“We know, young warrior. That is why we gave it freely,” Lor-telliam replied.
“Thank you,” Jonas said once more before turning his gaze to Fil. “Fil, please tell me the rest. How did you free me from my own prison?”
The story went on for some time as Fil told the story of how he, Allindrian, and Kiln went in after him. He told Jonas every detail that he could remember. The oppressive memories of the place had burned themselves into Fil’s consciousness, and he retold them quickly, as if to rid them from his mind.
Jonas did not look up once as Fil regurgitated the tale. Finally, after Fil had finished, Jonas looked up, his eyes wet with tears. “Thank you for rescuing me, all of you,” Jonas said as he looked at each of his friends. “And thank you again,” Jonas said to the three elves, “for giving my friends the chance to save me. I am forever in your debt.”
“You were worth saving, friend Jonas,” Lor-telliam said, bowing slightly.
Jonas looked back at his friends. “It was my father,” Jonas said softly.
They all three looked at each other in confusion. “What do you mean,” Kiln asked.
“The man that was talking to me, the man that you shot,” Jonas said, nodding to Allindrian, “with your green arrow. It was my father.”
“Are you sure?” Allindrian asked.
“Yes, I remember now. He was trying to get me to give up, to surrender my body to the Forsworn. They have him. They have my father’s soul.”
“I’m so sorry, Jonas,” Fil said softly.
There was a long moment of silence before the king finally spoke up. “Jonas, I think that we should let you get some rest. When you have rested and regained your strength, I will send for Manlin to come and see you.”
“I think that is a good idea,” Jonas said wearily, his voice barely a whisper as the weight of everything he had experienced began to subdue his consciousness. He was so tired, all he could verbalize as his mind began to wander was, “Thank you all…for…saving….me. I would…be….dead.” Finally succumbing to exhaustion, Jonas’s head drooped to his chest as he fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
Uthgil sat at a heavy oak table far in the back of the tavern, away from the light of the few oil lamps that had been placed on the tables nearest the crackling fire. The shadows of the dimly lit corner where he sat reached out at him, offering him the darkness he craved. There were only a few patrons in the bar at the time, but Uthgil liked it that way.
It had been two weeks since his attempt to assassinate the warrior general, two weeks since he had felt the intoxicating rush of adrenaline he had experienced while battling an opponent that seemed to be his mirror image, an adversary with skills equal to his own. Finally he had found what he had been looking for, the ultimate challenge. The wait had been difficult. He longed to face the warrior again, to see who would triumph. For Uthgil, defeat was not an option and his desire to defeat this man was a thirst that could not be quenched.
He had moved from one small village to another, biding his time, waiting for them all to relax, to let down their guard, to forget about him. He had scouted the castle every night, studying the fortifications, and analyzing the guard configurations. He would be ready soon to make another attempt. Killing someone was easy. But providing a situation where two warriors could face each other in combat without anyone intervening was almost impossible. He had worked out several plans, but they all seemed to end with the possibility of his capture. It seemed impossible to orchestrate the situation that he needed to face the general alone, sword to sword.
As Uthgil sat pondering his predicament, his sixth sense suddenly jolted him alert. His hand quickly found the familiar grip of the crossbow tucked under the folds of his black cloak.
At the same instant the tavern door was flung open and the cold winter wind burst in, causing the small fire to flicker. In the doorway, silhouetted by the moon, stood a dark hooded form. A foul odor of rot and decay accompanied the sudden appearance of this apparition, causing Uthgil to unconsciously pull the cowl of his hood lower over his face. Along with the stench, a wave of oppressive fear inundated the room, and the six patrons in the tavern rose shakily from their seats and retreated in terror back toward the bar.
Uthgil had one hand on the crossbow and another on one of the twin knives sheathed at his hip. He was tense and ready to move, but there was something about this threat that warned him to stay still.
The hooded form limped toward him slowly, intensifying the odor of death and decay. Worse than the nauseating smell, however, was the fog of fear emanating from the creature, for surely it was not human. It was an almost palpable terror that quickly filled the room. The men at the bar were frozen with it. Several near the door worked up the courage to flee into the night, but the others ducked behind the counter or under tables that were as far from the intruder as possible. Even Uthgil felt the intensity of the fear, and his hands began to shake. It took all of his mental strength, which was considerable, to keep still and not bolt over the table and run from the approaching figure.
A soft orange light now draped the phantom revealing the filthy tattered gray robe that covered its body. Its face was heavily hooded and shadowed so the assassin could not determine the creature’s identity. But it was not the face that he was staring at; it was the creature’s staff. He had seen if before, a staff made of a black wood and polished until it resembled obsidian.
“Why are you bothering me, old man? I will perform the duty for which you paid me, do not fear. I never fail,” Uthgil said in the common tongue. The old wizard had frightened him when they first met, a new experience for Uthgil who had never before been frightened of anyone. This was the same wizard who had materialized in his room several months ago, offering a king’s ransom to kill Kiln, the warrior general. The wizard had unnerved the assassin, and he now felt that same ominous feeling, but this time it was worse. There was something very different about the wizard and it took all of Uthgil’s courage to speak to him as he did.
A slow scratchy cackle came from the man as he slowly lifted his head. Two points of demonic red pulsed in the shadows under the hood. “Old man? I think not, my Sharneen assassin,” Gullanin said as he slowly raised a decaying hand and removed his hood.
Uthgil tensed, but managed to control himself and remain still as he stared, frozen with fear and surprise, at the gruesome vision before him. The menacing old wizard he remembered had somehow been transformed into a vile and rotting demonic corpse. The wizard’s head was now just a skull with pieces of decaying skin and flesh hanging from it like burnt parchment. Thin patches of greasy hair hung from his scalp and his eye sockets were caves of darkness from which two glowing red orbs stared back at Uthgil, draining him of all courage. Trembling uncontrollably, he had to release his grip on the crossbow as he was afraid he might accidentally pull the trigger.
“What…… hap-p-pened?” Uthgil stammered. He cursed himself for the lack of control that he seemed to have over his body. The wizard emanated a blanket of fear that was suffocating his courage.
“I was given a second chance,” the wizard hissed, “immortality, and power. What you see is Gould’s gift, Gould’s power. I am no longer Gullanin the wizard, I am Gullanin the Lich.” The Lich’s jaw jerked as it spoke, causing the torn and rotting flesh to break, oozing black and decaying blood. “You have failed me, Uthgil.”
Uthgil knew what a Lich was…an undead spell caster who sought to delay death through magical means. They are thought to exist half way between the realms of the living and the dead, enabling them to access the power of the Ru’Ach more easily. And Uthgil had also heard of Gould. He was a western god that was not known in his lands, but when you worked in the shadows like he did one came to know many of the dark deities. “I…did not want to kill him,” Uthgil said. “Not yet anyway,” he finished hastily as Gullanin’s red eyes glowed bright with anger.
“What you want is irrelevant. Kill him, or die a slow death. You have no idea what
I’m capable of. I would kill him myself but I would be detected by the king’s priests within moments of setting foot on the castle grounds.”
Uthgil knew that the Lich would not understand his desire to face the warrior on even terms, so he simply said what he wanted to hear. “It will be done.”
“I’m giving you a gift, assassin,” the Lich said as he produced a small canvas bag from inside his robe. He tossed it on the table and it landed with a thud next to Uthgil. “In the bag you will find a simple dark mask and a long black stiletto; both are magical tools that will help you in your task. Place the mask on your face and use the dagger to kill your victim. The dagger will then drink your victim’s blood, changing your appearance to match that of the person who you have slain. It will disguise your face, body type, and even your clothing. If you succeed you can keep the gift, but if you fail, you will wish for death. Your soul will serve me forever in darkness.”
Uthgil said nothing as he stared at the bag. If its contents could do what the Lich said then it would indeed be a valuable weapon.
Gullanin said nothing else as he slowly turned around, dragging his hunched body towards the door. The sound of his feet slowly scraping over the floor was unnerving in the silence.
“We have witnesses,” Uthgil said, indicating the patrons that still cowered in the shadows.
“Not anymore,” Gullanin said, waving his staff nonchalantly.
As he did so, the men frantically grabbed their throats, suddenly coughing and choking as they fought for the air that had suddenly disappeared. Eyes wide with terror and surprise, their frantic movements grew weaker as they stumbled to their knees, still gagging, before falling to the floor, their struggles silenced by death.
The Lich’s gravelly laugh pierced the eerie silence and clawed at the nerves along Uthgil’s spine as it stepped into the snowy night. And though Gullanin was shrouded in darkness, Uthgil could still clearly see his red eyes boring into him as he turned to face him one last time before the door slammed shut from some invisible force.
* * *
Fil and Jonas had been talking for hours, catching up and discussing the recent events. Jonas also had a lot of questions about Malbeck’s whereabouts and the city’s defenses and Fil did his best to update him. Jonas was regaining his strength quickly, but he was having a difficult time shaking his somber mood.
“Fil, can I tell you something?” Jonas asked.
“Of course, you can tell me anything.”
“Well, the night that we were attacked at Cuthaine, Myrell and I…well…we sort of…you know,” Jonas stammered, trying to get it out, but not sure exactly how.
“She came to your room didn’t she?” Fil asked, knowing that on that night Myrell had been wearing Jonas’s night shirt.
“Well, yes.”
“That’s great, Jonas. You deserve some fun. You can’t be ‘cavalierish’ all the time,” Fil laughed. But then he stopped, realizing that his reaction was not very appropriate considering what had happened to Myrell. “I’m sorry, Jonas. I did not mean to make light of your affections for her, nor of Myrell’s fate. I was just trying to make you feel better.”
“I know, Fil. Do not fret,” Jonas added. “Cavalierish? Did you make that up?”
“I did, and I’m quite fond of the term. When you start to get too serious about life that is the word I will use,” Fil grinned.
“Perhaps you’re right. But I just can’t get her out of mind. I can’t believe she is dead.”
“Jonas, I can’t believe that any of us made it out of Cuthaine alive. It was so crazy, for all of us. You know, it was Myrell that actually saved you. Did you know that?” Fil asked, forgetting that Jonas had not yet heard that part of the story.
“What do you mean?” Jonas asked, obviously intrigued.
“When you were taken, everyone was at a loss as to how to find you. We had no idea what had happened to you, or where you might be. So Addalis performed a search spell, but he couldn’t do it without something that had belonged to you, an article of clothing or something that you had possessed.”
“My shirt…Myrell was wearing my shirt,” Jonas said, recalling the memories of that night.
“Exactly. Allindrian had to get your shirt from her body. If that night hadn’t happened, we might never have found you,” Fil said gravely, suddenly realizing the importance of their liaison. “Your last act together saved your life.”
“How was she buried?”
“In honor, with all the other Cuthainian soldiers that died that night,” Fil replied.
They both sat for a moment, lost in their own thoughts before Jonas finally broke the silence.
“Fil, do you think I will ever be a cavalier again?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course you will. You are a cavalier,” Fil said.
“Fil, I cannot feel her. I cannot call her magic, I have tried. If I can’t do that, then I am no longer a cavalier. What will become of me?” Jonas asked.
Fil sighed. “I don’t know. Shyann picked you, and there is no reason why she would purposefully abandon you. You want to know what I think?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Jonas, no matter what happens, you will always fight for the right side. You will always use your skills to combat evil. If you no longer have Shyann’s magic to do that, then so be it. It matters not, it does not change who you are. You are more skilled with the blade than anyone I know except for Kiln and Allindrian. You have your cognivant abilities. You have more talent than most to fight that which opposes us. You still have her mark on your chest. That must mean something.”
“I thought of that too,” Jonas said as he looked at the beautiful symbol. “But I have no idea how God Marks work. Are they permanent? Can they be taken away if you do something to anger your god?”
“You don’t really think you did anything to anger Shyann do you,” Fil said incredulously.
“Fil, I killed those men,” Jonas said despondently.
“Jonas, I know you feel that way because you can picture them in your mind. But you were free from your body when those acts occurred. It was those Dykreel clerics who orchestrated those acts, not you. By all accounts you fought against their control with more courage and strength than those elven Ekahals thought possible. You could do no more to stop them than a baby could overcome an ogre. Besides, those men were not completely innocent. They were fighting in an underground arena, using blood and death to earn coin. They made the choice to be there, and it was their choice that caused their deaths. Think of it another way. It was Shyann who was not there to help you. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s hers,” Fil dared to say.
Jonas sighed. Just two months ago he would have reacted defensively at Fil for those words. But when it came to the gods, maybe things were not as black and white as Jonas had originally thought. “I don’t think she could find me in that temple, Fil. I think it blocked her. I vaguely remember the clerics saying something to that effect.”
“That could be what is happening now, with your chest,” Fil said. But just as he said this, he wished he hadn’t. The expression on Jonas’s downfallen face was too hard to bear.
“That means that she will never be able to find me again. I cannot remove the symbol inside me. I will be forever lost to her,” Jonas said dejectedly.
“I’m sorry, Jonas. That is a real possibility. Don’t forget though, ordinary people fight against the darkness every day. Herders combat thieves who try to take their cattle. Merchants fight against brigands who try to steal their goods. Somewhere a woman is fighting off a rapist even as we speak. The list goes on. And none of them have the power or skills that you have. With or without Shyann, you are a formidable opponent against evil.”
Jonas thought about Fil’s words and felt ashamed. Fil was right, of course. Good people fought every day with none of his skills. They faced terror with courage as their only weapon and he lay in a king’s bed complaining about not having magic from a god. He was a master swordsma
n, skilled with many weapons, and a cognivant. He should not feel pity for himself and he would not skulk while others faced darkness with nothing. “Thank you, Fil. You are right. When did you get so wise?” Jonas smiled.
“You’re skilled with the sword, I am skilled up here,” Fil said, as he tapped his head with a smile.
“Thank you, Fil, for everything. I know I would not be here now if it were not for you. There are times when I think that I don’t deserve your friendship,” Jonas said seriously.
Fil just smiled. “Yes you do, my friend, yes you do.”
That same day Jonas was able to talk with Manlin, high priest to Shyann. He had come later in the afternoon upon the king’s request. Jonas was still tired but his strength was returning and he was beginning to feel more like his old self.
Manlin pulled up a chair and sat next to Jonas. He was wearing his traditional robes and Shyann’s silver oak tree symbol hung from his neck. Jonas noticed the priest looked older. His dark hair was grayer now, and his eyes were red and puffy with fatigue. But the priest smiled warmly and put his hand on Jonas’s arm.
“Jonas, it is so good to see you again. We feared that you would not make it this time,” Manlin said seriously.
“You and me both, sir.”
“I want you to know, Jonas, that I did everything within my power to help you. I feel ashamed that I could not use Shyann’s power to heal one of her cavaliers. And to think that three godless elves could make you well. But I cannot deny my joy that they were able to do it. It’s a paradox I guess,” Manlin said, forcing a smile.
“Sir, I do not fault you. I know you tried and I thank you for your efforts. Did you see what the Ekahals did to me?” Jonas asked.
“Yes, I was here in the room. I have never seen anything like it, and I foresee that I never will. Their magic is beyond me, Jonas. When they were sealing Dykreel’s symbol you should have heard it. It was as if the Forsworn were in this very room. The room went black, as dark as night, and there were piercing howls and shrieks of the demons inside you fighting against them. You were thrashing and yelling, and just when I thought that Dykreel himself was going to burst out of you, there was a large clap of sound, almost like thunder, followed by a flash of blue light. That was when Sar-gathos embedded that talisman into you. I have no idea how he did it with all your frantic movements and those horrible sounds assaulting us. But he did, and you are here now. I will admit, Jonas, that I was very frightened and I prayed to Shyann for courage.”
The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 03 - Glimmer in the Shadow Page 11
