Aethir

by DeWayne Kunkel

  The floor of the plaza was tiled in a mosaic of gold and scarlet. Beneath the drifts of dust a pattern of concentric circles was plainly visible. At the plaza’s heart lay a large pool filled with clear water that bubbled up out of a deep well.

  A large crack split the side of the pool on its western end. The water disappeared through the opening returning into the earth below the plaza. Moss caked the pools bottom, clinging to the sides in tattered sheets.

  The water was cold and refreshing. They drank deeply and refilled their nearly empty skins. The horses stood to one side waiting patiently for their chance at the pool. The Morne may be a brutal people but they were superb trainers of horses. When the skins were full Connell waved the horses forward. They came without hesitation and drank their fill tossing their heads in enjoyment.

  As the horses drank Casius explored the area around the plaza. Half of the court was open to the city. The Northern half of its arc was bordered by a large building. Its wall pierced by seven arched openings. Above each, a large flame was carved into the rock.

  The building was intact and its interior was shrouded in deep shadow. Only the polished cobbles of its floor were visible near the openings. Casius moved closer trying to see beyond the doorways.

  “You are not Morne,” A voice stated from the darkness.

  Casius leapt back, drawing his sword. “Who’s there?” He demanded drawing the others attention to the doorway.

  A frail old man hobbled out of the archway. He was dressed in a pale white robe that had seen better days. Its hem was tattered and stained by the reddish dust that covered everything within the ruins.

  He was a small man with a bent back and hands so aged that they appeared too be claws, his knuckles were swollen to the size of acorns. Unkempt hair as white as frost framed his weathered features, from within his wrinkled sockets beneath bushy brows shined eyes of bright turquoise. About his neck hung a heavy pendant of polished stone.

  “Put away your blade young man.” He said somewhat harshly. He stopped his approach and leaned heavily upon a cane of gnarled wood. “Had I wished, you would be dead now.”

  He waved his hand dismissively and turned to face the others. “I am Arkett,” He announced. “By what right do you drink from my well?”

  “We have need of the water,” Marcos answered stepping forward. “We meant no offense Arkett, the city appeared to be abandoned.”

  “Bah!” Arkett snorted. “It has always been far easier to ask for pardon than to look for permission.” He stepped to the pool looking into its depths as if seeking damage. “You are not Morne,” He repeated. “Why have you come to Amberoth?”

  “For water,” Marcos replied.

  Arkett nodded. “I can tell you are not of the plains.”

  “How so?” Connell asked curious as to what gave them away.

  “It takes more than dark robes and black horses to fool a man like me.” He said with a shrug. “You drank your fill before seeing to your mounts needs. Your horse should always come first, for it is his back and fleet hooves that carry the journey.” He turned from the water and squinted his eyes against the sun. “You have drank unbidden from my well, what else would you have of me?” He asked looking directly into Marcos’s ever changing eyes.

  “Perhaps shelter for the evening?” Marcos asked politely.

  Arkett laughed, “You have traveled far indeed to seek such things here. From what land do you hail?” He waited patiently for an answer.

  Marcos remained silent; he did not trust this man. He was old, far older than his appearance. There was power at work here, dark and insidious it lay within the very stones about them slumbering, awaiting its awakening.

  Arkett’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” He said. “Keep your secrets then, they are of no importance to me.” He turned and pointed his cane towards Suni. “The warriors of Anghor are an enigmatic people. Why would their companions be any less cagey?”

  He turned his back to them and hobbled towards the doorway from which he emerged. “You are weary, rest here in peace.” He said over his shoulder. “The Morne will not tread within these walls, by day or night they fear this place.”

  “Why?” Casius asked sheathing his blade.

  Arkett smiled in response. “They have their reasons.” He answered. “Do not stray beyond the plaza until dawn. My power to protect you extends no further than the columns about you.” He disappeared within the archway slamming an iron door behind him.

  “We should leave this place while the day is still young.” Casius suggested. He had an uneasy feeling about Arkett. Something about Amberoth unnerved him.

  “He’s mad,” Connell said. “Too many years alone in this place has warped his mind.”

  “He is far older and stronger than he appears.” Marcos said. “There is more to this place than we know.” Pointing to the buildings down the street. “Look to the shadows, there are spirits within them awaiting us to pass by. Our drinking of their well has angered them and now they await their opportunity for vengeance.”

  Casius looked into the dark ruins and after a few moments he could see shadowy figures lurking there. Clinging to the dark corners, their eyes burning faintly in the gloom.

  “I think we should heed Arkett’s advice and await the dawn.” Marcos continued.

  “It is only mid morning now,” Connell said. “Why risk the night in this ruin?”

  “I felt no malice from Arkett,” Marcos answered. “His power holds those that watch us at bay. We should not squander his protection; he knows we need the rest. It has been a long night and we should avail ourselves of his hospitality.”

  Connell looked into the ruined buildings and shadowy alleys. He could see the faint outlines of several lurkers in the darkness. He was exhausted and the prospect of fighting their way through the entire city did not appeal to him. “Then let us gather what rest we may.” He said in acceptance.

  They tended their horses and rested in the long shadow cast by the building across the plaza. When nightfall neared and the sky began to darken the basins upon the columns suddenly burst into flame. The fires burned brightly lighting the whole area about the pool.

  The steady click of Arkett’s cane sounded from the darkness. Into the light he stepped, he walked straighter his back no longer bent. His robe shone in the firelight the stains upon its hem no longer visible.

  “Now is the time for answers.” He said in greeting. “Before the lament of Amberoth begins I shall tell you our tale.” As he spoke the pool began to glow with a faint silvery light.

  “The stones of Amberoth were laid over four thousand years ago. Long before the Morne claimed these lands for their own. The people journeyed out of the distant west coming to a plain both green and fair. They prospered here, their crops were rich and the wells ran clear and cool.

  “For generations they lived in peace, then the Morne came. From out of the north they rode, proclaiming the sovereignty of the Storm God. They demanded tribute, a portion of our crops and children for sacrifice.

  “We refused, and the Morne returned in greater numbers. Seven times Amberoth lay besieged by the reptiles. Seven times we drove them back to the north, leaving a trail of their dead behind them.

  Casius listened to Arkett’s tale; out in the darkness beyond the fires light he could see pale flickers of illumination drawing nearer.

  “Two strangers appeared before the closed gates. One to the north and the other at the south, they did not respond to the guards hails. Dark and evil, clothed like the Morne in deepest black they stood. We knew not the nature of their power, brave men went forth to confront them. They sickened and died ere they reached the figures. Those that turned and fled back into the city brought with them a horrible plague.

  “A burning fever that claimed young and old alike. No one was immune and within three days all who lived within these walls lay dead.” Arkett’s eyes watered with sorrow.

  “Balhain,” Marcos stated in disgust. “A plague of Sur’kar’s
devising.”

  Arkett nodded affirming Marcos’s assumption. “It was not a clean death. In the end those that passed tore past death’s wards and returned to haunt this place forever denying it to the Morne who caused their deaths. The Balhain had cast powerful spells here and with them they had bound a fate for Amberoth even their Storm god could not have foreseen.”

  A chill ran down Casius’s spine, he could see now that the ethereal lights had become people, hundreds of them, floating through the streets all heading towards the fountain. They were dim, a faint gossamer shell of light that faded in and out of view. They moved silently passing through piles of broken stonework without effort. Their eyes were dark pits above mouths crying out soundlessly in torment and rage.

  “Too long they have protected this place.” Arkett said moving to the pools edge. “They have forgotten their past, now in their torment they slay any who dare enter here.

  “Though you have kept your purpose hidden, I can see no evil in you. Therefore no retribution will be sought. Come dawn you must leave this place taking only the water, which I have freely given. Should you seek treasure among these ruins be assured you will find much to your liking. Take so much as one coin and you will meet your death before another night passes.”

  Marcos looked into Arkett’s eyes. “You know the ways of power.” He said simply.

  Arkett shook his head. “Not enough, I’m afraid. I did what my feeble powers would allow. In so doing I have become trapped here. Neither living nor dead, I am forever locked between the two worlds. A fate I would wish on no man, regardless of the evil he has done.”

  “My brothers grow restless,” He said looking to the milling crowd beyond the columns. “I must walk with my people, calm their anger.” He took two steps and turned to face Marcos. “I know you are more than you appear to be Marcos.” He said softly. “Remember us.”

  “I will Arkett.” Marcos said sadly. “I pray that you and your people will find peace.”

  Arkett smiled. “That will take the death of a god.” He faded into the wind, with his going the tormented dead disappeared as well.”

  Casius wrapped his arms about himself; the plight of these people tore at his heart. “When I think I have seen evil at its worst my eyes are opened to new horrors that make the others pale in comparison.”

  Connell splashed water upon his face, as if to cleanse his eyes of what he had just witnessed. He dried off with the Morne robe he wore. He held the cloth in his hand for a moment, resisting the urge to tear the offensive material from his shoulders and cast it to the ground. “We should rest.” He said in a voice filled with pent up emotion.

  Casius sat huddled within his robe against one of the pillars. He watched as his companions made themselves comfortable within the light of the braziers atop the columns. Even Suni seemed to be quieter than usual, respectful of the fate shared by the people within this damned city.

  From somewhere deep in the ruins soft music began to play, a melancholy tune that lulled him into a deep sleep. For the first time in many months his dreams took him back to happier times, to the days before his fathers murder and the destruction of his home.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Burcott stood outside Fro’Hadume’s curtain wall. Looking down from the Bal’Trae hills into the shadowed depths of the forest.

  For three weeks they had worked hard repairing the ancient fortress. The curtain wall was whole once more, the keep’s inner bailey free of the detritus left behind by the passing ages. Shelters had been built and the men were living comfortably.

  With the exception of the one visit by the woodsman from the Forest they had seen no other people.

  Burcott had walked this path many times in the past three weeks, but today was different. The wind blew from the south and it carried upon it the bitter smell of smoke.

  In the distance dark billowing clouds rose from the verdant treetops. At first there was two, now seven dark columns reached skyward.

  Tellius came down from the keep carrying a large tankard that spilled foam as he navigated the uneven ground. Coming to Burcott’s side he handed the old warrior the cup.

  “A large fire,” he commented looking at the smoke.

  Burcott took the cup and pointed with it to the smoke, the motion spilled ale across his knuckles. “This fire is not natural.” He said taking a deep drink. “It was set for a purpose.”

  Tellius nodded, “The woodsmen would do no such thing, to them such an act would be sacrilege.” The young captain rubbed his chin in thought. “That brings us to the question, why?”

  “When hunting a plain’s lion in high grass it is safer to set the field afire and allow the flames to drive the beast to you.” Burcott surmised. “This fire will drive many of the woodsmen towards us. Whomever set the blaze seeks to push them out of the forest.” Burcott handed the empty tankard to Tellius. “Recall the patrols and double the sentries. Unless I am mistaken the Morne are burning their way through the forest. We must prepare a welcome for them.”

  “What of the woodsmen?” Tellius asked.

  “We will leave the gate open for as long as is possible.” Burcott answered after a moments thought. “We will offer the keep’s defenses to any who would partake of it.” Burcott gripped Tellius’s shoulder stressing his words. “No man is to raise a hand against the forest people, there are many legends about them and I will have no one acting out of ignorance.”

  “Not one arrow will be loosed without your word, Lord Burcott.” Tellius promised.

  Burcott nodded and released his shoulder.

  Tellius turned on his heel and rushed back up the berm and into the keep.

  Burcott watched the fires grow and slowly move closer. Driven by the wind it would not be long until the very edge of the forest would be ablaze.

  He had anticipated encountering only a small number of Morne, a few raiding parties at most. He feared that was all about to change. The Morne were coming, and doing so in force. They were burning a wide swath through the wood rendering any defenses of the natives impotent.

  Burcott’s mind raced, he was formulating new strategies to deal with a much larger foe. Strapping his raven winged helm upon his head he strode down the slope towards the forest.

  He stopped just short of the shadow cast by the trees. Peering into the darkness he could hear the first hints of a distant battle, the ring of steel and screams of terror and pain.

  Drawing his mighty sword he stabbed the blade deep into the earth and strode boldly into the forest edge. The smell of smoke was thick within the confines of the wood. He knew he was taking a great risk; the woodsmen have killed for such a transgression before. He took his ox horn trumpet from his belt and blew a single long note that echoed far into the dark depths.

  His wait was a short one, after fifteen minutes three men stepped out of the shadows only a few feet away. He was stunned by the skill these men possessed, Burcott did not think any human could move so silently.

  The men were dressed alike, wearing only loincloths and sandals. Two of them wore their hair loosely, it hung to their shoulders, entwined within it were leaves and feathers of many colors. The third man was the same individual who had met him outside the keep several weeks past.

  The men were angry, their eyes burning with barely restrained rage.

  “You are bold.” The red haired warrior spoke.

  “Or foolish,” One of the others added. “We have killed men for entering our lands unbidden.”

  The red haired warrior raised his hand silencing his companions. “We have one enemy before us, do you wish to fight those in the keep as well?”

  The warrior who had spoke harshly lowered his eyes.

  “We see the fires,” Burcott interjected. “I have come to offer the protection of my warriors to any who come to the keep.”

  The rebuked warrior spat, “We need no help from these tree killers, Jehnom!” He adjusted his grip upon the haft of his spear.

  “Be still!” The warrio
r named Jehnom hissed. “You give my name freely when it is not your place to do so!”

  Burcott understood his distress; there were many places in the world where people believed that names carried power. With the knowledge of a name a man could call down a terrible curse upon another. The forest people held to this belief and were loath to give their names to strangers.

  “I am Burcott Fullvie,” he volunteered hoping to defuse the situation. “Lord of the house Fullvie and member of the Landsmarch. Sworn vassal of Gaelan, the rightful king of Trondhiem.”

  Jehnom tipped his head in recognition of what Burcott had done. “I see you are not totally ignorant of our ways, Lord Burcott. I thank you for the offer of sanctuary for my people.”

  “An offer we must refuse,” The hotheaded warrior hissed. “Why do we not slay him and be done with this?” He lowered his spear towards Burcott. “I say we do it now and return to kill the invaders.”

  Jehnom’s spear flashed splitting the haft of the warrior’s weapon. The muscles along his jaw flinched and his eyes promised violence. “It is not your place to cast judgments.” He said calmly. “Open your mouth once more and I’ll remove your offending tongue.”

  The man dropped the pieces of his spear and stepped back into the shadows. He knew he had gone too far and was now in a more precarious position than Burcott.

  Burcott interrupted the men. “Unless you plan to kill me.” He said. “I must return and see to the preparation of the keep.”

  “Go,” Jehnom said. “I will consider your generous offer.”

  Burcott nodded in appreciation. “We will leave the gate unblocked for as long as we can. No weapon of ours will be turned against your people. I give you my word that we will do whatever is in our power to protect any who escape the wood.”