by Dan O'Brien
He sat cross-legged.
His sullen face seemed haggard and used.
He had grown a beard.
Deep purple circles carved canyons beneath his eyes. Memories of sleep felt like years ago. His hands were placed on his knees. The mion was no longer capable of sleep.
Since his last visit with the Intelligence, he had found that his power had waned. He no longer held as much sway over the shadow fire as he once did. On the way back to the Stone Tower, he had lost his balance in the air and crashed to the earth.
Worse yet, he had bruises from the collision.
He had not shown a mark from a battle in two decades. What the mion did not know about his borrowed power was it was indeed on loan. The forces of good and evil traded the power back and forth like copper pennies. The control over the power was tenuous at best, unless the bearer was willing to complete what had been started: to use the power as it was intended.
His eyes roamed beneath their lids as he careened through the darkness using the Sight. Fe’rein searched in vain, for he did not know where to begin.
He watched the battlefields of Illigard.
The mion could see the endless lines of armies. The uselessness of their deaths did not alarm him as it would alarm some. He was searching for the key to his restraints, the bonds that had been placed on him. Never had he felt drained or worn from using his power, but now it felt as if he needed to rest even when he contemplated using it.
In his mind he moved over the land.
There was a blur beneath his vision and then he was whisked away to Culouth. The domed capitol was as vacant as the Stone Tower. The abandonment of the city had been necessary in order to facilitate the war on the Lower Plane.
Rape and theft was rampant.
Already chaos was the ruling order.
He shook his head and pushed past the images: the screaming women and children, the smoldering buildings. Fe’rein flashed to the center of the city; deep beneath it where the Intelligence resided, where they schemed against one and all. The door of darkness that bound them was closed.
No matter how he tried, there was no way in.
He sighed.
His eyes snapped open.
The cold, surreal reality flowed back to him as the door opened without a knock. M’iordi entered with Bakar. The councilman had surfaced some days after Yioren’s death. He explained that he was keeping a watchful eye out for the guardian and had lost him somewhere north of Duirin. They had not yet realized the guardian had circled back and returned to Illigard.
Another being entered, a wheezing sound emanating from underneath the musty black cloak that surrounded it. Sickly green eyes stared out at the mion. “Is this the veneficus?”
M’iordi nodded and wrinkled his nose.
The veneficus was indeed ripe.
“I don’t really get smells with the Sight, kind of downside now that you are here,” commented Fe’rein. The mirth was lost on the shadowed figure.
It pulled back its hood and it grotesqueness was revealed in full force. Its face was scarred in such a way that there was no longer any real flesh, but instead pockets of drawn and puckered skin that had been sewn together to keep its face from falling apart. There were silver rings, perfect circles that held some of the flaps of skin in place. A brownish green liquid pooled from its eye sockets, a heated mist rising from the globes that resided within the thrones of bone. “I am the veneficus.”
Fe’rein scowled as the smell was now overwhelming without the hood. The creature reached out with one of its hands, and it as well was nothing more than rotten bone littered with strips of sinewy flesh.
“Can you give me back my power?”
The craven veneficus nodded. The protrusions of its stained teeth were rank and brown. “You are bound. There is something keeping you from what you were, restraints upon your power: the power of a Creator.”
The veneficus was a vagrant entity, one that was supposedly born of Dok’Turmel. It was a being that did not remain constant for very long.
“You were difficult to find. What is that binds me?”
The spindly hands circled around Fe’rein, as if tracing a sphere. “There is a force that is quite powerful. It will fade away, the shadow fire burns through it with each passing moment. You will soon gain control of it once more, though you will never have full reign until the entity that bound you is destroyed.”
Fe’rein stood, the muscles of his body groaned at the effort. He felt weakness flow through him like a sickness, a thick fluid that coursed through his blood. “You are certain that it will dissipate?”
The veneficus nodded, and then pointed a curved finger.
“In years it will have…”
Fe’rein sliced through the air with his hand, his eyes suddenly angry. “You said that it would dissipate. You never mentioned years.”
The veneficus could not be riled. It was eternal. “The web that has trapped you is vast. It will take time to recover what you were.”
Fe’rein shook his head.
“Years are not a possibility. Can’t you do something?”
The veneficus tilted its head, the river of viscous fluid changed course and ran down the side of its head instead of the front of its face. “I can weave another web, one that will deceive the other. Entangle it as it has entangled your power.”
“How long would it take then, this web thing?”
The veneficus shrugged. “What I do will take only a moment, but it will be days or weeks, depending on the potency of the initial web, before you begin to feel the power once more. The business of freeing power is never an easy path.”
Bakar stood impassive, his feature stoic.
M’iordi watched with wide eyes. Uneasiness settled over him as he gazed upon the creepy caricature of the veneficus. Its body was hidden beneath the cloak; but if its face was any indication of the entirety of the creature, then that was more than enough to sicken M’iordi. “Are you sure about this, my mion?” spoke M’iordi with a gasp.
Fe’rein did not have the strength to snap at the politician, though he desperately wished to do so. He felt as if he would collapse. “I am weak, M’iordi. If the Ai’mun’hereun comes, I will not be able to fight him and he will end this before we can take Illigard.”
M’iordi looked at the veneficus and nodded grimly. Swallowing hard, the lump his throat threatened to make him vomit at the very sight of the transient.
“Let’s get this over with, veneficus.”
The creature extended both of its hands out, the tips of its fingers exposed like claws. It began to murmur as it shuffled toward Fe’rein. A faint white glow grew around its hands until it became a large ball, and then larger yet, until it resonated with such force that it hummed from within.
The sphere of white energy touched Fe’rein’s chest and he gasped slightly; it was as cold as ice. The coals of the creature’s eyes twinkled. Transfixing Fe’rein, the creature held him there as it thrust its right hand into the chest of the mion.
Fe’rein threw his head back.
Glowing in his throat, the white energy surrounded him.
He made a choking sound as if he could not breathe.
The veneficus twisted its outstretched hand, the claw passing through Fe’rein’s back. As suddenly as it passed through the mion, it pulled away, the energy dissipating like a fog stung by the sun. Fe’rein gasped again, taking large gulps of air as he fell forward, his arms thrust out to keep him from falling.
“What––what––was that?” he struggled to speak.
The veneficus pulled its hood back over its face and pulled its hands into the length of its sleeves. Only the impish eyes stared back at him. “The web is strong. The one who placed it is stronger, but the tendrils that I have weaved will rot away its foundation. Already you should feel the extremities of your power.”
Fe’rein looked up from the floor and flexed one of his hands as he used the other for support. He smiled tightly, there was still
pain. “The control has weakened, I can feel it.”
He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his face draining as he did. The muscles of his neck bulging, he stood tall and looked at the veneficus. The strange form was hazy now, not as complete as it had been before. “I can feel it disintegrate as my power pushes against it.”
The creature nodded. “Do not call upon me again.”
The creature shimmered, the edges of its form bright and the center dull. A white flash accompanied its departure. Fe’rein could care less as he flexed his hands. He could begin to feel the flow of the shadow fire once more.
ⱷ
Higald
The Fallen had reached the northern marker two days earlier, yet they remained. Their snow-colored tents whipped against the rocky formations just west of the marker. There had been talk of fleeing, disbanding. Already they had felt the warmth despite the season. There was no winter as harsh as the breathtaking chill that haunted the tundra and the Barren Maiden.
The Fallen were only two thousand strong.
Perhaps this was why Higald was forced to explain to his people why they had to remain. The deliberations had begun the dawn of the first day and they still raged. There was little faith left in the group after only two days camped in the south.
The main tent could fit twenty people safely. The height was more than enough to stand, but at the moment there were at least thirty bodies pressed against one another. Fifty disciplinary soldiers more stood outside the flaps of the tent to make sure the talks remained cordial.
Higald stood farthest from the door.
Bione stood at his side.
“The Ai’mun’hereun said that we must wait here for the Utiakth. Together we will lend aid in the Final War. That is why we journey from our home,” repeated Higald.
“We want to go home. The boy knows nothing,” called one of the soldiers from the back. “I have a family and a child. I do not wish to risk them for another’s war. Let them fight their own battles, kill their own kind.”
“The caves have been compromised. We must have faith that the Ai’mun’hereun will not lead us astray,” reassured Higald as best he could.
Another of them screamed. The voice was old and gravelly. “The boy brought the Umordoc. It was his doing. He wished to trick us into coming south. We march to our doom.”
Higald forced down his anger. “That is untrue. The youth saved us from the Umordoc. We would have been killed if he had not been there. We are great warriors, but we could not have beaten several goye of Umordoc when they had the element of surprise. Please do not allow foolish notions to rule your words.”
“What about going farther south? Why must we wait? The Utiakth do not care for the outside world, just as we do not,” called another voice from the thirty, though his was not as hostile as the others.
“We are here, are we not? They, too, will come. The white hunter will persuade them. We are on a journey, one that we share with the Utiakth. That is why we must wait,” answered Higald.
Murmurs persisted, but Higald waved them away.
He raised his hands for silence.
A bloodcurdling scream shot through the camp and the gathered Fallen poured from the tent, Higald the last to break through. He stopped dead as dark forms stalked toward them. They were accompanied by snarling hounds, frightening hybrids that snapped at each other as they bounded toward the camp.
“Lord Higald, what are we to do?” queried Bione.
The chieftain laid a hand on his forearm and looked at him sternly. “We stand before them. We do not back down and run,” he snarled in response.
The soldiers who were closest to him felt his sense of justice, his determination in the face of certain death. Those who were farther away saw only that he stalked out ahead of all others; his massive broadsword drawn and his furs whipping around him.
His shock of white and gray hair was a torrent of motion.
Others joined him.
Soon, warriors emerged from their tents. Spears, curved axes, swords, all manner of weapons were drawn as they joined the march to battle.
Their High Warrior fell quickly.
The Umordoc numbers, though vast, were greatly unorganized and dispersed widely. As Higald met another warrior of the goye on the field of battle, he realized that they were not frightening; they were flesh and bone.
He swung the heavy blade in a high arc and came down on the Umordoc’s forearm as it tried to block the strike. The creature roared, cradling its limb. Higald did not relent. He swung again and slammed into the back of its knees, driving it to the ground. Spinning, the blade swung with him and lopped the creature’s head from its body. The chieftain reached down and grasped the curls of black hair and picked up the enormous head, raising it into the air. The specks of its blood dotted his furs. He roared, his other hand extending the blade high into the sky.
The battle wound down.
As the disciplinary soldiers began to pull the mauled bodies of those who were blunted or injured, Higald called for them to fall back. More than thirty lay dead in the snow; one would have been too many. They had come too far to merely abandon their journey.
The tents had already been pulled down by the women and children who had remained behind. As they saw their brothers and fathers running back toward them and the grizzled hybrids in pursuit, they moved up the steep wall at their backs.
Hand over foot, children and women climbed.
“There are too many, Lord Higald,” called Bione breathlessly.
The light blade he carried in his hand was stained.
“Once we secure the high ground, they will have to scale to get to us,” returned Higald as he drove the point of blade into a snarling, leaping hybrid. Its ravenous tongue sagged as it fell dead, collapsing on the blood-stained earth.
Umordoc pursued the fleeing Fallen up the walls.
“Sir,” spoke Bione nervously.
“Let us get up this damn wall,” roared Higald as he leapt up. His legs pushed him as high as he could. He grasped the outcropping of the rock. Groaning, he pulled his weight up.
He looked to his left and saw the remainder of the disciplinary soldiers scaling as well. Their blades were either along their backs or abandoned. Those who had abandoned their weapons would be chastised if they survived. He then looked to his right and stopped short as he saw Bione struggling below.
He had not made it to the wall. “Bione.”
The thin warrior had allowed his chieftain to flee. In doing so, he condemned himself to death. The hybrids were upon him as well the dark figures of the Umordoc; their spears ready for his flesh.
*
Higald sat at the edge of the rocky wall.
It was at least thirty feet down, maybe more. Still the hybrids leapt onto the walls, slick claws trying to dig into the rocky surface. The rock formation itself was an island. The point at which they had chosen to climb was the least steep of the four sides.
Once again, they had their backs against a wall.
Bione’s body had not been moved. Some of the hybrids would sniff at it as they passed. Even from this height, he knew it no longer resembled his friend. He picked up a handful of rocks and chose a large, uneven one. The edge was sharp, the weight burdensome. He threw it down, his body lurching forward as he did. A hand restrained him, a dark-clad soldier held him back.
“Well done, Lord Higald,” mused the soldier. The rock had flown true and struck one of the Umordoc across the flat of their face, to the right of its eye. It looked up and howled. Its words lost on him for he did not speak Umordoc. “Some of the others would like to know what we do next.”
Higald laughed, the violence making him silly.
“Wait them out?” he replied.
The man’s face was serious as he rose to his full height. “Are you sure that is the best course of action, sir? They could remain there indefinitely if they had to. We are trapped.”
Higald pushed back the lunacy that had crawled into his
mind.
“Do we have any bows? Arrows, perhaps?”
“I believe so.”
Higald pushed himself to his feet. “Hand them out to those proficient in their use. Bring me one as well. We will use this stone island to our advantage.”
The soldier nodded, obviously pleased to be doing something, anything. Higald peered over the edge as he half-listened to the soldier bellowing to the others, calling for archers. Less than an hour later there were thirteen women and five men who stood at the edge of the cliff side. Half carried wooden shafts and serrated steel heads; the others carried wooden shafts fitted with fabric heads. A child ran behind them and ignited the tip before they were launched.
“On my mark,” called Higald as he drew back the bow.
The muscles of his arm and shoulders were not accustomed to the resistance of the bow. He watched as the Umordoc turned at his voice, their dead eyes looking up at him. The glow of the fabric catching fire reflected in their eyes.
“Fire.”
The shafts streaked out; the ones that were consumed in a soft flame ignited several of the Umordoc. Their shrieks and cries echoed on the wind. Another of the arrows slammed into the flank of one of the hybrids, which in turn went berserk and crashed through a supply tow and caught rations on fire.
Higald could smell the meat burning.
Eighteen arrows flew and eighteen beasts fell.
The chieftain smiled despite their situation.
“Again,” he called.
He could hear the collective sound of the arrows being notched and the hiss of the flame as it touched the fabric. Then the ping as the arrow left the bow and whistled through the air, striking again. It went on that way for some time before the Umordoc fled back out of range and into the darkness of the tundra.
ⱷ
E’Malkai
E’Malkai walked through the darkened halls carefully. The flickering bulbs offered little in the way of luminance; however, he was grateful that the pale glow was enough for him to navigate the halls. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he turned another corner. He had felt something stalking his footsteps, but it had not felt as close as it did now.
