“I should say so, Nemandi!” answered the bard with a scowl. “That was foolish, no, reckless beyond measure. You could have been entirely consumed by the Tides, destroyed even.”
Carym felt a combination of shame and anger. Who was this bard to question Carym? Gennevera cast a scathing glance at the man too.
“We must flee towards the port before Hessan discovers our plans.”
Even the bard seemed to be trying to taking charge. Carym was stunned. He felt as though the knight was just waiting for an opportunity to take away the leadership of the group, but his own code of honor probably kept him from it. Now the bard? Though Bart was right, now was not the time to argue. They had to move.
“Right,” Carym sensibly agreed. “Let’s go. Everyone to their places, we will take turns filling Kharrihan’s position.” A pang of guilt assaulted Carym. He felt he could have saved his friend if he hadn’t been so greedy with the Tides.
Carym put a hand out to the bard. “Bart, I am sorry. I wish I could have done something more,” he said lamely. He knew damn well he should have done something more.
“Save it!” growled the bard. “We have work ahead of us. And you have a lot to learn, so you do!” Bart said as he stalked away. At least he wasn’t trying to usurp Carym’s authority, yet. Carym shook his head. What was happening to him? Since when had he become so prideful that he had to be in charge all of the time? With a stab of grief, he thought of his wife. Had he ever acted that way toward her while she lived? Would she have even put up with it?
Bart set off in the lead, heading towards Port of Powyss, his staff stabbing the snow angrily. At some point during their battle, clouds had rolled in and a light snow had begun to fall. Carym pragmatically wondered how they would ever make up for the loss of the elf’s scouting ability. With a last, sorrowful glance in the direction of Kharrihan’s captors, he set off towards Port of Powyss.
At nightfall the group called a halt and set up camp. With no signs of pursuit, and the proximity of Port of Powyss, all agreed it would be safe enough to build a fire. Bart reckoned that they owed the lack of pursuit to the quiet nature of Hessan’s presence on the island, the Nashian’s having no official presence here. It was unlikely that they would encounter any further harassment from Hessan, in any obvious fashion at least, as the presence of deathly knight’s forces might inspire the enmity of the unpredictable sovereign of Ckaymru. Shalthazar, a master of tactics and deception, knew well the strategic value of possessing the Cklathish Isles and would not allow Hessan to risk galvanizing the many Cklathish peoples against him at this time.
The somber mood of the group was oppressive and there was little conversation. Carym decided to break the silence. “What are these bandit gangs like, Bart?”
The bard raised an eyebrow and half-smiled as he stared into the flames. “The bandit gangs are mostly cut-throats and thieves, so they are. Outlaws relegated to living among the woods to avoid the sheriff of this Isle. Some of them became outlaws for good reason, while others were simply persecuted by the law for whatever Tywyss Rhi decided was illegal that day. In any event, we need have no fear of bandit gangs who dwell in this area.”
“Why is that?”
“You don’t trust me, do you lad?” the bard smirked and shook his head, staring into the fire. “You are so naive. You have no idea of the magnitude of the power you wield, do you? You toy with the Tides as though choosing what spice to flavor your tea with!”
“What do you know anyway?” Carym retorted, glancing around. Who was this bard to challenge him anyway? Genn was busy in the woods gathering what herbs she could, but Hala had taken a seat by the fire, listening with interest. She was a curious one, he noticed, and a bit mysterious. Her eyes blazed with intensity in the flickering firelight, she wanted to know. As the beautiful warrior-princess turned her penetrating gaze upon him, he felt suddenly foolish, prideful. Here was a vibrant woman somewhat younger than he, skilled in magic he knew nothing of, and though she was typically laconic, she was very wise.
Unable to bear the power of the woman’s gaze, Carym turned away from her. And, as he did so, he felt oddly conflicted about it. His heart belonged to Genn, with little doubt, yet he couldn’t help but wonder why he was so charmed by Hala and kept thinking about her affectionately. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind and tried to remember why he began to think about Hala anyway. When his eyes passed over the glowering bard, he remembered. He had asked the man a question.
“Well?” he asked, pretending to have been listening. The bard smirked wickedly.
“Had you not been trying to look down the shirt of the princess, you might have heard me the first time. I shall not repeat myself.”
Carym knew enough to accept that he was being baited. But why do it in front of the princess? Did he want to provoke Carym to a fight? Perhaps he recognized Carym’s guilt in Kharrihan’s disappearance.
“You said you were a keeper of the lore of the Air Sigil. How did you learn to use it?”
“We of the Air Sigil know far more than you think!” the bard stood, angrily and whispered something Carym could not hear. A slight wind drifted into the camp and embers from the fire danced in the air, swirling and angry, weaving a shroud of flaming sparks about his body. Carym thought he looked a bit like a demon.
Carym, his pride stinging, stood to face him. He envisioned the Tides swirling around him and called them to him, all of them. He let their power course into his soul, drunk with power. He would show this bard just who was a fool! Gennevera had returned, an eagerness in her eyes as she looked on. Her confidence in him gave him the courage to match wits against the bard and he thrust his arm out, fully intending to blast the man with the fire he dared attempt to control.
Nothing happened! He thrust his other arm out attempting to repeat the spell. Again, nothing happened. Angrily he pulled his fighting sticks and brandished them as he advanced on the bard. Bart flicked his hand and Carym felt something wrap itself around his legs, tripping him. He fell heavily to the ground and he dropped his weapon. Bart let the embers surrounding him fall away and he stepped over Carym, who was staring at the invisible bonds clasping his feet together.
“You were saying, nemandi?”
Carym looked up, his pride deflated. Gennevera looked disappointed and stalked away. Ederick and Hala were watching too. There was no mistaking their expressions: disdain. He felt his blood boiling at the condescending looks the two were sharing about him.
“How did you do that?” he demanded, angrily.
The bard smiled and sat down. Carym tried to use the Tides again, but found that nothing would happen. He could see them, feel them dancing around his feet, feel the tingling against his skin. But he couldn’t use them. He glared at the bard. Were they all teaming up against him now?
“What did you do to me?”
“I was beginning to think you’d lost your way, lad. But now I see, you need a few minutes away from the power, so you do. Sit down and mind yerself.”
How dare he talk to him that way? Carym was a Fyrbold! A student of the great immortal Mathonry!
“You don’t talk to me that way, bard!” he snapped, doing his best to cast a baleful and condescending gaze at the man.
“Sit down, a’fore I take ye down, lad,” growled the bard softly. He was growing tired of the brash Cklathman. Could this man really be the One? Bart shook his head, and as he did so, saw Carym make a furtive movement. Bart was a fighter with whom very few could match skills. He was a master of the Volan hand-to-hand combative arts and possessed lightning reflexes. Standing quickly, he stepped in very close to Carym’s person, too close for the man to strike him with the bo-tani he had just recklessly swung at the bard. Bart wrapped his arm over the top of Carym’s bo-tani and locked it under his own and slammed his elbow into Carym’s solar plexus, stunning him. With one quick shove, and a look of disdain, he knocked Carym to the ground flat on his back, unarmed.
Carym rolled over on his side, trying
to catch his breath, furious. What was happening to him? Had his skills become that rusty? There was a time when Carym was respected for his fighting skills, learned in the service of the deadly Arnathian military. Or, was the bard really that good?
“Have you had enough, lad?” he said, exasperated. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Carym. You are a good deal more prideful than most brigands I know, so you are.”
When the toe of the bard’s boot planted itself on Carym’s ribcage, the Cklathman gave up. He had been beaten. Carym dropped back to the earth, his face dirty, breathing hard. Ederick and Princess Hala were now gone, as was Gennevera. The bard said nothing as he turned and walked away. Carym had been beaten down once many years before, and that encounter had ended similarly, with Carym lying face down in a gutter.
What was Zuhr doing to him? He eyed Bart balefully as the bard found a seat by the campfire and began pointlessly poking the already well placed logs. Carym finally returned to his feet despondent, his pride well stung. For the moment, Carym didn’t want to be near anyone and so wandered away from camp and a bit deeper into the woods, cursing himself all the while.
Ederick returned to the fire, having removed his armor, and sat comfortably beside the bard; Hala joined them.
“What is going on here?” asked the knight, looking into the fire.
“I don’t know, Ederick. He seems darker, angrier, now, so he does. Something is stirring up his emotions and clouding his rational thoughts.”
“We are in the middle of brigand infested woods, in a country where the authorities are hostile, the Headless Rider hunting us. And our leader has lost his wits? Perhaps you knocked some sense into him, eh?”
Bart said nothing, continuing to needlessly tend the fire.
“Is there nothing we can do to help him?” asked Hala.
Bart shook his head. “I fear this darkness is caused by Umber’s dark minions. Our friend carries a great burden, demons will tempt or torment him every waking moment. And there is naught we can do to help him shoulder it.”
“I fear you are right, Bart. This is exactly what caused the downfall of the Dark Paladin.” Ederick stared listlessly into the fire, suddenly very weary. “What are these strange spell casters we’ve been seeing?”
“Binder mages. Very evil, so they are. Little is truly known about them, except that they gain their powers by allowing a spirit or demon to inhabit their own body. It is a parasitic relationship, wherein the host will eventually lose. The parasite will take over and manifest itself as the host. Their hideous appearances are the signs that the host is losing ground to the parasites.”
“How do they get the demons or spirits to agree to this?” asked Gennevera.
“I don’t know,” he said simply. “Perhaps a magical spell allows the mortal to control the immortal being. Perhaps a mutual arrangement is reached. It doesn’t really matter. Evil is evil, all the same.”
“Power,” said Gennevera in a low voice. “Power is a very tempting thing. Perhaps that is how the Zuharim seem to have fallen.” Logs crackled in the fire, echoing the tension everyone around that campfire suddenly felt; especially Ederick. The knight said nothing and spoke volumes. No Zuharim could let a perceived slight against the order go undefended, which meant that the knight well knew the extent of the darkness facing the lands. Those of his order who had been out of touch in Al Zocar could not help him here, and none here could go to their aid. The very existence of the Zuharim as Sir Ederick knew it, as he had bled and fought for it, was on the brink of destruction.
“Talking about me?” Carym griped as he stalked back from the woods and sat by the fire, his gleaming eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. “If you have something to say, say it to my face.”
Ederick glared sharply at him. “Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Carym. Your judgments, such as they are, might get you killed in battle.”
Carym’s eyes blazed and he looked as though he wanted to say something, but held his tongue.
“So, there is some sense left in you,” quipped the bard.
“Fine, bring it on. I can take it,” he growled.
“You are acting irrationally, Carym; we have all noticed it,” Hala observed. Carym had not expected her to jump in, and he felt stung.
“Well, I think Carym has been amazing!” said Gennevera angrily as she moved to sit beside Carym. “He has led this group through an awful journey, most of which you three were not present to appreciate. He has lost his home, his fortune, his best friend to this cursed quest. How dare you treat him so disrespectfully!”
“Indeed, we were not there,” agreed the knight. “And none of what must be said here will take away from the valiant efforts that led Carym to this point.”
“Carym, don’t just sit there! Defend yourself!” hissed Gennevera, angrily.
“No, Genn,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand. “They are right. I have not been myself. Something has rattled my wits, and I am not fit to lead this company. I don’t have enough control over this awesome power that I wield. You saw what I became, it nearly consumed me.”
Gennevera looked scandalized. How could he just quit like that? She was so incensed that she stalked away and wrapped herself up in her bedroll ignoring everyone, including Carym.
After a long period of silence Bart spoke. “Carym, I know how hard it must have been for you to admit your failure. It speaks to your character, it does. One must be humble in the presence of the Tides; lofty pride and ambition will kill you or someone else. And it will cause you to fail when you are needed most.”
Carym felt stung again. The bard was right, Kharrihan’s disappearance could have been prevented. Had Carym stuck to his own battle plans and not left the group....
“Whatever the case, Carym, you must not use the Tides of Shadow for any reason. It is very strange that you can use it at all.”
Carym nodded in agreement, feeling at once repulsed by his actions and tempted to try again. He remembered how readily he had been able to handle his enemies using the Shadow Tides as opposed to the Tides harnessed by the Sigil of Flames. The energy of the Shadow Tides felt so right and powerful, and that unsettled him. How would Mathonry have counseled? He hadn’t said anything at all about the pervasive nature of the Shadow Sigil.
“And I am pleased that you have recognized your own mistakes, Carym. A knight must be above petty thoughts and matters of pride; he must control his emotions. Recognizing a fault is the only way to correct one,” said the knight. “You are the bearer of a great burden. The holy prophets have spoken of the return of the Sigils, and ultimately, the return of the First Paladin. You have my pledge of honor, Carym, to support your role in bringing about these prophecies.”
Hala nodded toward Carym, echoing the knight’s words with her simple gesture. Carym looked at them, speechless. Hadn’t they just condemned him for his foolishness? And now they were prepared to follow him again. He felt a renewed determination to resist the temptations of the Shadow and he cursed every moment that he would have to bear those damnable stones. What else, other than the Shadow stone in his pocket, could be affecting him so greatly? He wanted to tell them, then. But he couldn’t. No one must know of the stones lest they succumb to their baffling and conflicting powers.
“It is the duty of the Storm Lords to guard the one heralding the Return and aid him in any way. I too, pledge my service and my knowledge to you. But, I will not have any more of this foolishness with the Tides; accept my guidance or I cannot help you.”
“I accept,” he said, a lump forming in his throat. He knew then that he was surrounded by people of goodness. People deserving of his absolute best effort to accomplish this task. There was no selfishness here, not after the way he had treated them all. Their motivations were true. But, was it necessary for him to put them all through his pain, his foolishness, for him to finally understand? Was it worth the cost of Kharrihan’s capture?
“And I pledge the support of my people,” asserted the princess. “We are the guardians
of the forests. Your destination lies within the land of my people. We will be able to guide you to the Tomb of the Dark Paladin.”
“Thank you, Princess,” he whispered. What was happening to him? Why would Zuhr choose him for this important mission? Didn’t He know Carym had such an awful history of losing control to his emotions? What did the Great Lord see in him? Carym shook his head ruefully. “You speak as though the outcome of this quest is all but assured; I hardly feel worthy of your support and confidence.”
“We have all been drawn together to support you in this mission,” began the knight. “Why would I end up on the very road you and your companions were traveling on at that very moment in which you benefitted from my aid, if not only to help you? Why would a Storm Lord just happen across our company in a crowded inn on a busy crossroads in Ckaymru? Why did we endure imprisonment in the Black Baron’s keep, if not to rescue this princess who could help guide you to the Tomb of the Dark Paladin? It is not by chance, I assure you.”
Carym nodded, unable to deny the logic. Yet, he wanted to lash out about Kharrihan. What purpose could there be in his capture? What purpose could there be in mentioning it, other than reliving the pain of that helpless moment? When he looked at the princess, he saw a distinct change in her eyes. He saw something there that unsettled him. He sensed an element of hope in her that wasn’t there before. What was it? Her gaze was penetrating, seeing deeply into him, assessing him. But she did not speak; she rarely did. She met his gaze confidently, something was passing between them but Carym could not put his finger on it exactly. After a moment, he sensed that the others were looking at him, expectantly. Did they ask him a question? Had he not heard because he was lost in Hala’s confident gaze? That unnerved him too, for his feelings for Gennevera were quite strong. He cast a quick glance toward her bedroll and was relieved to see her form had not moved. Then he brought his attention back to the matter at hand.
“I don’t know what to say,” whispered Carym. The others smiled, quietly looking into the flames. It was a good moment, one of a very few since this quest began. He was truly among friends.
The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) Page 25
