Lady of Poison p-1

by Bruce R Cordell

  The sight of the leader’s armor, with its sewn limbs, bodies, and faces, stretched and distorted to make a whole sheet of leather armor, made the gorge rise in Marrec’s throat. He stumbled, coughing and retching.

  Thanial was made of sterner stuff. He charged in, slaying an ogre outright with his blade, clearing a path toward the towering ogre leader. Shira followed Thanial, guarding the ranger’s back from the other ogres, a ferocious shape larger than a man herself.

  Several villagers, those who were not strewn unmoving around the courtyard, were grouped in a small alley. The giant leading the raid turned his attention from attempting to crush them with his tooth-and-nail-studded club to defend itself against Thanial’s advance. It screamed something unintelligible to Marrec in a foul, phlegmy tongue and brought up its club. Its silhouette was enough to completely shadow the ranger’s approach.

  Thanial ducked under the club and stabbed the creature. A flattened human face on the creature’s armor clamped its flaccid mouth down on the length of Thanial’s blade, trapping it. The ranger screamed in frustration as he attempted to pull his sword free. No good. The giant ogre laughed. The creature relinquished its grip on its club, and in the same movement snatched up Thanial.

  The ranger struggled in the monster’s grip, but the hold was unwavering. The giant raised the ranger to eye level and spoke in Common for the benefit of its victim and anyone else who happened to hear, “I got a few rips in my armor that your skin can patch, except for your left arm. I’ll bite it off now; saves time later.”

  For Marrec, time slowed. It seemed that the illumination in the courtyard dimmed but for a fey light that picked out his mentor and the giant ogre. The creature laughingly manipulated Thanial in its grip, trying to get the man’s arm to stick out as he might pose a doll.

  “No!” screamed Marrec.

  Pain lanced his eyes, as if ice picks had thrust out from each orb. He locked eyes on the beast and willed it to stop, and it did.

  A grayness overtook it, and its terrible skin armor became a gray tide rising on its fleshy beach. Its chest, head, legs, and arms became as stone.

  Something was wrong. The tide of mineral gray did not stop with the monster but extended to the victim caught in the giant’s cruel grapple. He’d caught Thanial in his stony gaze.

  The entire edifice of stone, man and monster, swayed. The creature had transitioned from flesh to mineral while in mid-step. Down it came, tons of weight slamming down upon the courtyard cobbles. The crash of the shattering, pulverized stone caught the attention of every creature, both attacker and defender, that was not already aware of the dramatic reversal of the ogre’s fortune. A rain of pebbles pelted Marrec, followed by billowing dust. No piece remained whole. Only rubble remained.

  He’d slain his mentor.

  The ogres, leaderless and afraid, fled, giving Marrec a wide berth.

  He’d slain the one person who trusted and understood him.

  Shira the great wolf fixed him with an accusatory stare, then leaped away, howling in sorrow.

  He’d proved Thanial wrong. His heritage was suspect, and his ability evil. With heavy footsteps, Marrec turned to face the forest. He knew not where he would go, what he would do, or to whom he would pledge himself, but one promise he made immediately and aloud.

  “While breath remains to me, my heritage will never again reveal its devilish glare. By this vow, Thanial shall be remembered.”

  ^a amp;mmelech rubbed at one of his empty eye sockets, disgorging a gobbet of ooze. He’d thought he’d felt some sort of vermin wriggling around in there, but no, it was just an abnormally large accumulation of slime.

  When the blackness birthed itself from the air, Anammelech stepped back, alarmed. The void had the shape of a halberd. The blightlord recognized it. It was Gloomgate. It was the signature weapon his brother-blightlord, Gameliel. It’s presence could mean only one thing.

  “Gloomgate?” inquired the blightlord. Upon being named, the weapon began to whisper urgent secrets.

  Listening to Gloomgate’s tale, Anammelech’s suspicions were confirmed. The weapon’s appearance indicated that Gameliel had fallen. Gloomgate was his. Anammelech permitted himself a malicious grin.

  Who were these enemies of the Rotting Man Gloomgate whispered about so fiercely? A clericof Lurue? Anammelech raised an eyebrow. What a strange coincidence.

  What’s this? The ‘Child of Light’, too?

  Yes. Gloomgate’s silken, silent voice was insistent The Child of Light and the Keystone were both heading toward Yeshelmaar. It was a little too perfect. Fate was conspiring to hand Anammelech quick advancement in the Rotting Man’s empire. Gameliel was dead, and his only other real rival, Damanda, was too close to the Talontyr’s heels to effectively advance the Rotting Man’s agenda. Damanda thought boot-licking would get her ahead, but if Anammelech delivered the Child of Light to the Talontyr, Damanda’s favored position would be his. His sister blightlord, once out of the direct graces of the Rotting Man, would be subject to Anammelech’s long-planned vengeance for past slights, but first things first.

  Time to activate one of his most carefully nurtured assets in Yeshelmaar. If he planned it right, he could have the Child of Light delivered to him at the edge of the Rawlinswood without fuss or muss.

  Elves were not as difficult to lure into evil as was commonly believed.

  CHAPTER 13

  The next day, all the visitors to Yeshelmaar were summoned to the Spring Court. The court was held in a wide sublevel, delved from living rock below the surface of the tor. Thin shafts tunneled upward to the surface, back down which beams of morning light fell, illuminating the chamber with golden light. A pool of crystal water filled the center of the chamber. In the center of the pool rose a great throne of pale stone. Subtle designs of leafs, vines, and other growing things seemed to slowly swirl and grow throughout the rock, despite being relief carvings.

  The Nentyarch sat his throne with calm dignity. He wore a long linen robe of Lethyr green, his symbol of a golden leaf shining on his chest. The sleeves and neck of his robe were trimmed with snow white cotton, which was also the color of the belt girding his waist. On his head was the fabled Circle of Life: a living wooden crown bearing green leaves and slender twigs that held jewels. The jewels glowed with light that waxed and waned over a period of just a few seconds, like breath. The Nentyarch’s eyes were silver, and his dark hair was likewise touched by silver at the temples. He was an elf who had tarried long in the world.

  Around the far outskirts of the clear pool was assembled the high druids, the Circle of Leth. Elves, humans, and a single dwarf made up that group, each seated on a stone bench, eyes wary and watchful as Marrec, Ash, Gunggari, and Ususi approached.

  Standing out before the pool were several of the elves who had greeted the travelers when they’d arrived at Yeshelmaar. Elowen was also there, but so too was sour-faced Fallon.

  It was the Spring Court, too. Marrec had learned that since the Nentyarch’s coming, Yeshelmaar had become the informal capital of the Great Dale, or at least the eastern half. The folk of the lonely clanholds of the region held a deep reverence for the Nentyarch. Many were in attendance today, seeking the Nentyarch’s advice. Perhaps a dozen druids of various ranks and twice that number of rangers, hunters, and foresters were assembled in the back of room, along with a handful of Dalesfolk who had come to seek the Nentyarch’s advice or assistance.

  Marrecleading Ash by the handGunggari, and Ususi were ushered past all those who were there before them, up into the very presence of the Nentyarch, just short of the still pool. The hunters at the head of the hall drew aside to let them pass, and Elowen left their number to join the travelers.

  The Circle member to the right and behind the Nentyarch rose, saying, “The Nentyarch is occupied with a fierce contest for the souls of two great forests against Talona’s Rotting Man. We have heard how all of you have become entangled in the Rotting Man’s designs. Please, tell us more.”

  The
Nentyarch’s face remained solemn, kingly even, as he nodded.

  As Marrec prepared to speak, Ususi seized the initiative, saying “Great druid, I bring you the token of Briartan. It is the Keystone, long held in safety by the Mucklestones Druid. We could not prevent his fall, but we were able to salvage this relic of a bygone race.” She held the Keystone up for all to see.

  The Nentyarch spoke, the timbre of his voice a pleasant tenor. “Briartan’s fall is known to me. It is with great sadness that I accept the Keystone back into my keeping. The Mucklestones Druid will be greatly missed Few can hope to tread the path upon which he journeyed, to our loss.”

  Fallon approached, holding a very small a gold-lined chest with an open lid. With poorly concealed regret, Ususi placed the Keystone into the chest.

  The Nentyarch said to the mage, “Your integrity is beyond recall. You, more than any other, have a claim to the stone, yet you return it to me despite that. When we have finished with our business here, I will show my gratitude.”

  Ususi’s frown hesitated before smoothing away. Marrec wondered what the Nentyarch meant by his comment about the mage’s claim to the Keystone, but then it was the cleric’s turn to speak.

  Marrec addressed the Nentyarch, internally reminding himself that the elf was due his respect, “Honored one, I am the servant of Lurue, the Unicorn Queen. I have been on a road long not only in length but also in years. I hope that you may have the answers I seek.”

  “Your quest is not unknown to me,” said the Nentyarch. “My hunter, Elowen, whom we missed in her long absence, has explained your plight and your quest.”

  Fallon, still standing nearby with the chest holding the Keystone, shot Elowen a frown. She favored him with a small shrug in return, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

  Marrec responded, “Then can you tell me for what reason my path has led to this girl, Ash, and now to you? Do you know what her significance is, and… can you tell me what ails Lurue?”

  “I can try. Let the girl come to me.”

  Marrec guided Ash a little closer to the pool, then released her hand.

  The Nentyarch studied Ash for a good minute. Quiet reigned in the hall, save for a few small coughs in the back. Finally the Nentyarch said, “I can see there is something more to this girl than meets the eye. If what I suspect is true, then I don’t doubt that all the Rotting Man’s thoughts and many of his agents are bent on finding this girl you name Ash.”

  Marrec held his breath, waiting for the revelation.

  “But I must be sure.” So saying the Nentyarch stood and walked through the crystal pool surrounding his throne. The pool was only a few inches deep. Marrec noticed that the Nentyarch waded through the pool without getting the least bit wet. He stepped out of the shallow pool to stand next to Ash.

  “Let us have a better look at you,” the Nentyarch murmured. He placed one hand on the girl’s shoulder and raised the other above his own head. In his raised hand he held a sprig of greenery. The girl was unfazed but spoke: “Ash.”

  The Nentyarch smiled, saying, “I doubt that is your true name. Let us find out, shall we?”

  Then he began to utter a series of sharp, ringing syllables, one after the other, which continued to ring through air as if individual voices. As the Nentyarch uttered each new syllable, the ones before it continued to sound, until after just a brief time, a mighty melody of rich sound reverberated through the hidden hall. Still the Nentyarch added to the voice, layering on yet more notes. The slow crescendo slowly built to a sound so intense that many stopped up their ears.

  Finally, the Nentyarch brought down his raised hand, throwing the plant cutting he held into the pool. The sound cut off instantly, but light blossomed in the pool, growing from the point where the plant cutting had splashed. The light formed the image of a night sky. The sky seemed idealized, shorn of obscuring clouds, but sprinkled with thousands of tiny points of starlight.

  A ray of light shot up from the pool, becoming a wide shaft of light. To Marrec’s eyes, the shaft seemed to burn with hope. He reached for it, but just as suddenly, the light winked out, as if extinguished before its time. Marrec felt that the light had been stolen away, but as despair threatened to claim him, a tiny of flicker, a spark, rose up from the pool. It was but a twinkle compared to the beam of before, yet it was a glimmer of hope.

  The spark rose from the pool, moving toward the Nentyarch. The tiny firefly light came to rest, hanging just above the brow of the little girl, Ash, like a flashing jewel bound in a queenly circlet.

  As the light blazed stronger on her brow, Ash said, “Araluen.”

  The light flickered out and the scene in the pool died away. Marrec held his breath, looking to the Nentyarch for explanation.

  The Nentyarch laughed. He said in a wondering voice, “This is the aspect of good long promised. The Child of Light!”

  Wondering whispers broke out in the court. “I don’t understand,” said Marrec. “This is the Child of Light, sent to the world by Lurue. Lurue long promised a champion of the green, which would aid us in our long fight against the growing power of the Rotting Man, who is a servant of the evil goddess, Talona, the Lady of Poison. The name of this champion, this Aspect, the true name of the Child of Light, is Araluen. Lurue sent the Child of Light to contest Talona’s champion, the Rotting Man, but something has gone very wrong.”

  Marrec gazed at Ash, if he could still call her that, with open wonder. Was Ash, herself, sent down from Lurue? He asked the Nentyarch, “What’s wrong with her? She is no champion; she is a frail child. True, she does have some healing ability, and she defended herself once…”

  The Nentyarch said, “This is not the aspect promised, but only a fragment. She is separated from herself, and the Rotting Man holds the answer. I perceive it is his foul necromancy. He has somehow diverted the divine charge of Araluen. It is possible that Lurue’s waning power is also connected, though I sense there may be other forces at work, too. Somehow, Lurue is still connected to her lost aspect. As long as the Rotting Man possesses that stolen power, the goddess you know as Lurue may continue to weaken.”

  “How can that be?”

  The Nentyarch thought, then said, “The aspect gains its power directly from Lurue. The theft of the aspect is like a slow leak in a basin of clear water. Until the hole is plugged, the water will diminish. The aspect must be found, restored to herself, and returned to Lurue.”

  Marrec pulled his spear from his back, an involuntary reaction, and said “Then I must defeat the Rotting Man, to complete my quest, and release Lurue’s power back into the wild.”

  The Nentyarch considered, then said, “That would be a mighty act and one we would support, but the Rotting Man is a great power, possessing the favor of his evil deity, Talona. You see, the Rotting Man, who I also name the Talontyr, is my enemy, too. He has ousted me from my years-long seat in Dun-Tharos. I shudder to think what evil he has stirred up in that ancient grave I sought to keep under my guard.”

  Marrec replied, “The Rotting Man must feel vulnerable, somehow. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be pursuing little Ash so hard and for so long.”

  “True enough. Perhaps Ash is the seed required to re-ignite the power of the Child of Light in the world. Lurue’s Aspect would be more than a match for the Talontyr, I doubt not.”

  “I will fight him, and I will win,” promised Marrec.

  The Nentyarch motioned for Fallon to attend him. He told the elf, “Give Lurue’s cleric some history of our enemy.”

  Fallon nodded, cleared his throat, and began to speak as if reciting a passage from a well-rehearsed tome, “Deep in the heart of the Rawlinswood lies a festering wound, the wreckage of Dun-Tharos, the ancient Nar capital. There the malevolent creature we call the Rotting Man has raised his own dark citadel, marshalling forces of corruption and evil against the surrounding lands. The Rotting Man’s handpicked lieutenants and emissaries are the Blightlords. The Blightlords are powerful in their right, and hold the power to warp the creatures
of the forest to their sick purposes.

  “The Nentyarchs of ages past raised a living fortress of magical trees over the ruins of Dun-Tharos and chased off explorers for centuries. You see, the treasures of Narfell’s sinister lords lie in buried storehouses and conjuring chambers beneath the old ruins. Without the Nentyarchs to watch over the old capitol, the Talontyr and his blightspawned servants are free to ransack those treasures for secrets of evil from which the world has long been spared. The longer the Rotting Man is allowed to remain in the Rawlinswood’s heart, the more certain it becomes that he’ll unleash a fell power worse even than his own Blightlords.” Fallon coughed, his face slightly red, as if in embarrassment, though Marrec didn’t see what could be bothering the elf. He had recited the history clearly and without stumbling.

  Quiet followed Fallon’s speech. The elfs words moved Marrec despite his dislike for Fallon. His heart seemed to be in the right place, despite his sour disposition, but it seemed more clear than ever what he had to do.

  Marrec said, “As many of you know, I’ve only come this far through Lurue’s guidance and grace. I believe that Lurue would have me take this girl Ash, this lessened aspect, and reunite her with her greater self, which the Rotting Man must have hidden away. I don’t doubt this will be a dangerous journey, outstripping anything I have previously attempted.”

  “I and my circle will provide support and aid in this venture,” said the Nentyarch. “With you will go Elowen, my chief hunter in this matter. Also, Fallon, Anom, and Cirid, all of whom have accomplished deeds of renown without peer.”

  The three so named, Fallon, Anom, and Cirid, stepped forward. Fallon’s habitual frown disappeared in the wake of the Nentyarch’s praise. Anom was an elf man dressed all in brown cloth, carrying a staff of dark wood. Cirid, a female human, wore a gown of dark green. Oddly enough, it seemed to Marrec, a great sword in a white sheath was girt at her waist.

  “I cannot spare more hunters; the Rotting Man’s forces are on the move. Even now, the heart of the Forest of Lethyr is in peril. The Talontyr’s reach has grown long indeed. I’ll not allow two forests fall to his influence. The Lethyr must not be corrupted.”