by Houpt, David
All of his victims had carried crossbows, and upon examining their bolt cases he was amazed to discover three Nightblood-tipped bolts in one of them. Even the quartet of killers sent after him hadn’t carried the poison, for it was nearly beyond price. Said to be distilled from the very blood of the night goddess, it would enflame anything it contacted. Only total darkness could extinguish its flames, and he quickly closed the light-proof case so not to waste the venom. Even the enchanted steel of the bolts would eventually be consumed by the ravenous black flames.
Creeping forward to peer down into the main courtyard, he spotted an entourage near the main gate under the mage lights that hung there. There was still some fighting from the garrisons that held the towers, but it looked to his practiced eye that the courtyard and the entrance to the keep had been secured.
The faces of the entourage were illuminated by the permanent magical lights of the castle gatehouse. He recognized Stevan, King Evan’s nephew and Grand Duke Rishak’s son, in the group. He also saw Jenine, Evan’s middle daughter. Of her husband, Prince Veran, there was no sign. Jenine was standing unnaturally still, her wide eyes staring unseeingly ahead. Elowyn narrowed his eyes, summoning his elven power of witchsight, then spotted the tendrils of magic creeping off of the princess and evaporating into the darkness. Further wisps of magic emanating from the mage leaning against the castle walls would have revealed his position if Elowyn’s darksight hadn’t.
Jenine is compelled, he thought. Most compulsion magics controlled only the body, like the spell apparently restraining her now. There were others, more difficult to administer, which could induce a victim to become a willing slave, and he had no doubt that one of these would become her eventual fate.
Rishak wants a wife for Stevan or Ruthold, he thought, including the Duke’s other son in his thoughts. The marriage of Jenine following a coup would solidify his claim to the throne, particularly if Jenine were the willing and loving wife of one of his sons. A majority of the peasantry wouldn’t question her reasons for transferring her devotion from her Delsani prince to one of her half-cousins.
Elowyn could predict what fate would befall any nobleman who asked.
He leaned back against the parapet, his head spinning and the coldness spreading throughout his body. His own magical talent was weak, and even if he were able to counterspell the compulsion, there was no future for Jenine. He knew that Lian and Jenine were the only survivors of the night’s assault. The rest of the royal family, from Evan himself to Radiel, the youngest daughter, were all dead. He’d spent some time creeping through the secret passages to attain confirmation of this before his unfortunate encounter with the four assassins. It was a tribute to his skills as Master of Assassins that none of the men originally sent to find him had been successful.
He could do nothing to rescue Jenine, so Lian’s escape might provide the only chance of ruining Rishak’s legitimate claim to the throne. However, Lian’s claim to the throne would be secondary to Jenine’s, for she was elder, and Dunshor law allowed female monarchs. He bowed his head in a moment of shame; he knew what he must do. Elowyn forced away a momentary vision of Jenine as a little girl, entwining her chubby fingers in his brown hair as he gently rocked her to sleep.
She’s already dead, he told himself. Their spells will destroy the girl you know and love. She’s already dead.
There was something else he had to do first, however, and he removed a small figurine of a weasel from his belt pouch. Rubbing it gently and softly intoning the words of invocation, he activated its embedded spell. It vanished as it released the spell it contained.
Celewyn, brother, hear me, he projected, phrasing his thoughts clearly.
The response was immediate. I hear you, brother, replied Celewyn. They were actually half-brothers, born of the same mother but having two different fathers. Elven standards, however, lacked distinction between full- and half-brothers. Since Elowyn’s father had been a Silei elf and Celewyn’s father had been an Avani elf, the brothers didn’t resemble each other at all.
Both had cultivated their mother’s craft of guile and deception, although only the younger brother Elowyn had pledged himself to a liege.
Elowyn, taking advantage of the speed of thought, conveyed to Celewyn the memories of the night’s events. I want you to locate Lian and help him. I consider rendering him assistance more important than avenging my demise, Elowyn finished.
Celewyn’s thoughts had shifted to the analytical, but he forced himself to stop deliberating the situation and turn his attention toward Elowyn. If I can manage both, I will. My brother, I will convey your farewells to the family.
Thank you. My brother, I will carry your love to our ancestors, Elowyn said, a traditional elven death couplet. He knew that his elder brother Celewyn would be vitally important to Lian’s survival and success. He left the means of presenting himself to the prince up to Celewyn, but he wasn’t worried about that. Celewyn was a master of their art, far more accomplished than even Elowyn himself.
Celewyn, still listening to Elowyn’s thoughts, said, Only because you lack five or so centuries, brother. Given time, you were going to surpass me, I think. His remarks were laced with affection and love, and grief that was already welling up for his younger brother’s imminent death.
Elowyn, in turn, relayed his own warm emotions, but said, The poison is ending me. I must act. It wasn’t necessary to explain his intentions, for Celewyn had acquired that knowledge as well. He left the communication spell in place, and turned his attention back to his physical surroundings. You’ll need to know if I’m successful, he reasoned.
Celewyn conveyed agreement over the bond, wordlessly so as not to distract his brother.
Elowyn’s limbs felt like ice, and he barely retained sensation in his fingers. Strange that the numbness started in the middle and spread outward, he commented, fumbling open the bolt case. The moons were all either below the horizon or in their dark phase on this night, so there was only starlight on the garrison roof, but that was enough to kindle the bolts to smoldering.
Concentrating on his insensate hands with all of his energy, Elowyn painstakingly lifted three bolts from the purloined case and loaded all three of the already-cocked crossbows. Raising the first, straining against the burden which minutes before had seemed negligible, he hefted it onto the crenelation of the roof.
The entourage below had grown, joined by Rishak’s personal guard and the grand duke himself. He was tempted to try for him, but Elowyn knew there would be a profusion of protective magics woven about Rishak to shield him from an assassin’s weapon. Some mage or assassin in the distant past had disfigured his face terribly, leaving scars that never healed. Because of this, Rishak was known for the degree of magical personal protection that he employed.
In the courtyard, Stevan grasped Jenine’s chin and scrutinized her face critically. With his other hand, he reached past her auburn hair to cup one of her breasts. He made a derogatory comment, which elicited laughter from those nearby, save Rishak. The duke glowered and shook his head, freeing several locks of his shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair from its band. He glanced around as if to survey who had witnessed the tasteless gesture, clearly glad Stevan had stepped away from Jenine. Rishak was also known, in certain very private circles, for a distaste for his elder son’s penchant for vulgarity.
Elowyn took careful aim, willing his limbs not to quiver. His target was motionless, and at this range, from this height, he wouldn’t miss. Exhaling slowly, he gently squeezed the crossbow trigger. The bolt sailed unerringly to its mark.
Princess Jenine, the daughter of his liege lord and a young woman whom he had lovingly guided and instructed, fell to the flagstones, body seared by black flames. The spell that bound her will didn’t allow even a wimper as the darkness consumed her, leaving only grey and black ashes behind. Elowyn reached for the second crossbow, but his arms were too weak to lift it. He sensed, rather than observed, magics extending toward him from the ground, an
d made a final decision. Good-bye and fare thee well, he pronounced to his silent observer as he severed the metaphysical connection.
As the spells from the mages below battered him, he moved his fingertip to stroke the Nightblood on the tip of the bolt. The numbness vanished instantly as the black flames quickly consumed him, but the anguish of the black inferno was secondary to his torment over his murder of Jenine.
His agony was mercifully cut short, however, as the Nightblood devoured him completely.
***
Unaware of Elowyn’s actions, Lian inspected the room. The most conspicuous item one noticed upon entering the room was the bed. It was a massive affair, thrice as wide and twice as deep as Lian’s own bed, which he had always found to be of ample size. This was a four poster bed, with posts and end boards of wrought iron and engraved with scenes of demons and humans engaged in acts, acts which prickled at Lian’s curiosity while simultaneously inducing revulsion.
There were bones lying on the bed, one wrist still manacled. Elowyn had told him that the bones belonged to a young woman in life, a girl of only twelve whose body they’d found here after the fighting. An imp had escaped its bindings and slashed her throat while she struggled against her manacle.
Lian had inquired at the time if the imp had been captured and destroyed, but Elowyn had simply shrugged. “No, I don’t believe we ever found it. Deeds far worse than this went unavenged in the Tower, I can assure you from personal experience.”
Elowyn never had related exactly what horrors he had witnessed during his captivity in the Tower, but Lian inferred that he’d rather not know in any event. Elves didn’t age, but at times their eyes revealed how old they were. Elowyn’s eyes gave the impression of being far older than his relatively scant four hundred years when he spoke of the Tower of Firavon.
Lian disregarded the bones and examined the rest of the room. His teacher had removed all of the written works and writing materials from the chamber, and the bookshelves looked unnaturally vacant. There were three bookshelves built into the walls, and the occupant had installed three more, as well as a couple of chests that were once filled with books. The denuded shelves exuded a vaguely menacing aura.
The floor was littered with various spell components, and Lian had never worked up the courage to look under the bed.
There was an ill-defined pall and chill in the air despite the warmth of the Tower walls and floor. I feel cold, he said to Gem.
He could sense her mental nod. There’s Undead loose in the Tower, lad. We’ll have to be very careful.
Lian knew that the sword was endowed with potent enchantments to combat the Undead, but he was still one boy against an undetermined number. Avoiding them would most likely prove to be impossible, since they had arcane means of sensing life.
Are they guardians who were stationed here or ones that arose from the magical fallout? Lian asked his companion. Undead often originated from restless spirits who lingered in areas where substantial amounts of magical power had been released. Old battlefields where some of the great war mages had fought were literally crawling with Undead.
Probably a little of both, son, she said. There were quite a few permanent guardians here when the rebellion advanced inside, plus the number of warriors who died before and during the battle was staggering. It’s the bound guardians who are the greatest threat, though.
Moving toward the door, he paused to ask, I thought that all of the guardians were either killed or imprisoned when the rebels took the Tower. His mother had told him this.
Gem hesitated for a moment before replying. Perhaps they were. But bound spirits aren’t easy to dispatch permanently. The necromancers who bound them would have linked their existence here to some object, and it wasn’t possible to do a thorough search of the Tower. The cost in men and materiel would have been far too great.
Lian remembered being taught that as well. There were countless secrets in the Tower yet unknown, and as many dangers still undiscovered. The effort to purge the Tower of magefolk had cost more in lives than the sum of the three largest engagements throughout the rest of the rebellion. His father once told him that it had been a close battle, and that several times through the day the rebel army had nearly broken and run.
I’ll be careful, then, he said.
Preoccupied, Gem didn’t reply. She wished that Elowyn had chosen a different escape route for Lian, but she understood many of the elf’s reasons for directing Lian to take this path. First and foremost, the prince possessed Gem, whose powers gave him the optimal chances to survive the perils of the Tower.
The plan had seemed reasonable when originally proposed to the sentient weapon, but now she regretted not raising more adamant objections. Only the gods knew what kind of horrors were loose inside Firavon’s Tower, and maybe not even them.
Wincing mentally at her blasphemy, and muttering an apology to Lostatos, the smith god, she urged Lian to continue. Her patron god, as usual, made no response to her prayer.
The longer we stay here the more denizens will “scent” you, Lian, she reminded him. Nodding, he thumbed the safety catch on his crossbow. The mechanism not only prevented the trigger from being depressed, it also extended a catch to hold the bolt in place, so it wouldn’t fall out during rough maneuvering. He slung the bow on its harness and gripped Gem’s hilt tightly.
True, the crossbow would afford him a possible first strike, but he felt safer with the bejewelled longsword ready in hand. He opened the hall door, and it swung noiselessly into the corridor. There was no dust or cobwebs in the hallway, though there were a few scattered bone shards. Elowyn had told him that Firavon had woven minor spells throughout the Tower, powered by the warding magics themselves, which repelled dirt and dust, except in the laboratories, where such things might be vital to the research of a spell.
A pair of beady eyes gleamed at him from the darkness, despite the fact that there was no light to reflect. The ghostly form of a rat stood balanced on its haunches, gazing at him hungrily, but it evidently sensed the power of the lashthirin sword, for it did not try to close.
Is that a spectral rat? Lian asked Gem incredulously. He’d heard that in intensely magical places, lower forms of life could animate, but he’d never read an account of animals becoming noncorporeal Undead. The rat, though small, would be more dangerous than a mere zombie, for it could walk through walls and move very fast indeed. Its touch would bear the coldness of the netherworld, and would extract a portion of its victim’s soul. Hopefully a small piece for a small rat, Lian commented, conveying his train of thought to Gem.
Gem replied, Yes, but it’s probably not alone. Remember that the residual magics here do not date only from the rebellion. There were probably a score of ongoing experiments that no one’s tended. Some of those may have fizzled out, but others could have reacted uncontrollably, resulting in a massive magical backlash.
He nodded, looking thoughtfully about. I’m going to head for the scrying room, he informed his companion.
Gem indicated agreement. The scrying room had been a place that few had been cognizant of, and Elowyn had advised them that the room was heavily warded against entry by supernatural beings. Gem would have been unable to enter, should she have tried to do so under her own power. Though it would be painful for her to cross the threshold while carried by Lian, it would be possible.
Firavon had located the room in the physical center of the Tower, and it contained a marvelous variety of permanently emplaced scrying and spying devices, from the magical to the mundane. There were acoustic tubes which carried sound to the room, and a system of crystal tubes which conveyed visual information to the one who commanded it. Lian wondered why Firavon, an accomplished mage, would choose a non-magical means of spying, but Elowyn had explained it.
“Mages, especially those of the late Theocracy, are extremely paranoid, and for good reason, since they often attempt to spy on each other magically. However, there are numerous spells to detect, confound, or confuse magic
al scrying. Firavon was more clever than most, however, for he understood that most mages don’t possess means to prevent basic, mundane spying and eavesdropping. He built lenses and sound tubes into every room of the Tower, all controlled from the scrying room.
“Why do you think that mages employ people like me?” he’d asked with a grin. “It’s because magic, while tremendously useful and frighteningly powerful, doesn’t always serve. Sometimes, you must hire a tailor instead of magicking up your torn tunic.
“I suppose it depends on where your talents lie, of course,” he’d finished, “because there have been great diviners equal to Firavon the Artificer. I’m certain that if Ashuron the Seer wants to spy on, say, your mother, undetected, he can.”
Elowyn had a great deal of knowledge about the magics which affected his craft, even though his magical abilities were nearly as weak as Lian’s. Lian had difficulty understanding why Elowyn studied an art which he could never master.
Lian knew how to get to the scrying room, though he had never been there. Elowyn had made him memorize the path over and over again, until he could find it in his sleep. Only then had he allowed Lian to see both a map and an illusionary vision of the room’s location. Elowyn had explained that he’d carried an enchanted bauble with him when he’d originally found the room, and it had recorded the way.
Lian had been angry at the time, but he was now confident that he wouldn’t take a wrong turning.
Gem said, You see? There are reasons for things we make you do.
I know that, Gem, he replied testily. That doesn’t make them less onerous. You were born with knowledge. I have to learn things the hard way.
She “nodded” to him. Gem would have traded all of her power and knowledge to be mortal, though she’d never told her charge of this desire. Her existence was a cold one, and most of her perception of the world depended upon her wielder.
Both Lian and Gem were relieved to see only substantial, lesser forms of Undead as they progressed through the eerily vacant Tower. Bones shuffled along the floor, searching for other pieces. Animated corpse-parts, hands and legs and torsos, writhed alongside the skeletal fragments, also seeking the rest of their bodies. The sight of these horrified Lian and made his skin crawl with revulsion, but he had been prepared for their presence.
