by T. A. Miles
When he heard himself, Xu Liang knew at once that he had spoken rashly and wrongly. He was behaving like a child, and how could he help it, the way Fu Ran needled him with his impudence and his ignorance? He turned away from the former guard just before he screamed at him and realized in the very instant that he had allowed things to go too far.
He drew in a long breath and held it. Upon the release, he said wearily. “Leave me, Fu Ran. I must rest.”
The large man sighed, almost with remorse. “Xu Liang...”
Xu Liang would not listen. “Fu Ran, if you do not leave, I will say something that both of us will regret for many years to come.”
Fu Ran hesitated. Eventually, he left, saying nothing more and Xu Liang stood in the relative quiet left behind, hearing only the wind through the mountains.
At length, he looked over his shoulder at the skyline to the north, an impenetrable wall of mountains and clouds. “Damn you,” he said, maybe to no one in particular.
“UGH! WHAT IN Hell’s name is that stench?”
“Be silent!” Alere hissed. He’d been smelling what the gypsy only now complained about for more than a day. It was a stomach-churning pungency that wafted through the dark air here, but there were fouler things in this darkness than the odor. Alere could sense the presence of the Keirveshen. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as they progressed nearer to the place on Bastien’s map that was marked ‘Vorhaven’s Manor’.
“There’s a bog near,” Alere finally said.
Bastien went for his map. “There’s not a bog anywhere near this area. There wasn’t one when—”
“There is one,” Alere told the gypsy, concluding the matter.
“All right, there is one,” Bastien murmured. “And since you haven’t taken your hand off your sword for at least the last hour, do you think I might be able to have my own weapons back now?”
Alere ignored his request, pressing on through the grayness, wondering at the hazy glow that seeped through the dark trees ahead. “Tell me what you know of this Vorhaven.”
“Where do I begin?” the gypsy sighed. “He used to be a scholar under the employ of the Brotherhood.”
“Not a member?”
Bastien shook his head. “No. He refused to join, but he was very much interested in our objective, and we were very much interested in his knowledge. The Night Blade was discovered about forty years ago, in these very woods. It was asked of Vorhaven to study it before the Brotherhood realized exactly what it was. Those who’d happened upon the weapon knew only that it was magic, and not forged in this world.”
“What would make them believe that?” Alere asked, slowing his pace, noticing that each step sank a little lower into the spongy ground beneath the half-melted snow.
The gypsy seemed to share Alere’s concern about the sinking earth, but continued his explanation without comment about it. “The blade itself was black as pitch—black as night—and emanated a peculiar dark light.”
Alere stopped at that point, and looked at the man. The gypsy’s chafed features were bland, almost disinterested, just as they’d been when Alere met him in another dark forest. For some reason Alere had been willing to ignore this detail before. It was bothering him now. He knew that the gypsy was hiding something—and far more than what Alere suspected already.
Alere asked, “What do you mean by a dark light?”
Bastien shrugged. “I’m not quite sure how to describe it. I’ve only seen it once myself.” He took a moment to consider, then said, “It’s like a shadow that seems to glow, but there’s no true light about it.” He indicated Aerkiren with a glance. “Perhaps similar to the violet glow that emanates from your own blade, but much darker...deeper. If it helps, the sword was named Behel.”
Alere frowned, recognizing the Yvarian word, derived from the tongue of his own people. “No light.”
The gypsy nodded and added the meaning the gypsies had given it. “True darkness.” In the following moment, he said, “The Brotherhood thinks that Vorhaven simply deceived us, wanting to keep the Night Blade for himself, but it is my belief that the weapon drove him mad.”
“What makes you believe so?” Alere asked.
Bastien folded his arms across his chest and looked at the thinning woods ahead of them, toward what Alere had already determined to be the bog. He said, “I was the envoy sent to request that the Blade be returned. I’d been in contact with Vorhaven before, through letters, and he’d always struck me as being quite sane…a calm and patient man. When I met with him in these woods for the first time, I saw a mad haste in his eyes, though he still moved and spoke in a steady manner.”
The gypsy looked at Alere now, continuing his account. “Vorhaven had grown somehow attached to the Blade and become eager for its power, hungry for its secrets. Secrets that would unlock that power and enable him to become its master. When I told him that I’d come for Behel, he stalled for time, insisting that there was still much to be learned from the Sword. I stayed for more than a month in his manor; a place that was filled with servants who were all too quiet.
“Finally, I could wait no longer. I demanded that the Blade be handed over. Vorhaven promised to deliver it the next morning—the morning of my departure. I don’t know exactly what happened next, but I awoke aboard a ship bound for Aer, seven days later. I eventually learned that Vorhaven had been in correspondence with my superiors and somehow regained their trust, and tempted their curiosity with the promise of finding Behel’s sibling Blades. I was given a new assignment; to seek and study any lore concerning what the Brotherhood then called the Swords of the Sky.”
“You decided on your own to retrieve the Night Blade,” Alere surmised.
The gypsy’s dark eyes narrowed. “Vorhaven has betrayed us. And he is dangerous.”
A bird suddenly fluttered from its perch nearby, calling into the night as it glided to a new branch. Breigh stirred uneasily. Alere offered the mare a soothing pat on the neck, then proceeded into the bog, where he discovered that the hazy glow was the result of many torches standing in the soft, ranking earth. They emitted a low-lying cloud of smoke and light that skewed the dimensions of the earth, as well as the nature of its covering.
“Just so that you know,” Bastien said. “This wasn’t here when last I visited.”
“And the shadows?” Alere inquired, sliding Aerkiren free of its sheath when the patterns the torches created on the surface of the bog began to stir.
“It’s not the Keirveshen,” the gypsy informed. “They’d have come out by now and cast their darkness upon us. There’s something under the bog. Look at the way the surface undulates.”
Alere took a step back and looked quickly over the sea of murky water marked with a forest of torches. He spied a solid shape spanning across the darkness several yards away. “A bridge,” he announced.
Bastien followed Alere toward it without hesitation. “Good idea. Perhaps an even better idea would be granting me a weapon.”
“In time,” Alere replied. “I will wait to be certain first that you are too preoccupied with slaying an assailant than me.”
“I find that amusing,” the gypsy said dryly. “That you believe I’d fancy killing you and wandering into Vorhaven’s manor alone.”
“You’re not afraid,” Alere stated.
“No, but I’m not stupid either.”
Alere stopped, halting Bastien as well. Before the gypsy could ask, he pointed to the upcoming bridge, where two winged figures perched upon the railing, looking like statues, except to the eyes of an elf. Alere could see them breathing. He could see the torchlight glistening on their sleek, ebon skin. They were at rest, but they would stir easily.
“They guard him,” Alere whispered. “Else he is dead.”
“If they are guarding Vorhaven,” Bastien said, speaking softly as well. “Then he’s further gone than I believed.”
Alere sheathed Aerkiren and sought his bow. He quickly strung the weapon, then handed the gypsy a pair of
throwing blades he’d previously confiscated from him. “It is unlikely that I will be able to put down both of them before one can rise and call out to others. They must be silenced.”
Bastien nodded. “Right. Which one?”
“The nearest,” Alere answered. “I would trust your human vision no farther in this hazy light.”
The gypsy didn’t argue and Alere nocked an arrow into place, taking aim, waiting as he noticed the man beside him taking up a throwing stance. In a moment, Bastien announced that he was ready with a nod. Alere focused on his victim again, then gave a silent command to fire. The projectiles penetrated the orange mist and hit their marks, one immediately after the other. Both demons dropped into the bog to either side of the bridge. Alere waited for a response to the splash each body made, walking toward the bridge again when none came.
They moved slowly and quietly, halting momentarily on the islet of firm ground that came at the end of the first bridge, which led to a second, this one angling through the bog to their right. The second bridge led to a third, and so on, until a total of seven stone bridges had been traversed and Alere and the gypsy came to a simple row of wooden planks spanning the final stretch of moat. A large house of gray brick awaited on the opposite side, illuminated eerily by the fire-lit swamp that fronted it. Images of dragons were carved in relief over the wide front doors—inanimate yet still menacing-looking guards.
“The symbol of the Vorhaven family,” Bastien explained. “Malek Vorhaven’s great grandfather was known as the Dragon Count of Eishencroe. He ruled the city with a tyrant’s fist from a grand castle overlooking it. People once claimed they could see dragons flying to and from the place in the night. Rumor is that the castle is abandoned now. Not even the current governing family, for all its famed arrogance, will dare to occupy a place of such malevolence.”
Alere thought irresistibly of Xu Liang’s story about the Celestial Swords and the symbolism the mystic would have found in Bastien’s words. Thinking about the mystic made him wonder if he’d taken up Xu Liang’s quest, and why. It seemed without question that Xu Liang had passed away. No ‘fire magic’ of the Phoenix Elves could heal the damage done to his body and his soul. Alere also had no reason to believe he would truly ever see the knight again, and he had no intention of ever seeking out Shirisae. What was his purpose in acquiring the Night Blade, then?
Before Alere could answer himself, Bastien was standing beneath the stone dragons of Vorhaven’s mansion, trying the double doors. They moaned open, like the yawning maw of some beast and the gypsy looked back. “I wonder what this means?”
Alere gave a last look at the bog behind them, then joined the careless gypsy. “It will mean your death if you’re not more cautious.”
“Shall we close them again and knock?” the gypsy asked sardonically.
Alere ignored him, proceeding into a long front hall, lit with a row of chandeliers hanging high overhead. The polished floor held an uninterrupted diamond-shaped pattern, alternating in black and ivory. The only furniture was up against the wall; a bench with velvet cushions, a console table, and other small, decorative articles. Oil paintings adorned white plaster walls. Three exits from the hall were visible from the front door. Two were archways leading into shadow. The third was a squared pair of doors.
“Where are we likely to find the Sword?” Alere asked.
The gypsy’s answer came too easily. “In Vorhaven’s hand. He loves the weapon. He strokes the Blade and I think he takes it for affection when it cuts him. I can only assume his madness has worsened since my visit.”
Alere took Bastien’s words into account, then rephrased his question. “Where are we likely to find Vorhaven?”
“He’s always been somewhat of a recluse, even before going mad. He’ll be in here somewhere, I’m just not sure I can say where exactly. He has multiple studies in the place. More than one library as well. He didn’t like to leave.”
Alere started toward the nearest entryway. “He would send others to search for the sibling Blades, then?”
“Yes,” Bastien answered with no special interest.
“Then it is all clear,” Alere said.
“What is?”
Alere stopped and looked back at the dark man. “The shadows do his bidding. They have been seeking the other Swords.”
Bastien caught on quickly enough. “That would explain the knight’s story, about the demon attacking the angel who supposedly gave him that spear—the Dawn Blade. And when the Keirveshen attacked Xu Liang and the others in the Hollowen.”
“They were attracted to the mystic’s power,” Alere said. “Wanting to silence it. They, like you, followed the Sword he carried after discovering it. The Keirveshen dominate the Yvarian regions because their master keeps them close, and because his search for the other Blades has taken him no further. Even before the mystic’s arrival, the Phoenix Elves brought Firestorm with them, and I felt the presence of the shadow folk near Vilciel. I can only assume now that they are lying in wait for the opportunity, or the command, to seize the weapon.”
Alere unsheathed Aerkiren and watched the etchings upon the blade begin to glow. “This has been in my family for generations. Ironic that it should draw the enemies it was intended to quell. That is why they attacked my home.”
“And killed your father,” Bastien added needlessly, and not without some trace of sympathy.
Alere rejected it with his response. “They murdered nearly my entire family. Now I understand why I was drawn to the mystic’s quest and why I would seek to complete it after his passing. Here is the source of blame I was after, the target of my revenge.”
While he spoke the bloodlust was rising, the eagerness to drive Aerkiren into the heart of the enemy he’d never known before this moment, but whom he’d been hunting for years. Nothing would sate his sudden appetite for slaying except the blood of this stranger.
“Malek Vorhaven dies tonight,” Alere decided, and he stalked further into the shadows of the house, determined to kill anyone or anything that tried to interfere.
THE TRACKS WERE fresh...which was impossible.
“He should have been miles ahead of us,” Tristus said, stepping back from the hoof prints in the wet snow. “Days ahead, if he didn’t stop to rest, as we did. Why would Alere linger in a place such as this?”
“Perhaps the more appropriate question would be whom was he lingering with?”
Tristus looked to the ground again when Shirisae pointed at it. He studied the footprints beside the path made by a horse, possibly Breigh—possibly some unknown traveler, though Firestorm and Dawnfire seemed to disagree.
Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t understand. I see only one set of footprints.”
“Look at their placement,” Shirisae said. “Farther away from Breigh than Alere would have been walking. And recall that elves, especially hunting elves, can tread any land without leaving a trail if they choose to.”
“Recall it?” Tristus said in amazement. “I didn’t know it to begin with.” He sighed, pushing his hair out of his face with one hand. “Still, that doesn’t answer what Alere might be doing here. I don’t see any demon corpses lying about, but God that smell is awful enough to be the reek of devils. Do you suppose he’s hunting?”
“He never stops,” Shirisae replied, gazing into the woods. “He won’t, until his vengeance has been sated, and then he still may not.”
“Sounds rather bleak,” Tristus murmured, visually following the tracks toward what looked like a fire in the forest. However, it didn’t sound or smell like a natural blaze. It was eerie, like an orange fog had settled, though what would cause such a phenomenon completely eluded Tristus at the moment.
Eventually, he sighed. “Well, if we’re assuming that these tracks are indeed evidence of Alere’s passing, then I suppose we may as well push on and see what we can find. My feeling of guilt for having left the others compounds with each hour.”
They moved on, quickly discovering the swamp
that was to blame for the foul odor in the woods, as well as a series of bridges that traversed the stinking marsh. They also took note of the many torches that provided the hazy orange glow, wondering who had placed them and who kept them lit. It seemed, in the deathly stillness, that they might not receive their answer. The place was clearly deserted. Only the torches remained, like candles kept lit in a mausoleum.
“Look there.”
Tristus recognized the white mare just as soon as Shirisae pointed her out, and so, apparently, did Blue Crane. The steed drifted ahead of Tristus, almost pulling him in its eager stride, before finally coming to a halt close to Breigh in the open doorway of a house that must have been grand at one time. The animals greeted each other with gentle contact and Tristus let them be, straying into the house’s dismal interior.
“Who lives here?” Tristus wondered aloud. “No fond acquaintance of Alere’s, I’m sure.”
Shirisae arrived beside him, her golden gaze moving slowly over the front hall. “Something resides here. I sense a dark presence.”
Tristus looked at her. “How dark? Demons?”
“Perhaps some,” Shirisae answered thoughtfully. “But there’s something else...”
Before she finished, Tristus walked back to Blue Crane and freed Dawnfire from the rest of his gear. “Guang Ci,” he said to the bodyguard, who still lingered in the doorway.
When the Fanese man looked, Tristus indicated the horses with a nod, then gestured toward the floor with his hand, hoping to convey instructions for the guard to remain and watch over their belongings.
Guang Ci inclined his head once, seeming to understand. Tristus returned to Shirisae, who held Firestorm upright while she continued to observe their surroundings. Her skin appeared to glow with an almost metallic sheen in the spear’s platinum light. With her black armor and in her stoic pose, she looked like a statue.
