Sunlight streamed through the winewood branches and painted the grass in the glade with golden edges. A soft wind sighed before the coming evening, stirring the long blades gently. A small sound joined the trilling birdsongs and hum of insects drifting through the air. It sounded like a distant chorus of voices, screaming in anger. The noise swelled suddenly as a rent in the air surged open.
Teacher stumbled backward through the opening, both hands lifted and surrounded by blazing silver fire.
A pair of twisted tentacles shot through the gaping hole, reaching and grabbing for the robed man, ichor dripping from the saw-edged suckers that coated every surface of the bonelessly flailing arms.
Teacher’s hands thrust forward, first left, then right, moving like pistons. Intermittent jets of the silver fire leapt from his stretched fingers as each hand took its position to the fore.
The fire splashed like water over the surface of the tentacles, and where it touched, the skin convulsed and twisted the rest of the arm into useless flailing, but more arms came through following the first pair. First two, then four, then a dozen, crowding into the opening that hung in the air. Quickly, the opening was filled with tentacles, although all of them were careful to maintain a short distance between themselves and the edges of the rend.
Grimacing, Teacher thrust both hands forward and gave a great shout, “Sha-to-Han!” A focus word, one he had not used in many years. The current strain he was under precipitated its use—demanded it.
A great gout of glittering fire gathered about his hands and lanced away into the seething mass. Loud keening sounded from the other side of the portal and the body of tentacles writhed in agony.
Teacher’s eyes widened as he watched the gathering rush beyond the opening. Spreading both arms wide, his fingers reached out as if to hold the edges of the rend, although the hole was a dozen feet away. Sweeping his arms together, he brought his hands forcefully to each other in a physical representation of his will. The clapping sound was echoed thunderously as the gap in the air closed in time with the motion of his hands, and the booming roar that sounded rolled out into the surrounding forest.
A dozen or more tentacles lay twitching on the ground, and even as Teacher sank wearily to his knees, they began to dissolve, surrendering their cohesion to the world about them that was surely as alien to them as they were to it.
For long moments, Teacher could only kneel. Yielding to the weariness, he lay down in the grass and turned his face to the sun, relishing the way it warmed his flesh and confirmed his life. The spirit world had chilled him to the bone, and beyond. The cold of that place extended to the spirit. And Rylan was still there. Somewhere.
The trail had led him for what seemed days, although time had no relevance there. At least, time did not have the same relationship with what counted for reality in that world. It could have been days on this side of the veil, or it could have been minutes.
The trial had begun to grow stronger, finally, just before his presence was discovered. He knew he was finally beginning to close on the abductors, or Rylan at least. Unfortunately, in his excitement, he had failed to maintain the shroud around his presence in his excitement. The apparent void in which he had been walking suddenly turned thick with howling voices and twisted forms that hungered for his life. It had been a test of the very limits of his ability to remain alive long enough to open a way back to this world and escape.
He shuddered, knowing he must go back and continue to follow the child’s trail. How she remained alive, and why, was beyond his ability to fathom at the moment, though he was convinced that she was. Every question he could even conceive only led him to more questions. He was certain of one thing, though. He must go back.
However, he would have to gain entry to Dausos in another place. Entering at the point from where he left would be asking to die. Wherever it was he again gained access to the spirit world, Teacher was confident he could pick up the echo of Rylan’s trail. The small soul resonated in his very spirit, and he could almost feel the texture of her hair and hear the sound of her voice.
Pushing himself up to his knees, he opened his mind to draw energy from the Shamonrae. Inrushing power washed away his weariness, though he knew he would need actual rest soon. Using arcane power to push himself beyond his normal limits was not a long-term solution; he risked destroying his mind or body—or both.
Finishing his renewal, he snorted softly as he heard echoes of Sacha and other pupils asking why they must not do exactly what he had just done. Time, place, and necessity, my children, he thought.
As the sun slipped behind the canopy of the forest, Teacher rose and brushed the dirt from his robes. First things first. He investigated the former location of the rend. He had not been careful when fleeing the creatures from the other side and he could sense the jagged edges in the fabric of the world. Psychic cold drifted around the portal like water through a shoddy dike. To his mind and its magical senses, the wound felt like an open grave. Extending his hand, he began to stitch the rough wound in reality more firmly together and smoothed the edges just as he had done at the Hostlen cabin.
Nodding his head in satisfaction, he wrapped his robes about himself and set off in search of a new spot in which to reenter Dausos. A few hours of travel delivered him to another glade, where he could feel the boundary between the worlds soften. He paused to wrap his body once more in the lifeless cocoon that would shield him from the dead. He raised his hands and made a now familiar gesture to open a new, smooth slice in the air that led to a world of darkness.
The portal shut behind him, leaving the wilderness to resume its natural course, unaware of the shadows beyond.
THORN sat alone in the throne room. The arched ceiling was lost in the depths of the darkness above. The chamber’s vast emptiness was intensified by the lack of people that usually crowded it. A multitude of polished stone columns the width of winewood trees disappeared up into the void, supporting the ceiling above.
Thorn gazed into the emptiness that pressed at the pockets of torchlight. The light illuminated the statues and runic carvings throughout the chamber. The old king could not distract himself with their beauty. It wasn’t hard for most. True dwarven artisans had created this masterwork over the span of generations. Each detail had been created with care and the utmost respect for its place in the recording of their ancestry.
Many nights before, when the blackness of his own thoughts threatened to overwhelm him, he had found solace in this place. Not tonight. The skill and sacrifice of his people failed to take the stink of the burning buildings from his nostrils. The smoothness of the marble and the cool of the granite did not erase the feeling of Duhann’s blood as it coated his hands and spattered his face. The silence of the hall could not drown out the howls of rage and agony still echoing in his mind from that night so long ago.
Though he did not find the relief he sought, he continued to return, night after long night, to Hannaul, the seat of dwarven power. The chair that declared him king.
The throne was carved from a single massive block of basalt. Indeed, the throne and its dais had been hewn from the bedrock of this chamber and were still one with the very mountain in which they resided. The weight and immovability of the throne were a scant comfort in the wash of memory that assailed Thorn, but it did offer a certain immutability, a sense that his troubles were but a blink in the passage of time.
His son was dead, gone, for six decades. Although this was a lifetime for some races, it was but a few grains through the hourglass of a dwarven life. On nights like this, the past and its mistakes were one with the present, and Thorn couldn’t tear himself away from thoughts of what might have been. Or perhaps what should have been.
If only he could go back in time and convince himself the priests were wrong, that his son belonged here amongst his people and not with that… thing. Thorn had banished all of those priests that had urged him to send his son with the creature. They were lucky he had not beheaded them in his r
age. Only the voice of calm reason from a trusted friend stayed his hand.
Thorn shook his head and dashed the moisture from his cheeks with the gauntleted back of one hand. Kings don’t have the luxury of regret, he thought. The condition of his heart was irrelevant to his responsibilities. Weeping in the dark changed nothing.
“Foolish thoughts and wishes amount to naught,” Thorn whispered into the darkness.
His voice echoed strangely in the hall and Thorn’s head jerked up. He had made such proclamations before, his only audience the crackling torches that fought back the black tide above. But something was different tonight. Amongst the flame of one torch fluttered in the distance and a cool breeze danced across Thorn’s skin.
Chills prickled along his spine, and Thorn narrowed his eyes at the sputtering flames. Ultimately, the fire faded into darkness, leaving only glowing embers.
Thorn’s right hand dropped to loosely grip the handle of Mordekki, the battle axe that signified kingship almost as much as the throne. A stone cradle, carved into the body of Hannaul, held the handle of the massive weapon within easy reach of the king.
Deeply etched runes in the handle, shaft, and blade began to glow softly in response to the king’s touch. There was a red cast to the normal golden glow, and Thorn felt his blood quicken. “I know ya be there, demon. Make yer presence known!”
Darkness poured from the shadows in thin, curling strands of smoke, which probed their way along the smooth marble floor. Constantly churning in upon itself, the living smoke gathered at the base of Hannual to form a slowly spinning column. Thick vines of the black mist twisted upward, then parted, revealing the thing Thorn despised most of all. The creature truly responsible for his son’s death—the dark adviser.
The king came to his feet, snatching Mordekki from its cradle.
The glow from the runes flared in his grip and illuminated the features of the dark form before him in a wash of red and golden light, causing the face he hated to twist in annoyance.
Thorn had not seen the creature since before the death of his son. One week after that fateful night, a folded piece of parchment had appeared on his throne, bearing hollow condolences from the creature. He had written his own letter and thrust it into the hands of a quaking priest who provided the kingdom’s link to this thing. Since that time, he had prayed for hours to Dagda that he might have a chance to visit his vengeance upon this creature.
“Good evening, old friend. You look… well.” A lifeless smile crept across the dark adviser’s pasty white face.
“We’re not friends, ya bastard! And ye were told never to show yer face in this kingdom again!” Snarling, Thorn waved the blazing Mordekki before him. The distance to the dark adviser was great, but the king began to gather himself in preparation for the leap.
“You should have known I would not heed feeble threats. Besides, I have news of interest, old king.” The creature gave him a mocking bow.
Unaware, or perhaps uncaring of the king’s preparations to attack, the creature unbent and moved with slow, sure steps to center itself below Thorn. “Considering our history, I thought you might appreciate the news.” A wicked smile spread slowly across the creature’s pale face as it looked up at Thorn. Lifeless black eyes settled on his own. “You have a grandchild.”
Thorn rocked back on his heels as if the creature’s words had been a physical blow. He felt the blood drain away from his face, leaving his cheeks cool and his extremities numb. “You lie! My son left no progeny. You saw to that, ya schemin’ fiend!” Thorn’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. His desire to destroy the creature before him had not abated, but its words had stopped him more effectively than the mountains would have, had they stood between them.
The dark adviser tilted his head slightly and studied the king. “Oh? But this one has such a family resemblance. Perhaps I am mistaken and disturbed you wrongfully,” it said. The ever-moving tendrils of smoke gathered and whipped about as it turned to leave.
Thorn wanted to scream at the cursed phantom but found himself still frozen in shock, paralyzed by his own yearning for its words to be true. Had it lied? Could his soul afford to ignore the words it had spoken, words that still echoed in his mind? For the love of Dagda, what was he to do?
As if in response to his unspoken questions, the dark creature turned back to Thorn and looked at him with amusement. “On the off chance that I am correct.” One slender hand brought forth an object from beneath the veiling robes. “You might find this useful.”
Thorn was taken aback for a second time by the orb of pure sapphire in the dark adviser’s hand. Soft sparks of white light swirled around its surface, then slowly settled deep within the palm-sized stone. The smooth exterior glowed brightly as the motion of the adviser’s hand slowed, then dimmed to a low-burning simmer.
“Follow its light, and you will find your child’s offspring,” the dark adviser whispered. The creature dropped its hand from the stone. Instead of crashing to the marble floor, the stone hung suspended for an instant and then slowly sank to the ground, where it settled with a faint click. The otherworldly light emphasized the slow fall and enhanced the impression that the stone was not subject to the normal rules of the physical world.
Thorn took several hesitant steps down from the dais, dumbfounded by the stone’s beauty and the possibilities it presented.
“His name is Kinsey,” said the dark adviser, with the same smile that never seemed to touch the black pits it used for eyes.
The king could not look away from the sapphire. The potential implied in its glittering depths overwhelmed and ensnared him. Thorn worked enough moisture into his dry throat to speak. Gravel coating each word, he managed, “Get out.”
The creature bowed deeply in response to Thorn’s words. Its eyes never left the king, and before it had straightened fully, it dissipated. The tendrils of smoke crept across the softly glowing surface of the stone before retreating back to the shadows from whence they came. Thorn was left to ponder the small stone and his memories in the emptiness of the throne room.
Moving slowly down the last few dais steps, Thorn approached the gemstone. He peeled his eyes away from its entrancing glow for the first time since it had been presented and scanned the chamber for signs of the creature. No hint of the sinister being remained, and perhaps more comfortingly, the runes of Mordekki had settled to their normal soft golden hue. Looping his wrist through a leather strap connected to the handle of the great axe, he squatted down next to the stone for a closer look.
The white embers within the depths of the gemstone still moved about in individual rhythmic patterns. The stone itself was slightly oblong instead of the sphere it had first appeared to be and looked to be the exact size and shape to fit comfortably in the palm of one’s hand. Only one imperfection marred the surface: a deeply etched, vertical line on the narrowest end of the stone.
Thorn set aside his instinct toward caution and extended one finger to touch the stone, slowly turning the sapphire in a circle on the floor.
The stone’s surface was cool to the touch, and if there was harm done, Thorn could not perceive it. The stone did nothing at first, but as the vertical line rotated, the glowing embers danced faster and faster, until their individuality was lost in a single, uniform glow.
Thorn continued to turn the gemstone, and as he did so, the embers separated once more, slowing to their individual rhythmic dances. He grunted with satisfaction and stood, raising his voice to be heard beyond the closed doors: “Guard! Bring me Sargon!”
“Yer gonna burn it, the fire’s too high,” Jocelyn groaned.
“Are ya the one cooking this bird, or me?” replied Gideon.
Jocelyn planted stout fists on her strong hips and gave Gideon a look that would make the giant crocs of Long Lake sink below the icy waters in search of warmth.
Gideon gazed back up at her with a gap-toothed smile and threw another log on the fire.
Sargon shook his head and smiled behind his pipe,
which was packed with rich tobacco from the lowlands. The fight would be on now. Jocelyn wasn’t one to tolerate pigheadedness, especially from the likes of Gideon.
“Ya boneheaded, no-sense-havin’ fool...” She kicked Gideon in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. She then snagged the fresh log by an end that protruded beyond the embers and hurled it at him.
Gideon rolled from his place by the fire and came to his feet just in time to catch the fiery log with his face. Red motes cascaded from the log to pepper his beard and hair. He yelped and danced about, swatting at the smoking patches that instantly arose from his dense blonde hair. A roar of laughter went up around the camp and cheers sounded as Jocelyn tackled him back to the ground.
Sargon laughed deeply at the display. Although not a fighting man himself, Sargon always enjoyed a good tumble, especially if he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. Men of the cloth rarely took up the sword—or fists, in this case—but it was known to happen on occasion. He was too old for that sort of thing now, but oh, the memories. Best leave it to the younger generation and enjoy the scrapping from a distance. Perhaps this latest philosophical bent was one of the reasons the younger dwarves kept referring to him as “wise.”
Jocelyn and Gideon grappled on the ground near the cook fire to the sound of cheers and laughter until Jocelyn pinned Gideon with a loud thump. Gideon raised his hands in surrender. “I yield to yer better sense, fer cookin’, anyways,” he wheezed.
“Thought ya’d see it my way.” She playfully punched him in the chest and stood, offering him a hand up.
Sargon pulled deeply on his pipe, enjoying the taste of crisp, mountain air and aged lowland tobacco. It was close to dusk and the low angle of the sun lit the sky in hues of orange and violet. Rows of clouds, reminiscent of freshly tilled fields, drifted in the distance. Their camp sat in the shadow of the northern Dales, many miles from the capital city of Mozil, their home.
Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) Page 18
