The Quest (The Hidden Realm Book 5)

by A. Giannetti

  “Valgus,” said Torquatus softly, “I have a task for you. Take a half dozen of your soldiers and search among the Goblin mages who have displeased me for four of the strongest that you can find. Find me, too, one human prisoner. Bring everyone to the chamber at the root of the mountain and summon me when they are assembled.”

  Valgus bowed and left without a word to carry out his task, for the vial his master held in his hand and his request for mages told him more clearly than speech what his Dark King intended. Following his master’s instructions, Valgus brought four sullen Urucs and a Hesperian to the dungeon that lay in the deepest regions of the fortress. After stripping the Goblins, he chained them to a wall. The human prisoner, bound hand and foot and deathly pale from fear under his layers of dirt, was thrown into a corner. Dispatching his six Goblins to summon Torquatus, Valgus waited alone in the cell with his prisoners, the red mage lights burning in lamps set on the black walls of the chamber casting a ghastly hue over his pale, lean features and those of the prisoners.

  Slow minutes crept by, the only sounds in the chamber the harsh breathing of the prisoners and the occasional rattle of an iron link. When the Dark King appeared suddenly in the cell, seeming to materialize out of thin air when he stepped through a portal, Valgus, well used to these sudden appearances, remained still. The prisoners, however, started back, the links of their chains rattling as they shifted uneasily about, startled and made fearful by Torquatus’s sudden appearance. Shivering in their chains, wondering what awful fate awaited them, they stood with lowered gaze as Torquatus examined them with his cold, predatory eyes.

  Pleased by what he saw, Torquatus turned to Valgus, who fixed his dark eyes doubtfully on the four thin collars of black iron Torquatus held in his pale hands. On each one, a single line of flowing, twisting script was engraved into the iron, the etchings filled with silvery argentum.

  “Even the collars that you hold will not entirely control the creatures you propose to create lord,” said Valgus, speaking with the familiarity of long association. “Once transformed and loosed, they will not easily be contained or killed, for all four are powerful mages.

  “I care not who they kill or how many, so long as they accomplish the task I will set them to,” replied Torquatus callously. Ignoring the misgivings of his captain, he silently cast a spell over each collar in turn, the letters written on them turning crimson, as if they had become small coals. When Torquatus handed the collars to Valgus, they went dark once more.

  Under the watchful eyes of his Dark King, the Uruc swiftly and surely fastened a collar about the neck of each of the first three prisoners, who darted their dark eyes desperately about the grim chamber, as if seeking some escape from the awful fate which was about to visited on them. When the last one pulled away slightly, Valgus, displaying an enormous strength out of keeping with his slender form, delivered a blow against his left cheek with the flat of his right hand that threw the prisoner back against the wall behind him. After closing the last collar on the dazed Uruc, Valgus stepped back behind Torquatus.

  The Goblin King slowly raised his right hand, the heavy silver ring he wore on his index finger catching the red glow of the lamps and taking on a bloody hue. As a haze of red magical energy, visible only to Torquatus’s third eye, covered the four cowering prisoners, the script on their collars began to gleam again like lines of red fire. Slowly, under the influence of the spell cast by their king, all four of the Urucs began to change. Shaggy black hair grew out to cover their sinewy bodies, and they grew taller and heavier, dwarfing Torquatus and Valgus. Their faces changed to those of beasts with elongated, wide muzzles filled with sharp teeth and long fangs. Hands and feet became more like paws with stubby fingers sporting long, curved claws intended for holding and ripping. The dark eyes of all four Goblins changed from black to yellow, seeming to glow from some inner fire burning in their depths.

  As he lost his last resemblance to Goblin kind, one of the changelings threw back his head and howled, the sound echoing and reechoing throughout the chamber. One after another, the four newly made licantropes snapped the heavy chains that bound them to the wall. Snarling, crouched on all fours, they formed a half circle around Torquatus. Behind the Goblin King, Valgus nervously laid his right hand on the hilt of his dark sword, prepared to leap forward to defend his king's life with his own, but the changelings stopped instantly when Torquatus raised his left hand. The slender figure of the Goblin king was overshadowed by his monstrous creations, but he showed no fear as he spoke in a commanding voice.

  “I bind you now by the power of the collars you wear to find and destroy my enemy. Let nothing stop you less than your own death, neither hunger nor thirst nor weariness.” Opening his left hand, Torquatus exposed the small, glass container that held Elerian’s blood, the thick red liquid inside it appearing almost black under the rays of the mage lights. He hesitated for a moment, then, for it was an enormous risk to introduce blood to these creatures, but driven by his pride and by necessity, he finally tipped his palm, sending the vial crashing to the floor where, amidst the sound of shattering glass, the blood splattered onto the stone floor of the dungeon. Jostling each other and snarling, the changelings lunged forward to thrust their broad muzzles into the blood, snuffling deeply of its scent as they lapped up the bright crimson drops with long red tongues.

  “Thrust the human into their midst, Valgus, before they turn on us,” Torquatus quietly urged his captain. Seizing the Hesperian by the hair with his right hand, Valgus dragged the prisoner from his corner and cast him into the midst of the four slavering beasts crouched before Torquatus. Their foul breath blew into his face when their cold yellow eyes immediately turned his way. One brief, terrified scream issued from his lips before he was torn to pieces, his blood splashing across the floor and walls of the chamber. Standing as closely as he dared to the bloody melee, Torquatus inhaled deeply of the alluring smell of blood as his changelings fed. Behind him, Valgus licked his thin lips, red sparks floating in his dark eyes.

  Reining in his savage instincts, Torquatus silently signaled to Valgus with his right hand. Careful to make no move or sound that would attract the attention of the creatures feeding on the Hesperian, Valgus crossed to the far side of the chamber where a stout iron door was set in the stone wall. Quietly, he unlocked and opened the well-oiled door, exposing a passageway that led up to the surface well beyond the walls of Ossarium. Then, standing behind the safety of the door, he suddenly whistled sharply. At once the four licantropes turned and rushed at the sound, mouths agape. They would have tom him apart then through the bars of the gate, but the sight of open doorway overrode their desire for blood. Driven irresistibly by Torquatus’s directive, the blood-maddened creatures bounded up the passageway, their howls echoing through the tunnel as they raced toward the exit where a second door had already been opened for them. A cruel, satisfied smile now appeared on Torquatus’s pale face.

  “No matter where the Eirian has hidden himself, my creatures will sense his blood from afar,” he thought vindictively to himself. “Fearing neither light nor dark, they will not tire no matter how far they run. He may slay one of them, but not the greatest hero of the past could slay all four, for their stony flesh will resist even a magical blade, and their teeth and claws will rend even the finest mail.” Turning to Valgus, Torquatus said softly, “Sound the horns in warning. Let everyone beware of my sending, for they will rend friend and foe alike!”

  After his Dark King suddenly vanished, Valgus left the bloody dungeon to carry out Torquatus’s final command. Soon, the sound of brazen horns blared harshly from the windows and gates of Ossarium, their hash notes warning all the surrounding countryside to beware of the horrors that had been loosed from the depths of the fortress.

  Running northwest, the four licantropes left a trail of death and destruction in their wake, for there were many abroad on the Dark King's errands who were not able to seek some safe refuge in time. At each kill, they paused only long enough to la
p fresh blood and rend the air with their uncanny howls before racing off again. Fixed in each of their bestial minds was the scent of the one they must kill and where they must travel to find him, for the Dark King’s spell had created an ethereal link between them and Elerian that only death could sunder.

  Unaware of the sending Torquatus had loosed against them during the night, Elerian and his companions resumed their journey west the next morning, unaware that their path and that of the changelings would eventually intersect near the borders of Nefandus. Staying near the fringes of the foothills, they walked through an ancient wood was inhabited only by wild animals, but out of an abundance of caution, Ascilius skirted the open, stony meadows that were so common in the Terra Fractus, keeping entirely to the forest where the sun did not penetrate through the thick canopy of leaves overhead, trusting to the thick cover and Elerian’s illusion spell to keep him and his companions concealed from any enemies that might be about.

  For the Dwarves and the men the journey was a tedious one as they trudged each day between endless rows of massive, to them identical, tree trunks that rose out of the ground like gray and black pillars. The Dwarves missed the smooth roadways of their underground cities as they scrambled over roots and stubbed their toes on hidden obstacles. Dacien, with his longer legs, found the walking easier, but used to the open plains of Tarsius, he found the forest an oppressive, closed in place. Triarus was the most uncomfortable with their route. He had a horror of any large wood, for in his homeland, forests were the abode of Wood Goblins and even worse creatures.

  In contrast to their companions, Elerian and Forian felt at home amongst the wooded groves they traveled through. To them, no two trees looked alike, and they observed each one they saw with interest, noting its kind, shape, and age. Anthea remained in transition, remembering the plains of her birth but drawn now to the forests around her. She divided her time and attention between Dacien and Ascilius, ignoring Elerian entirely. For his part, he did not grudge her the time she spent with her brother, but it continued to irritate him to no end to see Anthea treating Ascilius like a favorite uncle as they walked side by side, carrying on quiet conversations that never quite reached Elerian’s curious ears.

  “I wonder how much longer I can endure this torment?” Elerian wondered glumly to himself as he followed at the rear of the company, for Ascilius continued to send smug looks in his direction over his right shoulder whenever Anthea turned her attention away for a moment. “That short scoundrel is up to no good, but any obvious revenge I take on him will only further embed him in Anthea’s sympathies, for she seems determined to take his part at every turn. Some subtle plan is called for which will both open Anthea’s eyes to his devious nature and restore her affection for me.”

  While Elerian plotted against Ascilius without success, Torquatus’s sending advanced steadily east through Nefandus, running by night and sleeping by day. Any living thing that was unlucky enough to cross their path was pulled down and torn apart to feed their lust for blood and killing. Goblins, mutare, and men all fell to their slashing fangs in the four nights it took them to reach Urkhut, the black fortress Elerian and Ascilius had passed during their escape from Torquatus’s mines. There, after crossing the Elvorix, they ravaged a line of prisoners and their guards, overtaking them before they could take refuge in the fortress. A mountain Troll turned to confront them at the head of the column, but they pulled him down with the rest, tearing his stony flesh to pieces with fangs and claws before moving on to the sound of horns braying from the walls of Urkhut, warning all the countryside to flee or lock themselves in some strong place. Hemmed in by the Elvorix on their left and rugged mountains on their right, the licantropes turned north, drawn by the invisible thread that joined them to Elerian, but soon took refuge in a dark wood as the first rays of the sun crept over the high, rugged peaks on their right.

  To the north, a day’s journey from the Elvorix, the same golden rays shone on Elerian and his companions as he roused them from their leafy beds. Not one smile greeted him, for two days of walking and cold camps had followed the warm cheerful night the company had passed in the hollow tree Anthea had discovered. Unable to find shelter of any sort, everyone had slept out in the open with only ferns or dried leaves for a bed. Fish, game, majum, and mushrooms were all abundant in the untouched groves around them, but because they dared not light a fire in the open, Elerian and his companions had been forced to rely entirely on the dried sausages Ascilius had made from the boar that he had frightened to death.

  “By my reckoning we have at least ten more days before we finally cross over the Murus into the western lands, but at best, we have only two days’ supply of food left,” said Ascilius worriedly to Elerian as he brushed bits of dried leaves from his hair and beard.

  “I would almost rather eat my boots than down any more of these sausages,” remarked Dacien glumly as he unenthusiastically ate his bit of breakfast.

  “You may get your wish,” replied Ascilius grimly. “There is food to be had all around us, but without a fire we might as well be in the midst of a desert.” Taking his customary place at the head of their column, he led his companions away from the cheerless place where they had spent the night. Everyone kept a sharp out for a protected campsite during the days march, but by nightfall, when the east bank of the Elvorix came into sight through the trees ahead of them, the best that they were able to manage was another cold camp by the side of a gray outcrop that thrust itself out of the ground near the river.

  Weary and hungry, for the last of their food had been consumed that morning, the company sat in somber silence. Warning everyone to take only a little, Elerian passed around his flask of Aqua vitae, which he had been saving for just such a moment as this. It warmed and strengthened his companions but did little to lessen the pangs of hunger they felt. Soon after that most of the company sought their blankets, excepting only Elerian and Anthea.

  “You should rest too,” suggested Elerian quietly to Anthea.

  “I am not tired,” she replied coolly, the first words that she had spoken to him since they left the Gavius. Then, unexpectedly, she spoke again. “Walk with me,” she commanded. Without waiting for a response, she stood in one lithe motion and silently left the camp.

  THE CHASE

  Irritated at Anthea’s abrupt manner, Elerian considered remaining where he was for a moment and then discarded the notion.

  “The seas could sooner resist the pull of the moon,” he thought wryly to himself as he, too, rose and left the campsite. Walking a little behind Anthea, he followed her into the forest. Not yet asleep, Forian watched them from his blankets, noting how alike they were in their forms and graceful movements, but still unconvinced that a union between them would have a happy result.

  As she stepped lightly and silently through the wood ahead of Elerian, Anthea remarked to herself how different her view of the world had become. Seen through human eyes, the nighttime forest would have seemed little more than an impenetrable wall of darkness full of frightening noises. To her altered senses all was now changed. Her eyes saw the black and grey world around her in minute detail, stripping away the mystery cast by night while her ears identified the sounds she heard as no more than the rustling of woodland creatures on the forest floor around her and the faint stirrings of the roosting birds in the branches above her.

  When she reached the bank of the Elvorix, Anthea climbed up into an enormous oak whose branches extended out over the swift flowing waters of the river. Behind her, Elerian followed silently, effortlessly pulling and pushing himself up with sinewy arms and legs, his long, strong fingers finding plentiful handholds in the rough bark of the forest giant. When Anthea sat down on a great branch at least four feet across and rested her slim back against the tree’s broad trunk, he hesitantly sat down beside her, on her left. Suddenly and entirely unexpectedly, she pillowed her head on his chest, her thick, dark hair concealing her fair face.

  Hardly daring to breathe, wondering if she
had finally forgiven him, Elerian brushed back lustrous locks with his right hand. His eyes widened and he started violently when Anthea looked up at him, for instead of a fair elf maiden, he now cradled an old crone in his arms who bore an uncanny resemblance to the hag shape the Gargol had taken. As the wild thought shot through his mind that the creature still lived, his third eye opened, revealing a golden shade resting against him instead of a dark one.

  “I thought so,” said Anthea’s voice coldly. “I see by your reaction that if my looks fade, you will want nothing to do with me, as Forian predicted.” Closing his magical eye Elerian felt the familiar sense of confusion that often seemed to plague him in Anthea’s presence.

  “I drew away because you reminded me of someone I would rather forget,” he protested ruefully as Anthea resumed her own form, a frown on her fair brow.

  “And who might this older woman be that you dallied with after you left me?” inquired Anthea, her eyes flashing as she drew away from him.

  “She was a hag but we were not involved romantically!” stammered Elerian who felt as if he was sinking deeper into some watery marsh with each word, for Anthea now sat stiffly with her back to him.

  “I had rather fight a whole gang of Goblins than engage in wordplay with her,” he thought to wryly himself. “My wits are always in turmoil, for I feel as if I hold something precious in my hand and must constantly guard against losing it.” Taking a deep breath, he began again.

  “I was referring to the creature that abducted Ascilius beneath the mountains, not a real person. Your illusion reminded me of it. I care not at all if you age with the passage of years, for I can age with you.” Casting an illusion over himself, Elerian turned his hair white and wrinkled his skin.