“Is something wrong?” she asked when she noticed their serious expressions.
“Where’s Jonathan?” the healer asked, and added less seriously. “We need his help with Kezi.”
“He’ll be down in a few minutes, but I can go get him for you.”
“That won’t be necessary. Which room is his?”
“To the right, at the end of the hall.”
Maeve lay back, feigning weakness, laughing with hidden delight as she watched the men climbing the stairs, whispering to one another. She heard Jon’s startled cry when he met them in the hall, heard the brief scuffle that followed.
They’d underestimated the youth, she thought as she heard their terrified screams. A moment later they ran down the stairs, tripping over one another as they fled the balls of flame that rolled after them. Andor rushed from his room into the drinking hall. Eyes wide, he retreated, returning with a blanket to beat out the fires. By the time the blaze was out, Jonathan had fled.
Maeve had watched him go. “Ah, yes. I am a magnificent fox,” she mouthed, a yellowed finger brushing back her still-beautiful hair.
As Jonathan sat in the cave, waiting for his father to wake, he thought of the burning Nocturne, thought of Andor and his blanket. It occurred to Jon that the spells he had learned were all lethal. That had been his choice; he could’ve learned others. And now, he was struggling to master a lightning spell. The force he hoped to control frightened him. If his concentration faltered or the spell was chanted incorrectly, the lightning could destroy him. This was the dangerous time, when a wizard had to trust his talent enough to override instinct.
That night, Morgoth noticed the scent of smoke in Jonathan’s clothing, the burn on the boy’s arm. Jon related what he had done, then added bitterly, “I shouldn’t have run. I should’ve said Maeve lied. Ivar and Andor would’ve defended me.”
“Instead, you attacked them.”
Jon nodded. “Now I can never return to Linde. I was such a fool,” he admitted.
His father smiled. He raised his hand, paused a moment, then brushed away a smudge of soot on Jon’s cheek. “You had to see what your spells could do. It was only natural,” he said gently. “As for returning to Linde, you’ll do more than return. One day you will rule the town and all of the land around it. When my legions are freed from the cloth, you’ll lead them. No powers in this land equal you and I together.”
“How can you be so certain that those trapped on the cloth will follow us?” Jon asked.
“They’ve pledged themselves to serve me. I must free them.” Noticing Jon’s doubtful expression, Morgoth added, “Your mother is trapped there. So is Vhar. There are others like them, decent people enslaved forever for some small infraction. Don’t you think there is honor in releasing them?”
Jon nodded. “Yes,” he said, hiding his doubt. He watched his father open his gold-covered spellbook, noting with pride the ones Jonathan had already mastered.
“Leo’s dead,” Ivar told Dominic as he sat with the Guardians in the great hall.
“I guessed as much when I saw you walking toward the fortress. We were fools to let him go alone,” Dominic replied bitterly.
“I saw the cinders that were left of his body, his shadow on the ground. Had you sent two, you would have lost two.”
“Who killed Leo?” Dominic asked, the despair in his voice indicating that he already knew.
“Jonathan. It could have only been Jonathan. Now that I have said the worst, let me tell you of the other terrible events in Linde.”
“How many wolves attacked the family?” Dominic asked when Ivar had finished.
“The girl saw three. The father was bitten. From his description, I would say Maeve was among them.”
“That’s hardly a vixen’s way. She’s making other were for a purpose … and the purpose hangs in our shrine,” Dominic said. “Next full moon, they’ll attack. Jon will be with them, and the creature he has freed.”
“Why should they wait?” Ivar asked.
“Because with our minds focused on the cloth, we are far more vulnerable than at any other time.”
“And for vengeance,” Mattas added. “For the souls to be released on us is Morgoth’s ultimate revenge.”
Ivar thought of Sondra. The boy loved her, of that Ivar was certain. Whatever other atrocities Jon might commit, Ivar doubted he would harm her. But the battle fought here would determine the future of Linde. “The moon is nearly full. I’ll stay and help you,” Ivar said and laid a reassuring hand on Dominic’s shoulder.
For the next two days, Ivar rested, exerting himself only to strengthen the power of the Guardians’ vestments, staves, and knives, and to seal the doors of the fortress. He added a second spell to strengthen the ancient fortress doors, hoping that, should the locking spell that surrounded the fortress be broken, the doors would provide time to cast another.
On the night of the full moon, a mist surrounded the fortress, pressing against the stone wall, rising above it, enclosing the cliffs above and below the road in silver isolation. As the four remaining Guardians assembled in the stony courtyard, Ivar stood in the tower on the platform from which Leith had once looked out at Tepest and G’Henna. He wore one of the Guardians’ gray cloaks and carried his staff and the materials he would need for the spells he had learned. As he waited, he thought of the bodies of Morgoth’s dead, their blue skin, their frozen flesh. What would he face tonight? How long before his adversary drained his life as well?
The Guardians had begun their chant before the still-quiet shrine. They seemed oblivious to the profound silence that surrounded the fortress, like a deadly storm waiting to break. The incessant winter wind had ceased to blow, and moans that normally came from the fortress walls had ceased as well. The glowing mist thickened against the cliffs. Ivar gazed across the narrow, moonlit ribbon of a road, and he saw the werewolves run, silent and graceful, toward them.
Kezi and his daughter had spoken of three wolves. This time there were four. And Jonathan was among them. Some sorcery allowed him to pace them, his grace and speed equal to the pack’s. Tendrils of mist floated above them, moving as they moved.
Ivar had so little time! He rushed to the courtyard and stood just behind the barred doors of the fortress. He fingered the wide belt he wore. Hanging from it was a length of rope, a glass rod encased in fur, a pouch of sulphur, another of phosphorus, and a white feather. The spells he had memorized seemed weak and too few. He was no match, even for the boy. His heart beat faster. He pulled back the hood of his cloak and raised his staff, preparing a valiant stand before he died.
He glanced at the four monks standing behind him, their backs to him, their attention resolutely fixed on the shrine. Mattas led this hour of the chant. His outstretched arms trembled. His voice seemed far softer than Ivar had ever heard it. The responses of the others were equally subdued.
Something sensed their fear and doubt, and magnified it. Knowing the doubt was being forced on him by his adversary, Ivar struggled to shake it off. He stood straighter, and his resolve deepened as he reminded himself of who he was.
The attack came in a sudden burst of power, a force felt rather than heard, rolling like silent thunder across the walls of stone and mist. A booming pounded the fortress doors once, then again, steady as a confident heartbeat. The wood bowed inward with the force of each pulse and the power of the creature directing it. Ivar cast a spell, strengthening the ancient wood. Only then did he sense a second power working to undo the wards on the shrine. He needed Dominic’s help.
As he turned to summon him, the cloth woke. Never had the creatures on it been so furious, so full of hope. They beat at the doors and the stone walls until the entire shrine shook. The doors held, bound by the force of the Guardians’ faith and their concentration, a force somehow increased rather than diminished from the attack.
So many years of vigilance prepared them for this night. Ivar tried to emulate their confidence amid the palpable booms on the door, the
frenzied screams of the dark souls imprisoned in the shrine. He thought of the were, the undead, the human thieves and rogues and murderers that dwelt in the half-life of the cloth. Then he thought of Leith. Could others like her be trapped, impotent islands of goodness surrounded by evil? He felt a stab of pity for her and for her son and what fate had done to both of them.
The first attack ended with the same speed with which it began. The despair lifted. The booming ceased, the creatures in the shrine fell silent, but the Guardians didn’t relax. Instead they waited, more anxious in the quiet than in the assault, awaiting the next display of Morgoth’s terrible power.
This time the attack was a silent one. Ivar felt a shift in the spell sealing the walls, and a wave of fire broke over the fortress. Though the spell kept the flames arched well above them, the heat made Ivar’s skin tingle, made concentration difficult. The fire descended, and the protective force shifted once again. The door bowed inward, but this time no force beat against it. Instead, a relentless, steady pressure distorted it. Wood began to splinter near the center. In another a moment the ancient doors would burst.
Ivar responded with a magic thrust of his own that forced the fortress doors to straighten. Instantaneously, the pressure outside vanished. The doors exploded outward. One of the werewolves howled with pain as the flames receded.
Though the spell still held the attackers at bay, Ivar now saw them for the first time. The silvery man had features much like Jonathan’s, though more mature. He exuded a harsh, overwhelming confidence as he stared down the weary Ivar. Stiffening his lip, Ivar wiped his mind of doubt and concentrated on the words and gestures of protection.
Behind him, the Guardians continued their chant. In front of him, Morgoth began his own. With each word the mist surrounding the walls pulsated.
Ivar hadn’t even a sliver of Morgoth’s power. Until the wards on the fortress walls were broken, any words against the silver man wouldn’t cross the barrier and reach him. Ivar therefore began the words of a spell to send bolts of flame against his enemy, then waited for the proper moment to finish it.
It would be soon. The wards were breaking. The forms of the wolves and men looked distorted, as if they stood behind a shifting wall of water. Tendrils of Morgoth’s silver mist oozed through cracks in the magical barrier.
The gap at the ruined doors widened, and Ivar saw with horror that Morgoth had pulled Jonathan in front of him, and thrust the boy forward. Ivar’s intent faltered; he loved Jonathan, even now. If his first spell killed the youth, how could goodness prevail?
Ivar cut off the words that would end his apprentice’s life and unhooked the rope from his belt, beginning a chant to close the gap. In that moment the souls in the shrine attacked once more, their fury deadlier than before. Peto cried out; Mattas faltered over the words. Ivar whirled and saw the shaking shrine doors. “Hold!” he ordered and pulled the rope tight, using the incantation to lock the shrine instead of the fortress doors.
He spun back around. The werewolves were advancing through the widening gap. Ivar rubbed the glass rod against the fur of its pouch and pointed a finger at the nearest werewolf. Lightning streamed from his hand, bright and glowing as quicksilver. Held in the white-hot cords, the creature howled, shifted, screamed. Another bolt followed, catching the second wolf as it entered the fortress. The foul smell of singed fur and flesh filled the courtyard. The third wolf leaped past Ivar, breaking into the Guardians’ circle. His massive jaws ripped at Hektor’s arms. Peto turned, grappling for the beast’s muzzle. It released Hektor and tore off one of Peto’s hands. Caught in the struggle, Mattas fell backward against the wall of the shrine.
With the shrine secure for the moment under Ivar’s spell, Dominic abandoned the chant and thrust himself between the werewolf and Mattas. With his amulet held in one hand, his other outstretched toward the werewolf, he uttered a single command, “Go!”
The lycanthrope howled and paused, but the priest’s powerful command couldn’t override the creature’s fear of the new master blocking the gate. His head and tail low with despair, he closed in on Dominic.
Dominic expected a speedy attack. Instead the werebeast moved slowly, as if suddenly drained of strength. Dominic took the advantage. Using his silver-tipped staff like a lance, he stabbed the animal in the breastbone and impaled him.
The fourth and largest of the werewolves paced the fortress. The blood-lust, too long denied, was strong in him and made even stronger by the power of his new master. Nonetheless, he didn’t attack until Morgoth commanded him to do so. Confused, enraged, he lunged for Ivar’s throat.
Ivar expected the attack. Lightning had begun moving from his fingers, but Jon cried out with a single word, “No!” He gestured, and a magical wall came down between Ivar and the werewolf. The force of the wall stunned the werebeast, and sent Ivar reeling back against the stone side of the shrine. Regaining his feet, Ivar looked more closely at the beast. As the spell wall dissolved, he knelt beside the beast and called out “Andor.” The wolf form slowly altered. “Andor,” he repeated more gently, and the wounded man relaxed in his arms.
Ivar pulled Andor close to the doors of the shrine where the Guardians had taken refuge within the protection of his spell. His eyes scanned the fortress, looking for Jonathan. The boy had fled and, as Ivar focused on Morgoth, the creature’s form spread, stretched and dissolved away. As it did, the mist closed around the fortress, sealing the Guardians inside.
Blood covered the fortress ground. The smell of blood and burning lay heavy in the air. The battle had been won, but at a terrible price. Peto was near death, Mattas unconscious and barely breathing, Hektor pale from blood loss. Only one Guardian was untouched, and the night had hardly begun. Uncertain if this were merely a lull or the end of the battle, Ivar tended to the Guardians’ wounds while Dominic stood alone in front of the shrine, reciting the prayers he knew so well. They stayed that way until dawn. Dominic’s chanting and the occasional whimper of the wounded were the only sounds in the night.
At dawn, Dominic and Ivar carried the wounded into the dining hall, laying them close to the fire. Peto and Mattas were still unconscious, Hektor in a great deal of pain. Dominic was exhausted, but he stayed with Ivar and helped tend the others. When they’d done what they could, the two men listened as Andor described how he had fallen under Morgoth’s power.
Ivar had never seen Andor so defeated, so wracked with guilt. Tears ran down his face; his hands shook as he described how Maeve had tricked him on the first night, how in the nights that followed he had been called unwillingly from his bed to serve the Silverlord. “Once I removed the amulet, Morgoth owned my soul. Even when I wore the amulet, it didn’t give me the strength it once did. The hunger wouldn’t relent.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ivar asked.
“I should’ve been stronger. I should have been able to resist his power on my own.”
“Resist that thing?” Ivar asked gently.
“The first night that I hunted in wolf form, we killed only goblins. It seemed to me then that Maeve was lonely and that my change served only her needs, her vanity and nothing else.” Andor paused, then added bitterly, “Later, when it was too late, I knew the truth.” He looked at the men sitting beside him—Dominic with a wooden expression masking his grief; Ivar, weary and resigned to fighting on. “I had a part in the killing,” Andor said. “I want to stay with you. To help you as long as you need me.”
“Come with me,” Dominic said and led Andor across the dawn-lit courtyard to the now-silent shrine. Ivar had already lifted the spell that held the doors. Dominic threw them open and walked inside. Andor, recalling the night’s horrors, hung back as Dominic dusted the cloth over the floor, claiming the shells of those who had tried to escape its hold. “Come inside,” Dominic told him when the cloth hung on the wall once more.
Andor took a reluctant step forward, but at the portal, he hesitated. Drawing a deep breath, he walked inside. Only after he entered did Dominic hold ou
t his arms and draw Andor into them. “Welcome, Brother,” he said, his tears of joy moistening Andor’s shoulder.
Dominic’s words were muffled, absorbed by the evil trapped there. Andor looked once at the cloth and went outside at a pace just shy of a run. Only when the morning sun beat down on him again did he understand why he had bolted. In all the time he had been in the shrine, he hadn’t taken a single breath.
Jonathan knew his shift in allegiance endangered them all, but Sondra most of all. He entered Linde through his cave and hid in Ivar’s cavern until the inn was quiet. He collected the spellbooks, and a bit of money. It was all he really needed, he thought, as he sat and rememorized the spells from earlier that night. When the inn had emptied and everyone had gone to bed, he climbed the stairs to Sondra’s room.
A lit candle stood beside her bed. Though she slept, her hands were folded as if she had been praying, and tears wet the corners of her eyes. He’d left her with so many questions, been gone for so many days without word. How could he expect her to trust him now?
Nonetheless, he woke her, slowly so she wouldn’t cry out. As soon as she saw him, her arms circled his neck. He pushed her gently away, but took her hand, refusing to let her go as they sat together. Her love astonished him as she sat, listening to his account of everything that had happened since he freed his father from the shrine. He left out only Leo’s murder. That was a guilt he’d carry privately within him forever.
“I want you to leave here with me,” he said when he had finished.
“Now? The road is being watched. We’ll have to travel through the woods.”
She feared the dark, he knew, and the things that walked in the dark. “I’m more than able to defend us,” he said.
Tapestry of Dark Souls Page 23
