by Martin Gibbs
You must be quiet too, for sound carries in here. I moved my head up and down. “Pretty blue lights,” I said very quiet. You should be fine in here, following the lights. Stay far back. When the lights go dim, you sleep, as they will sleep. Do not let them see you.
Sleep. I yawned.
Not yet!
“Yes.” I followed them very quietly. Fa’s voice was loud. I liked his voice. The scary tunnel was not so scary with his voice. But Ugly Nose spoke, too. I wished Ugly Nose would go home. Sometimes Fa’s voice was so loud I thought he was next to me.
Just an effect of the Tunnels. Quiet, now, listen and follow.
I was happy to have a lot of things from home. The pack was heavy. Zhy’s Fa said I needed more things from home. Water, food, my favorite blanket. I wish Ma could have come. But she would just cry.
Shh.
The Protector—Fa only called him that—was talking. Ugly Nose did not have a name. Why don’t they have names?
It is the way of things, with these religious types, the holier-than-thou, Sacuan-blasted bollocks.
I did not understand.
Those two will remain nameless—I’m sure the mage has a name; he is just never going to say it. Same with the Protector. They stay that way, so they can say that nameless heroes protect the world and keep the demons at bay. They don’t realize how fucking arrogant that sounds!
I giggled. He said a naughty word!
I know ... I’m sorry. Please listen to the story ...
His story was scary. I wanted to go back home. My shoulder hurt. I started to turn back.
No! You must listen and follow.
“It is a scary story,” I whispered.
The world is scary. I’m dead and I am talking to you. You have no fear in that?
“You are only the space between the notes.”
He was quiet. “Hello?”
Shh, and listen to the story!
“…thankfully nobody saw me hiding there. At first I was in the back room of the Temple, but I heard the knock on the door and snuck in. Well, maybe they saw me, but—oh, Sacuan, if they saw me, I would not be here!”
He told his scary story. It was about men at the Temple. They came across the mountains. It was very scary…
“Three Protectors had just arrived at the Temple to replace the others. There was always an old man—a very powerful mage, actually, who also lived there. He spent most of his time beneath the altar, in a dark room. Well, once we had gotten ourselves settled in for a long six months, the door flew open, and two so-called Knights of the Black Dawn stood there—”
“Knights of the...what?” Fa asked.
“They are demon-hunters,” Ugly Nose said, “at least, that is what they call themselves. Some people think they really are the demons.”
“Indeed,” the Protector said. “The one stepped in the room and then fell down, with a knife in his back. It was all so sudden—we had no idea what was happening. It was...horrible, what happened next—”
The man stopped talking. He cried. I wanted to cry, too. Maybe he should not talk any more.
“The Knight—the one alive—had his head down, but when he brought it up, he was horrible. A terrible creature. His eyes were red and like fire, and he hissed. He called himself Gozath, ruler of the swirling—”
Ugly Nose coughed and stopped the scary story. “Gozath? Are you sure that is what the demon was called? I think you had mentioned that name before, but everything was still uncertain back there at the farm.”
“Yes, I am certain. It was horrible how the man changed from a young Knight of the Black Dawn into a—a—a—twisted monster!”
“There, there…it is over now. Gozath is a generic name, used to describe any number of shape-shifting demons. No doubt he was possessed by something. Sacuan knows what.”
“Never heard of such a thing,” Fa said. I smiled. His voice made the scary story not so scary. But soon the man continued and I wished I could plug my ears. Zhy’s Fa would not let me.
Listen!
“I’m glad I could not be seen, because he slaughtered every last Protector in the Temple, save for the old man. He cut them to pieces—” He cried again. “He cut up the leader, cut him while he begged for his…for his...life. Blood dripped from the ceiling; it was so horrific. It was beyond—” More crying. I wanted to cry, too. “And then he—he burned the bodies with some sort of magic, he burned them and smiled. One man was not dead when he—when he burned him. Then he went to the altar, and…he laughed. He laughed so loud it shook the Temple. Well...I thought it was laughter, but something else was shaking the Temple.” He made a noise in his nose. “It was the Temple! The pillars were failing!” He blew out air. Ugly Nose coughed.
“And that is when the old Protector, the mage, who had hidden all of those years...he came out.”
“Are you sure he was old?” Ugly Nose asked. Why would he ask that?
“No. No he was not. He looked old, yes, but it was a very clever disguise. One he had kept for countless years. Gozath—the demon—did not see him, but I did. He came out from beneath the altar, very quietly, and a thin stream of white light slithered out and attached itself to Gozath’s chest, then separated into tendrils. It held him there. His gaze followed the light down to where he had flung the old man. The white light was tightening around his chest. Gozath hissed and said something about comfort and laughed again. Then the Temple stopped shaking, and he became angry—”
“The Temple stopped shaking?” Fa asked.
“Indeed. And Gozath was angry. He threw magic of his own at the old man, but the old man cried out, ‘You are no match for the Light!’ He jumped like a young boy, and when he landed, the Temple shook slightly, but more from his power, I think. ‘Where there are demons, there are light-bringers!’ he cried. The Temple filled with blinding flashes of magic—blue, red, yellow, green, and purple lights. All came from the old man, and all exploded in front of Gozath. But Gozath only stumbled and then shot fire at the old man, and his arm bubbled with burned flesh.”
“Those spells only made him stumble?” Ugly Nose asked.
“Yes...he seemed very powerful. But the old man—”
“I’m sorry, son,” Fa said. “What was the old man’s name? We must know.”
“I wish that I knew...”
It was quiet.
“Please, continue,” Ugly Nose said. I didn’t want him to continue his scary story.
The Protector breathed. “Gozath went after the man, again, and again, and he looked like he might fall. He said, ‘You will not stop the great flood, old man.’ But suddenly the lights went out in the Temple—more than dark, because I couldn’t even see outside. There were as a soft crackle and then a loud whooshing sound. Dark, purple flame erupted from the old man and exploded in front of the demon. The lights came on, but the demon was gone. Gone! All that remained were the corpses of the Protectors.”
Ugly nose whistled. “Bolt of Sacuan, it is called, that spell he used. The demon is no more.”
“Indeed. I looked and the old man fell against the altar. That is when I left. I thought he was dead or near dying. I grabbed supplies as quickly as I could, and I made for the Tunnels.”
“Wait just a minute there,” Fa said loudly. “So the old man is alive? He is alive? You had said nobody was left to guard the Temple? You have been lying to us the entire time!”
They stopped walking. I stopped walking. My breathing was loud. I didn’t know how to make it softer.
“I wasn’t sure. Yes, he appeared to be breathing, but remember he had sucked the light out of the place with his magic, and I left. Even if he is alive, the Temple is all but unguarded from any attack!”
“And what would they do? If they kill the old man, does the Temple vanish?”
“Yes, they could destroy it. They would like nothing more than to have it discovered that the Temple was destroyed by demonic forces, and that the Protectors had failed. We would have chaos in the world.”
; “And the demons would have won,” Ugly Nose said. I wished he would not talk.
“Aye,” Fa said. He sounded tired. And sad. His voice got soft when he was tired. It was soft now.
“Sacuan help us all,” Ugly Nose said. He said that a lot. Mages and Holy Ones said that. I asked Sacuan to make me normal. Nothing happened. I cried. Fa said Sacuan doesn’t always help you. Sacuan is not a god, he said. But people ask Sacuan for help. Fa says we are blessed to eat.
“Indeed,” the Protector said. “Indeed, Fanlas, there is very little time. I cannot thank you both enough for agreeing to come with me on this journey. It is most important.”
“Protecting the world from the Dark is a task that is never done,” said Ugly Nose.
And notice again how he refuses to name himself, while that pretty little Protector makes sure he uses your Fa’s name…
Fa was quiet. Then he spoke, “It is never finished.”
Chapter 11 — No Rest
Running from your troubles only creates more complex knots you cannot possibly unwind. The farther and the faster you run, the more numerous and complex the knots. Soon your rope will be nothing but knots, with death the only way to unwind them.
Prophet Haran, IV Age
Torplug’s legs wobbled, but he remained standing. He was in a stupor, his eyes glassy, and his breathing was labored. “Take—take that thing off his neck and burn it please,” he said quietly. He spoke with great effort, as if saying the words was as arduous a task as climbing the tallest mountain in the Spires of Solitude. For such a small piece of metal, Zhy was in awe at the power it held over the mage. To think something so little could counter the devastating effects of magical spells was, well, it was a little cliché, he thought. Everything on the journey is a trifle cliché, he thought to himself.
Qainur growled slightly, muttered “goats” and raised his arm to toss the talisman into the fire. Torplug caught his arm before it arched forward.
“Wait, let me see it.”
Qainur handed it over and Torplug inspected it like it was a live and poisonous rodent.
“What is it anyway?” Zhy asked. “Is that what you talked about before—with the bat, I mean? The talisman that can block your magic?”
“Yes.” The small-man seemed to have regained some of his strength. “A talisman, trinket, charm, you-name-it. There aren’t many that actually work, thank Sacuan, but this one does. Or did. Well…” He raised his left hand, then grimaced in pain. “Yes, it still does. It keeps me from casting at all. Especially at a close distance.” He gazed at the talisman, turning it over in his hands. It was made of shining silver, about the size of a large coin, but very thin. One side sported a relief of a lightning bolt, and on the other was the image of a falcon, or some other similar bird of prey.
“So…you can’t do anything at all against it?” Qainur asked.
“Not much,” Torplug breathed heavily. He still stared at the trinket, turning it over and over in his oversized hands.
“Maybe you should keep it,” Zhy offered. “In case we run into a mage.”
The small-man chuckled. “Then what good would I be?”
Zhy’s face fell. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“But…” Qainur started, his jaw working silently.
“Yes?”
“You said it only stopped things from being done against you. If you wore it, you could still cast spells right?”
“Good point and half right. I still need to cast things that affect me—wards, protections, etc. They would fail and make my outward spells almost useless.” He tossed the talisman up in the air and caught it. With a shudder, he tossed it in the fire. It wouldn’t burn, but hopefully it would get buried in the ashes forever.
“But one of us could use it!” Zhy protested, watching the flames lick the metal.
Torplug shook his head sadly. “If we were in close combat…again, it would not work. Best to leave well enough alone. We don’t need to turn this into a hunt for a lost trinket, do we?”
Qainur coughed loudly, bringing focus back to the situation. “I bet the innkeeper is on his way up here…that was enough racket to—”
“I know,” Zhy stopped him from the obvious cliché.
“Where do you get those things anyway?” Qainur asked, glancing at the fire.
The small-man’s gaze was locked on the trinket that was slowly being devoured by char and ash. Then he shuddered briefly, but it was a violent tremor that shook his entire frame. Gathering his arms around his chest as if frozen to the core, he shuddered again and then tore his glance away from the fire. When he spoke, his voice was cold, and his breathing like a high mountain wind filled with ice. “They are forged at University. Only certain teachers know how to make them. They are used to test initiates and even second-year students in their ability. Trinkets range from the very weak to the very powerful—like that one—in order to test magical ability. If you can’t cast anything against the weak ones, you are discharged. And then as you gain knowledge, you are tested again. Finally, as a final test, you must try to cast Light of M’Hzrut against a trinket like that one.” He stopped abruptly, remembering vividly the day he was forced to take the test.
“And…? Why would they test you on something they know you can’t accomplish?” Zhy asked.
“Because they can,” the mage spat. “Because they can! They have held you prisoner for four or more years, and then they make you try to finish the impossible. No one, no one—has ever been able to complete the final test. And each one, like me, felt at that moment as if we had failed completely and we were washed out.” The man was filled with a bitterness that even time and experience could not erase. “Each spell I create, each bolt of magic that I send out, I think of that day.” He turned to face them, face contorted and twisted, his lip curled. “And when I cast Bolt of Sacuan, I think on that day. I lay a curse upon the Masters who made me suffer, and who laughed when I ‘failed.’ For them, I wish the worst…” he trailed off and regarded the fire.
For several minutes the only sound in the room was the crackle of the flames.
“I better search the body,” Qainur said absently.
“For what?” Zhy asked, still a bit dazed. He was still trying to process what Torplug had said. So much anger and bitterness.
“Maybe he has something that identifies him.”
Zhy stared. “Oh, I’m sure he has a nice little note, naming everyone involved, his superiors, his orders, and maybe even his mother’s best recipe for baked clams.”
“Look anyway,” Torplug sighed, his voice faded from the exertion.
Indeed there was a scrap of paper in a pocket. Qainur looked up, his eyes wide. Zhy shrugged. His brief cynicism earlier evaporated once he had thought through the situation. “Why am I not surprised?”
Torplug shook his head in disbelief.
Qainur nodded slightly. He expected to find something because he usually did find something on his missions. Either the stolen money, a letter from a lover, or a map to buried wares. But Zhy and Torplug knew the paper remained on the body because of something else.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Nor do I,” the mage replied. “The Knights of the Black Dawn are by far the most skilled fighters in the world. They do not want their identity revealed under any circumstance. There would be no reason, none at all for him to carry anything. Let’s hope it’s only a shopping list!”
Qainur cleared his throat. “I—well, let’s see what this says. Got some smoke in my eye there.” He wiped his eye then focused on the paper.
He stared at the paper blankly. Zhy thought for a moment the mercenary couldn’t read, but then Torplug took the paper gently from his hand. “Aye ... it’s probably in a Welcferian dialect or some other strange language.”
“Or a code?” Zhy offered.
“Possibly…that would make sense. Hmm…” The note was partially covered with blood, but it was still readable. At least to Torplug, it seemed, as his head nodded
.
“What does it say?” asked Zhy.
“Hmmm,” the mage said, scanning the text. “I don’t believe this.” He laughed.
“What is it?” Qainur growled.
He chuckled again. “How…? Why would they?” He paused, shaking his head. Qainur was becoming agitated. “It says, basically, ‘Find the three…blood…warriors. Blood. Something…Demon…blood…Gray Gorge—’, and then it’s just blood.”
Zhy paled. “They were after us!”
Qainur’s sword was out and pointed at Torplug’s throat. He growled. “What do you know? When did you know it?”
The mage made no attempt at casting a spell. Instead, his cold gray eyes were their own swords as they bore into Qainur’s. “I do not believe they are after us.”
“How?” the mercenary growled and advanced a few inches, the sword a breath away from the mage’s throat.
Zhy answered, quietly. “Because it says ‘three warriors.’ We are not all warriors, Qainur. I think our Knight made a mistake.” He breathed a sigh of relief. So. They weren’t after them—as cliché as that would be, it was still something to fret over. For such a well-trained, deadly Order, they had obviously made a mistake.
Neither Qainur nor Torplug moved. Their gazes locked. At last, Torplug gave a very slight nod. Qainur growled quietly, but with little emotion left, it was more out of habit. He seemed deflated, yet he never moved to sheathe the sword; instead it held steady in front of Torplug.
Suddenly there was a flash, and Torplug was six feet away. Qainur’s sword flew across the room. Zhy watched it whirl past his nose and hit the hearth with such force it sounded like a hammer against an anvil. It clattered to the floor, and Zhy swore he heard it humming. He turned, and Qainur was wrapped in a blanket of white light. Torplug was standing on a bed, his arms extended.
“Zhy is correct, Qainur. There is no reason for the Dawn to attack us. They are obviously after warriors from Belden. While you were eying up the horsewoman of that spice caravan, you missed a trio of heavily-armed men pass by us. We then passed them while they ate lunch. They were probably part of the Counsel Guard, or maybe even other mercenaries. But you were watching a hawk, or something. They passed us again…you were looking off into the woods. There is a good chance that those are the men this Knight was after. And you so blindly attacked him. Please try to think before you strike.”
