by Sean Rodden
Sammayal blinked.
Nothing to forgive.
The Sun Lord’s lips twitched to a small smile.
And the Lord of the Shaddathair wept. And his phantasmal folk wept with him. The sound was not unlike that made by Coldmire’s rains, only softer and sweeter. A catharsis of pale tears cleansing sullied souls. A release and a rebirth. The soft sweet song of hope renewed.
Yllufarr’s own eyes welled wetly. Eldurion felt his throat tighten with emotion. Only Rundul appeared unmoved, though his thick fingers fidgeted awkwardly on the haft of his war-axe.
Then Sammayal lowered his chin to his chest in deference and reverence.
“The night is old, Prince of Gith Glennin,” spoke the Shaddath, raising his brightened eyes once more. “Take some rest and think on happier times. Come the morn I will guide you through this horrid place.”
And with no further word the Lord of the Unforgiven turned and faded with his phantom folk into the fetid fogs of the fen.
“Is he to be trusted, friend Yllufarr?”
But the Athain Prince seemed oblivious to the oiled iron of Eldurion’s voice, and he answered not, but only stared stiffly and silently out over the dank darkness of Coldmire.
“There’s no Shadow in the shade,” responded Rundul of the Daradur in the Sun Lord’s stead. “His sorrow and shame are sincere.”
Eldurion raised one greyed brow. “You are certain of this, Stone Lord?”
The Darad nodded. “I don’t have any great familiarity with sorrow, Fian, but I’m sure his is genuine. And I know something of shame.”
A sound like a sigh passed Eldurion’s lips. He was acutely aware of the Blade of Defurien in the bundle at his back. The memory of the day that he had first borne Grimroth scored his mind with demonic claws. One hundred years past. The sands of the Dunelands. A sword recovered. A brother lost.
“As do I,” whispered Eldurion empathetically, emphatically.
“As do we all, my friends,” rejoined Yllufarr of the Neverborn, his voice resonant with regret.
Fian and Darad looked upon him.
The Sun Lord’s pale eyes glowed strangely, as though a thing they had seen yet remained within them, casting a light both bright and dim.
“Shame is the thing that most separates us from Shadow,” stated the noble Ath pensively. “Our individual dignity defines each of us. That we can know disgrace distinguishes us from those who are ruled by Darkness. For it is shame that differentiates the fair from the foul.” The eerie halflight in his eyes flared and faded. “Darkness has no conscience. Evil knows no guilt.”
Grey Eldurion nodded. Rundul grumbled.
“Sammayal can be trusted,” Yllufarr concluded. “It is not he but another that has earned our mistrust.”
“The Chancellor Ingallin,” stated Eldurion. His voice was hard, and the Sun Lord was no longer ignorant of the iron there. “He readies Allaura for the women and children of the Fiannar.” And my own and only daughter goes with them...my Caelle. “It is in my heart that my people walk into the peril of a scheme yet unrevealed.”
But the Athain Prince shook his head.
“Ingallin is under the careful scrutiny of a score of Sun Knights, each of whom has been advised of his wickedness, though they cannot know its true measure. I am content that he can do no harm whilst in the company of First Knight Lalindel and the Sul Athaifain.”
“And Warder Mundar of the mara Waratur is with your folk, Fian,” Rundul reassured. “Mundar will not be tricked by this Ingallin creature. He was not deceived at Hollin Tharric, he will not be deceived elsewhere.”
Eldurion frowned but did not dissent.
“That aspect of Daradun nature is the very cause of the Chancellor’s disdain and derision for your kin and kind, Captain Rundul,” considered Yllufarr. “He hates you because you cannot be corrupted. He fears you because you cannot be deceived.” A pause profuse with pain. “Would that my own folk were so blessed.”
They descended the eastern shoulder of Carricevan under the pall that passed for dawn in Coldmire. They emerged from between the tall silent stones of Carricevan’s encircling cromlech into a ghastly grey halflight of mist and morn. And there they stood in the muds at the edge of a stagnant rain-born lake, eyes straining to pierce its shroud of fog, ears harkening to hear past the lubricious gurgle and gush of the bog.
“Will he come?”
Prince Yllufarr peered into the gloom over the stillwater lake, his eyes as pale as the pall of the dawn. Where the fogs were thin there could be seen great black spikes of petrified timber rearing from the thick water, multitudinous funerary monuments marking the unnumbered graves of murdered Eldagreen.
“He will come.”
Rundul grumbled, unconvinced.
“By what means does the Shaddath propose we travel these bog-waters?” asked Eldurion of the Sun Lord. The silver of the Fian’s hair was tarnished in the dun light of dawn, but his eyes were cool and clear. “You may walk on water, and I might swim it, but the Darad would surely sink like a stone.”
Rundul glared blackly at the dark water, then frowned at the grey mud oozing about his broad feet.
“Fish swim,” he growled. “The Daradur build bridges.”
The Prince of the Neverborn smiled through a sigh. Even the stalwart former Marshal of the Grey Watch allowed himself a wry grin.
“My axe alone weighs more than either of you,” Rundul rumbled irascibly. He shifted reflexively beneath the great weight of his pack. “Not to mention the indignity of being made into a mule.” A black scowl shadowed his mien for the mist-mantled morass before him. “I can’t traverse this place.”
“I am confident our guide will provide some manner of transport,” Yllufarr replied. “A craft of some sort, or a vessel.”
“A craft? A vessel?” The Stone Lord actually sputtered. His beard bristled. “Is he mad? Are you?”
But before the Athain Prince could respond –
“He comes,” Eldurion stated with the succinctness of well-oiled steel.
The Lord of the Unforgiven approached, seeming to glide upon the cloud-shrouded waters, as straight and as tall and as black as the petrified trunks through which he navigated. Soon it became apparent that he rode a craft comprised of those very timbers, a raft less than two yards across and little more than six long, loosely lashed together with scraggly grey weeds and thorny vines. Contrary to the shabbiness of his craft, Sammayal seemed more substantial than he had been, more significant, no longer a wraith of rags and shadow, no longer a withered mendicant of melancholy, but once again a lord of a lordly folk, a true prince of the Neverborn who despite his impenetrably black raiment was resplendent with the twin shinings of Light and Hope.
“Urth ru Glir,” Rundul swore softly, somewhere beneath the surge and gurgle of the tundral swamp.
“Your friend is changed, good Prince,” observed Eldurion, his breath streaming into the gelid air.
Yllufarr nodded. If he breathed, he did so invisibly.
“Urth ru Glir,” repeated Rundul, somewhat more emphatically. His fists tightened reflexively about the haft of his war-axe.
The Darad’s companions peered at him quizzically.
Rundul’s black gaze followed Sammayal’s approach with an apprehension nigh upon dread. His apprehension, however, was not for the restoration of the Shaddath’s essence – indeed he likely did not so much as mark it – but for the dilapidated craft that bore the Lord of the Unforgiven across the chill stillwaters of Coldmire. The Darad muttered miserably as he watched the raft fade and form and fade again within the fogs.
And then –
“Urth ru fuckin’ Glir!” erupted the Captain of the Wandering Guard, spittle flying. “That mad wraith intends we ride on that thing? I won’t do it! I won’t!”
Eldurion raised one silvered brow.
“What have we here? A Stone Lord in the fullness of his might intimidated by a little water when a decidedly old, tired, decrepit Fian is not?”
&nbs
p; Rundul’s glower was as black as midnight in Hell.
“The Daradur are Made of Earth, Fire, Love and War,” he retorted roughly. His beard and brows bristled. “Not a drop of water in the mix. Not one drop. But do not mistake practicality for trepidation, Fian – one need not be a son of Earth the Mother to know that wood which has become rock most certainly does not float.”
“Indeed,” considered Yllufarr, his hand to his chin. “Sammayal employs power eldritch and arcane.” Concern cooled the pale pools of his eyes. “I fear…”
The fogs thickened.
“Fear nothing, Prince Yllufarr,” spoke the Shaddath as he slid through the gloom. His voice was no longer the hapless echo of the bog’s own, but was become strident and sonorous, the crack of thunder in the van of a storm. “The power I employ is Coldmire’s own, and is neither natural nor unnatural, and cannot be detected however vigilant the watchers. I am Coldmire. Coldmire is me.” The prow of his impractical craft struck the muds at Yllufarr’s feet. “Your secret is secure, old friend.”
The Sun Lord stepped back.
“My secret?”
Sammayal’s moon-white eyes glowed eerily.
“Secure. From your foe.” A strange curling at the corners of the Unforgiven’s fine lips served as a smile. “And I intend that it remain so.”
“Speak plainly, Sammayal,” commanded the Sun Lord.
The Lord of the Shaddathair made no move to disembark from his rickety craft, but only stood there, tall and dark, cloaked in power and wreathed in fog. The odd smile remained upon his mouth. He did not deign to cast even the briefest of glances to the Athain Prince’s companions. They were not of the Neverborn. They remained of no consequence. They mattered nothing still.
“Your purpose is plain and easily perceived, Prince Yllufarr.”
“How so?”
“War marches upon the west beneath the banners of Blood and Shadow. The Guardian Peoples prepare for battle. Druintir of the Deathward and Doomfall of the Daradur await much blood and death.”
“You perceive much, Sammayal.”
“Yet you enter Coldmire beneath Ravenwood in stealth, and hasten eastward as swiftly as the terrain and the limitations of your companions allow. You remain within a few miles of the moor’s southern marches, but never strike for the more traversable lands beyond that boundary. You employ no magic, yet powerful magics you surely command. And you move with an air of urgency, of necessity. You have purpose, specific and certain.”
The Shaddath paused, his moon-white eyes aglow and reading the Sun Lord’s tautness and tension as easily as he would words on a scroll. He wondered whether his own death was also written there. His smile faltered, fell. For he well knew that some secrets should, of necessity, remain secret.
Nevertheless.
“You seek Ungloth Reborn,” the Lord of the Shaddathair said boldly. “You would slay the Blood King on his Throne of Bone. You would expunge the Earthbane. You would win this war far from the fields of battle.”
Sammayal saw the dark Prince of the Neverborn balance on the balls of his feet, pantherine, muscles bunched and set to spring. He sensed the Darad’s grip on his axe-haft tighten, heard his teeth grind beneath his beard. He perceived the readied blade concealed within the Fian’s sealskin cloak.
And he descried his own death in their eyes.
Nevertheless.
“You will fail.”
The Sun Lord took one stride forward, retracing the step he had taken backward. He peered upon Sammayal, pale luminous eyes glimmering softly. Nothing swam within them. They were eerily still. Still and unblinking. Deathly.
Neither Eldurion nor Rundul moved, though their breath steamed into the dawn in slow and steady drafts. They did not glance at each other. Nor at the Prince of the Neverborn. Nor he at them. No words passed between the three. Yet in some subliminal manner, they came to a decision.
And Yllufarr spoke a single word.
“Explain.”
The Shaddath bowed gracefully. Gratefully.
“Your quest is doomed, Prince Yllufarr.” Sammayal’s voice was mellifluous, but solemn. “The Blood King has been alerted to his vulnerability. At best, he fears the Guardian Peoples will attempt to strike him in his lair. At worst, he expects them to do so. Thus all ways to Ungloth Reborn are well watched and warded. The Northern Plains about Ungloth Reborn teem with the thralls of Shadow. Every path that leads there is patrolled. Those ways that are not patrolled are mined with glyphs and wards. Foul raptors – creatures taken, altered and corrupted by Shadow – watch from the skies. Fouler things slink within the earth. Even should you strike for Ungloth Reborn from where Coldmire is nearest, you will need to hike more than a dozen leagues, over open ground or under, with little or no cover but your own cloak and cleverness. Neither will suffice. You will be discovered, Prince Yllufarr. Discovered – and destroyed.”
The Sun Lord folded his arms across his chest, his glare as pale as the undulant veils of dawn. Yet he said nothing.
“There is one way,” revealed the Lord of the Shaddathair, “a way so well warded that the enemy would not cast his gaze there even should he have the power to do so – which, I assure you, he does not.”
Yllufarr waited. Said nothing.
“Beneath the stilled heart of Coldmire,” Sammayal continued, “a tunnel bores through the earth, snaking southward to the dark catacombs beneath Ungloth Reborn. The passage has but a single guardian.” The moons of his eyes waned to crescents. “One with whom you are…familiar…good Prince.”
The deed you left undone.
“Verily,” confirmed the Shaddath, as though Yllufarr’s thoughts were as clear to him as his own. “Do this thing and the way to Ungloth Reborn lies open to you. And the canker that poisoned glorious Eldagreen will be removed.”
The deed you left undone.
“Do this thing, and though the very empyrean does shatter, your quest shall remain secret,” Sammayal ensured. “I am Coldmire. Coldmire is me. That which occurs in Coldmire shall remain in Coldmire, Prince Yllufarr. I will see to it. This I swear. And this oath I freely take.”
The Sun Lord’s pale eyes darkened with the swirling shadows of serpents. He mourned the ancient loss of his sword and his spear. They would soon be most sorely needed – and never more sorely missed.
“Knowing these things, Prince Yllufarr,” said Sammayal, “shall we aborn or abort your most noble quest?” His white eyes glistered with expectant, enervated light. “Do we proceed?”
A momentary pause, then Yllufarr turned slowly and cast a raised eyebrow toward Rundul of the Wandering Guard.
The Stone Lord’s fierce gaze shot black bolts of loathing to the Shaddath’s unworthy craft. But Rundul inclined his great maned head, a nod so slight as to have been imperceptible to all eyes save those of the Undying.
Yllufarr turned back to Sammayal, then and leapt lissomely upon the raft.
The deed you left undone.
“We proceed,” stated the Prince of the Neverborn.
They floated through the fog of the flooded fen as though they themselves were made of mist. The Lord of the Unforgiven and the Prince of the Neverborn stood side by side at the prow of the craft, each cloaked and cowled in midnight, so alike as to be indistinguishable from one another. Eldurion, Eldest of the Fiannar, kept a steely vigil at the stern, foregoing sleep in favour of silent meditation, taking sustenance only when absolutely necessary. And Rundul, Captain of the Wandering Guard, huddled amidships, perched atop his cumbersome pack, putting as much distance between his chronically chthonic feet and the water as possible – though he was actually unsure which he loathed more, the cold dead waters over which they moved or the arcane athamancy that propelled them. Nevertheless, he endured both with a garish grin, an exceedingly grotesque expression reminiscent of the rictus of a hirsute skull.
No one moved. No word was spoken. Utter stillness and silence for a time measured neither in minutes nor in hours, but in days. Only the strange and unsettling
sensation of floating over still water, propelled by a power stranger and more unsettling still. Floating, floating. Forever floating.
Then in the lugubrious light of the fifth day from Carricevan, the fogs thickened, forming veritable walls of mist, impenetrable and impervious. The tundral chill plummeted to a polar cold. The sensation of floating faded and fell away, leaving in its absence a void of static immobility, a surreal tranquility so complete, so pure, as to surpass that of death itself.
Then Yllufarr turned.
“For the sakes of stealth and secrecy, we have entered the Everworld at the edge of Eilla Evvanin,” explained the Prince of the Neverborn calmly. “The Everworld knows not Time. We may soon look upon this Earth and see it as it was long ago, as it was many thousands of years past, perhaps thousands of thousands of years. We may see creatures that lived on this Earth uncounted millennia before Man or Fian or Ath or Darad ever walked this land. But fear nothing. We are in the Everworld. Whatever beings we might see cannot in turn see us. And they can affect us no more than we can them.”
Eldurion nodded curtly. Rundul grumbled.
“Even so, that which you might see may be…disturbing,” allowed the Sun Lord as he turned away from his companions once more. “Close your eyes if you so choose.”
Rundul twisted to cast a prolonged and rather profane complaint back to Eldurion, but no sound beyond a gasp passed the Darad’s moustached mouth. His eyes widened to round black moons, his jaw fixed itself agape, and he shuddered – as much as one of his kind might shudder.
For the walls of fog had condensed to form a watery membrane about the raft, a diaphanous dome through which the outer world could be seen – should one be inclined to look.
And Rundul had looked.
Coldmire was gone. The mistbound moor was no more. Gone was the turbid tundral swamp. Gone was the muskeg made into a torpid tarn by festering floodwaters. Gone and no more. But the appalling gloom and the water remained.
A slate-grey sky sagged threateningly above a world that had become nothing but water. Water, water, so much water. Water with neither beginning nor end, nor apparent bottom, an angry ocean heaving great dark waves to the heavens, a shoreless sea surging to drown the falling sky and make naught but water of the universe.
