by Marin Landis
“I’ll stop you there,” he quickly spoke. “I deal with the conservation and direction of the deadservants. This is beyond me. Hold.” He started to stare into space and as he did so Accus felt the most peculiar sensation. Almost like being watched. He surmised that it was some sort of inaudible communication.
Krovius had a curious look on this face as he came back to the here and now. “I think we should just wait here.”
It wasn’t long before a man approached from along the corridor. He made no sound as he approached, the swishing of his moss green robes silent. Confusing patterns in black had been drawn on his apparel, away from which Accus had to look as they were almost vertigo inducing. The man paused before them, Accus suddenly realizing that Krovius was no longer behind him and that when he looked at the newcomer he couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead. The living possessed an unmissable aura of life, the dead a similar halo of death. This man had neither. And his face, it was horrific. There was no mouth but only eyes, horribly large and colorless eyes, great white orbs that repulsed him. Were they moving? He couldn’t tell and didn’t want to look any more than he already had. He turned his gaze away.
The man that was neither alive nor dead nor probably a man, held out his hand and Accus did not take it. He was having second and third thoughts about this whole thing. Necromancy was funny when you’re in control but when you’re lost in a temple of death and monsters and polite fellows with their hands covered in entrails he just didn’t want to be there any more. Regardless of his refusal to take the being’s hand, it reached out and touched his cheek. He winced, expecting some sort of pain but there was merely communication.
“You have knowledge of the Mother’s seed in you?” It was only slightly a question. Could this thing see into his mind? “We will get it out. We will escort you to Kvalishskaiinetta.”
“What? No!” Accus shouted. He recognized the name, of course he did. It was merely a legend surely? The thoughts in his mind said otherwise. The pictures in his mind said otherwise. “No,” he shouted and started to run back down the corridor but his steps were ponderous as if in knee length water. He made no ground, his arms flailing in panic. He felt a hand on his arm and the words in his head continued.
“We will have communion with the First Dead, Praise Her.” Accus’s mind struggled to block out the thoughts, his body thrashing and revolting, neither were to any avail.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Enemy of My Enemy
“The grass is always greener when it’s not dead!” - Surakoita
“Daughter, I welcome you,” her mysterious benefactor intoned in her weird accent. The room wasn’t well lit, which bothered neither of them. To add to the obfuscation was a series of sheer drapes hanging all throughout the chamber. One could see figures through them if they were close or back lit, which wouldn’t have been the case here. She could see Surakoita’s shape behind one. She sat beside a table and poured something from a bottle into a glass. “Wine?”
“Thank you, but no, mistress, I cannot afford to relax.”
“Admirable and quite right, you cannot. I sense there is no good news.”
“The news is as it is, it’s not absolutely good news but you will find it interesting,” she stammered. Samarkus and Surakoita. The two beings she knew that could make her nervous. She didn’t even question whether she was drawn to them because of this. Goddess knew she could easily escape them, run off north and not return. So she thought, but never seriously considered.
“I hope so.”
“I, we, Thacritus and I, recruited those Talvar to spy on the reconstruction of the Temple of,” she paused here, “well, you are aware of which temple and they botched the job horribly. I was, am, furious and to be quite blunt, had I been present I would have likely eviscerated one of them. At least one of them.”
“Needless killing benefits none. You did well not to hunt them down.”
“That’s not my plan, but the one who caused them to fail is my target.”
Surakoita laughed then, not at all sweetly, but maliciously. “Who caused them to fail?”
“Another Talvar, but not like them. They are worms in comparison. He intercepted their communication to me, and I believe poisoned Lissa. He lay in wait when I went to retrieve the communication and had me at a disadvantage. He moved so swiftly, mistress, like a shadow, like one of us…” She stopped then. It could not be.
“Continue,” Surakoita snapped.
“Yes, he was fast, and noiseless, he was like a serpent in the night. Yet he was a virgin, I could smell his lust. I thought to slay him, but something stayed my hand. Some errant thought of mercy. I have never felt that before or since. It makes no sense. Have you felt like this ever, mistress?” Runild sat on the floor, pensive.
“Yes, it is not uncommon. I can smell your lust from here.” Again the Faceless One laughed.
“You are, of course, correct. This is something to think on. How should I overcome this?” She then sat up straight. “One other thing; Thacritus gave me a bag of hundreds of gold coins to fund a campaign against this Dark Elf. He says that he killed his brother. That doesn’t make sense but often he speaks from a place beyond my understanding.”
“His brother?” Surakoita knew full well that Sjarcu had slain Prince Sunar, but his brother? Sjarcu had said nothing about Sunar being the brother of the Mage. Did he even know? If that is true then there was a mystery worthy of taking action.
“His words.”
“In that case, you’ll need to find out what you can about that. Wait…”
Runild could hear some words being exchanged and then the figure of the Faceless One moved away. She dared not leave or move, so dropped into Kehan, the meditative trance that calmed the body and spirit, to settle herself.
It was some time later, how long she couldn’t tell, nor did she wonder, that she was roused from her meditation by the thump of a body as it hit the floor. She was surprised to see that it was the man she had met before, Accus. He seemed uninjured but was unconscious and his breathing was regular. His was not a natural sleep, however.
Minutes later, the Faceless One returned. She sat and poured more wine for herself.
“You’ve met him and he has met with Kvalishskaiinetta,” Surakoita stated matter of factly.
Runild’s training enabled her to not react negatively, but internally she pulled a face. She was not squeamish in any way, but nobody wanted to meet a millennia old corpse. One that touched you and inhabited you and filled you with death. He must have had some valuable information. “Do you know why, mistress?” And why in the Hells are you dumping him near me?
“I have heard that he was with your Dark Elf when Thacritus encountered them and that was moments after they uncovered the key to eternal life.”
That would count as valuable, thought Runild, impressed. “He works with Finulia.”
“The synchronicity is astonishing,” was the mild, if possibly sarcastic response. “Go with him, see if you can find the whereabouts of Tiriel and use these to bind it.” There was a clanking noise and then something was shoved toward her.
She didn’t know what a Tiriel was, but knew she would only get as much information as she needed. “This must be kept quiet, his friend is the new Prince of Maresh-Kar and a warrior of the Sun God. We do not need his attention. The stakes are higher than you can imagine and nothing you will ever do with be more important than this.”
“Yes, mistress,” she stated keeping her emotions flat and reached out for the bag.
Surokoita was gone and she was left alone with the unconscious body of the Necromancer. She knew nothing of medicine, only of slaughter, and anything she knew of the mystical arts were limited to that of the Tumar, the darkness. That would help naught here.
All she could do was wait.
She entered the Kehan and did exactly that, wanting to mull over the recent events and information she had been given.
The secrets to eternal life, her mistress had t
old her, had been discovered by this man? For a follower of Ain-Ordra eternal life was at the same time a holy quest and an anathema. If everyone lived forever there would be no death and no Dark Goddess and yet to live forever is the greatest gift Ain-Ordra could bestow. The attainment of such gift had never been reported but in the case of the First Dead, Kvalishskaiinetta. And there the horror lay. Would anyone wish eternal life in that state, blessed though She was? There of course were rumors of a more pure state of eternal life through the Seed of the Mother, but of course merely a legend.
And Accus also had met the Dark Elf? That was a surprise. Surakoita did not mention that they were comrades as she did indeed refer to the new Prince of Maresh-Kar. The Faceless One also mentioned that they should work together, removing the option of torturing the Necromancer for details should it be necessary. Besides that might draw the attention of the Sun God's warrior, whose attention, for whatever reason, they wanted to avoid. That in itself was strange, but hers was not to challenge the decisions of the Temple.
She felt a cool breeze and looked to its source, discovering that Accus's eyes were open. He still lay on his side but he was definitely conscious, his facial muscles reacting to her attention.
It took a further half an hour to get him to come round fully. Runild took some of Surakoita's wine and helped him to drink it. He dribbled some down his chin but it sped his recovery back into full wakefulness. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked absolutely miserable.
"What happened to you?" she asked as if she didn't know.
"Nothing," he snapped, "I'm going home." He shakily stood and started batting feebly at the colored sheets of sheer cloth hanging down. "How the Hells do I get out of here?"
"Calm yourself, Accus," she cooed, thinking herself an expert on handling men, "everything is fine, you're safe now."
He turned on her, scowling and then obviously thought better of his initial reaction. His face fell. "It was horrible, Runild, the torture and the anguish, it was never ending. How can She tolerate it?"
"She does so that we may also strive for eternal life, Accus," it was a platitude and they both knew it. She had no interest in how he felt, but she needed this mission to be a success and like it or not he was part of it. Maybe an integral part.
"That's not as attractive as you might think. Do you know how to get out of this room?"
"Yes, but do you understand what's happening here?" She still sat on the floor, remaining absolutely calm.
"I came here to do my duty. I've done it now," he was looking wildly about, as if about to start panicking again, "and now I've had it. I'm finished with this place. The whole thing is a sham."
"Not yet. You aren't finished yet." You'll know when you're finished, because you'll be dead, she thought and almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it.
His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"
"We have work to do, Accus. Priest and Shadow Assassin as one team, for the glory of the Dark Goddess..."
"Enough of the histrionics, dammit, tell me what is expected of me," he shouted.
I'm definitely going to kill him when this is done, she thought. "Accus, Accus, keep your voice down, it wouldn't do for everyone to know our business. " She patted the ground beside her. He huffed, but sat down and raised his eyebrows in an exhortation to continue.
"I have it on good authority that you have met a certain Dark Elf, also Tiriel." Her official business was with Tiriel and decided to pretend she knew what that was, but Surakoita had not said to not take care of the Talvar at the same time if possible.
"What have they to do with anything? I have seen neither for weeks and neither more than once."
"We have been charged with bringing Tiriel back here, in chains," her patience at an end, this man didn't care about niceties or charm, threats would be the only thing that would carry any weight. "The Dark Elf would be an added bonus."
Accus laughed, genuinely amused. "You are a fool. Firstly Tiriel will be impossible to capture, secondly that 'Dark Elf' as you call him is vicious. I think your quest is doomed to fail."
"It's not my quest, it's our quest. The Faceless one gave it to us as she delivered you to me."
"No, I can't, I won't," he looked stricken, his face contorted as though he might cry. He leaped to his feet, doubtless to make his escape and she did too. Kicking his ankle to make him fall on his face and leaping onto his back, she held a stiletto blade at his neck.
"You will and then, only then, will you be finished. You think I can't kill that devil? I can and I will also capture this Tiriel, and you will be with me when I do. Should you try to elude your duties, you will pay in blood." He struggled but her strength was enough to keep him flat. She moved the blade closer to his face, towards his eye. “I’m going to stand shortly and let you up, but you need to listen to what I’m about to say very carefully.”
He nodded, seemingly defeated, so she continued.
“Whether or not you want to do what you’ve been tasked with is immaterial and here’s why. If the First Dead issues a command, you obey or you will face not only the wrath of Ain-Ordra while you live, but her enmity in the afterlife. Even if you don’t fear that, fear me. I will hunt you down like a dog, as will every member of the Shadow Assassins. Every Necromancer will seek you out and the Vekoira will be released.”
She stood slowly, letting him get up of his own accord, which did, just as slowly. He rubbed the back of his neck and checked for blood.
“What you say is true, I let my emotion get the better of me. I’m a Mage of the Second Circle and I have full control now.” He nodded his head in silent agreement with something, himself probably. “Yes, I’ll perform this one last task in return for everything She has done for me. I haven’t the first idea how or where to start.”
“Why don’t we start walking and you can fill me in on Tiriel and what you know about the Dark Elf.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Groetume
“Neither of us I had the slightest idea why Ottkatla went where she did. There was something unknown guiding us all.” - Foerlund.
There was a strange smell in the air as she approached the volcano. It was almost like when she would walk into the House of Scholars back home. She smiled to herself to remember such days, of which there hadn’t been any for years. The last handful of years she had spent in the company of civilized men. Men who stood up when she entered the room and said excuse me when they had normal bodily functions to express, even if they intended to go to another room to fulfill them. Aeldryn would even sometimes go outside, though he would never admit to such things. As lofty as he appeared to be and pretended he was, he needed to piss and fart the same as the next man. More so when you looked at his purely plant-based diet.
The smell wouldn’t put her off. Nothing could deter Ottkatla at this stage of her journey. She’d traveled some of the hardest terrain imaginable to reach here, climbed sheer cliffs hundreds of feet high and put aside all of her cold weather clothing and rations to get to where she stood now. How she would get back was of no concern, nor was her own safety at this exact moment. The promise of what awaited her was greater than all of those considerations.
Ottkatla was barely an adult in the eyes of many in the Three Kingdoms, though in her home village she would be expected to contribute as much as any other adult. She had spent almost half of her teenage years teaching another teenager the arts of combat. Arts she barely knew herself, but was guided by her inner voice. The Herjen.
A legend amongst her people as well as a mystery. A prophecy of an ancient spirit who would guide her people to freedom in their darkest hour. Many of them believed this hour was upon them. Mostly ignored by their northern neighbors, the Tarkan barbarians had lived in relative peace for centuries, until a Prince of the Three Kingdoms spitefully invaded over a petty border dispute bringing to bear the full might of Uth and Maresh-Kar against a few savage yet disorganized tribes. This was a turning point for the Mountain Tribes. They had no interest
in war and skirmished with each other but rarely. Now they suffered beneath the yoke of servitude, betrayed by Skolmakk and desperate for salvation. When she was identified as the Herjen by her tribe’s shaman Foerlund, there was much rejoicing and he helped her discover that her calling led to the Martelle estate where she was to serve in whatever capacity the Earl and Warlord wanted. At first she was furious but had learned that the Herjen, the spirit that inhabited her, could not be comfortably disobeyed, so she went along and presented herself proudly to the man that had subjugated her people.
Astonishingly he hadn’t wanted to ravish her or make her a slave. He asked her quite politely to train his son in the way of the warrior. She was treated as part of the family and soon became to feel part of the family. The strange Aelvar that lived there understood a little about the Herjen and made her feel at home straight away, the fussy yet warm cook, Magret, looked after her like her own mother and Melvekior…
She sighed wistfully when she thought of him. At first she thought that Earl Mikael was planning to pair them off, but his designs were in no way along those lines, though he made commentary around it on the odd occasion. In his crude fashion. He had grown from an eager youth into a strong man. One she loved as a brother and also felt attracted to. His love for her was no secret, but it was childhood infatuation, the raging hormones of teenage boys were something she was aware of, coming from a culture with little taboos. She believed that they would meet again and if his feelings were still strong, and hers too, she wouldn’t hold back.
All of that seemed extremely far away now as she gazed over at the apparent end of her journey. Her compulsion moved her forward, toward the volcano. The ground was uneven and cracked, like it was parched and hadn't seen rain in months, a pale sort of color it was and she kicked up dust as she went. The weather was warm, but not oppressively so, though happily she was dressed for it; light hide leggings and a hide vest. She had a long knife attached to a thin leather belt wrapped double around her waist. Her shoes were simple moccasins with hardened soles. Her appearance was of a young tribeswoman out for a walk. Until the path became too difficult for the average traveler she had been harassed more than once by men imagining that she would be helpless and an easy target for one vice or another.
