"Or a tree-branch," added Thessien, placing a gentle hand on Ilien's shoulder.
"But with the proper spell—well you get it. Now, this hat—" He turned the witch's coal-black headpiece about in his hands. "It's different altogether. It's magical in itself and obeys the wearer."
Thessien threw more wood on the fire then sat down on the fallen trunk of the old oak to listen to the wizard. Ilien sat beside him. Ilien looked in wonderment at the witch's hat in the firelight. He wrinkled his nose at its smoky odor. "What are those?" he asked, noticing strange letters embroidered inside the hat with yellow thread. "What do they say? Are they runes?"
Gallund peered into the hat's black hole as if a hand might reach out and grab him. "Yes, Nihilic runes, I think." He was silent for a moment as he studied the hat intently. He continued in hushed tones. "Nihilic is an ancient runic language. When drawn, the runes summon a spirit. If read . . ." He trailed off, the worry lines around his eyes growing deeper. "That is where the witch's true power lies. It's the spirit that fulfills her curse."
Thessien's brow darkened. "A witch bright enough to draw Nihilic?"
"Yes. Odd, isn't it?" said Gallund, squinting into the hat. "But I don't think so." With a snap of his wrists he turned the hat inside out. Ilien jumped to his feet as a large, hairy spider with thick yellow legs fell to the ground.
"It seems that the hat is not the true talisman after all," Gallund announced, eyeing Ilien strangely. He reached down and retrieved the frayed patch of cloth that had been hidden inside, the frayed patch of cloth embroidered with thick, yellow thread.
"It's only a scroll," Ilien breathed, wringing his hands in embarrassment and sitting back down. Though he'd never seen one, he'd learned about them in his spell book.
"Yes. A scroll," said Gallund, evenly. "A Nihilic scroll."
"Did the witch make it?"
The wizard rubbed his cheek wearily. "No. The making of scrolls is far beyond a witch's skill. And this is an ancient scroll. Nihilic hasn't been written for many hundreds of years." He gazed at the small patch of cloth in his hands and closed his eyes. "Written by many. Spoken by one. Master of darkness. Reknamarken." It sounded to Ilien like a nursery rhyme, but when Gallund looked up, his eyes took on the fire's red hue and Ilien felt a strange sense of dread steal over him. "Most of the artifacts marked with the evil language were gathered up and destroyed," Gallund continued, "after the second war with the Necromancer. This one must have escaped the Purge."
A chill ran up Ilien's spine and he straightened at once. "The Necromancer! The scroll was made by the Necromancer?"
"Perhaps," Gallund asserted. "But many of his followers could draw Nihilic runes too, though the art has been lost for centuries."
"Then does it summon him?"
"Most definitely not!" Gallund cried, jumping to his feet. Again the fire flared high. The heat threw Ilien back and he toppled off the log to the ground. "The Necromancer can never be summoned!" The wizard's face looked stark and oddly angular in the firelight. "His weakened spirit lies imprisoned, trapped in a book, shut with a lock, and bound for the last five-hundred years. The first king of Kingsend placed his wax seal upon the lock and a powerful Binding spell was cast upon it. The Necromancer can never rise again unless the spell is undone and the wax seal broken."
"Like a Runestone?" asked Ilien, flat on his back, shielding his eyes from the blinding fire.
Gallund raised his hand and the flames receded. He stood silent for a long moment as his face once again filled with shadows. "Yes and no," he said, ruefully. "A human soul imprisoned in a Runestone can never free itself. It is powerless to do so. But the Necromancer is not human, and neither is he powerless. He strains against his prison walls, always eager to be free." Slowly, he sat down.
The fire returned to normal once again, and Ilien scrambled back to his seat by the wizard.
"Don't worry," Gallund assured him. "The Book is safely guarded by the Nomadin at Kingsend Castle, deep in the Southland. The Binding spell still holds, and if broken even then the key is needed to do the final unlocking."
The fire popped and Ilien jumped. "Why a book?" he asked. "Why not an iron chest or something stronger? A wax seal and some paper is little comfort against a Necromancer."
Thessien chuckled and Gallund cast him a dark look. "It's not the object he's imprisoned in, Ilien, but the Binding spell I cast that holds him captive. He was tricked into the Book, thinking it to be a tome of great magic which would restore his strength."
"You cast the spell upon the Necromancer? But you said that was centuries ago."
"Do not be fooled by my youthful appearance, Ilien. You would be wise to remember that some appearances are not as they seem. Nomadin, though mortal, do not simply die of old age. And no, I did not cast a spell on the Necromancer. I simply cast a Binding spell on the king's wax seal."
Ilien considered this then asked, "If the witch's scroll doesn't summon the Necromancer, then who does it summon? The NiDemons?"
Gallund shook his head. "NiDemon, Ilien. NiDemon, as in geese not gooses. And no. The scroll summons a spirit." The wizard poked the fire with his cane, sending a spray of sparks into the air. "The world is full of such ghosts. They came here during the War of the Crossings nearly a thousand years ago. Most were banished after the War, but a few of the more powerful spirits served in the Nihilic Wars, the Necromancer's second rising, when the world was awash in Nihilic talismans. After his imprisonment, though, most simply wandered about causing mischief, or found rest in some dark nook of the earth. Many lie dormant in caves or at the bottom of the sea. Even now some still find strength enough to scare the unwary, but nothing more for their master is gone and their strength along with him. But talismans like this can cause some to rise if the proper runes are drawn. I must keep this safe." He tucked it into a small leather pouch at his belt.
"Should you really keep it at all?" asked Ilien, jumping to his feet. "Throw it in the fire! Let it burn! Destroy it!"
Gallund shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. It's impervious to fire."
"Even a blacksmith's fire?"
"Even that, Ilien. It must be unmade, stitch by stitch. Only a Nomadin with the utmost patience could manage it."
Thessien stretched out his long legs toward the fire. "I guess that rules you out."
Ilien sat back down and shuffled closer to the campfire. "What of the Book, and the Binding spell? Can it ever be broken?"
"I think I've said enough for one night," said Gallund, finding little humor in Thessien's comment. "It's rumored that if you speak too long about the Necromancer, he can hear you from within his prison and will come after you some day if he ever escapes."
That was enough to quiet Ilien.
Thessien suddenly stood and put a finger to his lips. Gallund tensed and rose cautiously to his feet. Then Ilien heard it too—the cracking of branches, heavy footsteps. Someone or something was approaching their campsite. The slow trudge of feet stopped outside the firelight.
"Show yourself!" Gallund shouted, raising his cane.
The soft nicker of a horse was followed by another and into the clearing stepped their three mounts trailing broken tethers.
They all breathed a sigh of relief and hitched the horses to the fallen tree trunk within the firelight so they could be watched. Then each retired with his own thoughts to his own bedroll.
"Gallund?" Ilien asked when the wizard was nearly asleep.
"Yes." Though Gallund didn't look over, the tone in his voice conveyed his usual frown.
"Are all witches that ugly?"
Thessien began to laugh, and Ilien sat up. "What's so funny?"
Gallund propped himself up and smiled. "Witches make you see what they want." Ilien fell silent.
"Witches appear differently to different people for different reasons," Gallund explained. "They can read a man's weakness, and always seek to use it against him. To you they appeared hideous because that's what would frighten you."
"
Then what did they look like to you?" Ilien picked up a stick and threw it at the fire.
"I am a wizard. I saw them for what they were—smoke and shadows, nothing more."Ilien turned to Thessien and raised a questioning eyebrow. The Eastland soldier merely smiled and peered up at the darkness above.
"Let's just say they weren't that hideous," Thessien finally answered.
Gallund shook his head. "Like I said, they know a man's weakness. Now get some rest. Morning comes early. And Ilien—" Gallund tossed Ilien his pencil. Ilien caught it deftly. "Please try to keep it quiet next time."
Gallund rolled over and said no more.
Ilien stuck the pencil in his back pocket and flopped back onto his bedroll. A moment later he cried out in panic. Gallund and Thessien shot to their feet, blankets flying in all directions.
"What? What is it?" Gallund cried.
"Nothing. It's okay. I'm alright," Ilien said, carefully removing his pet frog from under his blanket. It looked dry and wrinkled, and none-too-happy.
Chapter IV
Whispers and Warnings
They had been riding all day in the rain and Ilien was beginning to think he didn't like adventures at all. If more of this was in store for them on the long trip to Greattower he'd gladly stay behind in Evernden, if only to play dollies with some girl. Everything about him squished, his boots, his underwear—especially his underwear—and his thick cloak had sopped up so much water that it threatened to topple him off his horse if he didn't sit perfectly square in the saddle. He gathered that all the blankets were wet by now as well. Gallund and Thessien rode before him with their hoods up and their heads down, seemingly oblivious to his suffering.
Ilien's small horse tugged at her reins and whickered. Even she was sick of adventures.
"I bet old Winnie wouldn't mind," Ilien chided, reaching up to knuckle the rain from his eyes.
His horse jerked to a halt and Ilien sailed forward with a cry, the weight of his water-logged cloak dragging him all the way up to her ears. He balanced on her head for a moment, looking to see what had spooked her. The rain's grey curtain blurred all but the closest trees.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." He shimmied back to his saddle. "I don't like this any better than you, but we're falling behind. Now come on."
He nudged her forward again. She stamped her feet and shook her head. He snapped the reins, but she refused to move. He kicked her. She moaned and blew out steam like an overheated kettle.
Then Ilien felt it too—a sudden, unexplainable fear. He tried to call out to the others but an invisible hand seized his throat, cinching it shut like a sack of marbles. He couldn't breath. Something held his arms. His horse threw her head, eyes wide with terror. Fighting panic, Ilien tried to remember the Lightning spell he had studied. Unable to speak the words, he recited them in his mind.
The rain stopped as the air crackled with power. An explosion tore the sodden cloak from Ilien's shoulders and drove him back into the saddle. He heard an angry shout, the bark of a mad dog, and his horse reared in fright. Another stroke of lightning clawed the air like a skeletal hand. The ground dropped away beneath him, and his screams were swallowed by the wind. He fell in a void, still on his horse, the gale howling in his ears.
A voice cut through the tumult, a sharp hiss in his ear.
Ilien Woodhill. I know you.
Ilien woke with a start, stifling a cry of panic. He held his breath, afraid to move. His heart pounded in his ears. It was only a dream, he told himself. Just a dream. Nothing more.
The cold night air washed over him and slowly he came to his senses. He suddenly felt foolish. Twelve, and still afraid of the dark. He blinked and sighed, feeling his muscles relax. Rain drizzled down through the darkness of their small clearing, pattering among the dead leaves around him. Surely the others were still asleep. He hoped they hadn't heard him, whimpering like a child. What time is it anyway, he wondered?
Without warning, a shadow rose before him and he froze in terror. The shadow stood motionless, watching him, then a whisper—
Ilien Woodhill.
Ilien lay paralyzed, breathless, rain pooling in his eye sockets.
"Ilien Woodhill. Get up. It's time to go." Thessien hovered over him.
Ilien sat up fast, blinking water from his eyes. Cold rain trickled down his back. "I'm awake," he said, but his heart still raced. His pet frog crouched on his pack, grinning at him in the rain. "What are you so happy about? Shoo! Go on! You're free to go if you like it here so much."
He bit his lip, watching the frog shift about. He really didn't want it to go. He had spoken out of anger, but it did look happier sitting in the rain instead of in his pack. He poked it gently and it hopped away into the forest.
Gallund and Thessien were already packed and ready to march. Ilien jumped up, wolfed down some soggy bread and grabbed a piece of jerky for the ride. They mounted up just as the sky above the trees turned grey.
The forest canopy offered little relief from the rain, but as they plodded further northward they found the going easier despite the steady downpour. The hills receded, the trees grew farther apart and soon their horses were prancing down the long, leaf-strewn lanes, their bodies steaming in the cool morning air.
Yet Ilien couldn't shake the nightmare. An aching cold had settled beneath his skin. That hissing voice returned to him and he shivered. NiDemon. Witches and Runestones. Necromancers. He had learned more about evil in the past two days than he had in his first twelve years. He looked over at Gallund hunched in his saddle, cane in one hand, reins in the other. Not quite the imposing figure of an all powerful wizard, he thought.
Thessien steered his horse along side Ilien's. The big black trotted high-hoofed beneath the soldier, its back nearly level with Ilien's head.
"Something troubling you?" Thessien questioned, peering down at him grimly.
Ilien smiled up at him. "No. Nothing at all. Why?"
Thessien looked away, studying the surrounding forest like a surveyor. "I've spent twenty years judging the manner of people from the looks on their faces, Ilien. I am a soldier. My life has often depended on discovering the lies hidden beneath cool smiles." He turned back and pinned Ilien with a solemn stare. "Men often tell me more with a single look than they've told anyone their entire lives."
Ilien slowed his horse, letting Gallund get further ahead. Satisfied that the wizard was out of earshot, he asked, "What are these NiDemon that worry Gallund so much? And what was all that about Law and Legend yesterday?"
Thessien too glanced up at the wizard, tightening his reins. When he looked back at Ilien, his eyes admonished caution.
"The Nidemon are hunters."
"Hunters?" Ilien spoke louder than he meant and he winced.
"Hunters of Nomadin," said Thessien, seeming to take no notice.
Ilien's horse stumbled, and Ilien grabbed its mane to steady himself. "What do you mean, hunters of Nomadin?"
Thessien frowned at him. "Could I have put it any clearer? They are sworn to slay Nomadin, all Nomadin. They cross to our world for that purpose alone."
Ilien sat up straight. "Then Gallund is in danger?"
"Yes," the soldier replied.
Again his horse tripped, and Ilien asked awkwardly, "But are they really powerful enough to kill a wizard?
"A wizard, yes," Thessien answered. "But Gallund is Nomadin, and Nomadin are not merely wizards."
Ilien steadied himself in his saddle and urged his mount to keep up with Thessien's black. "But what's the difference?"
The soldier picked a stray twig from his mount's mane. "A wizard is human," he said, flicking the offending stick into the forest.
"If the Nomadin aren't human, then what are they?" Ilien glanced over at Gallund as if he might suddenly sprout wings and fly to Greattower.
"They are Nomadin, Ilien, and only a Nomadin can master the True Language of magic. A wizard merely speaks. A Nomadin understands."
"Well he sure looks human to me," Ilien observed
, watching as Gallund scratched his back end with his cane.
Thessien laughed. "He does, does he?"
The wizard seemed to take no notice of them as they trudged along in the rear, but Thessien sat up in his saddle as if to end their conversation anyhow.
"One more thing," Ilien persisted. "You say the NiDemon cross to our world. Cross from where?"
Thessien looked surprised. "From Loehs Sedah. From the realm of the dead. Has Gallund taught you nothing as an apprentice?"
"Nothing about NiDemon and crossings."
Thessien shook his head. "It's not my place to teach you the Laws and Legends of old if Gallund thought it unwise to do so himself. Be content to know that Loehs Sedah is far away, but closer than you think, and the Crossings are gates from there to here, and here to there. The last one was shut a thousand years ago. Now a new one has been opened, or an old one rediscovered more likely, for not all the crossings could be found in the open spaces of the world, and the miners of Berkhelven have been known to delve deeper than is wise in search of gold and jewels."
At that Thessien turned away and fell silent, paying heed to the terrain before him.
"Last night Gallund spoke of the wars," Ilien continued, not taking the soldier's hint. "He mentioned the second rising of the Necromancer. Just how many were there, risings, I mean?"
Thessien spurred the big black forward. "Two. Three have been foretold, the third to be the last."
"The third to be the last?" Ilien bounced about as his own horse followed at a trot. "That doesn't sound too comforting." He eyed the passing trees in the mist and suddenly realized how far he was from home. "And is the third yet upon us?" he asked.
"We shall see," Thessien said with a smile. "We shall see."
Ilien slowed his mount, knowing he had pushed for too much information from the taciturn soldier already, but wishing he could ask more questions, especially about what the witch had said. Law and Legend? What was that all about? He sighed, resigned to the fact that Thessien would say no more.
Throughout the day, Ilien noted a change in the forest. They'd been marching beneath old, fat oaks for nearly two days, but now young pine trees grew straight and lean in their place. Ilien noticed the crows also, big black brats that cawed at them from their front porches high above. At first he liked the familiar company of the crows, but after a while he thought their cries sounded like laughter. He felt miserable enough with all the rain. He didn't need to be made fun of as well.
Nomadin Page 4
