exploded into a hundred pieces. Nex began to move slowly round the bar, yet always keeping enough room to wield his long, lethal whip.
"Ah, but the best was that night in the forest! When you and your stinking Wee'n friends tricked me!"
Crack! Deep gouges appeared on the polished surface of the wood.
"Tricked me with your fancy, foreign tricks!"
Crack! Several bottles above Erin's head shattered.
"Not 'tricked' you, Slather!", Erin shouted. "Bested you!"
Lost in the past, Nex ignored the present. "Again you stripped and tied me! Me! A true Slathlander! Trussed up like a hog for market!" Nex was raging now. Time after time he flailed the heavy whip against the bar. Splinters flew in the shadow-filled room.
"You should have finished it back then, 'slave'! Killed me when you had the chance! For, as Slath is my witness, I intend to kill you!"
CRACK!!
Suddenly a barstool was thrust up. The long snake's end lashed around it, the iron studs knotting together. Erin stood, still holding the stool. Giving one tremendous yank, the whip flew from Nex's outstretched hand. Erin tossed the stool aside and slowly drew Nagling. His wolf-grey eyes held in them a note of promise.
With a screamed curse, Nex drew his shim and rushed forward. Their blades met in mid-swing, filling the room with the harsh clang of iron on iron. After three such blows their swordguards locked and the two men stood facing each other. Nex's breath smelt like something that had crawled out of a pit.
"This time, 'slave', I've a few tricks of my own!" Nex twisted suddenly and slammed the pommel of his shim into Erin's sore ribs. The force behind the blow sent him sprawling. Dazed, Erin realized that the Slather's strength was somehow more than that of a normal man.
'The red star!', Erin reasoned, h
is eyes fastening on the slash on Nex's forehead. "Lucfelian's work!" This last had been spoken aloud.
Nex cocked his head to one side and grinned. "I knew you'd catch on. You always were a 'smart bastard'!" These words were followed by a series of savage blows that drove Erin back against the fireplace. Blood from his cut cheek trickled into his mouth. The wound on his hand was making Glenrig's grip slippery. Their blades locked again and Nex pressed upwards with his newly acquired strength.
"Feel it, slave? Feel the power?" Nex's breath smelt like rotting meat. "The Master has done this to me! Marked me for greatness! He promised!" The edge of the Slather's shim crept closer to Erin's throat. Madness gleamed in his opponent's eyes.
His strength rapidly failing, Erin decided to gamble all on one desperate move. Still wearing the Raven's Circlet, he thrust his head forward. The circlet slammed directly into the crimson star. A hissing sound like hot iron in water followed. The smell of seared meat hung in the air. Bringing his knee up hard between Nex's legs, Erin reached up, grasped the oil lamp and smashed it over the Slather's doubled-up form.
Nex screamed once and backed away, his lower body engulfed in flames. Not yet finished, Erin picked up the discarded whip, wrapped the heavy end around the burning Slather's neck and dragged him out the door. Still screaming, Nex slammed into the outside railing and began to claw his way along the walkway. Erin, his face set in cold, grim lines, wedged the barstool with the whip still attached into a gap in the flooring and kicked the flaming body over the side.
Nex's final scream was cut short when the whip went taught and his neck broke. The body, now a mass of hungry flames, hung swinging in the early evening breeze.
Staggering slightly, Erin went back inside to find both something to bind his wounds with and another drink.
