And before he knew it, he was back in the Sentinel Glade. He walked silently between the great trees and into their center, the light even weaker than it had been earlier. He did not know why he was compelled to come back here. The moon had long since vanished, disappearing into the other horizon, and the only light available was that of stars. No one was around, and Sorin was left with his thoughts, the glade, the trickling of the rill, and the dark profile of the horse statue.
Sorin approached the stone and examined its detail closely. Each strand of hair in its mane stood out in dramatic relief, and the teeth of its open mouth were fully realized, the artist carefully crafting every nuance a real horse possessed. The muscles were carved taunt, their lines sharp and defined; the eyes rolled vacantly in their sockets, round obsidian agates with a hint of a pupil; and its nostrils were round, gaping holes that no light could penetrate. Sorin had not seen many sculptures, but this one certainly had the look of frozen life about it.
Placing his hand on the horse’s lower chest, Sorin closed his eyes and thought about the gift he had been given. The wood fairy’s small lips still burned a kiss onto his forehead, and the warmth she had given him still pulsed within his being.
It was then he realized that under his touch the statue also felt warm.
He opened his eyes, stepped back from the statue, and looked around as though all of the shadows in the glade would attack him for the transgression of touching the fine work of art. He remained alone, and nothing happened. The statue stood as stark, solid, and silent as before.
“Knew ye’d hear his cry from deep within his stone heart,” a gravelly voice spoke behind him, low and thick with hate. It was a voice he recognized, but at the same time did not.
Sorin whirled around in the dark, looking for the voice’s owner. There was no one in the glade with him.
“Ye know, that filth served its master well,” it continued with contempt, coming from all directions. “Understand it was a force of nature nothing could withstand. In the end, Aerom got what he deserved—an eternity of pain only to save a world built upon the bones of lies. But this horse has waited, a prisoner of its creation, impotent to all it holds true.
“And now ye’r all alone, no protector, no Giant shadow.” A maddening laugh filled the night. “Now, time to end this charade.”
Shadow thickened at the edge of the clearing and a human form emerged, wrapped in a hooded black cloak. It dropped its cowl, and Sorin recognized the face.
“Pastor Hadlin?” Sorin could not believe it.
The pale features of Thistledon’s pastor shined with a waxy sheen, and small gray blemishes pocked his face. He looked ill, as feverish as he was when Sorin had last seen him. But it was his eyes that told Sorin otherwise; they were milky white and glowed in the darkness as if bewitched.
It was the jerich.
“Hadlin, somewhere in here,” the jerich said in its raspy voice, pointing at its own head. “Tormented, screaming to be free, aware of what I am about to do to you. No power to change anything, and soon he will no longer care.”
With unbelievable speed, the creature bounded the space between them. Sorin tried to flee but was caught easily, memories of the last time they met coursing through him like a raging fire. He was pushed to the damp, mossy ground, and although he fought with a tenacity born of panic, the creature held him pinned much as it had in Thistledon, the statue of the horse rearing over the monster’s shoulder as if an advocating observer.
The jerich grinned down on its prey, its malice a tangible thing. “No Father Blacksmith to save ye now, is there?”
Darkness flooded Sorin, similar to that which had overcome him at the monastery of A’lum. The fainting resurfaced, coupled with an irritability that spread from his center out to his extremities. It was as though he was sinking into a different world, but one in which he could still feel the creature’s pressing weight above him and the carpet of springy moss and clover beneath. The end of his life was near, with no one able to come to his aid, and he not only struggled against the abomination of nature but his own failing awareness as well.
The jerich pulled a knife from within its cloaked folds, the blade capturing enough light to glint through Sorin’s failing vision. “Die,” it rasped.
Then a whinny shattered the silence, a sound the world had not heard in millennia. It trembled the ground, quaking the Sentinels and the valley they grew within. A flurry of movement caught Sorin’s eye from behind his attacker, and just as the jerich was about to drive the knife downward into its prey a giant hoof came crashing down on the creature’s head.
Dark ichor and blood exploded everywhere, a wet shower of grisly filth. The body of Pastor Hadlin fell to Sorin’s side, the jerich unmoving but leaving one final scream cut short. Hooves fell in blinding speed, smashing the body of Thistledon’s pastor into an unrecognizable mass. Another whinny burst across the meadow as the thundering cascade of powerful hooves shook the ground, the horse’s cries echoing throughout the boy’s skull.
Sorin’s vision returned in time for him to see a stallion where the statue once stood, as dark as a moonless midnight, shivering in the cool mountain air. Standing tall and broad, long mane hanging lank and its tail thrashing about in annoyance, the horse snorted in derision. Muscles rippled like waves of water under its glossy coat as if anticipating another attack. Dark round eyes looked into Sorin’s, and one foreleg stamped the land impatiently as if waiting for him to do something equally as miraculous.
When nothing came, the horse wheeled and galloped from the Sentinel stand into the depths of valley, the noise of its flight dissipating as the moments wore on. It did not return.
The statue had come alive. Artiq had saved him.
Breathing hard, Sorin’s vision blurred again at the edges but for a different reason, and suddenly he was falling like in his dream. He toppled back to the earth and darkness closed about him.
Chapter 16
No longer wrapped in the woody embrace of clover and moss, Sorin groggily awoke in his overly large bed and through a swirl of incense found Thomas staring at him.
The old man sat on the edge of the enormous bed, swathed in a white sheet he clutched about himself as though modest about what lay beneath. Faint morning light entered the windows, but it could not chase away the circles under Thomas’s eyes, their darkness pronounced but lacking the feverish severity they had held the day earlier. He looked shrunken and thin within his swaddling, a decimated version of his former self. When Thomas shifted to become more comfortable, he moved stiff and slow.
“Remove that nasty smelling stick, Berylyn,” Oryn growled from his seat, his disdain obvious. “It’s brought him around and now it’s only giving me a headache.”
Berylyn removed the bitter-smelling incense from the bedside table. Relnyn, who stood next to a seated Oryn, watched her go before returning his gaze to Sorin.
Self-consciousness wrapped Sorin. He sat up. “How did I come to be here? The last I remember I was in the glade of the Sentinels.”
“Our morning gardeners found you and brought you here,” Oryn said. “I was notified immediately, and together Relnyn and I surveyed the glade before coming here. When we returned to see to your health, your old friend was awake and alert.”
Sorin nodded and then looked at Thomas. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ll live. My entire left side feels as though I was thrown from a horse and trampled upon by wild horses.”
“He’ll live if he rests,” Berylyn interjected from across the room. “He is still weak. The poison remains in his body, although the infection has receded nicely. It is very important for Thomas to remain here and continue taking the antidote. Days shall pass before he will be allowed to leave Lockwood with health on his side.”
“I mean no disrespect,” Thomas said quietly, his hair a flattened mess of gray, “but I decide what I can and can’t do.”
Berylyn shrugged. “It seems your decisions were what led you to me in the
first place, you old codger. But I’d hate to see my hard work saving your life go to waste.”
Thomas grumbled something below his breath about being made a child and left the argument alone.
Oryn leaned forward in his seat. “I am pleased you are safe, Sorin. What we found out in the glade was a grisly and grotesque scene, to be sure, and it seems you are quite lucky to have escaped the same fate.”
“Where has he gone?” Sorin grimaced as he sat up.
“The statue of Artiq has vanished and with it a series of tracks leading beyond the valley with no accounting of their owner. I need to know what happened last night.”
Sorin explained what he recalled of the events of the early morning hours, and everyone listened intently. He left nothing out. When he finished, they continued to look at him in their own ways—Relnyn with open curiosity, Oryn with a critical, incredulous eye, and Thomas showed no emotion at all.
“Grymshade—destroyer of lost souls,” Oryn said, mostly to himself. “So what you told me, Relnyn, was true. Why did you go out there, Sorin? It was late at night and these mountains aren’t safe as your trip in to Lockwood proved.”
Sorin thought about it. “I’m not really sure. I woke from a terrible nightmare where I was falling. I vaguely remember twisted limbs dragging me down and…” He trailed off, and focused. “And I remember the whinny of a horse echoing in my dream right before I woke up. I decided to take a walk to clear my head, and I ended up at the Sentinels almost by accident.”
Oryn nodded, satisfied, but then turned his gaze on Thomas. “Relnyn told me much about his visit with the priests of A’lum and his encounter with you and the dragon that wounded you. I know Grymshade murdered his parents, but you seem to know more about what is going on here than anyone. When I asked Relnyn about your role in all of this, he didn’t know, although he did say you gave him instructions for the boy if you were to die. I ask you now. What is your role? Who is it in Aris Shae you go to visit?”
It was a long time before Thomas answered. “Someone I know who may hold the answers Sorin desires.”
“At Aris Shae? That’s far from where the tragedy happened in Thistledon, isn’t it? Years of experience tell me you give partial truths in this matter. Why?”
Sorin was caught off guard by Oryn’s questioning, and Thomas’s eyes grew angry even in his weakened state. “It matters not what happens as long as Sorin is given his chance to find knowledge. He deserves to know who killed his parents if nothing else in this world. That is his business alone.”
“And yet you know that business. When children’s stories walk the land and my people are unnerved to the point of civil disruption, then it becomes my business as their leader.”
Thomas was about to respond but held his tongue. Oryn and Thomas shared a look, but neither said anything more.
“When you rise from bed, Sorin, I will speak to you privately,” Oryn said, hoisting his large body out of the chair. “I must go and address the people of Lockwood about this incident. Word is already spreading and it is best to denounce the rumors before they invariably become truth to some. Relnyn, come with me.”
Sorin nodded. As Oryn departed, he glanced back at Thomas. “Rest and become strong. My instincts tell me you will aid Sorin, with or without your grief.”
The Giants left. Sorin was alone with the old man, the room’s brightening light unable to penetrate the shadows on Thomas’s face.
* * * * *
With the golden sun warming the late morning, Sorin and Oryn left Lockwood’s confines and followed a dirt path that sliced to the west and deeper into the valley’s green forest. Thomas had attempted to join them, struggling ineffectually against the bonds of his illness, but Berylyn was not having any of the old man’s foolish notions. Regardless of her patient’s protestations, she kept him in bed and fed him a brownish broth. Sorin had left Thomas in her care willingly—much to the man’s disgruntlement—knowing the Giant healer had at least a temporary antidote for the old man’s stubbornness.
Sorin followed his aged Giant companion through myriad intermingling fir, birch, and cedar trees. Large ferns, stinging nettles, and sharp brambles grew in patches, fighting for sunlight the forest canopy eagerly withheld. The day would be sticky with heat that would suffocate the forest and all of its wildlife into quiet submission; but right now the morning was active and teeming with insects and animals of all kinds. Although Oryn was old, he had no problem navigating the pathway even as it angled—sometimes sharply—up into the surrounding hills toward one of the valley’s cliffs.
“Where are we going?” Sorin asked, the forest growing closer to them as their path narrowed.
“The release of Artiq is a momentous event. Even I questioned the validity of the old legends of my ancestors. It seems today is a day full of revealed secrets, but it is very important that you leave soon and with all possible knowledge in your possession.”
“What would you have me know?” Sorin asked.
“There are those here who are not so fond of change, who cannot grasp its potential, and who believe your involvement and arrival here in Lockwood portend dark and frightening times. The Darkrell are most aggravated. They blame you for it, however irrational that may be. We need to send you on your way, but there is something I’d like to show you first, information your comrade may desire kept from you.”
Sorin remembered some of the scowls he had received since his arrival and then thought of Thomas. “Why would he intentionally hide something from me?”
His staff steadying his crooked frame as the trail became steeper, Oryn frowned. “I’m sure he has his reasons. But whatever it is, withholding it from you is wrong. I can see you are stronger than he gives you credit for.”
No matter what they had shared together, Sorin was reminded he still knew very little about Thomas. He had lived apart from Thistledon for so long he might possibly have nothing to do with any of this. But a small part of Sorin nagged his wounded friend was more than he seemed. For him to trust Thomas Sorin would need to confront him about what he kept hidden.
The path angled up and into a terrain thick with large, granite boulders that thinned the trees and opened up the land. Above them, cliffs of pale stone jutted deep into the brilliant azure sky, the white sun reflecting back into the valley, and Sorin wondered if the cliffs’ craggy, chiseled depths were their destination.
The two made their way carefully up as the trail whittled away to a deer trail, having to use their hands at times to pull themselves between boulders that seemed to have either fallen from the sky or sprung directly from ground. The entire valley spread behind them, small and indistinct from this elevation as if painted on a canvas with unsure strokes, the colors vibrant but undefined. The massive copse of Sentinels escaped the confines of their smaller brethren, the largest aspect of the valley. The river was reduced to a thin, silver line at this distance as it meandered from the mountains to the low country, and Sorin wished more than anything to cool himself with a quick dip under its surface.
Oryn was sweating as freely as Sorin when they came to the end of the climb at an extended shelf of rock that cut deeply into the side of the cliff. Dense underbrush beneath malformed, twisted trees spread out before him, a thick, unyielding curtain of warped vegetation. Brambles and vines choked everything. Even though the sun had risen to its daily pinnacle, the air was cool and moist, and the thick scent of decomposing life hung heavy about them. The cleft pulsed with a dark life of its own, separate from the nature Sorin knew. The area was not visible to anyone beneath it or around it; it was a secret only the long, upward hike could expose.
Oryn breathed hard, his body more hunched than usual. “It’s been a long time since I have made that climb,” he said in apology.
“Where are we?”
“This is the Wyr,” the Giant started, regaining his composure. “It is a holy place, here in the mountains, but entirely separate from anything you have already seen.”
Despite the he
at, Sorin shivered. “There’s something in there.”
Oryn nodded. “There is. Come.”
Where Sorin had originally thought there was no way into the tangled mess of the wood, Oryn carved out a way through using his girth. Fir limbs and fronds slapped at Sorin as he passed, their touch leaving him disconcerted. There was something in the Wyr, something alive with ancient, burning sentience, and it watched them come with fascination and anger.
They broke into a clearing, the light unable to capture any color in his shadowy surroundings. Everything appeared in varying shades of gray—the foliage at his back, the cliff wall that shot up in front of him, even Oryn as he stood beside him. No grass grew in the meadow—it was blackened dirt weeds would not even sprout from. The edges of the wood were blighted and wilted, as if poisoned, and a puissant power tickled Sorin’s awareness with tender licks of interest.
The only structure in the clearing was an enormous dome of woven bramble bushes that had trunks as thick around as Sorin’s thigh. It was built in the same manner as the forest city was constructed but it appeared to have no entry door, and rather than using monolithic trees, this abode was crafted from brambles. They branched outward and snaked around one another like a multitude of angular lovers. Sorin closed his eyes. The land’s wrongness emanated from within the dome, pulsing with wicked life. It was where their path ended.
“Your old friend knows more than he shares with you, Sorin,” Oryn said, breaking the stilled silence that draped them. “That much is clear. I’m not one to dawdle in the affairs of others, but as I said, today is an amazing day to be alive, and I cannot sit idly by and hope events will take care of themselves. Wisdom has shown me over the years that it is best to take hold of the events and steer them toward the conclusion that is right.”
As the two approached the dome, the leafy brambles quivered, their movement whispering and parting to become a dark hole that gaped at Sorin. The briars around the opening were jagged and sharp. The thorny walls of the dome were as impenetrable as the rock wall that rose above them. But if it was constructed that way, what were the Giants trying to hide or prevent from escaping?
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 21
