by Sam Ferguson
“No,” the man sputtered as he wiggled against the unseen choke-hold. “We were out on the master’s errand. We weren’t here!”
Gilifan released his spell and the man fell back a couple of steps. “We go after the book,” he said definitively. “Our order still serves the same purpose.”
“How will we use the book without Tu’luh?” the same elder asked.
“You let me worry about that,” Gilifan replied. He then turned back to Takala. “We will need strong warriors to accomplish our goal now. The orcs at Ten Forts will need our help.”
“Orcs won’t fight with us,” one of the other elders said. “Their witch hunters will come after us. That is why we hide here in the wastelands of Verishtahng. It is too dangerous even for the orcs to come at us here.”
Gilifan placed a hand on Takala’s shoulder. “I asked you before, but now I need a direct answer. Where do your loyalties lie?”
Takala met Gilifan’s eyes evenly and set his jaw. “Command me, Master Gilifan, and I will obey. I, and all other members of the Black Fang Council, will serve you as we did our master. I have lived long enough to know that there is still a chance for victory as long as we are strong.”
Gilifan nodded. “I was hoping you would say that.” The necromancer then turned and walked to the five elders. “Come here,” he instructed them. “Join hands with me, and I will show you the visions that Tu’luh showed me.”
The elders looked to each other nervously and then formed a circle, holding hands and then closed their eyes. Gilifan looked at each of them and then mentally called forth a spell to paralyze them. He sent it out in a wave through his hands. It coursed through each of the elders faster than the blink of an eye. Then he pulled himself free of the circle and turned back to Takala.
“To win this war, we will need to rebuild our order. I need men who are strong, and unwavering in their determination.” Gilifan held out his hand, indicating the five elders behind him, still frozen in place. “If you wish, you may consume their power, take it as a token of my appreciation for your loyalty, and a promise to reward you for future endeavors.”
Takala grinned evilly. “I think this new arrangement will work well.”
Gilifan started toward the exit. “I will cull the rest of the weak from my order, and then you and I will begin rebuilding. It will take some time, but we will come back stronger than before. Tu’luh may have died, but his legacy lives on.”
“Glory to the strong,” Takala said.
Gilifan stopped in his tracks and turned back. “Tomorrow, I will have a special errand for you, Takala. Do you know Salarion?”
“I know of her,” Takala replied.
Gilifan nodded. “I will send you out to find her. I wish to speak with her.” Takala nodded quietly, and Gilifan turned and left the chamber so Takala could enjoy his reward. There was much work to be done, but all was not lost for the Wyrms of Khaltoun. He paused just outside the exit and cast a glance over his shoulder. The boy was strong, much stronger than he had expected. For now he would remove the weaklings from Demaverung, then he would set out for the egg. He would have to speed its hatching if they were to have a dragon ready to use the book.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aparen followed the satyr down a long, winding path through a lush forest of elms, pines, and oak trees. Deer warily raised their heads and watched the trio pass by. A hunger crept into Aparen’s stomach as he spied a large buck. Without thinking, he turned as if to pounce on the animal.
In an instant, the satyr was in front of him. The brown eyes bored menacingly into Aparen’s own eyes and the satyr nearly growled as he spoke. “We do not eat meat,” he said. “You are here as a guest, and we have Dremathor’s word that you will obey our laws and edicts. Should you forget your place, there will be no banishment, only death.”
The boy wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to be offended. Did this satyr know that he had just slain a vampire? If Dremathor had spoken of him, then wouldn’t the satyr know of his power? Then again, perhaps this was Dremathor’s plan all along, to imprison Aparen here with a group of beings powerful enough to actually threaten him. Aparen had to wonder what it was the shadowfiend was after. Dremathor had said the satyrs would be able to teach him and help him expand his powers, but could there be something else? How did sending him here help the shadowfiend? Whatever it was, it was too late to worry about now. Aparen would just have to go along with it and let it unfold.
“We will follow your ways,” Silvi said quickly. “We have no intentions other than to be honorable guests.” At her words, Aparen’s own heart softened and his anger subsided.
The satyr seemed pleased as well. He nodded to her and then looked back to Aparen. “We shall see what this one really thinks after we reach Viverandon.”
The trio pressed on for more than an hour as the sun continued to set off in the distance. The sky above, as seen through small spaces between the thick branches overhead, burned orange and pink. The air cooled, and the deer were nowhere to be see.
“The prowlers will be out soon,” the satyr said. “We haven’t a moment to spare.” The satyr suddenly turned from the trail. The trees and bushes pulled their branches back to let him through. He stopped mid step and turned to the others. “Come on,” he said.
Aparen moved into the forest and followed the creature as they walked in what seemed like the wrong direction. At least, they were bending back toward the way they had come from by what Aparen could see. They went deep into the forest and stopped at a grand oak tree. To say it was large would not begin to describe the gargantuan tree. The speckles and patches in its bark alone were bigger than the base of most oak tree trunks. The lowest branch looked to be six feet in diameter. By all accounts, the tree should not have been able to stand. A single leaf on the tree was half the size of Aparen.
“This is Nonac, the gate to Viverandon,” the satyr said proudly. “Stay close to me.” The satyr played a tune on his pipes and then pressed his forehead to the tree. The tree groaned and lifted itself from the ground, exposing massive roots and pulling dirt up. The taproot was actually two giant roots entwined together. Slowly, they untwisted and opened up to what appeared to be nothing more than the forest beyond. The satyr bounded through the opening and then disappeared.
Aparen and Silvi looked to each other and then followed him through. A rush of air nearly blew them back through the opening, but they managed to hold their balance and make it through the portal. Once beyond the tree, Aparen turned around to watch it resettle into the ground, but he saw no large oak tree. There were only pine trees behind him. He stopped and turned slowly. He stood in a vast meadow or wildflowers of every color. Butterflies and bees made their way from blossom to blossom and the sun hung high in the center of the sky.
“But it was sunset,” Aparen commented.
“No,” the satyr replied. “Here, in Viverandon, we have night only when the nightcaller plays his flute. We have the sun for as long as we wish to have it.”
“How do you keep the days?” Aparen asked.
“Time is irrelevant,” the satyr said. “There is only the here and now. What is in this moment, that is all that is real. There is not past, and there is no future. There is only what is.”
“That makes little sense,” Aparen said. “How do you know how old someone is if you don’t track the days, months, and years?”
“We are children of Terramyr,” the satyr said. “We have as much need to count the days as a tree. Our lives are not so confined. Come, you are expected.”
Aparen let the subject go and followed the satyr through the meadow. As they reached the other side he noticed that all of the pine trees on this end of the meadow stood in an exact line, as if created to be a wall. The satyr played his flute and a pair of pine trees lifted and pulled their boughs back to open the way through.
Beyond the wall of trees stood not a city as he would have expected, but it was a city nonetheless. There were houses, walkways, and fruit trees a
ll around. However, unlike the neatly ordered houses of the cities he knew which stood in rows and had defined borders with fences and pickets, there was no such demarcation here. Houses stood in seemingly random positions. Some here, others far off, never more than two or three in a single grouping. Some even stood in the middle of walkways, as if someone had built the house atop where a road should be. The apple trees and other fruit bearing trees stood in a similarly chaotic arrangement. There was no perfectly lined orchard. There were scattered groups of trees, or single trees standing wherever a seed fell and took root it seemed.
The grass was up to his knees. There were no lawns or gardens as he knew them. Yet, this place still looked as beautiful as any other city he had seen before. It held a certain charm that the neat rows and streets of the human cities lacked. It was as if instead of dominating the landscape, the satyrs became a part of it.
He then realized that in his gawking he had let the satyr get quite far ahead of him. He and Silvi hurried to catch up. He almost expected a reprimand for being slow, but the satyr said nothing. He just led them through the meandering town and out the other side toward a brook. The water coursed over and around large, smooth stones crashing and splashing gently between two banks of verdant grass dotted with red poppies and golden dandelions.
The satyr stopped and put his pipes up to his lips. He blew three notes gently, holding the third for a few seconds before pulling the pipes away from his mouth.
The air shimmered and waved before them, much like Dremathor’s tower had. It was as if Aparen was looking through a window with water running across the glass as the image of a large, stone tower formed in front of him. Gray, smooth stones came into view along with a door of dark ebony wood at the base of the tower. Ivy and morning glory crept up the stonework, adding life to the otherwise cold and foreboding structure.
The door opened, but there was no sign of light from within the tower.
“Go in, it is time for you to be introduced.” The satyr then turned to Silvi. “You will stay here, with me.”
Aparen glanced nervously to Silvi and then back to the door. There was something different about her now, but he couldn’t quite place it. She was still as beautiful as ever, but he wasn’t as fiercely attracted to her as he had been only a day before. Whatever it was, it could wait for later. The open door before him wouldn’t wait forever.
He stepped across a row of dry stones jutting up from the brook and made his way to the tower. A pair of white butterflies twirled around each other before him. He smiled at their dance and then pressed through the dark opening.
He closed the door behind him and waited for light to appear. Only darkness greeted him. After a moment, he turned back to reach for the door again. His hand fell through where the door should have been. He swiped again through the blackness and again found nothing. He took a couple of steps toward the door, but never found it or a wall.
“What manner of magic is this?” Aparen asked. “Am I brought here to be kept as a prisoner?”
“That depends entirely upon you,” a voice answered from the darkness. The voice was high and nasal, yet it was also menacing, dripping with anger and the hint of a threat.
“Show yourself,” Aparen demanded.
“That is no way for a guest to speak to his host,” the voice commented wryly. “Or have you come to conquer my home and take it from me, as you would with those humans back upon the main land?”
“What are you talking about?” Aparen asked.
“You led a war against another human simply for his land, or have you been so blinded by your hatred that you have forgotten that?”
Aparen realized the voice was talking of Erik. “I wanted his land, but I wanted revenge more,” he said sourly. “Because of him my father is dead.”
The voice laughed and mocked him from the darkness. “Oh, but you have it all backwards, my dear Eldrik, your father is dead because of you.”
“That is NOT my name!” Aparen shouted. “I had nothing to do with my father’s death. He was slain on the battle field, all over a squabble started because of Erik.”
“No, youngling, your father died in an alleyway betrayed by a dagger held in his son’s own hand.”
“You are mad,” Aparen shouted back.
“I am neither mad, nor blind. You, on the other hand, are a bit of both.”
Aparen called forth a spell to illuminate the room, but the magic withered in his hand and crackling sparks fell to the ground without so much as revealing his own hand.
“Magic will not peel the scales from your eyes, youngling. You must use the light within yourself.” A clicking sound echoed in the distance off to Aparen’s left.
“You are a satyr?” Aparen guessed.
“Humans call us so, but Terramyr calls us fauns.” The voice seemed softer now. “But you do not see my form. You are only relying upon your ears to tell you what I am.” Click-clack, click-clack. “Open your eyes, youngling. See what is around you.”
“My eyes are open, it isn’t my fault you have blinded me.”
“Ha!” the satyr scoffed. “I have not blinded you. That is how you entered my home. You are as a newborn baby, with the crust of birth still sealing its eyes together. Though I suppose not all of it is your fault. There is a curse over you.”
“A curse?” Aparen asked.
“I can lift the curse, but you would no longer be held innocent. By that, I mean to say that you will know all about yourself, as I do.”
“You know nothing of me.”
A sigh echoed in the darkness. “Dremathor spoke highly of you, but I have my reservations. Perhaps it is best for you to return to the forest. You are not ready for what I have to show you.”
Aparen stood silently, waiting for the satyr to make the next move. When nothing happened for several moments, Aparen gave another question. “Why would Dremathor speak highly of me?”
“Indeed,” the satyr said. “That is what I am sorting out for myself.”
“What is it he wants from me?” Aparen pressed.
Another sigh. “That, I cannot disclose to you until after the scales have fallen from your eyes.”
“So help me, remove the curse.”
“If I remove the curse, you will not be able to forget what you will see,” the satyr warned.
“Show me,” Aparen insisted.
The satyr grunted and mumbled something in a language that Aparen could not comprehend. A flash burst through the darkness. It didn’t illuminate the room as Aparen had expected. Its intense, white light focused on his face and he fell backward, shrinking away from the scorching brilliance. He held a hand up over his face, but there was no escaping the light. It enveloped him, lifted him off the ground, and whisked him through the air as if he were no more than a spiderling on a strand of silk riding a spring breeze.
The ground below him was a green blur, followed by blue, and then another flash of green. It took him several seconds to realize that he was flying over Terramyr. Everything happened so fast. He saw so many memories at once, yet each one was as clear as if he were living it for the first time. His brother slain by an arrow, the swordfight at Kuldiga Academy where Erik beat so many apprentices, the ritual where he became imbued with power, and so many more. They didn’t come in chronological order. Instead, they all assaulted his mind at once, barely allowing one to finish before another would start. Below him he saw the battle after his father was slain, then a flash of shadow overtook the fields to replace the view with the battle that Gondok’hr led against Lokton Manor.
At that moment, all of his energy turned to the north and Drakei Glazei seemed to float up to him. The walls rolled by him as if he were no more than a ghost. The cobblestone streets beneath his feet moved for him. They changed to dirt alleyways and then he saw the dagger. He felt the tearing sensation of Lord Lokton’s sinew as it was rent asunder and the blade plunged in to drink the man’s life away. All at once he felt the horror and dread of what he had done. He turned to
run away. His mouth was open to scream, but no words emerged.
A trio of women stood behind him in the shadows. Each of them grinning and jeering at Lokton’s corpse in the alley. Aparen looked at them and then begged them for help. The women ignored him. One of them approached and took the dagger from his hand and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. As she backed away, a pink cord streamed from her lips to Aparen’s cheek. He moved to wipe it away, but it only stuck to his hand. The more he struggled, the larger the pink cord grew until it bound his entire body. The end of the cord turned sharp and pierced his chest. It wormed through his insides until it bound his heart. He felt the organ struggle to beat within his chest. The three women erupted in laughter. Only then did he realize it was Silvi that had kissed him. The other two witches stood beside her now as she held the pink cord like a leash. In that moment, reliving the experience, he saw the truth of it. The witches had manipulated him. Silvi had charmed him. It was never her appearance that Aparen had longed to please. All of it was an illusion.
Aparen turned back to Lord Lokton. The corpse rose to its feet and reached out for Aparen. “You have betrayed me,” the corpse gasped.
Aparen struggled, but the corpse opened its mouth and swallowed Aparen in an instant. The darkness returned, but Aparen was not returned to the tower. This was a much colder, emptier space. He felt himself floating away and saw Lord Lokton and his wife. She was newly pregnant with child, though he was not sure how he knew this. Hairen, the old witch, crept toward them from the shadows. The witch held a knife in her hand and crept ever closer while the happy couple looked at a newly built crib.
“Behind you!” Aparen shouted. He ran forward on instinct, moving in to save the pair. There was no ground beneath him. His feet churned the cold space, but could not bring him any closer. Hairen held her hand out and a blue light flew from Lady Lokton’s stomach. The happy couple began to frown, and the crib fell apart. Hairen cackled maniacally and then drew a line in the air behind the couple. Blood seeped from the line in the air and then Hairen disappeared.
