by Brian Fuller
“But he could love, and purely,” Sarina argued. “If one has the ability to love just one other selflessly, then to love more just requires a little stretching. He could have done it. The Chalaine did it.”
“Her love was not for the whole world,” Aldemar contradicted, surprising them all. “I saw into her mind and her heart. She was willing to sacrifice all for the love of a few, Gen among them.”
Norus raised his hand. “It is enough, Sarina. We could not have anticipated this. Mikkik is too clever. However far along the path we think we are, he has walked farther and left snares for us to fall into. There is nothing more to do! He will glean what power he can from their diluted blood until he can silence the beating heart of Elde Luri Mora forever, and Ki’Hal will wither and dry like the autumn leaf fallen from its home.”
“The Chalaine’s blood still has the power to kill him,” Sore said. “Eldaloth’s blood runs in her veins. A weapon could be crafted!”
“We do not craft the implements of war with blood magic, as he did!” Norus said, voice rising. “Eldaloth forbade it, and only Aldemar among us knows its secrets from his former master. Creating the Chalaine and the Ha’Ulrich using Eldaloth’s blood was blasphemy enough. I only permitted it to appease you.”
“I know, father, that you see no hope,” Sarina said, voice soft and placating. “But if we are to pass into our rest, then let us at least use what power is in our blood to make such a man as never has been known upon the face of Ki’Hal! If the world is meant for its end, there can be no harm in this one last desperate attempt to thwart our ancient enemy.”
“Just what exactly do you propose?” Norus asked, face concerned.
“Here in this bower we have masters of Myn, Duam, and Trys. In our blood flows the pure sensibility to the power of those moons. Never before has a human been a Master of Three. Aldemar can use his knowledge to put within him our blood, and the blood of immortality. Let us fashion this one last hope for men. If all is doomed to fail, as you say, Norus, then whatever harm you think he could do is irrelevant.”
“And so then is the attempt!” he retorted. “Can you do this, Aldemar?”
“I can, Norus,” Aldemar answered. “It is the same magic I used to help them create the players of the prophecy during the time of my mourning.”
Norus shook his head. “We saw what happened when we gave the power of Trys to the humans during the Mikkikian wars. I regret that choice to this day.”
“But it saved them,” Sore added. “Yes, it caused division and destruction, but in the end they survived.”
“They survived because our people exhausted themselves shrouding Trys’s light to weaken Mikkik’s power,” Norus contradicted. “Were there enough of us now, I would do it again.”
“But there aren’t, father,” Sarina said. “Besides, with no soul, Gen can never have progeny. The magic will stay with him and him alone for eternity or until he decides it is time to end his existence. If there is the slightest chance, we must try! There is no need for us to spill our blood uselessly on the ground when it might offer some hope, however slight. If you withhold, father, then Sore and I will contribute our essence to this task, but a Master of Three, where Trys is the third, has a greater chance than only a Master of Two! Please father, humor your children this one last time. Let this man carry some part of us, whether it be to this world’s ending or to its salvation. Let him be the legacy of our race.”
Norus paced around the body, face calm and eyes upon the countenance of the youth on whom Sore and Sarina had placed such heavy expectations. Patiently his children waited. Aldemar stood beside them with a look of solidarity. Four hours they waited as Norus paced, the night waning and the stars dimming as dawn approached. At length he stopped at the head of the boulder.
“Uncover him, Sore,” Norus commanded. With a word, the enveloping leaves retreated. “If he is to be a king and a new creature, then his body must be clean and strong.”
Norus stretched forth this hand, and Sarina stepped forward. “Do not undo the branding on the center of his chest. It is his connection to the Chalaine.”
Norus nodded and concentrated, and the multitude of scars and wounds that crisscrossed Gen’s body faded, his skin renewing and undoing the marring of Torbrand’s cruel instruction.
“The virtue of our blood will provide all else he requires,” Norus said. “It will be a majesty that the humans will not see, but they will feel it about him. What knowledge of Trys you left with him will remain, but we must imbue him with the arts of Myn and Duam. Sarina, Sore, bestow the knowledge upon Aldemar, and he can pass it to Gen when life again courses through his veins.
Aldemar placed his hands on his companions’ heads, the deep knowledge of Sore and Sarina passing into his mind. The ever lightening sky brought a chorus of birdsong, another brilliant summer morning waiting to be born.
“Let us be about it and march to our ending,” Norus said as Aldemar finished. “I am weary of the world and its trouble, and I long for peace.”
Norus concentrated and, with the power of Trys, created within the boulder a depression around Gen’s still body to hold the blood they now prepared to spill. As one, they placed their arms inside the new bowl, and Norus used Trys to undo the skin and the walls of the veins in their wrists. Golden blood spilled freely as Aldemar looked on, face doleful. Sarina and Sore smiled at each other in a last farewell.
As Norus weakened, he turned to Aldemar. “You will be the last of our kind, old friend. Do not be afraid to come to us. You heart and your conscience are clean. It is because of you that there was any chance at all.”
Aldemar nodded and watched as his companions gradually slumped over the side the boulder, closed their eyes, and then fell to the ground. The tears that he had long cried for the horror of Eldaloth’s death returned, brought forth by a new pang for the loss of his friends and the end of his race.
Breathing deeply, he arranged Sore, Sarina, and Norus respectfully among the trees, wishing each a farewell, and then he returned to the boulder where Gen’s body waited. The warm, golden blood did not quite cover him, and Aldemar used his hand to ladle it over the corpse until his skin was stained with its hue.
Drawing upon the knowledge of his former master, Aldemar thrust his hand into the pool of blood, its combined power staggering to his perception. He spoke the dark words, the blood seeping into Gen’s skin, destroying the old blood and filling Gen’s veins and body. Pulling in the remaining virtue, he gave Gen life, his heart reigniting and his chest rising and falling just as dawn broke fully into the sky. The blood now spent and gone, Gen stirred within the hollow of the boulder
Before his eyes could flutter open, Aldemar used the power of Mynmagic to put Gen into a sleep, allowing him the opportunity to infuse the young man’s mind with the learning that Sore and Sarina had shared with him. Once done, Aldemar looked upon the creature he had created, remembering his encounter with the Chalaine. There was good in the race of men, and he hoped that Gen reborn would retain the love and devotion he once had and not succumb to the pride and vanity that so often plagued his race.
“I give you one last gift,” Aldemar said. “If you are to be our legacy, then it is wisdom that the legacy is passed on to be as immortal as you.”
Aldemar gave his gift, a gift Norus did not intend.
He blessed Gen with a soul.
Lifeless, Aldemar fell to the forest floor with his companions, never to rise again.
Gen sat upright, the memory of the savage crossbow bolt loosed upon him shocking him awake. He had known that he was too far gone to even attempt to avoid the attack and awaited the terminal blow that would finally end his tempestuous life. The impact had come, his body thrown back with the stunning force of the missile. Surely it had killed him.
But instead of the sandy cliffs of Butchers gap, the dark bark of pine trees surrounded him, and by the position of the sun to his east, he saw that morning had come instead of dusk. Weak light provided scant ill
umination, but he found he could see quite well. The unnatural scoop in the boulder where he lay and his nakedness brought him up short, his mind struggling to fabricate an explanation for his whereabouts.
But when he regarded his body and came into his mind, his amazement stunned him. Only his branding to the Chalaine remained, the rest of his grotesque scars having disappeared altogether, his skin a healthy, burnished hue that seemed just a shade darker than he remembered. He could sense the Chalaine in the distance only a scant few hours from where he was. She had survived!
Alive with renewed purpose, he clambered out of the boulder to find his second shock—four dead Millim Eri, including those who had concealed Mikkik’s lessons on Trysmagic from him. The two others he did not recognize. He would have to sort the mystery out later. He had to reach the Chalaine, for he didn’t doubt that Mikkik would pursue her relentlessly until he unmade her just as he had done to her pathetic husband on the bridge of Echo Hold.
As Gen cast about for something to wear, he felt the familiar awareness of Trysmagic. The Millim Eri had returned it to him! Reaching within, he sought to use its power to fashion raiment for himself. As he turned inward, he found more. Two other forces awaited his command, and he found the knowledge of the phrases and gestures needed to use them at the tip of his tongue.
Reeling under the weight of his new knowledge, it became clear. The Millim Eri had changed and empowered him, but to what end? Tentatively, he used the magic of Duam to change his face and disguise himself, growing a close-cropped beard and lengthening his hair so it hung about his shoulders. Pleased with the results, he drew upon Trys to fashion the simple leather garb of a woodsman about himself, including a wide-brimmed hat to further conceal his face.
Casting one last look at the strange bower and his stranger benefactors, he turned westward toward where he felt the Chalaine waited, feeling through the Im’Tith her exhaustion and the dry, itching discomfort of her skin. If she had fled into the wood, then they were indeed desperate. Calling on Duam again, he fortified his body and ran with the fleet foot of Maewen’s father, the thicker trees giving way to thin ones that clumped more tightly together the farther he ran from the bower. The joys of Duammagic infused him with the agility and speed of a deer, dodging and jumping through the tangle with such alacrity that he couldn’t help but smile within himself.
He had run for an hour when he caught sight of a solitary figure making her way through the forest in his direction. Upon seeing him, she stopped and leaned against a tree to rest. Maewen. Gen rejoiced and ran to her. As he approached, she squinted at him, unsure for a moment of who he was. At last the glimmer of recognition bloomed on her face and she smiled one of her rare smiles.
“It is you,” she said in Elvish. “But, it is not you.”
“I am not sure what I am, either,” he answered in kind. “But I am the Gen you knew. I still bear the brand of the Chalaine and know she is not far from here. Is she in danger?”
“Grave. I’ll tell you while we run. Let’s see if you are as good as you once were!”
They pressed forward against the clawing tangle of branches and underbrush with as much celerity as they could manage, Maewen’s tale souring his mood the more she told. Mikkik had played them all masterfully, and whatever the dark god had in mind was clearly within his reach. He wanted the Chalaine, sending Athan for her, which evidenced there was some purpose left that Mikkik had not yet fulfilled.
“So I do not believe it will be wise for you to return as Gen,” she said, stopping as they approached. “Your appearance is so different now that if you keep your distance and talk little, you can pass for someone else. You need a new name, something humble and nondescript.”
“Call me Amos. I will be a woodsman you met on your excursions searching for Elde Luri Mora. Explain that I am an expert in the healing arts, and if I can help the fallen men, I will. We must keep my existence secret. If Mikkik learns that I am alive, I will be a liability to the Chalaine, not to mention that most of the men may not trust me as Gen, no matter what Mirelle tried to tell them or how different I look.”
“I agree,” Maewen said, “but it cannot last. Gen, you must see that you have been given great gifts for a greater purpose than just protecting the Chalaine. Think on it. But we must hurry. I fear the Uyumaak will again come for us with nightfall, and it already approaches midday.”
Gen nodded and used Trysmagic to conjure up a phony bag of herbal remedies to mask his use of Duammagic’s healing power. They ran forward again, emerging into the clearing to find that most of the fallen men had gone, Gen sensing the Chalaine on the other side of the glade within the confines of the forest. Some few corpses remained, and he and Maewen inspected them, finding gaping wounds and blood around them as if something had burrowed out of their insides.
“This does not bode well,” Maewen intoned gravely. “They were all unconscious when I left. Let’s see if the soldiers can move. We must leave before the beetles or the Uyumaak arrive again. Remember, keep your hat low and talk little.”
They crossed the clear brook at the center of the glade, passing some men filling water skins, all bearing bloody bandages on their extremities, all wan and shaky. Crossing into the wood on the other side, they found General Harband and Lord Kildan leaning against the tree trunks, a tired Ethris nearby. They all gave Gen the once-over as he approached, but no flicker of recognition sparked in their troubled eyes, their attention turning to Maewen.
“Did the stupor pass?” she asked, noting the bandages on Lord Kildan and General Harband.
“Oh, it passed,” General Harband answered grumpily, “after we all birthed a beetle or two out of those bites they gave us last night. Mikkik’s beard! I’m not a fainting man, but the little baby beasties damn near crippled the entire army before scurrying away into the woods toward the rest of them! I will not be used as a breeding cow for beetles! I won’t!”
“At least the Uyumaak didn’t come for us,” Lord Kildan said. “I had feared that the beetles were meant to weaken us.”
“The Uyumaak may fear the creatures,” Maewen said. “They ceased their speech when the beetles neared. They only do that for stealth, to hide.”
“Whatever it is, the beetles’ emergence claimed the lives of some of the weaker men,” Ethris explained. “Most survived, but the wounds are painful and infected. I healed what I could, but there are many more that could use your herb craft, Maewen, though there are likely too many for you to help.”
“I will try,” she said. “This is Amos, a man I met in my travels. He knows herb craft, as well, and he has some small skill with Duammagic to aid us.”
Ethris raised his eyebrows. “That is welcome news, indeed.”
“We’ll get to work immediately,” Maewen said. “We need to get this army moving. I’ll start near the center of the camp.” To Gen she said, “Go to the north and start anywhere.”
Surreptitiously, Gen angled his way near the Chalaine, seeing Volney, Dason, and Gerand surrounding her as she slept beneath a small lean-to. He had to resist the urge to run and embrace his old friends, though they obviously needed assistance, and instead he went to the first man he found upon the ground, a Rhugothian soldier who appeared half out of his wits.
As General Harband had described, the beetle bites had indeed turned to beetle nurseries, and as the young had burst forth, they left ragged craters in their victims that were grotesque and painful. Gen sprinkled the innocuous herbs on the soldier’s wound, and, while rebandaging it, used the gift of Duammagic to heal it enough to take away the sting of the pain.
After treating the first few men, he realized the enormity of the task; there were simply too many men scattered throughout the woods, and he would run out of strength long before even half of them were well. He could also use Trys to knit the flesh back together, but that wouldn’t last him long, either. He tried to perform triage to treat the most severe cases, but time seemed to run on the fleetest of feet, the afternoon sun was angling d
own at a hurried pace.
And then he felt it, the slight tickling in his mind. The touch upon his thoughts was dark. He stood and turned toward the glade, wondering what it portended. It felt similar to what he had experienced with Ghama Dhron, but he did not feel it as strongly. A powerful mind approached, something not human that was bent on destruction. He reached out to it with Mynmagic, gesturing the proper patterns instinctively. When the contact came he staggered, nearly stumbling into a tangle of branches.
Who dares to see my mind? the ancient evil clicked in odd tones. You think to challenge the might and will of Hekka Dhron? Come, and let my children feast upon your blood and use your flesh as their womb! From those that stand against me, I gather might!
Gen gasped and broke contact. Hekka Dhron. Wrath of Blood.
CHAPTER 75 - HEKKA DHRON
Gen worked his way back to the edge of the clearing. Ethris stood by Lord Kildan, face transfixed. The old Mage had sensed the presence of the foul mind as well. Rather than expose himself to questions, Gen backed away and let Ethris deliver the bad news to a haggard Lord Kildan, who swore in response.
“Get up!” Gerand’s father yelled, voice echoing through the trees. “Get the men up! Anyone who can move, retreat southward into the woods! Anyone too ill to be moved must be left behind.”
Gen retreated, watching to ensure that the Chalaine was up and moving, Maewen there urging the Dark Guard to better efforts. Gen signaled the half-elf over as the retreat began in earnest, more men than Gen would have liked simply giving up, lying in the pine needles and waiting for their doom. Ethris, already spent from healing the men, left with Lord Kildan, joining the Chalaine’s entourage.
“I’ll stay behind. I may be able to slow it,” Gen said. “I’ll come when I can. The Chalaine will guide me.”
