by Rutger Krenn
“I do, Arandur. If I could see another way I would not ask it of you. But there is too much at stake here, even if there are other things that I cannot see.”
Arandur bided his time before replying. “You are right. There is much that you do not see; cannot see because it is not given to you to do so. Yet I do not think it is wrong to ask this thing. Perhaps the needs of the present outweigh the needs of the future. I am accounted among the wise, but there are paths that wisdom cannot follow and where only the heart can go.”
The Wizard paused and Cadrafer felt a shift in things. He could not see what it was but he had a sudden and keen sense that a change in the fate of Andoras was underway. Different futures hung in the balance. He did not know what would happen but any choice must surely have its consequences.
“I will challenge the Turgil,” said Arandur, and his voice was remote and void of life as the release of long sealed air from a burial chamber.
Chapter 23
Arandur had a look in his eyes that few had seen before. Those who had, knew that he was not only a good friend, but also a terrible enemy.
“Listen well, O Captain,” he said. “And you also, Axeman. You both must leave this tower at once. Powers will be unleashed of which mortal men know little and even that is dangerous beyond their ken. Yet Wizardry must contend with sorcery or Eruthram will prevail.”
“As you wish,” said Cadrafer, seeming to hesitate to leave the fate of Thromdar in another’s hands but fearing to stay also.
“Good luck!” said the Axeman with a light heartedness that seemed to ignore all peril. The contention of the very substances and powers by which the world was bound appeared to trouble him little.
Arandur watched as Cadrafer and Barad joined the remaining Northmen on the battlements. They were good men and had done all they could do. Now he must play the role that he’d foreseen but dreaded before coming to Thromdar.
The risk was great but it was now necessary to challenge the Turgil directly. He must turn aside the sorcerer’s power and gain further time for Talon.
Foresight was often a curse. Why could he see some things but not others? He’d seen the death of Chow and knew he’d meet Talon and Arell on their quest, and yet he could perceive nothing of them now. Were they dead? Were they slain by Chung warriors or the creature of Eruthram? Or had they reached Dwarf-home and the Northmen army?
He must put aside such thinking. It was not given to him to see all futures and he must accept the limits of his knowledge and use it to advantage.
He gripped his staff tightly and slowed his inhalations until the breath of his life became almost nothing. In that manner his spirit was freed and it soared from his body.
He beheld the world with spirit eyes and looked over the battlements, over the grassland and the ranks of Goblin and Troll, up onto the rise beyond where his new vision penetrated the shadow that lay about it.
He perceived the Turgil as a darkness greater than other shadows. He felt the other’s presence; cold as the unrelenting hand of death and infused with malice. The servant of Eruthram emanated hatred and contempt for all things that lived and fear of one thing only: his master.
This much Arandur discerned at once but opening his newfound senses more fully he began to hear speech. It was faint and sibilant at this distance but the voice of the Turgil was lifted in loud chant. He was repeating the words of a spell and re-enforcing the pall of hopelessness cast over Thromdar castle.
It is enough, thought Arandur. He allowed his spirit to return to his body and breath quickened in his lungs. Life stirred once more within him and the silver circlet about his head felt cool and heavy. His eyes flickered open and he knew what he must do to counter his opponent.
He stood to his full height, holding the staff now in his right hand by his side and lifting both arms upwards. He felt the eyes of the Northmen directed on him and sensed the stirring of what little hope remained. It was a tiny seed in need of nurture.
His voice, couched in the mode of a former time even as he and his enemy were relics from an age that was past, thundered from the top of the tower. It rolled down, over the men on the ramparts, above the ranks of the enemy and at last up onto the rise where the Turgil worked his sorcery. It surged like a wave, loud and clear, and all heard his words.
“Turgil!” he said, disdain filling his voice, dripping off the name as the dregs of a foul drink flow from a down-turned cup.
“Here me, ye thing of the shadows! Here me, ye craven who wouldst hide from the light of the sun! Hear me, Turgil, and cease thy spell-making. End thy meddling in arts beyond thine ken!”
The Wizard stopped speaking and a vast hush fell over the world. The Northmen looked at Arandur, glad that he was on their side though fearful of what reaction his insults would cause. The ranks of their foes, Goblin and Troll alike, cast their eyes to the ground and moaned to themselves. Their master was challenged and death stalked the very air.
A slow reply came, welling up as though from some deep place beneath the ground. The Turgil’s voice was loud as the Wizard’s as it soared from the valley and swept above the ranks of his host. It plucked with icy fingers at the Northmen like a cold and steady wind. Their throats tightened and they struggled for air.
“I hear ye, old man. I hear ye, and thy hollow words. Dost thou challenge me? Thou hast not the power! Mine is the only strength and it shall prevail over all that is and will be. Thou hast naught but trickeries for ye do not embrace the Master from which true power stems.”
The Wizard was immutable. His voice flared suddenly with hope and certainty. “I am Arandur, and I challenge thee. Thy power is not thine own. Trickeries or no, I sense he whom upholds thee; he that is thy master, and he for whom thou hast entered thralldom. Thou art an impotent and mindless servant fulfilling the bidding of another.”
The voice of the Wizard was like fire in the air and each word brought louder moans from the Goblins. Some clawed their faces to draw blood; others pulled their hair and yet more fell upon their knees covering their ears with calloused hands.
“Hear me!” continued Arandur, his silver circlet radiant and the authority of command ringing in his words. “I know thee Turgil; Wizard that was. I know thy name and thy history. I know thy past, and surely, even as we speak I see thy future! Get thee gone from here. Leave while thou mayest, for if ye stay, ye and thine yapping host shall be overthrown. Trickster thou call me, but my words are true. Do I not have the sight, that which even your master covets? Flee if thou mayest or fight and behold the destruction of thine host!”
The moaning of the Goblins reached a crescendo. The very air seemed to stop moving before flowing once more, but something was different. The Northmen felt the unchaining of something, of hope at last, of the banishment of despair and just as men suddenly free from imprisonment savor fresh air and light, they rejoiced. They cheered for the shear life that was within them and the defiance of Arandur, who promised deliverance and fought on their side. Never again, so long as they lived, would their spirits be bowed down. They had seen what it was to defy death, to defy all the evil in the world, however strong, and they would carry that in their hearts all the days of their lives.
Slowly, the very earth began to rumble. The air chilled and swirled in strange eddies. The grey scudding clouds darkened and the light of the sun diminished. Yet the ragged remnants of the Northmen drew their swords and looked out over the ramparts awaiting the next stroke of the enemy. They may all soon be killed but they would not be broken.
The Turgil took his staff in hand, a dark thing of polished hazelwood, gleaming with eldritch runes and shod with cold iron, and walked toward Thromdar. A shadow that walked as a man, cloaked and hooded, larger than the Goblins who slunk out of the way: smaller, but more perilous by far than the Trolls who drew aside.
On walked the Turgil and the rumbling of the earth grew loud at his coming and the very foundations of the castle, even Thromdar Mountain itself, seemed to shudder.
&nbs
p; The Turgil’s dark staff lifted and black flame sprouted from the hazelwood. It darted toward Arandur like lightning imbued with life and malice.
The tower on which the Wizard stood was engulfed in flame and the soldiers below turned their backs to the heat. In moments the light faded and the warmth diffused into the charged air. A thick pall of smoke churned about the tower. Blackened stones fell and crumbled onto the ramparts below but the tower still stood and as the smoke cleared the white-robed figure of Arandur became visible again. He remained just as he had before but was now framed by burning timbers and the wooden roof of the tower that lay in ruin around him.
The Wizard pointed his staff toward the Turgil, no sign of age or weariness upon him and his blue eyes gleaming. Silver flame flowered from the end of the white timber. It blossomed and fell like petals from an apple orchard stirred by a breeze. Countless sparks of argent brilliance fell like a net about the Turgil, at first loose, but then joining and tightening like ropes made out of light.
“Attack!” yelled the Turgil, signaling with his staff for his army to storm the ramparts. At first none of them moved, but then a spray of dark flame leapt out and burned a dozen Goblins where they stood. In seconds nothing was left but ashes scattering in the slow moving air.
“Attack!” the Turgil commanded again, and the dark host began to move; Goblin and Troll, wounded and unwounded, the great and the small, the vicious and the cowardly. The entire army was set in motion: a screaming, mindless mass of bodies that struggled over each other, killing and trampling those who got in their way. It was a mad rush to the ramparts with all the ladders and ropes they possessed.
Arandur watched them. His breath was ragged in his lungs and the pungency of burning timber and charred stone was harsh in his nose. His eyes stung and his beard and eyebrows were singed. His heart fluttered wildly in his chest but he gave no heed to these things. He watched and waited, resting while the Turgil struggled with his trap. It would not hold for long but it gave him a little time and that was the one thing that he needed most.
The Turgil tore at the silver strands that held him. Dark fire erupted about his form; seething, twisting and twirling in a mad dance. Tongues of red flickered at the staff’s end and suddenly the sorcerer was free. He walked on once more, continuing toward the battlements as the Goblin army raced around and before him, surging against the walls in a dark tide of death.
On came the Turgil and he flung his arms skywards. The hazelwood staff burned wickedly in the dim light. Fire sprang up along the battlements, lifting from the very stone of Thromdar and from the timber roofs of towers. Smoke roiled about the defenders and the acrid stench of heated stone filled their nostrils. The Goblin army raced on, siege towers were thrown up against ramparts and ropes thrown over. They stopped for nothing, not even the inferno that they were driven to enter.
Arandur lowered his staff and uttered words in a strange tongue. None could hear him over the growing roar of the fires but in moments the flames dimmed and lowered. They flickered uncertainly as though in a wind that none could feel. They flared up and lowered only to flare once more. Sweat beaded upon the brow of the Wizard and his hands turned white where they gripped the staff and trembled. He fell upon one knee but didn’t drop the staff or allow his concentration to waver. He continued to speak words that none could hear but all saw that his will contended with the dark flames. His head bowed and his voice became louder while the fires continued to flicker.
“Aloth ambril eleth amdar!” he yelled, the words suddenly clear, rising above the screaming hordes of the enemy that clambered up the battlements, over the roaring of flames and above the dismayed cries of the Northmen. But the defenders continued to hold their ground. Some beating down the wild flames with cloaks and shirts, others readying for the onslaught of the enemy.
“Aloth ambril eleth chamdar!” yelled the Wizard louder than before and the dark flames waned anew.
The Goblins and Trolls reached the ramparts. Sword slashed and blood spurted. Spear darted and throat was pierced. Axe fell and limbs were cloven. Yet still the enemy rushed on.
Aloth ambril eleth sildar, sildar eleth ambril aloth!” yelled Arandur once more. His staff flickered with a dark light then shone silver before a crack sprang along its length. Still the Wizard held it. The dark flames upon the battlements flickered once again and then went out with a whoosh as the light of a candle is extinguished by an opened door.
The oncoming enemy slowed and cowered. Dark smoke swirled about them. From the grassland below came a shuddering yell, a wail filled with pain and frustration. It died in a ghastly whimper and the form of the Turgil collapsed on the ground, dropping his hazelwood staff and clasping himself as he writhed in pain.
Arandur gasped for breath. Slowly he hauled himself to his feet, leaning upon the cracked staff and using it to support himself. He looked down at the Turgil, still writhing on the ground and understood the pain of having such a spell broken. He looked on, but felt no pity. It had cost him nearly as much to break the spell as it was costing the Turgil now. His strength was utterly spent and he doubted he could do any more when the sorcerer regained himself, as he surely would, being supported by Eruthram.
He looked to the battlements. The Goblins and Trolls fought against the Northmen but amazingly the Northmen struggled on. They were outnumbered many times over yet they held their ground. It could not go on forever though. They slew wherever they went and their swords dripped with blood while the battlements ran in red rivers.
Arandur contemplated the sorcerer. That creature of the shadows was now deathly silent, his screaming voice heard no more, yet he was not dead. He had regained himself and stood. He trembled but strength was flowing into him by the moment. He steadied his legs and tightened his grip on the hazelwood staff, which gleamed wickedly.
Arandur’s weary gaze fell back to the battlements. The Northmen fought on and among them was Cadrafer. Death danced with him. Where he went destruction followed and Goblin and Troll alike fell at his passing as wheat mown by the scythe. He went hither and thither along the battlements. Always he fought where the enemy gathered in the greatest numbers yet no matter how great their number he prevailed. They fell away from him in fear, some even straddling the battlements and climbing down, chancing death against the ground below rather than face him. Yet he was only one man and even his strength must give out soon.
The Wizard studied the Turgil once more. He stood straight and tall. His face shrouded beneath his hood yet Arandur remembered what he looked like in the past, long ago before he fell under the shadow.
“I come for thee, old man,” said the Turgil, and all that was once human about him was lost. There was only power and the implacable compulsion to serve his master left.
“I come for thee, old man. And my Master comes also. Over thy spent body shall I step, and so shall I walk into the lands beyond. They belong now to Him. The south is ours, the north now also, and all between shall be crushed into obedience under the Master’s hand.”
The Turgil stepped forward. The hazelwood staff at his side blazed with power and his words resounded as a final pronouncement of doom in the smoke-ridden air.
Chapter 24
Talon lay on his stomach and peered between the trunks of some tall pines. He saw yet another strange flash of light in the distance.
The trees were burnt and charred from fire as was the rest of the forest. The blackened remains of brush and shrubbery partly obscured his view but gave him more cover and he was confident he couldn’t be seen. What he was able to observe however filled him with dread and a sense of failure.
Thromdar was afire. Smoke roiled about the ramparts and one of the towers had half toppled to ruin. Goblins and Trolls were everywhere – racing over the grassland before the castle, clambering up the walls and worst of all swarming along the ramparts. The Northmen had been defeated and the fortress had fallen. He was come too late.
Arell’s father had been up there somewhere. He would
have died wondering the fate of his daughter and cursing the man to whom he had entrusted the safety of his people. A gall of bitterness welled up within him and he dared not look sideways to Thranding.
How hard he had striven to bring the army here! The long journey stalked by Chung warriors, Goblins and an Engar. But it had all been for nothing. When he reached Thranding he thought he had achieved something - not just for himself but for others; for his homeland and an entire nation of people. Not only that, he had done all this in Arell’s presence and it was pleasing that she now thought more highly of him than when they first met. He had admitted to himself lately just how much her opinion meant to him. What would she think now?
The Northmen and Dwarves had marched at an astonishing rate to reach Thromdar yet their help would arrive too late. The fault could only be his. If he had reached them sooner in the first place this could have been avoided.
He tore his eyes off the scene and looked at Thranding. His companion lay still as a long-toppled statue. His face was grim and his sword hilt was gripped tightly in his right hand even though the weapon remained sheathed.
He looked on his other side and saw the sheen of tears in Arell’s eyes. He marveled again at her beauty and courage. He’d argued with her long and hard that she should remain safe in Dwarf-home but he’d lost that dispute. He’d reasoned with her just before that she should stay back on the higher slopes and away from harm’s way with guards, but she had insisted on coming with him to this place, little more than a stone’s throw from the enemy encampment. At least it was empty as all the Goblins were swarming over Thromdar.
There was another sudden flash of light and a booming voice. It rolled out from the battlements like thunder from heaven but he couldn’t quite catch the words.
He looked at Arell and felt he was a failure in her eyes. She returned his glance, a single tear running down her cheek. Her eyes were shining with some inner light and then she smiled at him; a small, tentative smile, but it was as though the sun had broken through the clouds again and his heart filled with forgotten strength. Was there anything he would not do for her?
