Food would not be easy to find here, wood even harder. Trees were rare on the steppes, vegetation of any sort sparser. Overlooked by a wall of rocky cliffs, the ground was hard-packed, swept clean by the wind that carved its name in the drab brown stone. Only water was plentiful, but one could not live on water alone.
Lynar thought again about turning back and retracing his steps into the valleys. It's been a long trek and I'm tired. Why am I even crossing these dead lands? Why don't I go home and beg forgiveness?
He mentally pictured himself snug and warm, his belly full and a fire warming his chilled skin. But begging absolution was not an option this time. He'd used up his mercy chits a long time ago. Too bad I got caught stealing that last batch…
Conscience prodded again, and he was instantly ashamed he'd be stupid enough to try and steal his way to forgiveness. As an outcast, he was now nonexistent to his people. Even if he were to stand among them and shout, they would treat him as one dead.
On crimson-tipped wings, his mind flew back to the events that had led him toward the dead vistas of the Northlands. It was his habit of seeking treasure that wasn't exactly his that had led him to the sanctuary of Xavier D'Shagre. The Arch-priest of the Ouroborous was reputed to have a great fortune hidden in his vaults, offerings from the legions serving him. Indeed, Lynar had laid his eyes on the copious amounts of gold in the sorcerer's keep. Busy stuffing his pockets with coins, he'd stupidly failed to notice he was not alone until a Jansi warrior picked him up by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to strip him of his new fortune.
Next came his captivity.
The dungeon of the Dragon's Arch-priest had been designed for the infliction of pain. Located beneath his sanctuary, the chamber was a voluminous one. Its high ceiling was festooned with hanging cages of all designs, each large enough to hold an adult very uncomfortably, each intended for a specific humiliating torture. The cages hung above an open pit that occupied a large portion of the sepulcher's center, leaving only enough room at its edges for the other devices of torture. Live coals in the pit smoldered red hot in warning to the unfortunate.
Instead of feeling sorry he'd been caught thieving once again, Lynar had cursed his lapse in vigilance and swore that, next time, he'd keep an eye out for danger. That is, if there was a next time. Xavier was known to skin his victims alive before roasting them.
There was, however, not a repentant bone in the elf's body. As he had reasoned, stealing from evil to increase his own fortune was perfectly logical. Of course, it didn't occur to him it was equally logical the sorcerer would want to make his thieving a thing of the past.
Two new prisoners were brought into the dungeon by the Jansi, a man and a woman. At first he'd felt antipathy toward the newcomers. Then he'd felt relief, for it meant Xavier had a new amusement to focus on, and any diversion that would buy him more time was welcome.
Legs aching, rubbery from exhaustion, he began to stagger. His stomach was alarmingly empty, and his feet felt like lead weights carried on thin sticks. He was tired and sore; panic began to froth beneath the surface of his burgeoning comprehension. He did not fancy dying in this accursed place, a meal for the scavengers.
Utterly lost, needing guidance, he slipped his fingers inside the thick sash tied around his waist. He'd been stripped of his bag of tricks before being turned out of his homeland, but he had still managed to scrounge a few items vital to Danarran conjuring. Gathering was easy, automatic. Elves were trained from hatchlings to search for food and pluck other useful items while traveling, almost without pause. He'd scavenged many useful trinkets passing through the abandoned villages, things useless to humans but valuable to elves.
Handling his treasure with great care, he unwrapped a tiny sliver of glass. This item was very important. In the hands of a true adept, a mirror could be used for divination and prophecy. Looking into its depth could bring images, visions from the mother goddess who could give answers in unsure times. Certainly, he needed her guidance to help him find his way.
"Ciire," he prayed. "Oh, Mother, please grant me a sign, show me the way to the one I seek."
Holding his breath, he concentrated, his eyes fixed on the mirror. Several minutes passed, with only the sound of the beating wind raping his ears as he eagerly searched the surface of the looking glass. Instead of the face of his beloved goddess, however, all he saw was his own visage. He sighed, disappointed.
I guess Ciire doesn't wish to reveal herself to my eyes.
Just in case he had not concentrated hard enough or said the right incantation, Lynar closed his eyes and concentrated harder. He was again disappointed. Ciire must be deaf to his pleas, shamed by his bad behavior. He felt sharp despair stab his heart. Would he ever again be in communion with his mother goddess? What was so wrong with him that he could not keep his sticky fingers off other's property?
Adjusting the glass so he could see his whole face, he studied his image. He was, he thought, quite a fine-looking elf. His skin had an odd golden cast, as did his eyes, and his ears were tipped with sharp points. His long hair was pure-white and braided. Colored beads and ribbons represented his rank and citizenship--or did, back when his beads and ribbons had meant something.
Naturally mischievous, he excelled as a liar and con artist. For his good points, he was also a cheerful seeker of adventure, his sole asset an unfailing loyalty to those he liked.
Sighing, he wrapped his precious shard back in the soft chamois. He began to walk again. Though the chill zephyrs were thankfully receding, the mist was beginning to creep up, growing so thick he could barely see hand before face.
Surely, I must be near the sanctuary I seek, he thought in frustration. He needed to find the man who'd freed him from the cruel bars of the cage. Because he saved my life, I owe him a debt of honor.
It did not matter that his savior might want nothing in return. He was bound by Danarran tradition to offer himself in servitude, lest Ciire withdraw his abilities as a conjurer. Only when he gained complete absolution could he seek to travel his own way.
He'd followed the assassin and the wounded Raider from Xavier's dungeon, but he could not keep up with the horses that carried them away. An elf could run at a good speed, that was true enough, but not that terribly fast. It had taken him hours to make his way to the Raider's camp; and when he'd found it, he'd not dared reveal his presence. Raiders were known to use elves for sport, running them down like foxes, exhausting them to death.
Much to his relief, the assassin had soon departed the camp, allowing him to resume his tailing, wondering how to best present his services. In a short time, though, he'd lost sight of man and horse, becoming confused in the maze of an unfamiliar land.
Eyes burning with fatigue, he blinked hard. Tiny chips of ice stung his face, causing his cheeks and nose to tingle anew then go numb. He scanned the area, breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted a high stone wall. At least, he was coming toward some civilization.
Hurrying forward, he pressed his small body against the wall, attempting to find security in its solidity. Fingers trailing the stone, he followed it, coming abruptly to its end. Skirting its girth, he stood in awe before a most wondrous sight.
"Praise be!" he exclaimed in his musical voice. He dimly realized he was becoming increasingly giddy from the thin air, but this did not seem important. Invoking the name of the mother goddess of lost souls, he touched his forehead three times. It was an ingrained gesture. Since his banishment, he often invoked the goddess's name, not the least when he was in captivity.
"He must be here." Lynar stood, visually scouting out the destination that might end his pilgrimage. Everything about it looked far off and hazy. I seek the man named Morgan.
Curious to know why the assassin would retreat to such a desolate place, the elf felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. He unwound a leather sling from around his neck, picked up two smooth pebbles and positioning them for firing. With wary steps he approached this sanctum that at least promised re
spite from the chilling wind and icy rain.
His nostrils flared as he wound his way over the uncertain ground. The stronghold he wanted to reach lay on the opposite side of the gulf, and at first seemed to be completely inaccessible.
With terror in his heart, the elf eased his way along a slender juncture, barely avoiding the chasm that would have consumed him entirely had he fallen in. His heart thudded as though it would break his ribs. His hands and feet were frozen, but this was unimportant compared to the dull pains in his empty stomach.
Eyes front and center, trying to keep from being knocked down by the intense winds, he made it onto more stable ground. As he found shelter in the massive stone structure, the lashing wind seemed to abate; the cold was no longer so penetratingly fierce.
Safely across, he found the back entrance, an unassuming wooden door once a servant's access to the castle. He crept into the frosty shadows behind the door and sniffed the air for danger. A musty odor assailed his twitching nostrils, and he sneezed loudly. His face wrinkled in displeasure. He decided he didn't need his weapon.
He draped the sling around his neck where it could be easily reached and tucked the pebbles away. He then fished for other objects. He wanted light, a fire to ward off the oppressive gloom of the interior. Withdrawing two shiny stones, he struck them together. The iron pyrite and flint made a quick, hot spark.
Striking the flint and pyrite a second time, he whispered a few words. The spark fell to the floor at his feet. Instead of extinguishing, the flame became a steady light, a small bright beacon. However, a fire without fuel would not last long. He crouched and scooped the flame onto his palm. He held it out like one would a candle, left the servants' area and entered the main body of the first floor.
Within minutes, he'd gathered enough bits and pieces of kindling to make a small fire. Only when a blaze crackled in the hearth did he survey his surroundings. He was pleased to find he was in a kitchen-type area. He eagerly scanned the shadowy chamber; a smile of pleasure curled his lips. He knew how to manage homely duties full well.
This is a good place, he decided.
There were stone ovens for baking bread. Across from the hearths, on the other side of the room, was a long stone counter broken by two deep stone basins. A second fireplace had hooks and posts embedded into the stone to support heavy black iron kettles. Although the Northlands were barely habitable, the valleys in the nearby Eastlands supported plant and wild life, and it was from these places he could gather the things needed to survive.
Above the basins was a window with wooden shutters, closed against the harsh elements and the winds often generated. A narrow door in a far corner led down a short stone stairway into a second smaller room with a deep well that provided fresh icy water from an underground stream. Another small frigid room had hooks and wooden shelves lining the walls. It was used for the storage of meats and other perishables.
Eager to explore further, Lynar struck the flint and pyrite again. He scooped up the flame in the cup of both hands. Aside from the door leading down into the wintry pantry, there was only one other to take. It was clear which way he had to go.
A flurry of footprints had been stamped into the layers of dirt covering the floor. Chillingly, he also saw smears of blood.
He held his light high and walked down a long hallway. At its end he found a dining room. Going beyond the table and to the far side of the room, he discovered another hallway. Thick drapings of spider's webs had already been brushed to one side by heavy hands.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he came into a great stone foyer. His tiny flame cast eerie shadows on the walls, producing chills along his spine.
He must be around here, but where?
The silence surrounding him was heavy and suffocating, chewing ceaselessly at his imagination and stoking it at the same time. His throat was dry, and his breath came in choking gasps. His heart skipped a beat; and he pricked up his ears, attuning them to listen for any sound. He had to make a decision, find a way to go.
His eyes were drawn to the open door at the foot of the stairs, tantalizingly cracked just enough for a small body to slip through. Not knowing it would soon lead him into adventures he could not begin to imagine, he took a single step toward the doorway, and then a second, a third.
If not this way, there will be another.
He hurried toward the door. Slipping through the narrow opening between door and frame, he found himself standing on a balcony overlooking a chamber twenty-five steps down. Lit by a multitude of spiraling white candles draped in cobwebs, the room projected a mysterious, shadowy atmosphere. He grasped the solid wood banister, maneuvering his body so he could peer between the slats.
Surveying the abyss below, he pricked up his ears, attuning his acute senses to the expanse of the den. He felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Apprehension slammed the inner wall of his chest. It was accompanied by a sudden rush of fear.
Illumination into the deeper recesses of the room was effectively cut in half by his high vantage point. His heart skipped a beat. To see more, he would have to descend. Although he was afraid, curiosity beckoned him. He hesitated at the top of the stairs. Was it wise, he wondered, to go down? After a moment, he released the railing and descended, stopping on the bottom step. The silence was deafening.
"Assassin?" His small voice broke the silence. "I have come to beg sanctuary. What I ask, you must grant."
No reply. Only silence. Gazing around, he could see a violent struggle had taken place. The chess table had been shattered and playing pieces scattered helter-skelter. In the layer of dust on the floor, he saw sign of two combatants. The redolence of the fight still hung in the musty air--a deep, richer odor mingled with the smell of sour sweat and wood ash, an odor like blood. A lot of blood.
The fight was a fierce one. Bending, he poked a finger into a crimson stain. Not long over, either, he surmised. One, perhaps both, had been wounded. What had become of the man he sought?
He turned around. The sight of the body was a shock, robbing him of breath. Raising his hands to his mouth, he stood in horror. He closed his eyes, his mind half-blank, poised between nothingness and great disappointment. He stood for several long moments. How could he have anticipated finding a corpse? He didn't need a second glance to know the assassin was dead.
Shaking off his fear, Lynar approached the body. His shocked stare belatedly took in the details of the torn, bloody corpse. Kneeling, he touched the assassin's hand; the iciness of the skin was startling.
Except for his black hair shot with silvery strands, not a speck of color was to be found in the waxen complexion. His eyes were closed, and his thick hair clung in damp shreds to his forehead. His clothing was torn and stained with a lethal amount of blood. Slumped in a heap, his face and body bore the cuts and abrasions of his recent torture at the hands of the Jansi warriors.
But these wounds were not the cause of the assassin's demise. A dagger protruded from his chest. The blade had been thrust hard and deep, penetrating his heart.
Lynar drew back, a grimace distorting his features.
"So, you earned your freedom from Xavier only to lose your life anyway." He could see the blood was still fresh, reflecting the flickering light of the candles. The man had not been dead long. "I can only ask Ciire why this has happened," he whispered.
Death automatically freed him from his debt, and he was now bound to no one save himself.
A delighted glint sidled into his golden eyes as the thief in him took control. Perhaps the journey had not been in vain. After all, there were treasures to be plucked from this sanctuary.
Ciire knows my needs. Perhaps this is why she brought me here.
The elf's gaze came to rest on the ring. The gold glinted enticingly. He turned his hand up, staring into his empty palm. For a very brief moment, he'd held that ring. He didn't know why it should be so important that the assassin would sacrifice his mate to have it. It must be a very important item, indeed
. He'd been forced to part with it to buy his own freedom. It wasn't as if the owner would mind; it belonged to a dead man, one who surely had no use for it. It would be a fine treasure, one he felt he had well earned.
"I'll have this," he said, tugging at the ring. Frustratingly, it would not budge. I'll have to cut the finger off. His searching eyes came to rest on the dagger. I could use this.
He wrapped his small hands around its hilt. It was crusted with blood, and he nearly gagged. Breathing deeply through his open mouth, he tugged. The silver blade slid out of the wound, making a crude, thick, liquid sound that brought a harder grimace to his face. He wiped the blade on the assassin's sleeve, then jumped back, holding his fine new weapon. The remaining stains didn't detract from its sleek design.
Lynar pressed the tip of the blade against his palm, admiring the craftsmanship. It was a compelling piece, its hilt decorated with black onyx, blue lapis and faceted crystal. The hand, pommel and guard were accented with sterling silver. The face of the tempered-steel serrated blade was etched with strange runic symbols. Not so large as to be unwieldy or so small as to be harmless, the blade's cutting edge was perfectly honed. It was a grand treasure. For many years he could tell the tale of how he came about it.
But he was not to be the owner of the dirk for long. A sharp, stinging pain shot through his hand, sending slivers of lightning coursing through his veins. He cried out when the blade slipped and bit into his palm. He instantly let go, pressing his newly bleeding hand to his leather leggings. Without thought, he kicked and sent the weapon flying.
"See what your thievery has wrought!" he moaned, lifting his hand to examine the wound, a minor cut. Bright-orange blood stained his palm.
Descent of Demons Page 9
