As the shadows disappeared into the dead flesh of the bodies, Maaz took the blood-covered cloth that Inera had handed to him, and ripped it in two. The bodies upon the ground no longer resembled anything human as they twisted, rearranging themselves and began to shudder and slowly rise from the ground. One of them, the child, rose up on its legs and stretched its body. Maarkov heard bones cracking and something inside of the flesh creaking as it slowly extended its arms and moved its fingers.
Its clothes no longer fit, and Maarkov could see the torso of the child stretched almost to the point where the flesh might have ripped, but it stayed whole. Its arms were long and skinny, like the arms of the shadow that had crawled into it, and its fingers were now elongated. Sharp little bones poked through the tips of the fingers, now appearing sharp and deadly, if a little gruesome. It stood with the same posture that the shadow had, hunched and resting one hand upon the ground to steady the legs underneath it that seemed underdeveloped somehow. With a start, Maarkov realized that the thing was breathing. Its sides swelled and receded as the shadow worked the dead lungs inside of it, and Maarkov thought he could hear a strange stretching noise that accompanied the motion.
The eyes of the thing were glowing with the same fell light of the shadow that inhabited it.
As the second monstrosity rose awkwardly from the earth, Maaz tossed one of the torn pieces of clothing to the first one. It caught the cloth, and with a motion akin to a bird swallowing a fish, stuffed it into its mouth and worked it down its throat. Maaz tossed the other thing a piece, and it repeated the process. Then, while Maaz gestured and the flames forming the Circle disappeared, the two strange creatures turned their heads into the distance, toward Ishamael. Their eyes both flashed for a quick second, then they jumped completely over Maaz and Inera, and bounded off silently into the night.
“Now,” Maaz said, brushing his hands off, “we might see some results. Tomorrow we move.”
“What is it you wish me to do?” Inera asked, “I can try once more to turn Dormael, if you wish.”
“No. That plan was obviously short-sighted. I have no interest in gaining a new apprentice. The Hunters will take care of the lot of them, now. The armlet will be mine within the week.”
“Then what should I do?”
“You will return to Alderak. Go to Thardin and join the Emperor there. Insure that everything goes according to plan, and this time do not fail me. It would be a fatal mistake.” With that, Maaz walked back into the dark toward the camp, leaving Inera standing there with Maarkov.
She came and sat beside him, accepting the pipe that he offered her. She took a deep pull from it, gazing off into the direction that the Hunters had gone. Maarkov watched her from the corner of his eye, trying to take in her face without her realizing he was staring.
He imagined that she’d been beautiful, once. Maarkov didn’t usually keep up with his brother’s pawns, but when he’d seen her, he couldn’t help but try and be near her. He could see something in her eyes that wasn’t present in the others, as if a piece of who she was before hung on against the tide of this horrific life. She made him think of happier times, before all of this, when he’d been an actual person with hopes, dreams, and ambitions. He didn’t love her; he wasn’t capable of that anymore. There was something about her, though, that made Maarkov want to tell her to leave his brother’s service, before she ended up like all the others.
Maaz didn’t believe in sharing power. Once she’d outlived her usefulness, he’d remove her. Maarkov had seen it before.
He wanted to tell her now. Tell her to go back, warn the wizards about the demons on their trail. He wanted to tell her to escape somewhere that Maaz would never find her, and not to look back. He almost did.
Before the words could pass his lips, though, she handed his pipe back to him and rose. She walked off a little distance and nodded to him in farewell. Maarkov nodded back, and Inera’s body shimmered into the form of some dark bird, flapped its wings, and disappeared into the night.
Maarkov sighed and went back to staring at the city.
****
“Leave?” Dormael, D’Jenn, Shawna, and Allen all said at once. Then the room erupted into objections, excuses, and incredulous ramblings. The Mekai held up a hand to forestall the arguments, and the room grew respectfully silent. He took a deep breath and continued.
“We cannot allow this artifact to fall into the wrong hands gentlemen, you know that. It must be kept far from anyone who covets it, and if that includes Victus, then so be it. There is no choice.”
“But where will we go, Wise One?” Dormael asked, “We cannot risk taking it back to one of our homes, and certainly there is nowhere in Alderak that would be safe to hide, not with the Red Swords chasing us so doggedly.” D’Jenn nodded his agreement, and in answer the Mekai simply rose from his seat and walked to one of his bookshelves, pulling from it an old tome with yellowed and decaying pages. He brought it back to the table and sat down with it, opening the book carefully to a certain page inside where he’d laid a strip of silk to hold his place.
“I will not be sending you into hiding, my boys. I will be sending you on a mission. Perhaps the most important mission you’ve ever undertaken, and for that matter, maybe the most important mission in the history of the Conclave’s existence.”
The room grew silent. Dormael and D’Jenn shot each other incredulous looks, D’Jenn’s mouth forming a silent “what?” at Dormael. Dormael could only shrug his shoulders. They both turned back to the Mekai and waited for him to explain as the tension in the room became palpable. The Mekai sighed and leaned forward, his eyes scanning the faded text on the pages of the old book.
“This,” he said, “is a collection of tales from the earliest known histories of the Sevenlands. It is written in Old Vendon, and has been copied many times, according to the book itself. That should tell you how old it is.”
“You mean that this text is older than the Old Vendon language itself?” D’Jenn asked incredulously.
“Well, as you know, we copy texts here in the Conclave to preserve the words inside when the books that hold them become too decrepit to read. Knowledge shouldn’t pass into the ages, and this text here, according to the citations in the first of the book, is the fourth such copy. And it is written in Old Vendon, instead of translated into the new World Tongue.”
“Wow,” Dormael said. That was old, indeed.
“What is it, Wise One?” Shawna asked. The companions were all leaning forward now, intent upon the book. The anticipation could have crackled the air it was so pronounced, and all the objections to leaving that had come up earlier were now forgotten.
“It is simply a collection of ancient tales that predate the founding of the Sevenlands, when we were all just roving tribes that lived upon this land. Many of them weren’t even written down until the book itself was compiled. They were stories, passed down from father to son and down the line of ancestry,” the Mekai said.
“You mean they’re folktales,” D’Jenn muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“Do not be so quick to judge, D’Jenn. Folktales will sometimes have grounding in truth, and I have found something interesting in this book.”
“Something about my mother’s armlet?” Shawna asked, raising her eyebrows.
“I believe it to be so. Sit back and listen to this passage, and pass your own judgments. I think you will come to the same conclusion, however,” the Mekai said, and everyone settled back into their chairs to listen to the old wizard read from the ancient tome.
“This particular passage is a short tale about Ishamael, and how he came to lead the Sevenlands, who were then simply called the Vendon, against the hordes of the east during the First Great War. My Old Vendon is very good, but the dialect that the book was written in makes it a little difficult to derive specific meanings, but I think you will see what I am talking about.” He cleared his throat, found the place where he wanted to start with one skinny finger, and began to read.
“ ‘And Evmir forged for him a great weapon, whilst his brother Eindor granted the weapon seven signs of power over the world and mankind. ‘With our blessings,’ the Gods spoke unto him, ‘takest of us our gift to thee, and with it drivest thine enemies before thee, and thou canst savest thine people.’
“‘And Ishamael rode back to his armies with the weapon, which he named Nar’doroc. Blessed Eindor set upon the Nar’doroc seven powers – that of body, making Ishamael himself stronger than any man. The second sign was of the mind, which gave Ishamael great understanding. The third was wisdom, granting him the knowledge of those who came before him. The four remaining signs granted Ishamael call over the elements of the world, so that they would do his bidding.”
“Wait,” Dormael interjected, his body going cold all over. He remembered something from one of his dreams. The memory of the ancient grotto came to his mind, along with the sight of those words that swirled in the depths of that strange bowl of water. Biedurm, Minsda, Liensdrim, Fiega, Orthum, Wethrim, Vingra.
Translated, they meant: Body, Mind, Wisdom, Fire, Earth, Water, and Wind.
“It can’t be…”
“It can’t be what, Dormael?” the Mekai asked him.
“I..,” he started, then swallowed and continued, “I dreamt of this. Of the…signs you spoke of.”
“Yes,” D’Jenn said, stroking his goatee in that familiar gesture, “You did mention that. Body, Mind, Wisdom, Fire, Earth, Water and Wind, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Dormael nodded, feeling greatly confused and just a little apprehensive.
“Interesting,” the Mekai said, “I suspected that this passage may shed some light on the subject of the armlet.”
“It still leaves a little to be desired,” D’Jenn said, furrowing his brow, “For instance, the armlet in our possession has shown no indication that it has control over anything but the element of fire. If there were seven signs, as this story indicates, then what of the other six? Why haven’t they manifested?”
“Ah,” the Mekai answered, holding up one finger to demonstrate his point, “But the story does go on. In a later passage, Ishamael uses the power of the Nar’doroc against itself, and sunders it into the seven different signs, splitting them. According to the story, he then entrusted each piece with a different chief under his command, and sent them back to their tribal grounds to protect the pieces of the Nar’doroc.”
“Seven signs, seven tribes,” D’Jenn mused, “It does seem a bit convenient. Perhaps this is where the folklore part of it comes in.”
“Ah, but according to this story, the Vendon – our ancestors, originally claimed nine tribes among their people,” the Mekai countered.
“Nine? But our histories mention nothing of two lost tribes. Where did they go?” Dormael said.
“I will read it to you, but be forewarned, you may not like what you hear.
“ ‘And it was that the Vendon cried out to Ishamael ‘Why dost thou covet thy power for thyself? Thou must share the blessing of the Gods with all of the Vendon people.’ But Ishamael said that the Gods had passed the blessing unto him, so that he could lead the Vendon, and soon the tide of war engulfed the Vendon once again.
“‘Two of the Vendon chiefs turned against Ishamael, and rallied the support of other Vendon to their cause. Brother turned against brother, and husband against wife. This new tribe took the name of Gatha, and believed they had found honor in their betrayal. The war was long and bloody, and during its course the Gatha committed many atrocities against their brothers. The Gatha would slaughter innocent men, women, and even children in an attempt to cause fear within the Vendon, and it was after one such act that Ishamael condemned them.
“‘Ishamael’s anger at the Gatha was great and terrible, and he reached out with the Nar’doroc against them, and twisted their minds and bodies. He drove the Gatha into the mountains in the north of the Vendon lands, and his shamans cursed the foothills so that no Gatha shall ever cross them again.’”
“That just cannot be true!” Allen spat, rising from his seat and walking to the same window that Dormael had earlier, “That’s saying that Ishamael, the very father of our people, created the Garthorin!”
“I quite understand the import of the words, young Harlun,” the Mekai replied, “I warned that the story may contain elements that you wouldn’t enjoy.”
“But how can that be true?” D’Jenn asked, “If this Nar’doroc granted Ishamael power over the elements, how could he have used that to turn men into monsters?”
“That, I am admittedly unsure of, D’Jenn. I cannot present this entire story as fact, but I don’t think we can dismiss the similarities between elements of the tale, and the few things we have learned of the armlet. This is further validated by something I discussed with Bethany earlier, something that I found in the personal writings of a Kansil of the Soirus-Gamerit. Shawna, do you remember where your family gained possession of the armlet?”
“It was a wedding gift to my mother from the King. I’m not sure where he got it,” she replied, looking at Dormael and D’Jenn in confusion.
“Yes, well, a Kansil of Soirus-Gamerit in the years prior to the founding of the Duadan Treaty mentioned in his writings that he was having dreams of the same sort that Bethany and Dormael have been receiving from this artifact.”
“So you believe that it was in Soirus-Gamerit at one time, in possession of a Kansil?” Dormael asked, and the Mekai nodded in response.
“Yes, it seems the logical conclusion to me. Think on this: if the armlet was here, in the possession of the Kansil, and he passed it down to his sons and so forth, how did it get into Cambrell?” the Mekai asked, waiting for a reply.
“In the possession of one of the daughters of the Kansil that wedded into the Cambrellian royal family!” D’Jenn answered, snapping his fingers, “This is beginning to line up.”
“So if these ancient chiefs in Ishamael’s time were the predecessors to the Kansils, then…they were supposed to have been safeguarding the pieces of the Nar’doroc,” Allen said, turning back to the discussion, now interested once again.
“Apparently so,” the Mekai agreed, “It seems that our people have failed in some ancient duty.”
“How does that happen?” Shawna asked incredulously, “You would think that it would be important.”
“Things such as this have a way of passing into myth, dear Shawna. The armlet must have lain dormant for a long period of time to escape notice, which is my only theory on the matter. I do not know how it could be that some errant wizard never discovered one of the pieces and figured out what it was, given that there must have been almost one thousand years of time that this could have happened. About that, I am regrettably ignorant,” the Mekai admitted.
“What about this Gamerit Kansil that was having the dreams?” Allen asked.
“He later abdicated for reasons of madness,” the Mekai said, “According to his writings, he could hear the song of the armlet, and it was sending him dreams, but he believed them to be the products of his own fancy. He committed suicide sometime after, according to other records.”
The room grew silent at this turn of the conversation. Finally, it was D’Jenn who spoke up.
“You mentioned a mission, Wise One. I imagine we are to search out the other pieces and bring them here?”
“No,” the Mekai admitted, his expression becoming apprehensive and uncomfortable, “Seek them out, certainly. But I fear that the Conclave will no longer be a safe place for you. I have lost too much control of events here, and I fear that I will either soon be pulled down, or assassinated.”
Dormael hissed in anger, and D’Jenn stood up to protest, but the Mekai held up a han
d to forestall their objections. Both men sat back down slowly, but D’Jenn was red in the face, and Dormael could feel his own anger boiling just beneath the surface. Surely the Mekai didn’t think it would come to that? Clearing his throat, the Mekai continued.
“We have already established that Victus is seeking power. Before he can gain any real power over the Conclave or the Council of Seven, he must remove me from his path, I am his largest and most formidable obstacle. You know that in order for me to be pulled down, I must be proven mentally unstable or otherwise incompetent to hold my position. He will not be able to do that, I still have too much support among the different Disciplines here. His only other option is to have me assassinated.”
The room grew silent at that. No one could offer an argument to the Mekai’s cold logic, and the fact weighed on everyone like a ton of stone. Shawna looked sadly at the old man, and D’Jenn had almost the same look on his face. Allen shook his head and looked to the side, unable to meet the Mekai’s eyes. Dormael simply didn’t know what to say.
“What do we do about the situation?” Dormael asked, “Surely there is something…”
The Mekai shook his head. Taking a deep breath, he said, “There are more important things for you to worry about, my boys. You must find these other pieces, before someone else does. I suspect that the Emperor of Galania already has one. That is the only thing that would explain his sudden and intense interest in the weapon, and his dogged pursuit of you. Victus now covets them as well, and you can bet that he will spend his resources searching for them, and trying to take yours and keep you from getting them. Then, there is this Vilth that we know so little of. I am still unsure of his place in this matter. Only time will tell.”
“But there are so many questions still, Wise One. We wouldn’t even know where to begin our search. If we are even able to obtain the pieces of this Nar’doroc, where do we take them? What do we do with them? Give them back to the Kansils? Something just seems foolish about that,” D’Jenn said.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 71
