by P D Ceanneir
Gunach sat calmly in his seat, slowly blowing out tobacco smoke rings and completely ignoring the ruckus around him. He skilfully picked up his half-full mug of ale as the table broke Velnour’s fall and collapsed to the floor from his weight.
‘Not disturbing you are we?’ gasped Velnour as he clutched his bruised ribs.
‘Well, you could ask them to keep the noise down until I’ve finished my pipe.’
Across from them, three young men and their ageing father knocked over their corner table in the rush to join the fight. The young woman that Hexor had been charming attacked two of the Wards by jumping on one and clawing the face of another with her long fingernails. Over by the far corner, a group of four men rushed in to help the Wards and went for Djroosh as he swung left and right with powerful sweeping arcs of his arms. Yet, the fight was uneven; most of the townspeople were siding with the newcomers.
‘I see that these priestly types have few friends,’ observed Gunach and Foxe nodded, before being bodily lifted to his feet by his original attackers and thrown over the bar.
‘Get me a drink while you are there, lad,’ shouted Gunach and then someone fell into him and he dropped the jug of beer he was holding. He stared at the cracked pieces on the floor and the brownish liquid seeping away between the floorboards. Then he roared in anger. It would have been wise before any dispute erupted to inform the common folk of the town not to make a dwarf angry by causing him to spill his drink.
Gunach picked up his stool and used it in much the same way he would use his axe in a battle, only the stool left bruises, lots of bruises
Soon, the quiet drink by the open fire became a noisy descent into chaos.
The noise from the bar brawl carried down to ground level and attracted the attention of the Watchmen of the Boughhauss. With their helmets, half-armour and spear tips glinting in the fading evening light, the dozen men raced up the stairs to the tavern entrance to put order to chaos.
Four pairs of eyes watched from their hiding place in the darkness of the shorter pine trees. Captain Carbaum held back the jaggy branch of a fir and ignored the needles jabbing into his gloved hand.
‘Congratulation captain, your plan is working,’ said Lord Ness, ‘more of the Watch are on their way.’
The captain nodded as another small squad of six men streamed past them as they sprinted for the steps of the Ternquin tree.
‘Aye,’ said Carbaum stroking his stubbly chin. ‘A fine plan right enough, I just hope the Ward’s tabards that my men stole are not missed.’
In the gathering gloom, Havoc chuckled. He was starting to like this canny man and his calm offhand demeanour. He had disliked the plan at first, feeling guilty about Tia, and his friends, involvement and concern about them being unaware of it all. Nevertheless, sometimes you have to make sacrifices to make gains, being a successful Battle Commander taught him that.
The Master of Ternquin knew the benefits of sacrifice and Havoc learnt from him as a student would a master. Creating a diversion, to distract and draw away the Watch from the path to the Gateway of Life, was very cleaver in its simplicity and callous in it action.
‘I hope your friends will be all right,’ said Carbaum with genuine remorse, ‘the impression they will have of the hospitality of my people will be greatly diminished, I am afraid.’
‘My friends will be fine; they can look after themselves,’ said Havoc. ‘Besides if I let Little Kith go with them the fight would be over in seconds.’ Behind him, there was a deep groaning guffaw from the big man, his way of laughing. Havoc had not intended to let the giant come along, but he somehow got wind of the mission and insisted. There were times when Havoc realised that royalty needed their protectors. Little Kith did not know it, but he was acting as the prince’s bodyguard and doing such a good job of it that he was tempted to make the job a permanent one.
Carbaum craned his neck up to look at the big man in front of him. The man’s sheer size would put anyone off starting a fight, never mind finishing one, thought the captain.
‘Aye well, enough said. Let us go and get the horses,’ he said and led the way through the woods some distance until they found Sir Furran, who was guarding the horses, which had been brought ashore on the pretence that they needed shoeing at the local blacksmith. All five of them led their mounts to the path now deserted in both directions. They rode to the low natural cleft that marked the gap between the tall mountains surrounding the town’s fjord. They made good time once they were out of sight from anyone looking from the town.
Snow fell, the thick flakes clumped together as it drifted down to settle over the dirt path. The group trotted ever upwards, zigzagging through the trees, until the night was as black as pitch. At this point Carbaum took out two sticks, one end of each wrapped in moss, thin wood twine, linen, and soaked in whale oil. He lit them with his flint knife and the torches soon glowed brightly in the darkness, casting eerie shadows around the pines. The trees leapt like strange shadow creatures of imagination as the group travelled onwards and upwards. Once the torchlight faded from the shadows, the darkness and the silence sent the night to rest.
Carbaum led, with torch held high, and Furran with the second torch taking up the rear. Dirkem snorted snow from his nostrils and blew out his breath in long white streams as he climbed on the path that was even, but steep. The narrow path was daunting to wander through in daylight never mind the dead of night. The tall trees loomed on both sides, dark and threatening, and they enclosed the travellers in a narrow claustrophobic tunnel of branch and pine leaf.
After an hour they came to a bend in the road, beyond which was a level open space where moss covered bricks lay tumbled all around, although the ruined hovel still had some sheltered walls intact. It was here that the party stopped and made camp for the night.
‘I used to come here with my friends when I was younger to escape the trappings of court,’ said Carbaum to no one in particular. He took out some dry kindling from his saddlebags and used a branch to clear snow from an indent in the ground that sat in the centre of the ruins. He lit the fire, placing much used blackened flat stones around the flames while the others gathered more firewood from deeper inside the forest.
When the fire burned large and bright, they released the horses, allowing them to forage in the snow by the side of the path. Each man leant against his saddle as each warmed their hands and feet by the flames. Carbaum took out some tubers and freshly smoked fillets of trout from a small tin pot and made a light stew by melting snow and adding chopped herbs from a black leather pouch by his side.
Each of them relished the food, it warmed them up inside.
‘My compliments to the chef,’ said Lord Ness when he finished the meal. A sentiment echoed by all of the others.
‘Thank you all,’ said the captain. ‘I think if I wasn’t a captain of men then I may have made a good military cook.’
It was getting late and Carbaum took out a partly cooked leg of pork wrapped in gauze from the same saddlebag to keep it fresh and then placed it in another hollow in-between the hot flat stones, then covered it in twigs and sots of earth.
‘That will be cooked by morning,’ he said.
‘How far is it to the gateway?’ asked Havoc.
‘Not far, but it is better to see them in the morning. Although we must be careful of the Ice Drake and spend as little time there as possible’
Havoc and Lord Ness acknowledged this with a nod, but Furran and Little Kith looked quizzically at one another.
‘Ah, what is an Ice Drake, exactly?’ asked Furran.
‘It’s a type of Fire Drake,’ said Havoc in an offhand way.
Furran nodded with a frown then got a nudge from Kith who indicated to him with a jerk of his head to ask another question.
‘So what’s a Fire Drake then?’
He heard Ness Ri sigh as he settled down for the night.
‘It’s another name for a dragon,’ said the Ri as if it was obvious. Furran and Kith stared at the
other three men as they lay back to sleep.
‘I’m sorry I asked,’ said Furran.
‘Night then,’ said Havoc, ‘sweet dreams.’ The two Paladins swore they could hear the prince laugh as he settled down for the night.
‘I’ll take first watch, said Little Kith.
‘I think I’ll join you,’ added Furran.
He was shifting through landscapes, dreaming of unfurling ethereal winds that changed the scenes around him to reveal realms that defied the imagination.
The Blacksword found himself standing in the corridor of ice again. The sheer walls, glassy and glowing with inner light, cast blue shadows along a wide opening. He found himself walking towards it having no idea why he moved, no, floated in its direction. He felt compelled to move.
Summoned by the will of another, perhaps.
The other was the girl. The girl who spoke to him in his dreams. He could not see her form but felt her close by. The walls of the corridor tinkled like crystal glasses at the sound of her passing. He followed her to a wide cavern, dark and oppressive. A Stone Circle of granite sarsens sat in the middle of the cave while huge icicles hung from the ceiling.
Down below he saw the Ice Drake. It was not large, only about half the size of Ciriana, which told him it was still young. It hunched inside the darkness towards the rear of the cavern and it rumbled under its breath as it sensed the presence of the girl.
It was cautious of her.
‘How fares your pet, Mater Ri?’
The Blacksword frantically looked around; he had not detected the presence of another life form apart from the girl and the dragon. A man stepped out from the shadows that surrounded the Ice Drake. He was tall and, like all Ris’ of the Order, robed in white. He moved quickly into the ring of stones and stood behind a stone throne at the centre of the circle. He regarded the air around him with hooded eyes. He seemed old, gaunt and tired. His once thick and vibrant white mane of hair was now thin and unwashed and there was an unearthly colour to his pallor.
The girl laughed, ‘do you still fear me enough to rush into your beloved circle of stones for protection, Gonliss?’
‘Taunt me no further, Nicbetha! I have given my life to this cause and I will not have it thwarted by your hand!’ said Gonliss in a dry and angry voice. He was looking around for the girl, but her form was invisible and her voice disembodied.
‘Quite so, but what cause is this? I have given you the tools to step onto Mortkraxnoss and yet you delay. Is it because the true Keeper comes?’
‘Tools! I should have never taken the oath with you, my life is not my own, as you well know.’
‘No. It is mine!’ said the Nicbetha with much authority. ‘Yet I have given you free will. Rejoice for you still have a mind and your plans are yours to make, but you will fail.’
‘Fail? I thought that you could not read my future?’
‘I cannot, your failure is your wish to delay. Already the Keeper comes closer with each day.’
‘Bah! You bandy words with me Witch! You have deceived me! You knew the Barrier would forbid me from entering Mortkraxnoss, even if I used the talisman to align the Guardians!’
The Nicbetha’s laugher was loud and the walls of the cavern shook. Gonliss Ri actually flinched and the Ice Drake whined.
‘You Rawn immortals are so pathetic!’ she said calmly, ‘after all you have learned on your travels, and all you know through me, do you still think your outdated Brethac Order could resurrect the Earth Daemon from the Great Orrinn and defy the power of its true Keeper, a power that can harm the Lonely God itself?’
‘You make the Blacksword out to be a god of some kind!’ said Gonliss.
‘He is created by the My’thos, a Bani of incredible influence. What makes you think he is not a god?
‘You lie! No creature can be favoured so…’ shouted Gonliss, but the Nicbetha interrupted.
‘Ask him yourself, for he stands here listening.’
The cavern went silent. The Blacksword found himself hovering towards the stone circle. Gonliss Ri’s eyes widened in terror and the Ice Drake roared.
‘Behold, the Son of Death,’ announced the Nicbetha.
The Blacksword willed himself to stop and he did. His anger flared inside him, the feeling of being manipulated by the Nicbetha and displayed for her purposes caused his Pyromantic Rage to unfold and a shimmer of white light haloed around him.
‘ENOUGH!’ he roared and the dream shattered.
He drifted again, disorientated inside a sea of white clouds.
She was there again, invisible. Her touch caressed his cheek and she whispered his name.
‘Do not be angry with me, I have what you seek.’
‘The Talisman of Mortkraxnoss?’
‘No….knowledge.’ The clouds parted, yet hung in the periphery of his vision. He found himself standing in a busy market. Bright sunshine and intolerable heat blinded him and forced him to seek shade under a stall’s awning.
The market was massive. It stretched into the distance for miles. Colourful tents and thousands of wooden tables stacked in long rows over the sands of a desert. Flags, banners and tent canvas fluttered in the warm breeze whilst a multitude of various dressed people crowded the narrow spaces between the stalls, but none of them took any notice of the Blacksword.
Only the tall blonde-haired girl directly to his front watched him with a slight smile on her beautiful face. She wore a snug fitted light blue silk dress, which, like her hair, shifted slowly as if she was actually underwater. The crowd also ignored her and moved around her like water passing around a rock.
‘This is the Great Bazaar in Tenk of Mubea,’ said the Nicbetha, ‘about a hundred years ago.’
‘Why have you brought me here?’ he asked.
She smiled and pointed to her left. He looked and she was there again, standing in front of a stall of assorted trinkets. This time she wore a dusty travelling robe, black turban and carried an elm staff. She now seemed part of the environment, the crowds knew of her presence as they jostled by her. Yet her ethereal form in the silk dress still stood next to the Blacksword.
‘What is happening?’ he asked.
‘You see me in the past,’ said the Nicbetha, ‘when my human body was young.’
‘I don’t…’
‘Hush now. Watch.’
The other Nicbetha now took a large satchel from her shoulder and pulled out a white orb about the size of a man’s clenched fist. The person she handed it to was obviously a Ri who had been searching the stall for odds and ends. He nodded and took the offered orb, running his finger over the surface and then lifting it up to the light to get a better look. He handed her a large purse of monies as he did so.
‘Who is he?’ asked the Blacksword.
‘A long dead Ri called Hiram,’ informed the Nicbetha, ‘but the important thing is he will take the Orrinn to the Tower of Sooth for further scrutiny.’
‘It’s an Orrinn?’
‘Yes, do you not recognise it? You see it every day.’
The Blacksword’s eyes narrowed and he gasped when he realised what he was showing her.
‘How…how did you come by it?’
She smiled sweetly at him and lifted her fingers to his face. Her touch was soft and he frowned, because he found himself attracted to her.
‘So powerful and yet so lacking in knowledge. That will all change when you go to Mortkraxnoss.’
‘And will my questions be answered there?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘How do you know this?’
She laughed girlishly, ‘how do you think I got the Muse Orrinn in the first place?’
They all woke the next morning to the smell of baking bread. Carbaum had risen early and lit a new fire, and now he placed a large flat stone over it and took a bundle tied up in a large leaf from his backpack. The bundle, much like a dock leaf, kept the kneaded dough inside it fresh. While he thinned out several strips and cooked this on the flat stone, he unearthed the
ham from the fire-pit and cut it into thin slices. The smell of bread and dripping pork made everyone slaver with hunger.
Havoc lay awake as the breakfast cooked, his head resting against his saddle, eyes looking towards the snow-heavy sky. The dreams of the night fragmented into distant shapes and unremembered events, yet he still grasped onto them and he could not get the idea out of his head that he had dreamt of warnings, omens, portents of doom, especially since they involved the Blacksword. He resisted the urge to look into the Muse Orrinn to gather any information on the future, because the images he saw there were always fleeting and cryptic. He put aside any thought of seeking advice from the Blacksword. That strange being was quiet and moody as usual while he slumbered in the dark recesses of the prince’s mind.
The group ate hungrily. Biting off slices of ham between flat bread, the pork juices ran down their chins and the captain watched them eat with a smile. Once sated, the group continued onwards and upwards to the gateway as the sun rose in the mid-morning sky, climbing the last few miles at a steady pace and coming to the crest of the hill where the gate stood.
The Gateway of Life did not look like much. Strange but unimpressive, it was an oval ring twice the height of a man and stood upright from a platform made of a dark brown stone, which was flecked with gold and silver metals that caught the morning light. No trees or other plants grew around it and this made Carbaum hesitate a little while longer at the tree line. Eventfully he braved the open air, looking around him as he walked out and led the others towards the gateway.
‘This is the Gateway of Life, gentlemen,’ said Carbaum pointing to the ring. Then he pointed over to the crest at the rear of the object. ‘And those are the Guardians.’
Havoc, Ness Ri, Furran, and Little Kith all walked past the captain and looked over the ridge of the crest. The gateway sat on the very edge of a sheer cliff, down below was a very deep valley of pine trees that were shrouded in mist, only their tops poked through the cloud. Around the valley stood sheer walls of high snow-capped mountains, the lower slopes of two of them formed a naturally wide V directly opposite the group on the other side of the valley, about a mile in distance from where they stood.
