“Sondra?” she whispered, more frightened of an answer than of the pressing silence of the earth. “Sondra.”
A sound so soft and distant that it might have been imagined came from a narrow crack between the walls; a broken, feeble whimper of despair. Willa moved closer to the wall. “Sondra,” she repeated. Taking the lamp, she reached into the crack. It seemed as if the air within had changed into a clear membrane, yielding but far too strong to break. With effort, Willa forced her hand into it and found herself held as securely as an animal in a trap.
Her fingers tingled. Her hand grew numb. Bewildered, she cried out. Aran took hold of her wrist, pulling desperately, watching as her hand became blackened from blood seeping through the tissue. The hand wouldn’t move. Aran opened the lamp and held the flame against the barrier. The wall exploded, spitting him and Willa away from the crack. Aran crashed against the others. Willa fell atop him, screaming as, in the light of the lantern, she looked in horror at the charred stump of her wrist.
The others tended her, and her screams subsided. Once again, they heard the despondent whimper, as if the walls themselves cried for the town.
Lights danced, mischievous glowing sprites that played on the shadowy ceiling of his cave. Jon lay groggy on the stone floor, and Sondra knelt beside him. Her bruises had begun to heal, but her face was still swollen and her eyes held no expression, not even relief that he was finally conscious. When he reached for her, she flinched as if he had tried to strike her.
“Sondra?”
A shriek pierced the silence of the cavern.
Stunned, Sondra held her hands over her ears. Tears leaked from the corners of her tightly shut eyes. A second, louder shriek trailed into pitiful sobs.
“No!” Sondra screamed at the emptiness around them. “No, leave them alone!”
“Sondra, what is it?” Jon reached for her hand. His own, though stiffened by the tight new skin that had replaced his burned flesh, was nearly healed. He looked down in wonder as Sondra brushed his face.
“When Morgoth brought you here, I couldn’t believe you could still live,” Sondra whispered. “He ordered me to bathe you in the pool, to keep your wounds wet. Now you’re nearly healed.”
“How long have I been here?” he asked.
“Days? Weeks? It’s always dark here.” She spoke woodenly, emotionless.
“He sleeps during the day. How often has he slept?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t stay here. He’s used his sorcery to make this my prison. I can’t leave. I’ve tried and failed. I tried to attack him, but he touched me here.” She showed him the deep burns on her wrists. “The pool’s waters haven’t helped me.”
“He promised he wouldn’t harm you.”
“I don’t think he meant to. He let me go as soon as his hands did this. He told me the people of Linde are all dead. He drained them. I think he was hungry when he touched me—his body tried to drain me.”
Jon looked down at her wrists, and kissed the wounds. “Go on,” he said.
“He found others hiding in my father’s cavern. Then the real horror began,” Sondra said, shuddering at her own words. “He dares not kill them—they’re all the life he has left. He doesn’t drain the women, for they alone can bear children to feed him. So he inflicts pain on the men and feasts on their agony. He’s in there now. There’ll be more screams before he leaves them.”
“Where does he go?”
“He hunts. I think he searches for Maeve. When he visits you, I hear him muttering her name. He’s furious.”
“At least her defiance shows he’s not omnipotent,” Jon noted grimly. “How do you survive?”
“He brings me wine, bread, charred meat.” She pointed toward a pile of bones in the corner—long arm and leg bones, and curving bones like human ribs. “This is all he brings me.” Sondra said. “At first I wouldn’t eat, so he forced me. Now I think more of the hunger than the meat.”
He had no hope to give her, no strength to keep her safe, and so he held her and told her he loved her.
When the screams stopped, they rose and tried to leave the cave. Jonathan could walk right through the mouth, but a mystic force stopped Sondra.
“Leave me. Go. Find help,” she said.
“Would you abandon me?” he asked.
“Not if I could avoid it.”
He smiled, the same confident smile that first attracted her. Striding to the passage to Ivar’s cavern, he said, “I’m not saying good-bye.” Then he disappeared into the dark crevice.
Ivar’s cavern was utterly black and silent, save for the soft breathing of the prisoners who slept and the whimpers of those recently drained. Jon moved slowly among the bodies, pausing often to gauge where they lay. At the foot of the stairs, he felt the barrier his father had conjured to keep his cattle in their pen. It took only a few simple words to break the spell, then Jon passed through and climbed to the inn.
The drinking and dining halls were dark and empty. The front doors hung open, and a biting wind made small snow drifts in the corners. The mugs on the shelf behind the bar were shattered, and kegs of ale intended for the late-night revelers had frozen and split.
Jon stepped outside. He saw the stars and a nearly full moon shining down on the snow, so smooth and unmarred that it might have never held people at all. The beautifully painted cottages had disappeared. The barn and winery were also gone. Piles of stones marked former chimneys, and an occasional charred timber poked through the drifts of snow. The only landmark that was still identifiable was the narrow road that wound through the trees toward Viktal.
The lute he had played so often lay on the porch beneath a dusting of snow. Without picking it up, he ran his hand over the strings. The wood had grown warped, the strings out of tune. Even if it could have been played, no songs remained for him, not even a dirge for the deaths he had caused. He brushed the snow from it and placed it on the hook beside the door.
Something Dominic had told him years ago came to him: “True evil cannot exist in a man unless, given the choice to do good, he rejects it.”
He’d made his choice, he realized. He’d made it during the attack on the shrine. Now he needed to discover the means to end the terror of Sondra and the townsfolk. Perhaps the secret lay in the inn or the caverns below. More likely, it lay in his own mind. He glanced at the moon again. He had less than two days to find it.
As dawn broke, he returned to Ivar’s cavern. He took his teacher’s remaining spellbooks from their hiding places and carried them back to the milky cavern. There, with Sondra sleeping nearby, he began to read.
Hours passed as he memorized spells for his final battle. He thought often of the prophecy mentioned in his mother’s legacy—One day love will corrupt the cloth. One day corruption from within will destroy it. Jon felt that his father stirred, somewhere deep in the earth. Night had fallen. He closed the book and waited anxiously for Morgoth to come to him.
When Morgoth joined him, Jon immediately noticed the change in his father. Morgoth seemed stronger, confident to the point of euphoria. As Jon sat, his emotions carefully veiled, his father paced the length of the cavern. Morgoth’s robe shimmered in the colored light, and the amulet on his neck glowed with its own terrible fire. Morgoth held his spell book in one hand. His other hand clenched and relaxed as if exercising for the struggle to come. “When my legions are free, we will rebuild Linde. We have the seeds in the cavern below the inn. They’re all young and strong. There’ll be children in this town soon enough.”
“And what of the lives you need to live?” Jon asked.
“We’ll move east and conquer Viktal. Then we’ll take Kellee as well. The towns are large, filled with life and wealth. You and I will rule Tepest together, Jonathan. Nothing will stop us.”
“Together,” Jon echoed and smiled happily. He pointed to the spellbooks. “I’m studying everything Ivar has learned. I only wish I were less tired.”
Morgoth laughed. Sondra stirred in her sleep, but didn
’t wake. “I can help with that,” he said, and rested his hands on Jon’s shoulders. Jon felt energy course through him, renewing his strength, his concentration. He recalled the source of that energy and squelched a shudder.
“Father, I need to speak about what happened at the fortress,” Jon began. “I had difficulty destroying those men, especially Hektor. They raised me. And Ivar was my teacher. Before I found you, he taught me much.”
“Did he?” Jon had expected his father to be furious. Instead Morgoth looked thoughtful. “Do you think those two men would serve you?” Morgoth asked.
“I don’t know,” Jon answered truthfully. “I think not.”
“If you wish, we could spare them.”
“You would do that?” Jon asked. His intention had been to explain why he’d acted as he did in the fortress, to voice his regret and promise he wouldn’t fail again. He hardly expected his father to make such an offer.
“Mercy is one of the few gifts we can give,” his father replied.
Jon looked at his father in amazement. He wondered what sort of man Morgoth might have become had he been raised by men such as Ivar and Hektor and Dominic. Instead of saddening Jon, the insight gave him hope. His own fate hadn’t been set at birth. The choice was still his to make. He prayed that, when the time came, he could defeat his father. “We have so little time to prepare,” Jon said. “I doubt we can undo the spell on the shrine doors.”
Morgoth laughed. “You don’t have to undo it,” he said. “In the days since our last assault, I’ve considered the matter. Jonathan, you have the calling.”
“Impossible!” Jon exclaimed.
Morgoth smiled. “You don’t know it yet, but it is true. You entered the shrine. You can do it again tomorrow night when the moon is full. You will help free the legions, and they will serve you as willingly as they do me.”
“Are you certain? Completely certain?” Jon asked.
“There is a way to be certain. Go to the shrine.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Ivar is no match for you. Those old men can’t stop you.” He laid his spellbook in front of Jon and opened it. “Read this, then go to the fortress,” he said and left Jon staring numbly at the page.
By morning, Jon had the spell memorized. He pulled a feather from the box on the table and held it in his palm. With his mind firmly fixed on the fortress gates, he recited the incantation and blew the feather from his hand. The room faded around him. The air roared.
Dominic and Ivar were guarding the fortress gates the following morning when Jonathan appeared.
Ever since the previous battle, the fortress had been surrounded by Morgoth’s impenetrable mist. The monks had prayed Jon would appear and help in their escape. Now, arriving on the day before the full moon, they eyed him with suspicion.
Ivar joined him outside the fortress walls. Dominic waited just inside the ruined doors in the protected sphere of Ivar’s spell. Both men listened carefully as Jon related the tragedies that had occurred since he’d fled the fortress a month ago. “I have come to see if what my father tells me is correct,” Jon concluded. “He believes I have the calling.”
Neither man looked surprised.
“So you knew as well,” Jon said.
“Will you stand with us tonight?” Dominic asked. Jon shook his head. “I must enter the shrine again and speak to the souls in the cloth.”
“We can’t allow that,” Dominic said.
“Can’t?” Jonathan walked past Ivar and through the fortress doors, barely pausing when he crossed the boundary of Ivar’s spell. “You have no choice,” he said and continued toward the shrine.
Dominic rushed forward to stop him, but Ivar saw an unfamiliar strength in Jon’s eyes and held the monk back. “The spell on the shrine has always tested the calling. If he can enter, he is a Guardian,” he said. They watched as Jonathan lifted the bars from the shrine doors and effortlessly stepped inside.
The air in the shrine was dry and pressed heavily against Jonathan, draining his resolve. With effort, he walked forward until only the stone altar separated him from the cloth. The folds seemed to watch him, waiting for him to pass judgment on himself.
He wouldn’t do so, not yet. Instead he lit a candle and, with a single gesture, magically closed the shrine doors. Then he faced the cloth, concealed in the darkness beyond the stone slab.
“Corruption from within,” he whispered, and, his voice filled with reverence, he spoke his mother’s name for the first time. “Leith.”
No answer. He called again more forcefully, concentrating this time, much as Ivar had taught him to focus on a spell, channeling his power and will toward her. He sensed a tentative touch, no more.
“Free her,” he called to the dark souls on the cloth. “Free her and let her come to me, or I won’t free you.”
The terrible surface of the cloth shifted. A presence flowed through him, bringing with it a wave of love more intense than any he had ever felt. “Let me see you, Mother,” he said. When the presence didn’t retreat, he lifted the candle from the altar and moved its flame closer to the cloth.
A woman’s face formed out of the countless figures, a face unlike his own. Yet he saw something, some sadness in the eyes, that told him they shared a similar temperament. He thought of how quickly Leith had chosen death over her curse, of how many times he had contemplated the same sad fate. They were alike: vacillating, fragile, unsuited to this dark and savage land.
Haltingly, fearful that he would dispel her tenuous presence, he confessed to everything he had done, told her of all the evil his father had brought to the land. And, when he finished, he asked her what he must do.
The answer came to him as water to thirst, food to starvation—wordless flashes of insight telling him he already held much of the truth inside him, and that his main difficulty would be accepting the terrible sacrifice he would have to make.
He would have teleported from the shrine, but he sensed any spells he worked would have no effect in these protected walls. When he stepped into the light of the courtyard, he looked with dismay at how low the sun had fallen.
“Will you stand with us tonight?” Dominic asked.
Jonathan shook his head. As Dominic walked toward him, Jonathan whispered. “I’ve no time to discuss what must be done.” A second feather fell from his hand, and he disappeared as Dominic’s hand reached for him.
With regret, Ivar watched him vanish. Ivar was the Guardians’ only protection through the coming night. But Jonathan’s magic and his calling made Ivar’s spells insignificant. Even so, Ivar recast the spell that protected the fortress walls—some protection was better than none. He spent the next few hours memorizing other incantations he thought would be most useful—spells that burned, that froze, that drained an adversary’s strength and will and memory.
He spent the last hours of daylight considering Morgoth’s nature and the sounds he had heard coming from the shrine during the last release. Morgoth’s minions would likely be as voracious as their master.
Ivar determined then if Morgoth victored, neither he nor any Guardian would live to feed the souls. He reserved his last spell for the Guardians and himself.
Ivar stood inside the ruined fortress doors, looking at the swirling mists just outside the walls as they glowed in the setting sun. He wasn’t surprised to find himself thinking of Jonathan, the boy’s growing power, and the terrible choices they would both have to make tonight.
“You were right about everything, Father,” Jonathan said when Morgoth joined him in the white cavern just after sunset. “I can break Ivar’s spell with a single word. And I have the calling. I can enter the shrine.”
“The calling gives you a choice,” Morgoth replied, staring at Sondra as he spoke. “How will you stand?”
“With you. I told your legion we will come for them tonight. They wait,” Jon replied with no hesitation, letting his father’s crystalline laughter fill the cavern before echoing it with his own. Sondra shook her head and backed away fr
om him, but Jon did nothing more than glance her way.
“We must go soon,” Morgoth said to his son. “Before we do I must replenish my power. Seven men remain. Bring me two.”
“Here?” Jonathan glanced at Sondra. She revealed no emotion save contempt.
“Here. I can go to them, but I wish to see this sign of your loyalty,” Morgoth said, then looked from his son to Sondra and laughed. “Don’t worry. There are spells to make her love you … and to obey.”
Jon moved toward the passage.
“Wait!” Sondra called. “Jon, you mustn’t do this.”
“My father saved my life when this town would destroy me. I’m hardly concerned about the deaths of his slaves. As for you, watch your words. My spells could steal your memory and your speech.” He rested a hand on the side of her face. She slapped it away. He laughed and went for the slaves.
Jon knew words to make men docile. He used them on the pair he chose before leading them to his father. Morgoth chose the more stoic victim first. As he moved toward his first kill, the man cursed him. In response, Morgoth touched the man’s lips. They slackened, the jaw opened, and Morgoth reached inside the man’s mouth and rested his fingers on the tongue.
A shudder passed through the man as the cold flowed down his throat, freezing his lungs, slowing the beating of his heart. He struggled to breathe, and his frozen ribs cracked. As his legs gave way, Morgoth laid him on the stone floor and brushed his hands over the man’s limbs, coming last to the face where the victim’s eyes still moved, looking for some rescue.
The second victim had no courage left. He fell at Morgoth’s bare feet. Too frightened to touch the Silverlord, he instead kissed the ground in front of him, begging to be allowed to serve him.
“Do you pledge your life to me?” Morgoth asked.
“Yes!”
“Then rise and come to me.”
The man saw Morgoth’s outstretched arms, the gluttonous anticipation in his pale eyes. As he scrambled backward, Morgoth touched him. He died quickly, his body tossed over the other. “Come,” Morgoth said to his son and turned to go. When Jonathan didn’t follow, he watched in amusement as Jon said his good-bye to Sondra.
Tapestry of Dark Souls Page 26
