by John Grover
Something cut the air. Something gliding, effortless, weightless. Its eyes on him, again.
“Are you the snake in my garden?”
The voice came from behind him. Pim turned, keeping the blade of his sword in front of him.
He swallowed rancid air. “Garden?”
“You think only flowers and perfumed bright beauties constitute a garden?” The voice was to his right, now, rasping and hollow. “The nightshade, the hemlock, thorny trees, bristle patches, and mushrooms. Fungus, lichen, and serpents. This is my garden.”
“I mean no disrespect. I have come…”
“I know why you have come, Wivering.” The voice rasped to Pim’s left.
Pim turned, his eyes fixed on a window. A cluster of shadows wriggled before it, squirming, taking shape. A crooked form rose out of the shadows, taller and taller, still, gaunt, writhing. A black, tattered cloak, stretching and fluttering like a flock of crows, appeared. Elongated arms the color of ash slid from beneath the cloak; spindly, bony fingers twitched. Pim’s gaze scaled the frightful visage, stopping at a blotched cowl. Inside the cowl, two points of white winked at him, the Lich’s eyes.
“You seek knowledge,” the Lich whispered. “You seek to know what I have seen through the ages. You seek something very powerful.”
The blood drained from Pim’s face. He felt weak in the knees. His legs actually quivered, threatening to give out on him, but he stood strong. “There is much that depends on me being here. I need to ask for your help.”
“The living come to ask for the help of the dead? When have the living ever helped the dead?”
“I… I… do not…”
“You do not,” the Lich cut him off as two snakes slithered from beneath its robes. “Of course you do not. You do not even know where you stand. This is the Church of the Dead. Those lost souls, and those slain by violent means hear the call of Mort A’ghas. They make their pilgrimage to my lands to worship, and beg Thet for ascension. They are confused and angry—they do not know why they still walk. They wish for Thet’s forgiveness, and sometimes he grants it.” He lifted his bony arm and pointed to one of the circles. The undead inside of it shook before a dim red light engulfed it, reducing it to ashes. A small white orb hovered where the undead had been. It floated up and vanished through the ceiling. Pim noticed that the mosaic glowed with red light, as well.
“Sometimes he does not,” the Lich continued. “Those who remain are bound to the swamplands to wander and return to my church day after day, night after night. The circle continues.”
A strange thought crossed Pim’s mind. Something wasn’t right with the undead that came for forgiveness. Pim gathered his strength, forced his resolve, and stared down the Lich Lord. “Please, my lord. I come on behalf of all of Athora.”
“Do you, now? In all of my ages, I have seen much. I have heard more, and I know that which cannot be found.”
“You speak in riddles. I do not have time for this. People are dying.”
“I would welcome them here. All here are dead.”
“Will you help me, or not?” Pim raised his voice and took a step forward.
The Lich’s cloak squirmed. The darkness rolled over it like rushing storm clouds. “I ask again: when have the living helped the dead? Why should I give you your answers?” He asked in a low rasp.
“Because all of Athora will fall, and you with it. There will be no more living, thus, there will be no more dead. The numbers of dead will become finite, and eventually, no more souls will come to you. I know what you are doing. I know Thet has nothing to do with it.”
“Ask your question,” said the Lich with some anger.
“The Grimstone. An army from the mist uses it to lay siege to our world. They have but one piece, and there are two more. Do you know it? Do you know where the other two pieces are?”
“I know of this stone. It is almost as old as I. Indeed, one of the winged people came through Mort A’ghas. His soul knew much… where it came from… who crafted it. But I will give you only that which you seek.”
“Yes.” Pim nodded.
“The winged people took the pieces to the ends of the world. One is found, one was returned from whence it came, and the last is where you heart is, Wivering. It is, at times, in your feet, and was, at times, beneath them.”
“From whence it came? I know that place. The shores of the Baltha Sea in the west. It washed up on the shores. It lies across the sea?”
The Lich nodded its cowl.
“The last piece? Where my heart is? Again, with the riddles. I do not understand. What does this mean?”
“You already know.”
“But I—“
“Enough. Your welcome in this church wears thin.”
Pim noticed that the undead had gathered around him. Desiccated faces leered at him, hollow eyes, gaping wounds, wringing hands. He backed away from them, glancing over to the window. The Lich Lord was gone.
The young Wivering moved to the archway leading back outside, and ran. His feet carried him back over the deep swamp waters, and land rushed toward him.
He grimaced, his eyes burned, his chest heaved. He tried to stop, but tripped over his feet, hitting a tree root. He ended up landing face-first in the mud.
“Pim! Pim!” Tolan ripped him out of the mud. “Are you alright?”
Pim gasped for air. Fatigue wracked his body; his arms and legs felt as if they weighed more than a hundred Wivering. He wiped the mud from his eyes, and smiled up at Tolan. “I know where we must go next.”
###
A wave of fireballs scorched across the sky and crashed into Sooth-Malesh’s magic barrier, crackling before they vanished. The barrier held—for now.
Neshing catapults launched spiked boulder after spiked boulder. Each one crumbled into pieces upon hitting the barrier.
The Neshing screamed as their mages focused their attention on the magic surrounding Cardoon. The legion of monstrous warriors grew outraged, rushing the barrier and squirming against it like trapped rats.
Sooth-Malesh turned from the rampart and headed down the stairs. In the courtyard, Jorrel and the Cardoon cavalry prepared to slip, undetected, through the back of the city.
“Now is the time,” Jorrel said to Sooth-Malesh. “While the majority of their forces concentrate on our city.”
Sooth-Malesh wove his hand over the soldiers. His eyes flashed. “I cast my protection over you. The closer you get to the stone, the weaker my magic will get.”
Jorrel nodded. “We understand, Mage.”
“You understand what you ride into? The stone will be protected. You may never set eyes on it, and you may never return.”
Jorrel turned to the old mage. “We have not heard from Tolan and his group in some time. They may never return either, but they did not turn their backs. They did not halt their steps, and neither do we.”
“May Thet be with you.” Sooth-Malesh led the horsemen to the far wall. “Temporary passage will open in the barrier. Ride like the wind.”
“May Thet be with us all,” Jorrel said. “Protect Cardoon for as long as you can. Captain Sundar and the High Guard will be at your service, as well as the remaining Northerners and Southerners.”
Sooth-Malesh nodded and pushed the rear gates. The shadow of the spires darkened the threshold.
Jorrel led his men out into open land, through the barrier and around the back walls of the city. The cavalry sped through quiet farmland and headed for Gravik’s Spade: the chasms would provide perfect cover for the desperate band and its mission.
The wind lashed at Jorrel’s face. The leader of the High Guard, and now this mission, looked back at Cardoon, watching it grow smaller and smaller, all except for the spires, the towers of magic.
Rain spit into Jorrel’s face like some cruel God toying with him and his men. Above the howl of the wind and the clop of his horse, he could still hear the siege of the Neshing upon his home, their dark magic burning, their war machines grinding. The
skies were pitch, even in mid-day, and the lands around him looked alien.
Guilt gnawed at Jorrel’s heart. He thought of all those who had fallen. He thought of Tolan on his treacherous journey. He thought of Tolan’s best friend, Geyess, engulfed by the evil of the Neshing, and saw the ashes of his people in their battles with this emotionless, cold enemy.
How could he have so blindly dismissed the signs? How could he have treated his trusted friend, Tolan, so badly? What pride kept him from acting, from believing? His actions had brought the enemy to their front door, had caused a king to retreat and become disinterested, and had turned their homes into refugee camps for the starving and destroyed.
The souls of all those who died called to him inside his mind, accusing, condemning, begging for justice. So help me, by all the Gods of Athora, I will repair this blunder, or die trying. I will get that damned piece of stone and bring it to Sooth-Malesh, myself.
Jorrel and his men rode into the Salt Lands, and from here, they would reach the first beach of the Red Coast. They couldn’t just ride head-on into them. At the last moment, Jorrel directed the horsemen from the Salt Lands to the vast Wizened Forest that would eventually border the beach of the Fifling Sea. He hoped an approach from the forest would give them the element of surprise. Only time would tell.
###
Olani read a book of Cardoon fairy tales out loud to hundreds of her people’s children. They were huddled together down below the palace and the spires as their parents watched with fear etched on their faces. Some cradled their little ones. Outside, the Neshing attacks rumbled like thunder in the distance. Olani kept her wards distracted with magical tales and heroic poems.
Nachin walked to her side, setting his hand on the back of her chair. She caught his presence out of the corner of her eye.
“M’lady,” he whispered into her ear. “Your place is with the council.”
“My place is with my people.” She looked over her shoulder. The council men were watching her from the shadows. It made her uncomfortable. They never agreed with anything she did, always disapproving and judging her. Even today, with their homeland in ruins and their government in shambles, they were no different. It was about them, and only them: the council, the great council.
She looked up at Nachin. “Tell them to join us.”
“M’lady, that is hardly appropriate.”
“You are right, it is not appropriate. It is much more than that. It is the right thing to do, appropriate for the council, or not. Tell them to join us, or occupy themselves elsewhere. I will not have them staring at me from the dark like thieves preparing to cut my throat.”
“As you wish.” He nodded and slipped away.
More and more, Nachin resisted her wishes. She realized he had served every leader of the council, and had been a constant companion, but these days, it was if she didn’t know him. His interest was more in the old men and their old fashioned ways then the good of the North. Maybe it was time to replace him.
The skies rumbled. Olani returned to her book. Whimpers filled the hall, but as she read the final words of the first story, a hush fell over the room.
“And the King’s daughter, Eloise, eternally grateful and fbrimming with love, threw her arms around her handsome hero, Quinn.”
She looked up at the throngs of children of all ages and their distraught parents, and smiled widely. “Now, who wants to hear the story of a world filled with elves, amazons, and fairies who must all defeat an evil queen?”
Dozens of hands rose into the air.
Olani opened a new book and started to read.
###
“The barrier is weakening,” Sooth-Malesh said to Olani. “I feel it in my bones.”
After everyone had fallen asleep, she’d made her way to the crimson mage's side and watched the Neshing attack the barrier.
“You will rise to the occasion if it falls,” she replied.
“I don’t think I have a choice. Man, alone, cannot defeat the Neshing, not with their piece of the stone.”
“We must have faith and rediscover our strength. Only then can we triumph. If I had given up, even with my sickness combating my every move, I would not be alive now, encouraging you.”
“You are not sick,” Sooth-Malesh said.
“But I am. Some days I am so weak that it is a challenge to leave my bed.”
“It is not sickness that causes this in you. I can see no more, but you will know this to be true.”
“You are such a wonder, crimson mage. I think I know my body.”
“As I thought I knew my magic? Now look at the barrier I hold against the Grimstone, the most powerful of all magical items. Clearly, I did not know myself.”
“You use my words against me.”
“No, I use them to open your heart and mind.”
A fireball burst against the barrier and fell to the ground. The rampart trembled.
“I believe that is my cue to bid you goodnight.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Not that I will get much sleep, but I will try to rest with an open mind.”
The mage winked at her as she made her way down the stone steps to the next level of protective walls.
Olani followed the ledge past the King’s royal crest and some sconces burning with amber light. She walked down another set of steps and stopped when she heard a cracking sound.
A massive, smoldering urn plummeted toward her. She threw herself against the wall, and the urn missed her by inches, crashing to the ledge. Charcoal, wood chips, and incense scattered down the staircase. Footsteps thudded above. She looked up only to see the flash of an arm and leg, a figure too dark to discern vanished from her sight.
Olani let her breath out, heart thumping against her chest. She heard more fireballs crackling against the magical barrier, and pulled herself out of hiding.
As she looked around, she convinced herself that there was no one about, and headed down the last flight into the courtyard. A legion of city guards marched past her. She turned back over her shoulder, unable to shake the feeling of eyes on her.
###
“Your bravery is unquestionable,” Panno said. He walked over to Pim and touched his face. Jodan followed Panno, and did the same. Their fingers brushed Pim’s cheeks and traced along his chin.
“What are you doing?” Pim felt his face warm and stepped out of the seers’ reach. “Please…”
“They admire you,” Shannara said. “They’re not used to seeing men with strength and courage… especially men that are close to their size and weight. It fascinates them. They wish they could be like you, but physically, it just isn’t possible.”
“I’m sorry,” Pim said to them. The seers bowed their heads before joining Shannara’s side.
Drith sighed. “If we are done petting the whelp, can we get on with this? Wivering, what did he tell you? Speak!”
Pim was both insulted and angry at the same time, but he knew he was right. There was no time to lose. He put his emotions aside and recounted his meeting with the Lich Lord.
“He would not reveal directly, but he told us to seek one piece in the place from whence it came. I guessed the shores of the Baltha Sea, because of the cave drawings we found, and I was right. He said it came from across the sea.”
“You speak of the land of Norrow,” Drith said.
“The stone came from Norrow?” asked Tolan. “I have never known the people of Norrow to even practice magic.”
“The current people may not, but who knows what others have lived there?” Shannara said. “How much do any of you know of Norrow?”
None of them could answer.
“Then we head to Norrow,” said Tolan.
“How will we know where to find it?” Pim asked. “Even if it is there, how would we even begin to search?”
“If there is magic there, I will feel it,” Shannara said. “But you forget, Pim, I brought better eyes with us.” She gestured to Panno and Jodan. “They will guide us onto the right pat
h.”
“We will travel back through my lands,” Drith said. “It is the fastest way.”
“Very well,” Tolan said. “We’ll fetch the horses and ride.”
Pim followed the others back through the swamplands with Tolan guarding the rear. Tolan caught up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. “A job well done, today, my friend. I wish I could have been by your side.”
“I was fine on my own, but thank you.” He slid Tolan’s arm from his shoulder and pulled ahead.
###
The group traveled onward. For days, they crossed the desert lands of the South, heading on to the outskirts of Drith’s city, Glenghora. In their travels, caravans and shepherds bid them good luck, and told tales of the Neshing crushing all in their path, sacrificing the innocent to their dark gods, and setting claws on the front steps of Cardoon.
The women and children of the painted people looked upon them with worn faces and fear in their eyes. The men of Glenghora were all in Cardoon, ready to fight alongside the Northerners, the ministers of Gwythroth, and the soldiers of Cardoon.
A sand storm stirred on the horizon and rushed through the group, lashing at their faces, hurling dust and pain over them. Faces were bruised, mouths filled with sand, and eyes were barely shielded against a gritty assault.
Finally the storm passed and let out a howl before vanishing behind them.
“The land here is unlike any in Athora,” Pim said, riding past a cluster of tents, where women nursed their babies, out of the sun.
“Try living here,” Drith said. “You see the harsh life of my people, the barren land which offers little comfort or sustenance to our children. Yes, there’s an oasis here, or there. One well to quench thousands.”
“Your people chose this land,” Pim said.
“We did not choose this! We were cast out hundreds of years ago. Hundreds of years of suffering, of death, while those of Bhrungach kept all of the Lake Lands for themselves.”
“Did you ever ask them to share it?” Tolan turned to Drith. Before he could answer, Tolan cut him off. “No, as history tells us, your people did not want to share it. They wanted it all. They drew blade on the people of the Lake Lands, first. You begrudge them because they beat you in a war that ended before any of us were even born.”
