Battlefield of the Sacred Land

by Mark E. Tyson

  Why would I do such a thing? the voice said sarcastically.

  “Get out of there!” Rennon warned, seeing what Dorenn was doing.

  Shey moved, and Gondrial grabbed ahold of Deylia as he dived for cover. Dorenn’s dragon’s fire did not spew forth like he planned. His hands became red hot.

  “Release it, you idiot!” Gondrial yelled at him.

  The voice inside Dorenn’s head was laughing at him. Dorenn’s arms began to burn, and his long sleeves began to smoke. The creature looked at him with snide contempt and charged. Dorenn felt the fire reach his shoulders; it was slowly consuming him. he looked at each of his friends in turn. Rennon was shouting something. Shey was pointing at the creature. Gondrial hurried to round them all up and they ran! They ran from him! This is it, he thought. I am going to burn up before the creature even gets to me! Toborne, you have betrayed me! Let me release the fire!

  Touch it, the voice instructed.

  The reanimate reached for him. Dorenn reached out to touch the creature. It seemed as if his hand moved in slow motion. As soon as his forefinger made contact with its chest, the reanimate looked down at the flames burning into it from Dorenn’s fingertip. The fire surged out of Dorenn and into the reanimate. He flattened his hand out onto the reanimate’s chest, and it burned from the inside out. It gave him one last agonizing glance before it went up in smoke and ashes, completely disintegrated. Dorenn turned at the screams of someone behind him in time to see a man in black robes come out of the shadows, his arms held up to the heavens. He began burning from toe to head. He writhed around a moment as the flames consumed him, and then he collapsed onto the street in a burning heap.

  “You didn’t only burn the reanimate, you somehow transferred your power to the necromancer as well!” Gondrial said when he approached Dorenn again. “Impressive.”

  Dorenn looked at his hands, certain they would be burned, but they were clean and pinkish from the cold—no trace of heat.

  See, the voice in his head began, you would not have thought to use dragon’s fire like that without me, now would you!

  Dorenn was about to reply when he came face to face with Deylia, who was staring at him disapprovingly. At first, he thought she didn’t approve of him burning the necromancer and his reanimate, but then he quickly realized that she could hear the voice in his head.

  “What did you hear?” he asked on impulse.

  “I didn’t hear anything.” she replied acidly.

  “What on the sixteen seas is going on here?” It was Morgoran, followed closely by Ianthill.

  “A Scarovian necromancer sent a reanimate after us,” Gondrial said with the excitement of Dorenn’s attack still apparent in his voice. “Dorenn used dragon’s fire from the Myradon Codex, in a pretty unique way, I might add, and defeated them.” He patted Dorenn on the back.

  “Oh, he did,” Morgoran said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  Gondrial recounted the encounter for Morgoran and Ianthill.

  Ianthill gave Dorenn a hard look. “I know of another that was adept at using dragon magic, especially forms of dragon’s fire.”

  “If you are referring to Toborne, and we both know you are,” Dorenn shot back, “just come out with it.” Dorenn was not sure where that had come from.

  “All right,” Morgoran said. “Is Toborne still in that head of yours somehow?”

  “Aye, of course he is. I took his essence, but the man himself is dead, I assure you. He has no influence over me.”

  Morgoran turned to Ianthill with a nod. “That’s good enough for me.”

  Ianthill shrugged and headed back for the inn, mumbling about having to explain all this to the townsfolk. Morgoran followed him, and Dorenn caught a snippet of the old wielder saying something about a memory-wiping spell, and Ianthill threw back his arm in dismissal of it. Gondrial patted Dorenn on the back again and took Shey by the hand.

  “Are you still hungry, dear?” he asked.

  “Probably more so. What? You think fighting and carrying on would make me somehow lose my appetite? Aren’t you used to all this by now, the thrill of it?”

  Gondrial laughed and pulled Shey close to him. “That’s my girl,” he said.

  She giggled at him, and Dorenn wrinkled his forehead at them. He had never seen them act this way toward each other before. Dorenn smiled and followed behind Rennon and Deylia. His smile abruptly faded when he saw Deylia look back at him with her knowing eyes. She quickly turned away and began talking to Rennon, who didn’t seem out of the usual. Surely he would have heard the voice too if Deylia did. Maybe I am just being paranoid. He glanced back at the smoldering corpse of the necromancer. “Hey, are we just going to leave that guy burning in the streets? Hey, guys?” he called after them, but they were already back inside the inn.

  Chapter 16: Gift of the Sand Elves

  The bright flicker of the campfires and braziers ahead indicated the soldier’s camp was close. As Trendan got closer, he could see the fires lined the perimeter of the camp. Sanmir had lost a lot of blood and was stumbling now, even with Vesperin and Bren holding him up and guiding him. When they reached the camp, the guards at the makeshift gate stopped them, but as soon as they realized a fellow Siladil was injured, they let the party into the camp and immediately directed them to the cleric’s tent.

  Vesperin and Bren put Sanmir onto the cot indicated by the cleric. After one look at the black, spreading wound, the cleric summoned the high priest. A few moments later, three men, two in elaborate dress robes, appeared.

  “Who is in charge here?” the one most elaborately dressed asked.

  “He is.” Trendan pointed at Sanmir.

  “I am Shexah, the Great Pryus of the Siladil of Darovan.” He pointed for the other well-dressed elf to help Sanmir, and the man complied. “This is High Priest Andramir.”

  Trendan bowed awkwardly and glared at the rest of his party. They all bowed awkwardly as well.

  “We are all friends here. There is no need for all the pomp and protocol,” Shexah said. “Well, Andramir?”

  “He has the mark of the dead, but not like I’ve seen before. I am afraid there is nothing I can do for him, Great One.”

  Tatrice buried her head in Bren’s chest at the news. He embraced her tenderly.

  “What is it, then?” Shexah asked. “That a high priest of Darovan cannot find a cure!”

  “Something new and something evil.” He tried to touch it, and a hissing sound, as water being poured on a fire, issued forth from the wound when his fingers got close. He quickly yanked his hand back. “Whatever did this is cursed beyond anything I have ever encountered before. The purity of my hand irritates the wound.”

  “Are you certain you can’t do anything?” Fayne asked. “Anything at all?”

  “I might be able to make him more comfortable, enough to say his goodbyes, but I am afraid that’s all I can do.”

  “Do it, then,” Shexah commanded.

  “As you command, Great Pryus. When he wakes, one of you will need to tell him of his situation.” He looked directly at Trendan.

  “I will tell him,” Trendan said. “He was like a father to me.” He blinked back tears.

  Fayne went to Vesperin for comfort. He put his arm around her shoulder as she nestled in to him.

  After a few moments, Sanmir opened his eyes, and Trendan took his hand. “How do you feel now?”

  “Thirsty,” Sanmir rasped.

  “Get him some water,” Shexah commanded the cleric, who disappeared momentarily and returned with a goblet of water.

  Trendan helped Sanmir drink. “Sanmir, are you in pain?”

  “No, no pain.”

  Tears began to well up in Trendan’s eyes again. “That’s good. You’ll let us know if you feel any pain, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Trendan squeezed Sanmir’s hand tighter. “You have been mortally wounded, my friend. There is nothing they can do for you.”

  Sanmir nodded. “I thought
so, seeing all your faces here. I am no stranger to Darovan medicine. I can smell the herbs used.”

  “Always the apothecary,” Trendan began. He swallowed hard and collected his thoughts. “You have taught us all how to be men and women.”

  “You did a great job,” Tatrice blurted out. Sanmir nodded.

  Vesperin went to the other side of Sanmir’s bed and took his other hand. “You saved my life and taught me how to pursue my calling with Loracia. I will never forget that.”

  Sanmir coughed slightly and smiled. “At least I get to die in my homeland.”

  “And you will have the full regalia of your homeland as well,” Shexah said.

  “Who?”

  “He’s the Great Pryus, Shexah, Sanmir,” Trendan explained.

  “Shexah! You’re the Great Pryus now?” Sanmir said with surprise.

  “I know. You would never have guessed it in our youths. I was a bit wild back then, my old friend.”

  “A bit! That’s stating it mildly,” Sanmir said. He coughed again. “Shexah, take care of my boys and girls here, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will, old friend. I will help them in any way I can.”

  “I know I can count on you,” Sanmir rasped. “Now, as is our custom, I would like to speak with Trendan alone to impart the gift of the sand elves.”

  Shexah ushered everyone but Trendan out of the tent. “Come, you all must be hungry and thirsty. Let us go find some food.”

  “I’m not hungry at all now,” Tatrice objected.

  “Nevertheless, let’s go,” Shexah said.

  As soon as they were gone, Sanmir took Trendan’s hand in both of his hands. “There isn’t much time now. Trendan, because you are half-elven, you alone can receive my gift. Siladil magic endures because it is passed from one elf to another upon death. None of my people are born into the ability to use it as is the case with other forms of magic in the world.”

  “You mean like Dorenn and the essence he absorbed?”

  “No, nothing like that. This isn’t essence. All of my magic and all of my skills will pass to you. Everything I know about herbs and medicine, dagger play and throwing, as well as traveling through earth and stone, everything!”

  “What! Sanmir, I can’t.”

  “It’s the gift of the sand elves. If you don’t accept it, I will die and everything I know dies with me. It is the fear of all Siladil to die in such a horrible manner. My people would see the loss of my accumulated knowledge and ability as tragic. The magic and skills I pass to you have been passing through my linage since the beginning of time.”

  “But I am not of your linage.”

  “Nevertheless, you are as my son. I accept you as such.”

  Trendan nodded, not knowing what to expect. Sanmir closed his eyes, and Trendan felt the power pass through his arms and into his body. He stiffened at first but relaxed soon after. The feeling was very pleasant. As soon as the feeling stopped, Trendan opened his eyes and Sanmir was gone. A single tear rolled down his face. “Goodbye, my friend, and thank you.”

  Trendan left the tent to find all of his friends sitting nearby. None of them seemed to want the food or drink laid out before them. “He’s gone,” Trendan said with choked words.

  The Great Pryus pointed to the tent, and the clerics rushed in. “They will prepare him for the funeral pyre. We have a permanent one set up at the far end of camp. Dead soldiers must be burned on the pyre at once or they will rise up again within hours,” he explained.

  Trendan went to Fayne and Vesperin, and they shared a hug, joined by Tatrice and awkwardly by Bren.

  “I will see that you all have a place to rest after the funeral pyre,” the Great Pryus said. He bowed his head and walked away to leave them alone with their grieving.

  Tatrice pushed away. “I will kill her!”

  “Who, our mother?” Fayne asked. Trendan could hear the shock and fear within her voice.

  “Stop calling her that!” Tatrice snapped.

  Trendan took a deep breath. “You will not kill her. If there is any way to save her, to bring her back, we all owe it to her to try to discover it.”

  “What’s your interest in her now, Trendan?” Fayne said. “You once tried to poison her!”

  He looked down at the ground shamefully. “You know that was before . . .” He hesitated. “Before I found out who she was and what she meant to what we are all trying to accomplish. She has been through a lot, getting close to Naneden, spying, and now being tortured by him in some hideous new way.”

  “So you believe Naneden tainted her somehow?” Bren asked.

  “She tried to warn Sanmir and I of it when we rescued her from him, but she was unable to tell us exactly. I doubt she knew the extent of it.”

  Trendan watched Tatrice. She still had her face twisted up in a scowl. He could see plainly that she still planned to hunt Kimala down. Trendan wondered if her passion was fueled by the death of Sanmir or by Fayne insisting that Kimala was her mother.

  After a time, the Great Pryus returned to them. “The clerics have prepared Sanmir’s body in the manner of the Siladil. We are ready to commence the ceremony. I am sorry this has to be done so quickly, but this land is cursed and we can’t afford for him to return as such.”

  “We understand,” Trendan said. He turned to his friends. “Come, let us honor our fallen.”

  The Great Pryus stopped Trendan as the others followed the clerics to the funeral pyre. “You received the gift, correct?”

  “I believe so. I felt his power transfer to me, but I don’t feel any different.”

  “He didn’t explain it to you? How this works?”

  Trendan looked at the Great Pryus with confusion.

  Shexah sniffed. “I can see he didn’t have time. Your gift will come to pass while his body is destroyed. All the memories and knowledge will pass to you. What he did to you earlier was to prepare your body. You might want to stand off to the side when the fire starts if you don’t want the others to see. I won’t lie to you, Trendan. It’s going to hurt. Your head will feel like it’s being crushed and then torn from your shoulders. Your whole body will feel like it’s being stabbed with thousands of sharp needles.”

  “This is called a gift?” Trendan said, alarmed.

  “The gift comes after the process is over. Everything that was Sanmir will pass to you.”

  “Will I still be me afterward?”

  “Well, of course you will. He isn’t stealing your body or anything. He has passed from this world,” the Great Pryus said rather sternly.

  “Forgive me, I have recently seen someone absorb the essence of another and . . .”

  “No, no, this is not an absorption. Sanmir will be gone. You will just have all his knowledge and abilities. You will be able to use them as if they were part of you all along, seamlessly. That’s why this process is so painful.”

  Trendan nodded. “All right. I’m ready.”

  Shexah led Trendan through the camp. The funeral pyre consisted of a hastily constructed scaffolding with scrap wood piled around it in a neat and orderly manner. The deserts of Darovan were largely devoid of trees, but a great forest grew just across the bay to the west, so the wood they did have on hand was brought with them from there. The rest of the funeral pyre was composed of wood from broken furniture and any other source the Siladil could find on hand; some of it was broken only to burn on the pyre. Sanmir’s body was wrapped tightly in white linen and placed on top during a chanting ceremony officiated by the high priest Andramir.

  Shexah gestured with his hand to a tent with an open end toward the funeral pyre but hidden from the attendees. “This tent is called the room of seclusion. If we were doing this in a city, it would be made of brick. It’s for the receiver of the gift so that he may have some privacy. Is there anyone who you might want to stand with you and help you?”

  He looked directly at Fayne. “No, there’s no one.”

  “Nonsense.” The Great Pryus went to his friends. “Trendan
is going to experience a very traumatic event while his mentor’s body is committed to the night skies. Might one of you volunteer to stand with him and help him?”

  Fayne put her hand on Vesperin’s shoulder. “I will,” she volunteered.

  “We can all stand with him,” Tatrice suggested.

  “No, it’s better if you give him room. He might fall on the ground and writhe around. I would suggest the rest of you refrain from going to him and let this fine young woman tend to him, no matter what you see or hear. Give him room, understood?” He let Fayne go to Trendan, and he walked to stand beside the funeral pyre. A cleric handed him a lit torch.

  “My friends and fellow Siladil,” he said in a loud, commanding voice, “tonight we commit my countryman, my friend, my older brother, Sanmir, to the great skies.”

  Tatrice gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Bren comforted her.

  Trendan whispered to Fayne. “Did you know he was Sanmir’s brother?”

  She shook her head. “No, I thought he was just someone he knew from childhood.”

  Shexah continued. “When we were small, Sanmir was the quiet, studious one while I was busy chasing girls.” There was a round of laughter. “He was learning the ways of the apothecary while I was robbing apples in the orchards. It is no wonder that he received the gift of the sand elves from our greatfather rather than I.”

  Shexah’s words made Trendan realize that Shexah should have gotten Sanmir’s gift instead. He was family.

  “As you all know, my ways have not changed all that much. I never had the urge to travel to foreign lands or get involved in worldly destinies like my brother. That is why he and I decided long ago that if he went to the skies first, he would not give me the gift. Even though I am Great Pryus now and I am involved in worldly destinies, despite my best efforts to avoid them, I am pleased that my brother honored our pact. I am also pleased to announce that he was indeed able to pass on the gift of the sand elves, and all the knowledge and skill of our ancestors will survive.”

  There was a sigh of relief from the attending Siladil.