The gray elf stared at him. “You…your sword. It is a weapon of high elven magic, is it not? That is how you are resisting the dream spell.”
“It is,” said Ridmark. “Who are you, sir?”
“My name,” croaked the gray elf. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and then took a deep breath as if the effort of keeping his eyes open was too much “My name was…Kolmyrion. I was a knight of Lord Amruthyr, the lord of Cathair Selenias. It was…it was my honor to defend this citadel, to hold against the hordes of the Sovereign so our people could build a new life at Cathair Avamyr.” He let out a wheezing laugh. “What proud fools we were.”
“Can you tell us anything about the spell?” said Ridmark.
“Why?” said Kolmyrion. “Are you human adventurers, come to loot the ruins of my people?” His bloodshot golden eyes wandered to Kyralion. “And you are helping them?”
“No,” said Ridmark. “There is a human town built in the shadow of this place. The Maledicti have seized control of the wards and directed them against the town. The people are trapped in their dreams. If we do not destroy the wards and stop the Maledicti, they will starve to death.”
“The Maledicti,” said Kolmyrion. Hatred entered his thin, ancient voice. “The hellhounds of the Sovereign. So much…so much evil has their brotherhood worked. So many of the Liberated have they slain. Our dead have been without number, and so have our tears.”
“Then help me avenge them,” said Ridmark, “by defeating the Maledicti now. Two of them are somewhere deeper within the fortress, guarding the spell’s source of power. If we defeat them, it will not restore your slain kin, but they may rest easier.”
Third knew that tone of his voice. Ridmark did not think of himself as eloquent and had told Third more than once that he did not like to talk, but he could be persuasive when he set his mind to it.
“I will…I will make a pact with you, human,” said Kolmyrion. “I will tell you anything you wish to know, and then you will kill me.”
Ridmark frowned. “I do not wish to kill you in cold blood.”
“You won’t,” said Kolmyrion. “I died millennia ago. Only the twisted power of the wards has kept me alive, and I have suffered for every second since. I watched every single one of my comrades die, and now I am the only one left.” His eyes shifted to Third. “And I can die…I can die content, knowing that I have seen the future of my people.”
Third shifted, uneasiness flickering through her mind. What did that mean?
“Then we have an accord,” said Ridmark. “What happened here, Kolmyrion?”
“The Pass of Ruins was lost,” said Kolmyrion, the golden eyes staring at nothing. “We thought we could hold it against the Sovereign forever, but we were wrong. The Sovereign’s hosts destroyed our strongholds one by one and made our armies as chaff upon the threshing floor. At last Cathair Selenias was the only fortress that remained to block the Sovereign’s path to Cathair Avamyr. We knew our fortress would fall, and the Sovereign would march upon the final city of our people.”
“What happened then?” said Ridmark.
“Lord Amruthyr had a plan,” said Kolmyrion. “He was one of the greatest wizards of our kindred, his power great and his mind subtle.” Some trace of long-forgotten pride came into the gray elf’s weary voice. “He conceived a plan to block the Pass of Ruins and keep Cathair Avamyr safe forever. Lord Amruthyr knew that we could not match the Sovereign’s numbers…but what use are numbers against weapons of the mind? The Sovereign’s orcs could not defend themselves against a weapon of magic that attacked their very thoughts and turned their own dreams into a battleground.”
“The oneiromantic ward,” said Ridmark.
Kolmyrion continued as if Ridmark had not spoken. “Lord Amruthyr raised the plan in moot with his knights, and we agreed to it. Together we pooled our powers and cast a mighty spell, intending to block the Pass of Ruins with a veil of mist. Should anyone pass through that mist, they would be trapped within their own dreams. They would either experience blissful paradise until they died or would go mad from their own nightmares.”
“What went wrong?” said Ridmark.
“The Sovereign foresaw our plan!” said Kolmyrion, his voice shaking. “We thought our selves so wise, so cunning, but we were fools, fools, fools! The Sovereign turned our own spell against us. When we cast the great spell, we joined our powers together in this very chamber. But the Sovereign and his Maledicti attacked, and they twisted the spell. Instead of drawing upon our magic, the spell sucked away our very lives. And instead of sealing off the Pass of Ruins, the oneiromantic ward wrapped around Cathair Selenias itself. We had to watch as the Sovereign’s hosts marched through the Pass of Ruins towards Cathair Avamyr. And we were imprisoned within our own spell, trapped in our nightmares. Over the centuries the spell has sucked away our lives one by one, and now I am the last one left.”
“How can we break the spell?” said Ridmark. “We have powerful allies in Kalimnos. If we can break the dream spell, we can gather our allies and destroy the Maledicti.”
“You must find Lord Amruthyr,” said Kolmyrion, “and end his suffering.”
Ridmark tilted his head to the side, likely listening to something that Antenora was saying.
“Wait,” said Tamara. “The poor man is still alive? All these years I’ve lived in the shadow of the Tower of Nightmares, and the man who built it is still alive?”
“The Tower of Nightmares?” said Kolmyrion, and fresh sorrow went over the ancient face. “Yes, I see why you would call it that. Can you believe it was once beautiful and strong, a place of hope for my kindred? Yet it has been a horror for longer than your kindred have lived in this land, shattered one.”
“Shattered one?” said Tamara. “Why did you call me that?”
“I can see the shadows of your past written upon you,” whispered Kolmyrion. “Your life was shattered into seven shards. Six of them were slain. You are the only one left.”
“Who did this to me?” said Tamara, gazing at the dying gray elf. Melex had said that Rhodruthain had brought Tamara to Kalimnos, and Third supposed it was possible that Rhodruthain had not been the one to shatter Tamara.
“You did,” said Kolmyrion. “You did this to yourself.” He sighed. “You, too, know what it means to be the author of your own torment.” A shudder went through his thin limbs. “Yet…our torment was without purpose. Yours was not. Your victory or your defeat still hang in the balance.”
“I see,” said Ridmark. “Antenora says that Lord Amruthyr likely bound himself to the oneiromantic spell. It’s kept him alive in agony for all these centuries, and so long as he’s still alive, the spell will last.”
“Yes,” said Kolmyrion. “If you can free Lord Amruthyr from his torment, you will collapse the ward at last.”
“Where is he?” said Ridmark.
“In his chambers below the Heart of the Nightmare,” said Kolmyrion.
“The Heart of the Nightmare?” said Ridmark. Mhazhama had told Ridmark to find her and the Maledictus of Shadows in the Heart of the Nightmare.
“The central chamber of Cathair Selenias,” said Kolmyrion, “and it holds the apex of the warding spell. Lord Amruthyr’s private chamber, the Chamber of Meditation, is below. You will need to find him there. I warn you, the dream spell shall be strongest near him, and you will have to fight.”
“That is what we came here to do,” said Ridmark. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“No,” said Kolmyrion. “Only to be on your guard. Lord Amruthyr will welcome release from his torment, but beware the Maledicti. That urdhracos you fought was bound to them. They are deadly foes, and they will not be overcome easily.”
“I know,” said Ridmark. “We’ve fought them before, more often than I wish to remember.”
“Before you keep your promise to me,” said Kolmyrion. “I wish to speak to the woman. The one who was once an urdhracos.”
“Me,” said Third, giving the gray elf a wary gl
ance.
“Yes,” said Kolmyrion. “I have been trapped in this web of spells for so long that my sight has become unanchored from time. I have seen you in my visions. You were once an urdhracos, but you were freed from the curse of your dark elven blood.”
“That is true,” said Third, wondering what the ancient gray elf wanted of her.
Kolmyrion took a ragged breath. “You will be either the salvation or the destruction of the Liberated.”
“I do not understand,” said Third. “How can I save or destroy your people? I have not that power.”
“I do not know,” said Kolmyrion. “I do not understand either. But I have seen the shadows of your future. You will stand at the hour of destiny for the Liberated, and you will choose. Either you will save the Liberated, or you will destroy them.”
“I do not wish to destroy your people,” said Third.
“You will,” sighed Kolmyrion. “Once you understand us, and once you know the depths of our pride and folly. I beg that you have pity on us, for we are but a tattered remnant of what we once were.” His golden eyes shifted to Kyralion. “And I have seen you standing at her side at that moment, young warrior. Protect her. Make sure she lives to reach that moment of decision, or else our kindred shall be doomed.”
“I shall,” said Kyralion, meeting Kolmyrion’s gaze without blinking.
“I know,” said Kolmyrion. “When I rest, take my sword and armor. You shall need them in the trials to come. The sword will slay creatures of dark magic like the urvaalgs you faced before the pool. Remember!” His wasted frame seemed to strain with urgency. “Protect her. She is the woman of the blue flame. She is the only hope that our people have.”
A burst of frustration went through Third, and she wanted to shake Kolmyrion. How? How could she possibly be the savior or the destroyer of the gray elves? Yet she knew it would be useless. If Kolmyrion knew, he would have told her.
“Human,” whispered Kolmyrion, looking to Ridmark. “I am ready. Use your soulblade to sever the veins of golden light, and I shall be sundered from the spell. Death will claim me at last.”
“As you wish,” said Ridmark, his voice solemn.
“Thank you for this boon,” said Kolmyrion.
It was the last thing he ever said. Ridmark dragged Oathshield’s tip in a semicircle around Kolmyrion’s gaunt form, and this time the soulblade severed the veins of golden light. When Ridmark had cut the last one, Kolmyrion collapsed to the floor like a puppet with broken strings. He slumped against the wall, and a deep sigh came from his lips.
A look of overpowering relief and peace went over his face.
Then he died, and a heartbeat after that, his body crumbled into dust. The dust dissolved into the mist, and soon there was no trace that Kolmyrion had ever been there, save for his empty armor and sheathed sword lying on the floor.
They stood in silence for a moment.
“My friends,” said Magatai, “we have seen strange things today.” He put his hand over his heart and bowed to the empty armor. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous. Magatai, with his grandiose pomposity, somehow managed to make it look solemn. “And a brave warrior has gone to his rest after much delay.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Kyralion, take his armor and sword. He gave it to you, and I think we shall have sore need of it.” He tapped his own dark elven armor. “And if gray elven steel is anything like dark elven steel, it will be light and strong, and capable of wounding creatures of dark magic.”
“You are right,” said Kyralion. He leaned his bow against the wall and pulled off his bronze-studded leather cuirass, revealing his sweat-soaked tunic and gambeson. Third watched the shapes of the thick muscles in his arms and wondered what the rest of his torso would look like without the tunic. She pushed away the thought. Physical desire was an unnecessary distraction.
Even if it was a pleasant one.
Kyralion donned the gray elven armor, its hem falling to his knees, and picked up Kolmyrion’s sword. He hooked the scabbard to his belt and drew the blade. It had been made of the same golden metal as the armor, and the sword looked light and strong and deadly sharp. Kyralion took a few practice swings with the weapon, testing the balance, and then nodded to himself and sheathed the blade.
“That is an excellent sword,” said Kyralion. He rolled his shoulders beneath the new coat of armor. “I have seen such swords before, but never have been fortunate enough to wield one.”
Ridmark frowned. “Your kindred lost the secret of making the metal?”
“No, our smiths still possess it,” said Kyralion, “but there are too few of them, and not enough hands to produce gray elven steel to arm all our warriors. Bronze is easier to forge, so I was given a sword of bronze with a soulstone worked into it.”
Third felt a flicker of resentment on his behalf. The Augurs of the gray elves had sent him to track down the woman who was supposed to save them, and they could not be bothered to give him their best weapons and armor?
“The sword suits you, Kyralion,” said Third, her voice quiet.
His gaze met hers, and she felt a shiver down her nerves. She was so much older than he was, and had seen so much more, but there was a strength of will and purpose in him that she found compelling. The Augurs had sent him to find the woman of blue flame and the Shield Knight and the Keeper and to guard them, and Kyralion did not care what anyone else thought of his mission. He would follow his mission, regardless of the cost to himself, and regardless of what anyone else thought of it.
“It seems, Master Magatai,” said Kyralion, “that I will need you to borrow my sword for a time longer.”
“Just as well,” said Magatai. “It is a good sword.”
“And we’ll get to put both swords to use soon enough,” said Ridmark. He rolled his right shoulder, grimaced, and turned towards the far wall. “Let’s keep moving.”
They circled the pool and crossed the hall beneath the unblinking gaze of the long-dead gray elves. Another archway opened on the far side of the hall to reveal another corridor, and Third followed Ridmark deeper into the gloom below the Tower of Nightmares.
Chapter 18: Heart of the Nightmare
The mist grew thicker as they passed deeper into the ancient ruins of Cathair Selenias, and twice more Ridmark and the others were attacked by creatures that manifested out of the mists.
The first time it was a band of a dozen orcish warriors clad in chain mail, steel swords in their hands. Their green faces had been tattooed and ritually scarred, superimposing the image of a leering crimson skull over their features. They fought with savage ferocity, and it took Ridmark and the others longer to overcome them.
“I’ve never seen orcs like that,” said Tamara, breathing hard as the corpses dissolved back into the mist.
“Nor has Magatai,” said Magatai, “and he has visited many far-flung lands.”
“Mhorites,” said Ridmark, wiping more sweat from face. “Worshippers of the orcish blood god Mhor, the god of slaughter and carnage. They live in the realm of Kothluusk, west of Andomhaim proper, and they have been the enemies of the High King of Andomhaim for centuries.”
“You also killed their warlord Mournacht some years ago,” said Third.
“Did you?” said Magatai. “That must be a splendid tale.”
Ridmark snorted. “It didn’t feel like it at the time.” He looked at Third. “How do you even know that? It was before I met you.”
“I told her,” said Antenora inside his head.
“Antenora told me,” said Third. “Also, Prince Jager. And half the lords and knights of Durandis when we visited on our journey to Khald Tormen. Mournacht was hated and feared by the men of Durandis.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. He rolled his shoulders. God, his shoulders and knees ached. “And if we live through this, Magatai, I’ll tell you all about it. But let’s keep moving.”
The second attack came a few moments later in another pillared hall. The mist swirled and hardened into two of the pagan
jotunmiri that Ridmark and the others had fought near the Monastery of St. Paul. That was a harder fight, with the giants’ clubs giving them a superior reach. Fortunately, the lightning from Magatai’s borrowed sword stunned the jotunmiri, letting Third hamstring them and Ridmark deliver killing blows with Oathshield.
The jotunmiri dissolved into mist, just as the Mhorites had done.
“You are very close now,” said Antenora, a quiver of exhaustion in her voice. “The source of power is just ahead. Almost certainly that is where you shall find Lord Amruthyr.”
“And the Maledicti,” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Antenora. “They, too, are nearby.”
“Antenora says that we are close?” said Third. She looked as tired as Ridmark felt, her black eyes glittering, her face paler than it usually was. Yet the hands holding her swords did not tremble.
“She does,” said Ridmark, looking at the white stone walls. The pulsing veins of golden light were thicker here. At the far end of the hall, an archway opened into a high, wide corridor. Pillars lined the walls of the corridor, and in the niches between the columns stood statues of gray elven warriors in armor and wizards in elaborate robes, staffs in their hands. Ridmark could not see to the end of the corridor, but in the distance, he saw a pulsing golden light.
The Heart of the Nightmare, he presumed.
“The Maledicti are probably waiting at the end of that corridor,” said Ridmark.
“Aye,” said Third. She shaded her eyes and peered into the glow. “It looks like there is an open space at the end of that corridor. That golden light is throwing many shadows across the walls and floor.”
He and Third shared a look.
“Those shadows would offer excellent concealment,” said Ridmark.
“I concur,” said Third.
He looked at Magatai, Tamara, and Kyralion. “Wait here. Third and I are going to take a quick look ahead. I don’t want to blunder into the Maledicti if we can help it.”
“Is that safe?” said Tamara.
“Probably not,” said Ridmark. “But we need to know more. Before we attack, I want to know exactly where Lord Amruthyr is.”
Sevenfold Sword: Shadow Page 27
