by Dan Gillis
“No. I have a hunch about some things. I can tell you now, with certainty, that your dagger is a cursed weapon. I sense within that blade a heart of malice and guile. Something in that dagger is twisting your mind, thwarting your attempts to understand what is happening. Firah’s eyes suddenly flashed red. Zyr stared back with a guarded air.
“You think you understand anything at all, meddler?” Her voice was low and grating, much like a man’s; it seemed to echo upon itself, resonating in the dark.
“I know enough. You will not succeed here demon. She will overcome your will; her spirit is too great, even for you.”
“That remains to be seen. Will you foolishly give of yourself for this girl … assuming you can afford the price of my ownership?” Firah’s arm withdrew the cold black blade from the sheath. It reflected no light at all.
“I have come prepared,” Zyr said, raising a smaller blade to his arm. He cut deeply across his skin and allowed his blood to flow over the cursed blade which Firah held out. The black surface drank in the monk’s essence, gleaning from the droplets which had been spilled. The healer never flinched but maintained a quiet vigil of the girl.
“Ahhhhh. So sweet. I wish that I could taste this the preferable way, and yet time will bring me what I desire.” The girl's face was contorted into a sickening display of ecstasy. The monk watched her closely. Her red eyes traced back to find his own. “You cannot keep me suppressed this way fool. There are others who will be drawn to you. You know nothing can slake my thirst, and with each offering I am closer to this realm.”
“I will do everything in my power to quell you, demon. However, it will be the girl that will eventually beat you. Be gone! Your selfish blood-price is paid.” The girl’s mouth quirked in mirth and laughed softly and long. Then the fire reflected a pale green colour passing into her eyes, though not as bright as before.
“Zyr, are you alright? Do you want to look at the blade or not?” She stared at him with complete ignorance of the last few horrifying minutes. Zyr’s eyes glistened in the fire light.
“No … thank you.”
The noxious weed was growing stronger with every passing rainstorm. The glade around the small tree continued along its life cycle, near oblivious to the conflict within its heart. The Sapling was growing unimpeded as it began to unfold the buds of its most precious flower. Thorns jutted out along the stem … precious and deadly.
Reflections of Duty
ALL WAS QUIET and still in the deep foliage. Nature had completely overrun the silent courtyard with twisting vines which wound around shattered pillars and crept over high broken walls. Foundations and footings were smothered in moss; shrubs burst through cracks in the marbled floors. No human touch had attended the Halls in decades and the forest had become the caretaker, enshrouding the whole monastery in a green veil. All was at peace within the Broken Halls, every living thing coexisting with the ancient architecture. As events passed in the world outside the forest, time seemed to have abandoned the monastery. Completely hidden from view, the Halls had passed beyond reckoning of most men.
Leaves shuffled and crunched beneath soft leather boots which pressed upon the spongy ground. It was midday and the sun shone down through breaks in the lush canopy overhead. The cloaked trespasser moved slowly through the tranquil copse with deliberate, careful steps. Stopping and glancing upward past the ceiling of branches, the bristles of a graying brown beard escaped the shadows of the cowl. After sniffing the wind, the stranger glanced over his shoulder. A large animal stalked from the undergrowth. Its pelt was black and melded with shadow as it moved across the mossy bed. Moving more silently than death it came alongside the lone figure in the center of the copse. The newcomer’s deep green cloak fluttered in a passing breeze while staring down into the golden gaze of his feral companion. He nodded slightly and took a seat upon the top of a mossy stone located in the center of the copse.
Stroking the black pelt of the purring animal, he stranger spoke softly, “now we must wait, Nisa.”
***
The waggon rolled gently across the soft ground. A rain shower in the early morning had soaked everything thoroughly. As muddy as the road was, the group had avoided getting mired down by choosing careful paths along the road. Their progress had been staunched by the mire as time squelched and splashed on its way. Shien sat across from Firah in silence, under the cover of a tarp erected above the waggon bed. He watched water drops roll lazily off the side of the cover into the pools below. Conversation had run as dry as their water supply, as the road was long to their eventual destination. No one really knew where they were headed except Zyr, who chose to reveal only strands of information, like morsels to a starved pack of dogs. Shien preferred the quiet as he looked over the small booklet in his lap. They were on the third day of travel and still he had only caught up to their final visit to Khyvla. The writing was a habit born from his youth. He had always kept a journal of sorts. It helped him settle his thoughts when life grew complex, like the previous week. Having been through more than most people in his limited years, he still couldn’t remember when his life had been more eventful or hazardous than it had recently. He glanced up from his fresh black marks to peruse his traveling companions. Firah was stretched out along the opposite side of the waggon, with her head flopped backward over the side; her arms were thrust out, grasping the wooden planks which comprised the short walls of the waggon bed. Looking over his left shoulder he saw Zyr driving the cart with Tohm at his side. The enigmatic monk would occasionally whisper things to the large man, who hung his head down perpetually these days. Shien looked back to his writing. He had started a new chapter of sorts upon meeting the unusual group of companions. He flipped backward in the book to peruse his thoughts of previous days. He shook his head in wonder. They were all alive and mobile, not to mention freshly clothed and bathed. He set the thin charcoal stick to the paper and prepared to commence their experiences within the city.
“What have you been scratching into that book all this time?” Firah had lifted her head, and the look she gave him was pure desperation. She was bored beyond reason. The girl loved the outdoors, so she had told him, and she wanted to be up and moving about. Unfortunately, muddy boots and a stranded young woman is all that would result of her walking beside the waggon for the time being. The sun had not shown itself since the rain, hiding behind dark clouds which threatened to break again over the land. The ground would not dry up soon. Firah had been so lethargic recently that she could have passed for one of the worn planks of wood she flopped over.
“Just words and more words. It’s rather tedious actually.” He dropped his head back to the page and sought his memory for the details.
“You must be good at it. Your scratching has been carrying on for hours. I want to see …” She shuffled over to him on her knees and stuck her face around his book to peer at the characters he wrote inside. “I can’t read it,” she remarked disappointingly and slumped back against the side of the waggon next to him.
“Not many can read this kind of writing. It comes from a far country, where writing evolved differently than in Kenhar. Here, I’ll show you.” Firah moved next to him, crowding the space in front of the small book. “See this one here; look how the lines here make a square and the lines above intersect?” She nodded in understanding. “That means city … and well I’m just going over our trip into Khyvla.”
“So you are writing about our adventures?” Her face brightened as she found this new information exciting and diverting.
“Our mishaps is probably more appropriate.” He scribbled down some characters and immediately Firah was engaged in the process.
“What did you just write?” She looked up to him, her green eyes fixed in anticipation. He smirked and humoured the now animated deadwood.
“Uh … okay. It says ‘Firah and I successfully passed the gate and retrieved my equipment.’ He watched her face drop in surprise and then grow somewhat irritated.
“That�
�s it? That’s all that happened?” She spoke in heavy sarcastic laden tones. “We just went in and grabbed our stuff and called it a day?”
“What else do you write? I wrote what happened.” He was taken aback by her criticism.
“What about all the danger? Remember we didn’t know if the enemy were lurking around corners. You probably didn’t mention how difficult it was getting into the city, wearing blankets to hide the muck we were covered in? I remember how nerve racking it was as I thought every eye was on me!” She was speaking so rapidly, Shien’s head spun. She poked at the book for emphasis as the lecture rolled on. “How about stealing those clothes so we could pass for normal people in the shop and inn? Remember how furious I was at you when, after all that and after a clean escape, we forgot to collect the clothes I had made? Then we had to go back again! How could you forget all that?” She was fuming, but lightheartedly or so he divined. She was happy to stretch her mind from days of stagnation.
“That’s all superficial. Besides you’re getting too far ahead.” Her face was uncomfortably close to his. She was pretty, even when in a huff. Her voice echoed in his ears.
“Hah! Superficial … what’s that? Anyway, I have an idea. I will tell you what to write and you just move that black stick around okay?” She had a gleam of triumph in her eye.
“Okay…” He shifted his position to relief some cramped muscles and prepared the writing tool. She watched impatiently and fidgeted around. “Alright, dictate away, young herald.” She laughed brightly at his comment.
“Firah and Shien moved ever so close to the gate and waited for the necromancers to jump out and set them on fire …”
Shien was moving the pencil while his mind twinged in mirth. On the pages his characters were written down steadily in cadence with her words, though the words were far from her narrative. He dared not disrupt her story while maintaining his ruse. He checked his last sentence - ‘Next we acquired Firah’s clothes, bought some for the others and safely exited the city.’
Zyr listened to the lighthearted scene behind him in silence. At least they were able to receive a reprieve from the seriousness of the situation before them all. His mind could not detract for a moment from the task that was placed upon him. The weight was almost too great to bear; the thought of what must be done seemed impossible. He was faltering on the slim precipice of despair. Tohm and Firah depended on him for their very lives. The terrible irony was apparent. Firah would have no recollection of the night activities, except for what the demon specter would create in her mind. Over the last few days, her episodes had grown worse. Her body would actually change subtly for the time that the demon had control; and those changes would only grow more severe. He had kept her hidden from Shien and Tohm, while he dealt with the demon each night. They must not know yet. And still, how could he keep the transformation secret? He knew what would come in the end, how it would play out. Breaking the black alter had only bought them time, not a victory. Everything seemed uncertain.
This journey to the Broken Halls was an attempt to buy time, to try to figure out what to do. Removing Firah from the vicinity of those who would take her was paramount, and losing the dagger was not an option either. If she became separated from it, she would try to search it out in the night, causing many difficulties. Besides, being able to keep the blade under surveillance was strangely comforting. At least The Blade of Ahtol was not using it on another victim, somewhere else. He only hoped that the answer to the dilemma would come soon. Somehow, the solution would depend on his ability to conquer himself, his emotions, fear … all the old tenets. Yet for all his preparations, cursed dark fate had drawn Firah to the dagger like a moth to flame. He felt caught up in a wind that was unassailable, and the sense of powerlessness infuriated his mind. Zyr hung his head sadly; he truly doubted whether the forces of purity assisted those few who fought against evil.
“Zyr … they are coming for her …” Tohm’s voice rumbled beneath his weather resistant hood. His friend’s voice echoed what Zyr had tried to dismiss.
“No, Tohm. They are far away; please try to focus as I taught you earlier.” The man’s head drooped down again, and no more was said. It was enough to make Zyr weep when he thought about Tohm, for the damage that had been inflicted upon his friend. His heart ached as he could do nothing more to aid the once gentle giant. He watched powerlessly as fate played out its course in this good man’s life.
A hungry beast lingered beneath the surface of Tohm’s weakened resolve, and was constantly trying to claw its way to the surface. Zyr had to remain ever on alert to detect the signs of Tohm’s mental resistance faltering. The monk had guessed what had occurred. The beast had always been there and Tohm had kept it hidden for years in the darkest pits of his psyche. A glimpse of that terrible force had been seen on the road to Khyvla, during the ambush. Somehow, the attack on his mind had disrupted the careful balance. Tohm could no longer resist the raging anger and lust for combat. With frustration, the monk clenched the leather reins tightly. Zyr knew that he could not calm the starving beast within Tohm and monitor Firah effectively for much longer. In both cases, conditions were worsening. It was these things that were wearing his resolve threadbare. How could he care for others and have no room in his heart for her? She still played upon the far recesses of his mind, ever lingering. Recently, those thoughts had become more real and touched upon emotions long dormant. Zyr shook his head to arouse his faculties. Such nonsense!
He was grateful Shien accepted the invitation to come with them. It gave his mind some reprieve to know the young man would watch over the girl. He felt there was something special about Shien worth investigating, but there was far too much bearing him down to consider such things. For now, he was content to place a degree of trust in the newest arrival to the ill-fated group.
***
Nuril glanced over the legal documents strewn across the table before her. The guild had come under significant fire following the failed attempt to capture the girl. Yet it was possible to overcome the feeble charges pressed upon Ahtol’s guild. She picked up each parchment and carefully perused the accusations against them. The advantage leaned toward the guild as the evidence was vague and relied heavily upon assumption. Eventually, her subordinates would be released on lesser charges, though she was inclined to simply let them hang until dead. As pleasant a thought as it was to entertain, it would not do for the guild’s reputation or its resources. For all the trouble these fools had caused in their bungling of a relatively simple task, they still had their uses. Could she trust them to maintain affairs while she was away? ‘Will the tower remain standing?’ she mused dryly to herself.
It was the worst time to leave, but it was never more dire a circumstance. The blade and prize were on the move. Her body shuddered subconsciously at a nightmarish thought. If those two should somehow unite for long without the suppressing control of the Deepstone table, all would be undone. Ahtol's fury would spill out upon Aeredia unchecked and unquenchable. It had been three days now, and she could wait no longer. With images of the slender blade upon her thoughts she looked down to the table edge. Her hand was trembling. She quickly clenched her fingers tightly to control her body’s yearnings.
The blade had been so close. She had thought she could handle its presence, after all the years that had past. Now foolishly, she was preparing to pursue what she feared and craved the most. Her road was clear, an obsessive and terrifying duty. Thus, the trip would need to be quick and efficient with no room for errors. That was why she was going personally. She would travel fairly lightly and move as swiftly as possible.
The direction the blade was moving was the most disturbing. Surely, he would not take her there. She paced around the desk coolly, stopping in front of a map of Mehnin. No one had returned alive since the Breaking. Yet he would be one to do something so rash and clearly illogical, to throw ignorant trackers off the scent. Still her Jazyn were more than mere ignorant animals. Being fostered from birth toward their ev
entual end, they were completely loyal but lived independently. They were attuned to the subtle shifts in the Root and could sniff out the slightest imbalance. They were a strange breed, sharing features of man and beast and yet something altogether different.
Something occurred three days ago that had knocked the three Jazyn that lived in the area completely unconscious. She had felt it too, as many in the tower had. It was some time later, when she visited the energy-hounds, that she discovered the cause. A major spike in the area just outside the city had caused the disruption. Nuril had dispatched grey rangers to investigate and the news was somehow unsettling and predicable. A massive labyrinth of undergrowth and towering trees had burst forth from the land. The whole affected area was a mysterious and bizarre upheaval. Nuril had seen it before in some instances and guessed the monk’s meddling as the cause. The town was buzzing with wonder ever since the ground had ceased shaking.
It was clear that Zyr had united with the young girl, ‘the prize’ who would fuel the ritual, and a couple of mercenaries. They were moving at a decent pace in a south by south-west bearing. Nuril knew that only one significant landmark lay in that direction, and most mortals knew nothing of it. She moved all the documents off her desk into the enchanted compartment along the wall. Any forced entry and search would meet with disappointment. Only she could unlock this compartment.
A presence was at the door and she turned herself to admit the visitor. She was dressed in her best riding gear beneath a sweeping dark cloak which she had prepared with a fur lining. The last summer moon was growing old and hidden. Soon the first Autumn phase would begin to show, illuminating nights that would grow steadily cooler. It was best to be prepared. The door swung open slowly admitting two subsidiary cadremen, adorned in sturdy riding cloaks.
