His approach had been noticed, and as the hard black gates swung forward in front of the harder blacker palace, Lord Targor strode out to meet him. Targor was an older man with flowing white hair whose grace and presence seemed to have grown tired with battle and the ravages of age. He wore light armor with the metal elements beginning to corrode, and his face was blacked with soot that traveled in smudges around the contours of his face. In contrast to his moderate dishevelment, a coarse kind of grace flowed through him, giving a hardness to his eye and manner that seemed to lend him an elegant danger. This hardness nearly covered the other more subtle light in his eyes, a yellowing glow that spoke of wisdom gained through the weathering of years, time both tarnishing and polishing its depths.
Lord Targor spoke, "So the witch has sent her lapdog to bring me to heel? You seem to me but a pup, but your reputation suggests yours are not the works of babes."
Korel answered, "I have been charged with your execution and the assumption of your realm. But these tasks weigh heavily upon me, and I would know, Lord Targor, what offense you have given."
"You would know my offense? Would you be my judge as well as executioner?"
Though his face was a granite slab, a crack of grim amusement broke over Lord Targor's countenance.
"Is there no truth within you that cries against this sentence?" Korel asked plaintively.
"The reason for my treason is not in the execution of my fealty to thee and thine, but in the execution of my fealty to me and mine. Mine offenses are my own and I will defend myself only in this: my realm is not entirely mine alone but was accomplished by the aid of another, the aid of a sorceress. This eventually became a hardship I could bear no longer, a hardship that slowly wore upon me as the drops of water wear upon the rocks, breaking them into fine powder. I walk in the rain no longer. My crime is to give unto sorcery what is sorcery's and to give unto me what is mine."
With that, Lord Targor bent to one knee and removed his golden ring of kingship, proffering it to Korel in the palm of his hand, head bowed.
Korel received the ring into his hand. "I cannot in good conscience slay you but will bear back your offering."
As Korel and his company reined their horses to leave, Targor raised his hand to stay them. "I am constrained to ask you to stay a little longer. I have some lore in wisdom. You should know there is wisdom in you that requires wisdom in me."
Targor led Korel through catacombs that twisted beneath the palace, the tangle of passages eventually terminating in a small, circular room scattered with various artifacts of curious origin and purpose. Targor halted before a small, battered, circular table in the center of the room. Upon the table lay a short, thick, gray rod of stone that would fit in the palm of the hand. The stone appeared somehow warped, as though melted and left to cool in its present form, its irregular shape emanating an intensity that caused a mental nausea, as though its center projected an immoral radiation that mutated the soul. Vague yet powerful impressions rose within Korel's mind.
Targor's voice rose, "This is an artifact from the recent dawn of the Toresten age. It was brought to me by a refugee, a servant of the royal house who had heard my name and sought me out. I have brought you here to look upon it."
As Korel gazed upon the stone, images and impressions flashed upon his mind. He saw the seat of Westoreth, a battle within a palace, a mighty king upon a mighty throne, the pitch of battle within the walls of the palace, and the rise of a dark warrior, Toresten (Westoreth's present monarch), consumed with ambition as he pressed against he who placed his feet upon the footstool. As the battle grew sore, Toresten, in his throes against the king, touched the wall of the throne room unwittingly, and at his touch the spot became red-hot as lava, with liquid rock falling in drops upon the floor. These drops coalesced, rolled some few inches, and cooled to form a short but thick rod of stone. Later, as Toresten ascended the throne in new-age triumph, a small handmaiden, unseen, retrieved the cooled rod and ran upon hidden ways seeking Targor.
The vision began again, more slowly and in greater detail. More impressions pressed upon Korel: a king in exile under the mountain, the strength of Toresten grown powerful, but a power lent him by something stronger and darker, the fear of an exile's wrath and a hunt for an exile's demise. And in this hunt Korel felt Thoren in the vanguard of many fighting men, Thoren with the gift, the same Thoren he had fought in the courtyard only a few years before. But here Thoren was young and fought against the exile because of the exile's own accursed gift, a gift similar to but different from his own.
As Korel continued to gaze upon the rod, a silent intensity seemed to burst forth invisibly and touch upon his mind. Impressions began to sharpen and images began to merge, creating a pattern of thought.
In the early days of King Valyrea, Thoren called the king his brother as they were brothers in both flesh and mind, akin not only in blood but spirit also. But eventually, occasions arose where the miraculous would happen—the boy whose broken body was made new, the aged man of war whose mortal wounds loitered on death's brink until his final farewell to family and friends could be uttered. These events revolved ever nearer to the king, and Thoren knew in his heart that Valyrea had the gift of the Necor, whose people had been banished for their gift of death— both the wielding of it and the mastery of its coming. And though the Necor had used this gift sparingly, a fear of the gift's power and of its effects (particularly regarding those of the Necor whose practiced mastery was greatest, the gift taking a bit of life from the practitioner himself) caused the Necor to be shunned, their banishment now old and complete. Whether they yet lived or had been erased entirely from the slate of earth's history, few knew. But there were myths of a place far to the north where men could never die, but ever aged and aged until they were but living fossil.
Thoren's love for his brother was great, and he kept the knowledge of the gift close to his heart. Thoren's son also loved the king, and he, Thoren, and Valyrea met oft in private council, each guarding and defending the secrets of the others. Yet there were those of the king's court whose suspicions had grown regarding the gift of the Necor, causing a dissension, born of fear, to grow among some of the lesser nobles. At this time, one noble of obscure note suddenly grew in prominence. Averil was his name by birth, but as a dark power seemed to move upon him he took up the new name of Toresten, which means to purge by fire. Toresten raised as his standard the ancient law of banishment regarding all those who possessed the gift of the Necor, making use of deception, subtlety, and dark arts to turn the loyal hearts of many against their king. . . and even Thoren began to doubt.
Soon battle raged within the palace, and as destruction began to rain all around him, King Valyrea felt flight would better preserve the kingdom and the people that he loved. He took all his loyal house and fled into the wilderness. But Toresten feared Valyrea and even in his triumph sought Valyrea's destruction. He sent fighting men to pursue Valyrea, and in the end even Thoren himself (who had never known defeat in battle) led men in pursuit of the fugitive king. On the plain before Mount Sorad, Thoren spied a band of men fleeing toward the mountain foot. As he closed upon them, Thoren stretched out with his mind, causing most of the band to stop and stand bewildered upon the hill. One hooded figure stood outfrom the others, his profile regal as one who would yet rule many. And as the figure stood, Thoren rode forth and cut him down.
But as he fell, Thoren recognized the fallen as his own son, Freyr, the son who had stood beside Valyrea, his king and uncle, through all. A madness born of sorrow fell upon Thoren and he staggered round the field, drunk with dregs of blind despair, until at last his own men bound him and brought him back along the paths of return near the meads of Feldaria. But ere Thoren finally left the field bound in cords, he looked upon the sum of the fallen and knew his son was not among them. Many days later, Thoren returned to the field in search of his son. But all was in vain as he wondered the hills and vales for a season, letting his torment lead his feet whither it wo
uld.
And this was the last battle of the Duluvial Wars, battles so named because the Earth, in its sorrow, would raise water from streams and deep channels to cover the fallen and reclaim them unto itself.
Korel forced his gaze away from the stone rod and looked upon Targor, who returned his look meaningfully.
"There is more in this world to fear than the Quenivorian," murmured Targor. Korel nodded gravely in return, "And more virtue in this world hidden by time and trial than is known by the wisest sage. I thank you for your unusual hospitality and hope to call you friend."
"Friend is a word I have seldom used, but I shall be glad to have need of its use again," Targor replied.
Again the mind-blinding pain came piercing through Korel's skull, but more slowly this time and with less heat. Soon the pain stopped altogether. Across from the sphere, Korel's vision cleared, resolving the blur that came with the cascades of lightning and mind-blasting white. Syrilla stood casually on the other side of the room.
"You will yet learn the rewards of obedience and the purgatory of impotence. This is but a taste of the joys and agonies my sponsorship may bring you. But be warned, you will not be let off so lightly again. Now I have another little project you're sure to enjoy . . ."
* * *
Korel found himself on his back looking up at the fading stars as dawn began to ride up over the Eastern horizon. The fever that had wracked him the previous night had broken, leaving rivulets of grayish slick sweat drying in spotted coalescence over his body. His swollen forearm, while still a sickly gray with its crater-like wound dripping a brackish thin fluid, was smaller and much less painful. Only now did he let himself believe he might survive the injury. Yet the older burn to his index finger remained unhealed, continuously oozing a clear watery fluid.
As he surveyed the meadow, Korel felt an unnatural disquiet descend, then deepen around him. The disquiet built to an exquisite edge as a flash of movement appeared and reared up over him. Reflexively, he raised his hands, grasping vaguely in the direction of the shape now becoming clearer. As he took hold of the hard, slime-wet, and sinewy object, he recognized a mouth full of keen, razor-like teeth that narrowly missed his throat as their trap-like jaws snapped shut, nearly severing his ear. He grappled with the flailing thing for some moments as an assortment of croaks and cries hissed past its wicked teeth, sounds very similar to the pathetic mewling he had heard countless times in recent days—in fact, identical to the same pitiful sounds from the same pitiful creature that had followed him to this place.
Korel flung Hurnix to the side as it continued to whimper in miserable heaving gouts of self-pity. The old burning flared again, his gut searing with anger as it rose within him.
"Again I ask you, why do you attack me?" Korel nearly spat the question.
"I must . . . I must," answered the voice dry as dust. "It's what I am." Hurnix then abruptly turned and with paradoxical agility performed a limping circus flip that rolled into a four-limbed scuttle, ending in a shallow dive into the nearby scrub. The bush hid him lamely in plain sight as he wept in silent paroxysms.
Chapter 4
Korel set off again, following the faint path leading east across the meadow. Hurnix still followed but did so several yards behind. The path climbed steeply through a narrow band of fir trees that gave way to a small plateau of slate-like scree and grey rock. The scree rose gently before them, giving way to a ridged outcropping of rock on the right to then continue up toward a final pinnacled edge of mountain range, stark against the sky.
There upon the ridge, as though part of the rock's basic essence, a grey tower stood, its pinnacle pointing to the heavens; stark, solid, and powerful, an expansive hollowness born of isolation seeming to resonate over an unheard frequency deep within the stone and below the edge of hearing. A second tower of equal strength rose beside it, and between them a rampart of solid stone bound them together. A massive door of solid oak was set within the rampart and small patterns of stained glass adorned the facade, where small, rounded windows and other cunning openings traveled the full thickness of the rampart.
Korel knew of these ancient, solitary monasteries, where forgotten brotherhoods of old priests and old priesthoods observed obscure rights passed down through the ages, their works remembered by only a precious few. The Priests of Obsidian had great power when the world was new, and few were the kingdoms or realms immune to their sway. Their power dealt with knowledge of the arcane, and such knowledge commanded the respect of men.
Yet the priests had grown covetous of their understandings and now in their decline shared little with any. They were grown very long-lived and perilous, with few men having even the knowledge of how to find them. With long life, their numbers also dwindled until they began to fade into the realm of myth. But their influence yet touched Westoreth, revealing potency behind the legend, and Korel knew of its caress.
As he approached the foot of the stair between the towers, the soaring oak door swung silently open. Korel, followed closely by Hurnix, walked into the vaulted entryway, which revealed four massive columns rising one hundred and fifty feet to support a massive arched ceiling, inset at its center with a large, intricate stained glass representation of the priests of old. Within the wane pillar of floor light filtering through the stained glass high above, a figure stood. A severe form, nearly seven feet in height with a thin, gaunt face and long, slender limbs, the man wore gray-black velvet robes and a dark sacred headpiece rising like the miter of a bishop.
"I know you," said a dry, weathered voice that seemed as old as the stone surrounding them. "I know what you seek. Korel, you've become a fallen lord, a desert wanderer. The Obsidian Order has touched your destiny and your future."
His voice died as fading echoes resonated throughout the monastery's endless depths, terminating with a momentary silence born upon the sound's last whisper. And in that moment the skin covering the priest's face shrank back, its desiccated tightness revealing every detail of his skull, his orbits growing large around his eyes as cavernous shadows fell across ever-smaller sclera, leaving a burning blue of malice and desire smoldering in their depths. A bright and perfect column of blue flame ignited the air between Korel and the priest, its purity overlaid by a discordant sense of music lightly pressing upon the mind; choirs in an ever-greater multitude, harmony and grace, but soft as the dew distilled from heaven. Korel felt a heavy sleep come upon him, and the ever-present burning in his gut began to sleep as well. Vaguely, toward the back of his mind, he thought he saw Hurnix curl up in a ball on the floor, fast asleep within the vaulted chamber, just as a trusted hound would sleep before his master's fire. As sleep consumed his consciousness, Korel felt himself fall . . .
He stood upon a small ridge, its natural mouth running down into a vale that in turn made its way to the base of a flat, brown plain of baked earth riddled with small fissures, as though all the moisture had been wrung from its soil a millennia before. Distant mountains ringed the plain on three sides with the vale running down to the forth. Dark clouds hung low with intermittent vision-scarring flashes of angry lightning brilliantly illuminating the landscape for brief moments, only to have the earth plunge back into near-complete obscurity, the darkness tempered by a pearly phosphorescence that seemed to come from nowhere. In the middle of the plain, an enormous charcoal-black obelisk rose like a spike toward the clouds. Although he could not see the horizon, Korel felt that there was nothing more beyond the plain and mountains, that literally nothing existed beyond this place. He began to make his way down through the vale toward the plain.
As he started his journey across the baked flatness reaching out before him, gouts of lightning erupted from the highest tip of the obelisk up through the clouds, illuminating the sky beyond. He had been walking for nearly an hour before he finally came to the base of the obelisk, which was made of circular steps curving around the entire structure. As he climbed the steps he realized the obelisk was circular, a narrow black cone inverted and ris
ing several hundred feet to its tip. The black surface was polished and impossibly smooth, without blemish, crack, or defect, like the surface of a pool of liquid glass—perfect.
Korel could see his narrowed reflection moving across the surface in parallel with his own movements. But as he looked more intently at its surface, he began to see other objects within its depths . . . a broken writing instrument, a small crinkled paper heart like those given on the Day of Passion, dried flowers with some of the stems and blossoms missing, unfinished poetry with teardrops on their pages, fragments of music manuscript, broken bones, pieces of flesh, a kidney and a heart, skulls of various sizes. Then he saw them—white bodies with black, vacant eyes staring out from inside the obelisk, hundreds of them, each rubbing the inside surface. Some used their fingers, some their hands, some the hems of their garments, some even various objects found within the obelisk, but all polishing the surface, polishing, polishing, polishing, smoothing the surface from the inside out, polishing as though they had never done anything else. None seemed to see Korel and he started to scream . . .
Korel started as if coming out of a deep sleep, sweat pouring off his body. He did not know how long he had been in the keeping of the priest, but he estimated it had been several weeks. He was sitting on the floor of a small stone room deep within the monastery with Hurnix sleeping nearby. His bow and purse lay neatly piled in a corner. He was not bound and there were no locks on his door, as apparently none were needed. During the last several weeks he had been conscious only a few times, and then only briefly until the priest returned, plunging his mind back into an unbreakable sleep. He had the same recurring dream of the obelisk every time he slept, and he had the feeling that his forced sleeping episodes were growing longer. But as Korel felt time stretch, he realized something was different. The priest was late in coming and he himself was waking up.
The Korellian Odyssey: Requiem Page 4
