“Listen,” Jon told her. “Judge me as you wish, but I’m no different than when you agreed to be my wife.”
“Then I have never known you at all,” Sondra replied coldly, her eyes focused on the corpses.
Morgoth looked from his son to the men he had killed. “Let us leave your beloved in peace,” he whispered and raised his hand, pointing toward the bodies on the ground. A carefully spoken word, a languid gesture, and the bodies were surrounded by a force that glowed and gave off a heat of such intensity that Sondra retreated to a shadowed corner and Jonathan fought the instinctive urge to join her.
The frozen flesh of the corpses thawed. The limbs began to move, pushing the bodies upright. “Come,” Morgoth commanded them, his voice nearly inaudible beneath Sondra’s extended scream of terror.
“We’ll go into Linde first,” Morgoth said and took Jon’s hand. Jon looked over his shoulder at the faithful dead.
They went quickly to the center of town. There, Morgoth stopped in the center of the ceremonial circle and raised his arms. A luminous sphere formed in the sorcerer’s hands. The light inside it grew brighter and shot from its container in glowing beams that played over the charred bodies on the ground. As Jon watched, fascination turned to horror.
The limbs of the dead thawed. Hands and feet twitched. Bodies sat up. Those with legs rose. A terrible keening came from their throats, a wail of protest at being disturbed, of acknowledgment to Morgoth’s terrible power.
“I am the ruler of all of you,” Morgoth cried. “Of all that live in my land. Of all that died by my hand. Follow me!” Morgoth turned and led Jonathan toward the river and the path to the fortress, while the dead walked behind.
Since the moment she fled the ceremonial circle, Maeve hadn’t dared to change from fox form. During the day, when Morgoth slept, she stole into Linde, gnawing on the remains of the cattle and the bodies left in the ruins of the town. During the night, she was constantly on the move, using her powers to their fullest, her silver form vanishing in one snow-covered stand of trees after another.
She might have gone to the hags to confess, but she sensed they would be even less likely to remove her curse than Morgoth. Her only hope was to defeat the Silverlord before facing them. She had no idea how.
On the night of the ceremony, she stood on a hill overlooking the village and watched her neighbors and town fall by Morgoth’s hand. Though she most grieved the treasures lost in the burning, she also heard Kezi’s anguished howl and thought of his daughter with pity.
During the weeks that followed the burning, Kezi pursued her. Savaged by the strength of his first change and maddened by his loss, he wouldn’t be charmed. So Maeve used him as a pawn. She ran from him, but kept him always in sight so that, if she and Morgoth met, Morgoth would find an easier feast.
Two weeks after the festival, a storm roared into the valley. It began with sleet, followed by snow so thick it blinded Maeve. She had no choice but to shelter in a low cave in the hills near Morgoth’s lair. At the height of the storm, she heard a howling more desolate than the wind, and knew Kezi had somehow managed to find her. Since the cave had only one escape, she slowly made her way outside.
The storm abated somewhat, enough that Maeve could see the wolf waiting for her on nearby rocks. Keeping close to the ground so that her silver fur would blend with the crystalline snow, Maeve inched her way toward him. She was within striking distance when she saw the silver cloud form above Kezi’s head.
Though it took all her resolve, she didn’t move, didn’t tremble when the mist took shape beside Kezi. Seeing the Silverlord, Kezi lunged. Morgoth dodged like a trained dancer, brushing one of Kezi’s rear legs. The leg froze, dragging as Kezi attacked again.
The effect was the same. The Silverlord’s hand lashed out, freezing the other rear limb. Kezi fell, waiting for Morgoth to drain his life. Instead, Morgoth, with a sly smile, let the werewolf heal and attack again. “We have hours until dawn, foolish beast,” Morgoth said and laughed, the sound blown away by the incessant bitter wind.
She watched Morgoth at his sport while the blowing snow covered her. Finally, Morgoth seemed to tire of the game. He raised his arm and plucked a silver sword from the swirling snow, lowered it, and waited for Kezi’s next attack. Kezi should run, Maeve thought, but the werewolf was too furious or stupid to save himself. A leap, a deft sidestep, and Kezi fell with the blade through his back. Maeve didn’t stay to watch Kezi die. As Morgoth began to pull the final sparks of life from Kezi’s body, she backed stealthily away.
At sunrise, she returned to Kezi’s body. He had reverted to human form. Now he lay coated with frost. Maeve dug deep inside him to where the blood had pooled, warm and thick, and feasted. Afterward, she sat and thought of the pain she had sensed in Kezi’s final howls and how much more terrible her own pain would be when Morgoth caught her. He was hoarding his power, unwilling to use it fully to find her. Once he had triumphed, though, there would be no place for her to hide, neither here nor anywhere in Tepest.
She knew he coveted the cloth and intended to attack the fortress at full moon. On the afternoon before it, she padded up the mountain path as far as she could. When the mist grew too thick for travel, she found a crevasse in which to hide. Tonight would be the final clash. Tonight she would ally herself with the winning side and find peace, even if it were only the peace of slavery or death. With her body hidden in the snow, with her head between her paws, she watched the mists swirl above the road.
At dusk, the mist thinned. She heard the distant sound of the Guardians’ chant. Some ineffable power drew her from her hiding place to the open fortress gates. Weak, unable to resist, she moved forward until she struck Ivar’s spell. There she halted, unable to retreat or move forward.
Ivar stood just inside the fortress walls. He wore the simple gray robe of the Guardians. His thin white hair was whipped by the steady winter wind, and he carried a carved staff in one hand.
Ivar saw her, and his staff rose to point in her direction, to destroy what he must see as one of Morgoth’s servants. She had no way to tell him otherwise; pride forbade her to reveal the horror of the hags’ curse. She would rather die than see his pity, so she watched the sparks grow on the tip of his staff and waited for the fire to destroy her.
Before he could complete the last, lethal gesture, she felt the approach of another power, nearly equal to that of the cloth. Her body trembled piteously as she turned and saw Jonathan approach, followed by Morgoth and a terrible army: the burned dead of Linde.
Animated by some dread sorcery, they walked stiffly in a tight group. Their bodies were blackened from the burnt shreds of charred cloth and leather stuck to their flesh. Those with eyes led; those who were blind followed. Their limbs had been savaged, some by her, others by Morgoth to feed his living slaves. None seemed capable of holding a weapon, but were horrific enough with their bony talons.
Howling in terror, Maeve fought to break free from the pull of the cloth. Ivar stepped away from the fortress doors. Maeve saw him tremble. His arms hung limp at his side, as if he had lost the will to raise them.
The wind around the fortress increased, causing a chill screech in the crumbling fortress walls. Amid the screams, a low voice, confident and sure, spoke. “The dead cannot pass these fortress walls. He knows.”
Who had spoken? The voice sounded like Leith’s, but Leith had died long ago. The words seemed to renew Ivar’s confidence. He raised his staff once more, pointed it beyond Maeve, and finished his incantation.
Flames flew from the tip of his staff. They did no damage to Morgoth or Jonathan, flowing over the pair to flame those already burned. The first ranks of the mindless band dropped, writhing silently in the flames, animated still by Morgoth’s despicable power. Those in the rear had been shielded, but halted, unable to move forward without eyes or voice to guide them.
The diversion of the flame gave Maeve a chance to escape. With her body pressed to the ground, her muzzle between her paws, she u
sed what power she possessed to fight the terrible pull of the cloth. She began a slow, steady retreat from the entrance. A pile of rocks near the edge of the road gave her some protection. She lay flat behind it and watched the battle begin.
His father had raised the dead!
The supreme confidence Jon had gained in the shrine faltered under the weight of his father’s power. The sight of the burned corpses rising from their resting places around the ceremonial circle, the sight of the cage where he had spent so many despondent hours, the agony of the flames themselves weakened his resolve. As Ivar’s wall of fire flowed around him, he trembled and shrank back, then steadied himself. He possessed the power, he possessed the skill—he wouldn’t let fear defeat him.
His father’s hand squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of filial support. “This is our night of triumph,” Morgoth said. “When it’s over, we will rule this land together.”
“Together,” Jonathan repeated. The horror of that promise bolstered his resolve. He moved forward through flames that couldn’t touch him.
He and Morgoth halted outside the fortress arch. “Peto! Hektor! Dominic! Mattas! Andor, my friend, your alliance has shifted!” Morgoth called to the chanting Guardians. “Enjoy the last moments of your calling.”
The chant didn’t waver. Andor, his concentration broken for a moment, glanced once over his shoulder, then quickly looked back to the shrine.
Morgoth laughed. Tonight, Jonathan couldn’t echo the sound. He stood stiffly at his father’s side, staring at Ivar with a twisted smile on his face. He and Ivar had studied together for months, he was betrothed to Ivar’s daughter. If the wizard didn’t trust him, so be it. Jonathan needed no help to do what must be done. No matter how the night ended, he wouldn’t waver again.
He and his father had planned this moment carefully. The cloth wouldn’t release its prisoners without Morgoth’s call. Morgoth would wait to do so until Jonathan had entered the shrine and brought the tapestry outside. That would be Morgoth’s victory. The Guardians wouldn’t have a chance, Jonathan thought, as he said the words that destroyed the magical barrier Ivar had erected and walked through the gates.
Before Morgoth followed, he turned to the dead. “Come!” he ordered. They shuffled toward their master’s voice but, at the fortress gates, halted. The terrible keening from the fortress walls seemed to hold them back, the sound mimicked by the harsh, mournful moans from their throats.
With a disdainful backward glance, Morgoth went on alone into the courtyard, where Jonathan already faced his old teacher.
No amount of courage could make up for Ivar’s lack of power. A word from Morgoth, and Ivar and the Guardians became motionless—silent, trapped, conscious-unable to do anything except wait for death. As Jonathan moved through them toward the barred doors of the shrine, Ivar broke Morgoth’s hold long enough to grip Jonathan’s arm and whisper a single command, “Forget.” Though Jonathan jerked away as soon he felt the touch, Ivar’s spell had already done its work. The carefully worded incantation of destruction shattered in his mind. He cried out in anger, and his father responded.
Ivar was suddenly circled by a ring of fire Jonathan knew all too well. He thought of Alden as he watched the ropes of flame slowly tighten to destroy his teacher, the father of his betrothed. “No!” Jon screamed. “No! Father, remember your promise!”
It seemed, for a moment, that Morgoth increased Ivar’s agony. Then, as suddenly as the ropes of flame had formed, they vanished and Ivar crumpled to the ground. “Stop!” Ivar called, but Jon ignored him and lifted the bars on the shrine door.
Then Jon turned to his old teacher, crouching over the place where he lay. “Those who hide their powers survive in this land. That’s what you told me once. Remember the words as you watch me do what I must,” he said and stepped inside the shrine.
The power of the cloth had never seemed so great! Jonathan had been responsible for so many deaths, so much destruction, he could scarcely resist the temptation to step forward, admit his guilt, and merge with the folds. He still had a choice, he knew. He resisted and stepped forward, ripping the tapestry from its place on the wall. The folds twisted in his hands, struggling to break free, to claim his soul, a soul that belonged in the tapestry’s dread web.
“Soon,” he whispered and turned slowly toward the door, struggling more than he needed to, seeking the time necessary to recall the words that would save them all.
A few steps from the door, he stopped, crying out.
“I cannot pass. I need your help, Father.”
“You have the calling,” Morgoth replied.
“The calling allowed me to enter, but now I cannot leave. This is some trick of Ivar’s. His body will break the spell. Send him to me.”
Morgoth’s eyes narrowed to icy slivers as he looked from the boy to the wizard he had ensorceled.
Jonathan understood Morgoth’s doubt, but held his ground. He had been a dutiful son, supporting his father in everything, even in torture and death. He bowed his head and gave in to the terror he felt. As he appeared to fight the motions of the cloth, he began whispering the first few words of the incantation that would send the souls trapped on it to the judgment of the fates.
“Free him!” Jonathan called to Morgoth when he could go no further with the incantation. “Send him to me before the cloth claims me as it did my mother.”
Morgoth laughed as he released Ivar and gripped his shoulder with an icy hand, pushing him toward the shrine door. Jon waited inside. He reached out, gripped Ivar’s arm and pulled him through.
The spell guarding the shrine weighed heavily on his teacher. “Jonathan,” Ivar called, gripping him tightly. “I can’t see. I can scarcely breathe. Please. Let me go!”
Instead of responding, Jon painfully tried to reform the words of his incantation. As he did, Ivar reached for him, his hand brushing Jon’s, his fingers feeling the glass rod encased in fur. “You’re reciting the lightning spell I taught you,” Ivar whispered.
“Yes, but I’ve forgotten the words. Help me!” Jonathan whispered. His voice was ragged, frantic. If he begged more openly, his father would surely hear and stop them.
Jon gripped the cloth tighter, burying his face in the folds, whispering words loud enough for Ivar to hear.
“Mother … Leith … Mother … help us.”
The weight of the shrine’s terrible spell lightened.
Ivar rubbed his eyes and cupped Jonathan’s chin. As they looked at one another, as they recited the words together, Morgoth watched, still uncertain whether Jon acted of his own will, or as a tool of Ivar’s.
“Jonathan!” Morgoth screamed. “Son! Bring the cloth out to me!”
Jonathan obeyed, moving toward the doorway. “No!” Ivar screamed, but Jon ignored him and walked stiffly toward the door, drawn by his father’s power as the souls were drawn by the cloth. Ivar grabbed Jonathan’s arm and was pulled forward as well.
In the courtyard, Jonathan unfurled the cloth before his father. As Morgoth began to speak the words that would call the souls from their prison, the pattern on the cloth began to whirl. Jon took a deep breath, recited a quick prayer for his soul and released his grip on the edges of the cloth. The cloth covered him, draining his strength. He fell to his knees as the tapestry began its terrible work.
Ivar struggled to pull him free. Jonathan fought to remain. “Corruption from within,” Jon whispered. “Join me. It’s the only way to destroy those trapped here.”
“A martyr’s death,” Ivar whispered and gripped the boy’s hand, rubbing the glass and fur, as together they recited the words of the incantation, words drowned by screams from the cloth.
They finished. As the souls spun free, bolts of lightning flowed from Ivar’s hand, destroying each of them with sorcery and fire.
“Father!” Jonathan shrieked. “Father, help me!”
Morgoth saw the boy on his knees, Ivar gripping him tightly, the cloth stealing the life of his only son. With a shriek of fury, Morgot
h rushed forward. His arms flailed, trying to brush Ivar aside, trying to pull the cloth off his son. Jonathan gripped his father’s hands. “Don’t let go,” he cried, his voice pleading.
But he couldn’t hide his moment of triumph. Morgoth frowned and wrenched his hands out of his son’s grasp. As he reeled backward, his expression showed that he knew now how his son had used his own love to betray him.
“Foolish child,” he said. “Don’t think I’d let your power die so easily. Now you will serve me forever.” He pointed at his son and began a new incantation.
A flash of white streaked through the fortress arch. Maeve struck silently, all four paws landing on Morgoth’s back. The weight of her charge pushed him into his son’s arms. As the sorcerer fell, Ivar loosed the last lightning bolt at the cloth that covered them.
The cloth reacted as it always did, repelling the spell, turning it against the one who cast it, the one now absorbed in the cloth. Jonathan, Morgoth, and Ivar descended into a maelstrom of fire and agony, a storm Jonathan increased with the last of his power, ensuring that none of them, nor the cloth itself, would escape.
As Morgoth died, his power died. The Guardians fell flat against the ground, shielding their eyes from the burning radiance. But Dominic, braver than the others, raised his head and, through the whirling flames, saw Jonathan kneeling in the center of the storm. He controlled the flames as Leith stood behind him, supporting him with her arms, her face buried in his fiery hair.
Long after Jonathan had left with his father, Sondra realized what his final words had meant. “Come back to me,” she whispered then spent the next hours praying for some miracle to save them both. But her words had been hollow, filled with despair.
When the spell that surrounded the cave lifted, Sondra left, rushing to release the others from Ivar’s cavern. After climbing the steps, they stood in the ruined drinking hall, gazing bleary-eyed at the emptiness where their houses had once been, where their families had once dwelt.
Tapestry of Dark Souls Page 27
