Four decades of being the hunter in this land of green and water, Eladrid Woodhaven seemed to have finally lost all the luck he had over the past. He hadn’t been able to stick a single creature to fill his growling stomach for almost a week, and the vegetation was doing little to satisfy him.
He sighed, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the gleam of the setting sunlight as he gazed away westward, wondering what it was that the elk had sensed. It was a brilliant mix of red and purple, fanning out from behind the mountains far away and above the treetops.
A shadow passed over him as he felt a cold chill, a breeze that didn’t rustle the grass at his feet or disturb the still water. But the fish were no longer jumping, he realized, and the color of the sunset was fading.
Something dark had come into his world.
“Who is there?” he asked his surroundings, though the trees gave no answer. “There is no point in hiding. I feel your presence.”
Something moved from the shadows in the corner of his vision, and he turned that way, half expecting to see a bear or wild wolf. But instead he faced a long dark figure wearing all black, mixing into the shadows behind him, its cloak fluttering in the cold breeze that was now blowing up from the west.
Eladrid narrowed his eyes, feeling more and more like he was being watched by a thousand eyes, and he stepped back, holding his bow close as his eyes darted this way and that. He slipped another arrow from his quiver and knocked it to Starsplitter’s tight string.
“Who are you,” he demanded of the shadowy figure, “and what do you want?”
The shadow said nothing, but watched him with eyes hidden in its cowl of darkness. He could feel its gaze, like a dagger pressed against his skin.
“Answer me!” he said threateningly, his fingers eagerly pulling on Starsplitter’s string.
“You want answers, we have questions,” a voice said, though Eladrid was certain it did not come from the specter before him. It was as if the wind itself was speaking. “The question is, will you answer us?”
Eladrid turned about. He could see them now, hundreds of them standing along the banks of the lake, all of them watching him. They waited for something, he knew. Some kind of sign perhaps.
He swallowed his anxiety, though, and looked up at the darkening sky. “That depends on your intentions,” he answered.
He didn’t know how, but the world smiled at him. It was not a friendly gesture. “We know, Eladrid Woodhaven. Honor runs deep in your blood, feeding you power though you do not know it. We want that power. We know you have it, and we want it from you. Even if we have to take it from your very blood, we will get our answers.”
The shadows stepped forward, more of them coming out from the deep shadows of the trees as if they were spawned from them. Eladrid raised his bow and took aim at the nearest of them.
“Stay where you are!” he shouted, his voice tense though nervous. “I will not hesitate to put you down, shadow or not! Stay where you are!”
They did not stop, though, and Eladrid was forced to release his grip on the string. The arrow buried itself in the shadow and it melted away and was no more, though more and more of them were coming upon him from all fronts, forcing him into the lake.
The woodlander would not relent either way, and shot an arrow into every one of them that he could see. But their march was endless, and he realized his doom when he knocked the last of the arrows to Starsplitter. He hesitated as he tried to decide where to shoot, watching each of them creep on him from every angle that was possible at the waters front, and then he realized that there was something else he could do still to protect himself.
He dropped his bow, taking the arrow in one hand and lifting his other high above his head, closing his eyes as he recalled the incantation that his people had taught him as a child long ago. When he opened his eyes, he was ready, and as he spoke the words of the spell he began to radiate the emerald glow of the shield of light that was expanding around him.
He slammed the arrows head into the earth, and the grass shivered and melted, becoming his wall, and as it passed over the shadows they too were melted away into the darkness. The voice that had spoken to him laughed down at his position against it, and it penetrated through his shield, weakening his resolve until strands of light flitted away from the wall that surrounded him, leaving openings through which it might reach him.
The spell drained Eladrid of his energy, and as he felt it coming down around him, the shadows pressing him to his limits and then beyond, he sucked in his last and then let it blow outwards, evaporating the last of the shadows to oblivion. He dropped to one knee, breathing to steady himself, and slipped his two daggers out of their sheaths at his waist.
Just as he expected, the shadows again melted out of the shadows of the trees, and as the world grew darker and darker and night overcame the day, they rose from the very earth to surround and overpower him. But he got onto his feet with his daggers in either hand, and rushed the first of the shadows, slicing it into ribbons of darkness that flitted away on the breeze.
His daggers began to glow as he fought the darkness, becoming light in his hands that cut it to pieces. But with every shadow dispersed there would be another every which way that he turned, and his battle with it became desperate, the laughter of the voice mocking him and stripping him of his strength and determination.
He set his teeth as he spun away, cutting through two approaching figures, and came to rest on his knee. “No…” he breathed through gritted teeth, tears filling his swelling eyes. “Muari give me strength! Aive, give me your blessing!”
He dashed one final time into the darkness, but the light in his hands dimmed in their midst, and he found himself stumbling in the watery lake. Suffocated by their overwhelming odds, Eladrid found his light extinguished, found himself left utterly alone in the water of his people’s life, and fell to his knees in failure.
He had just enough strength to look up as the shadows around him moved aside, making way for a lean man, dressed all in black, to step before him.
Gorroth, servant of the queen of shadows, smiled at his dismay. He carried a rope in his hands, the end of it tied in a loop, and he dropped it over his head. “Now you belong to the shadows, and will be her servant,” said the demon, and it dragged the woodlander from that place and into the darkness.
10
Familiar Grounds
Vaknorbond held out his hand for Neth’tek to take it, but he just stared at the light that was illuminating that dark world. There had never been light in the Shadow Realms before, save for candles only and mage fire. But those only gave off enough for reading the tomes of magic and melee art, or the histories of their people; never enough to bring light to the whole world.
“What is it?” he asked his father in a trembling voice, though it trembled with excitement rather than fear.
“It is demon fire,” Vak replied, holding his hand out still. “Do not fear it! Now take my hand and let’s be off at once.”
Neth’tek looked at him curiously. “Why?” he asked, “Where will we go?”
“It is dangerous here,” Vak replied, “We must go to the Urden’Dagg at once!”
“But what does the Urden’Dagg want with me?” Neth’tek asked.
“Who knows!” exclaimed Vaknorbond, growing impatient. “Please, Neth’tek, take my hand!”
Neth’tek looked at the hand for a moment, considering his options. “I don’t want to go,” he said to his father. “I like it here. This is my home. I want to live here with Dril’ead and Gefiny, and you and mother. I don’t want to go to the Urden’Dagg.”
“We will perish if you stay!” Vak cried.
“But I love them so much,” Neth’tek replied, tears swelling in his eyes as he looked at the earnest expression of his father.
“Then by an act of love that this world lacks, go for them!” said Vak. His expression suddenly softened, and he sighed. “Do this, for them, and also for a tired and aged father, son. By all thi
ngs true in this world, for love and respect, do this for them. Are you willing to put aside your wants and needs for the prosperity of your people, son? Will you make the sacrifice that they cannot?”
Neth’tek straightened, then, and breathed in to fill his lungs for what he was about to say. “Yes,” he replied, “Of course I will!”
But just as he was about to take his fathers’ hand, He came.
The one who was to bring about their doom.
Neth’tek awoke with a cry, throwing his arm out as if to block something, but as his eyes focused on the material world he realized that there was nothing there.
He was back in the room upstairs from the tavern, and could hear laughter and much talking echoing through the floorboards from below. He sighed, lowering his arm, and sat up against the headboard of the bed. Daylight streamed in from the window, warming the blanket over his legs, and the seat Dril’ead had sat in by the windowpane was empty.
Neth’tek threw off the blanket and turned, setting his feet on the smooth wood of the floor. He hadn’t undressed the night before, and so he didn’t bother changing out of the trousers and shirt he wore, though he took off the wool coat and hung it on the chair beside the table.
Dipping his hands into a basin of water on the table, Neth’tek washed his face. Dril must have brought it up while he was asleep.
Sleep. These dreams made sleep something very hard to come by.
Why can’t my mind be left alone for once? He rested his elbows on the tabletop and ran his fingers through his white hair, thinking hard. Just one night, can you not give me that?
And so he thought and prayed every morning.
*****
Dril’ead watched the new recruits training in the pavilion outside the barracks of Evenstar, young boys swinging metal polls at one another, banging wooden shields, and just chasing each other in circles. After all these years, he still suffered from withdrawals. His whole life had been focused on perfecting his skills, and the skills of others, in the fine art of combat. And as he stood in the shadow of a tall oak tree just outside the pavilion, he felt the familiar urge to put order to the chaos of the students before him.
Their instructor was slumped back in a chair on the far side of the pavilion, an empty bottle of ale lying at his feet, his mouth wide open as he snored noisily. But the determined recruits practiced anyways, wanting more than anything to be out with their fathers on patrol in the mountains.
At last giving in to his old habits, he left the shade of the tree and walked out into the pavilion. A pair of trainees dueling each other stopped when they saw him and stepped back, as if making way for him to pass. But he stood and looked from one to the other, eyeing their makeshift swords and shields.
“May I show you something?” he asked, putting out his hand to one of their polls.
The young man hesitated, glancing at his companion, who only shrugged in reply to his questioning look. Shrugging as well, he handed the bar over to Dril.
“It is important, when on the field of battle, to always keep in mind that your weapons are not just weapons,” Dril began, and he put out his arm with the bar pointing directly forward. “Rather, they are mere extensions of your arms.”
The other boy chuckled, but was silenced by Dril’s glance. He put out his hand to that youths weapon, fingers twitching with excitement, and he reluctantly handed his over.
“Excuse me,” Dril said as he took the bar, “but I prefer to be equally balanced when exercising my skills. To fight is to dance, after all. One must follow certain steps in order to create an opening in your opponents’ defenses, and also to fill in gaps in your own.”
He slid one foot back and bent down on his forward leg, bringing the bars up in front of him – one forward and across his front, the other held close to his shoulder pointing up. He closed his eyes and breathed in, taking in the fresh mountain air, the feel of the metal in his hands, and found himself wandering back to the blissful days of training.
“You become one with the swords,” he said as he swept the bars back and forth in front of him, each motion bringing the bars back a different way, covering a different part of the space before him.
He kept his eyes shut. He did not need them. Years of practicing had allowed him to memorize the patterns of combat, and over time he realized that his eyes had become more of a distraction. Instead, he let himself be one with his swords just as he had said. He moved forward, stepping back and twisting to the side, as if dodging an opponent’s attack, and then came in low with jabs and sweeps, turning round and round until the recruits were forced to back away and watch from a distance. Others had stopped sparring by now and were watching, studying his pattern, the way he repeated attack after attack, and then fell back into a defensive stance.
It was as if he were fighting an invisible enemy.
And in the mind of the warrior, Dril was fighting an enemy. With his eyes shut, and the familiar feel of metal in his hands, he fell back into the deep recesses of his mind, a place where his memories were kept locked away. He was, in his mind, back in the Shadow Realms, fighting enumerable hordes of monsters from the gates of his citadel. The screams of dying companions and monsters, the heat of the fire on his skin, and the smell of death all about him, he became the warrior he had been then.
Always sitting on the edge of his seat, waiting for the call to arms, the call to battle, to release the fires burning in his soul, to kill. But no matter how many fell to his swords, or how much the battle was worth in the end, Dril’ead Vulzdagg’s fiery passion for war was never quenched. He accepted that this was his doom, to fight away his life in endless combat against the enemies of his house. Horg’s came and fell at his feet, their blood pooling beneath him, and the monsters that the witch Maaha had summoned to destroy him.
Death, destruction, torment and grief… Oblivion!
He froze mid-swing and opened his eyes.
All the trainees were watching him now, staring with blank looks on their faces. The instructor suddenly awoke, sensing the stillness of his recruits, and stumbling onto his feet from his chair he came forward.
“Put my stuff away, and get out of my pavilion you oaf!” he called to Dril, shoving a boy out of his way, and then turned to the dumbfounded students. “The rest of you worthless fools, get back to your practicing!”
Dril’ead turned about and gave the bars back to the two young men. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then walked passed and out of the pavilion the way he came in.
The instructor gave him a surly glance as he went, and then hobbled back over to his seat and fell asleep just as before, and the boys took up their sparring again. A few hesitated and watched Dril go away, wondering where he had come from or what he had intended to do. But Dril went out the town gates without another word to them, and wandered away into the trees surrounding Evenstar.
*****
Someone pounded on the door, and Neth’tek looked up in surprise where he had been dosing at the table. “It’s unlocked, Dril, if that’s you,” he said wearily.
The door cracked open enough for Helen to poke her head inside, and she looked at him with wide, worried eyes. “Neth’tek, something is up outside of town!” she said as she breathed hard, obviously having run a ways to get there. “You better come take a look.”
She left just like that, leaving the door open, and Neth’tek only stood half bent over the table, his hands and face still dripping from his wash. “Helen, wait! What are you talking about?” he called after her, but she neither answered nor came back to see if he was even going to follow.
Sighing, Neth’tek made for the open door. However, he stopped halfway and looked back at the satchel he had left hanging from a chair at the table. Shrugging, he went back and grabbed it, throwing it over his shoulder, and jogged down the stairs to the bottom floor.
There weren’t nearly as many people as there had been the night before, but he doubted any of these had even left the chairs or their mugs for sleep. He brushed by
them without hesitating and went for the open doors to the town outside. Not five steps from the door, though, did he hear someone call after him.
“Hey! Fallen! Where are ye off to this early and in such a hurry?” It was Rollon, Evenstar’s dirtiest and most rude occupant. Neth’tek had been gone on his hunt after Helen until a little over a week ago since first stumbled into the town, and so hadn’t been around long enough to let the man deny him access to their company for being a murderer and hunter of their people.
Guldar had warned him, though, that Rollon would cause as much trouble as he could about the whole business. They both prayed he and his cronies would be smart enough not to bring anything up to Dril’ead’s face, otherwise they’d soon be missing theirs.
But Neth’tek stopped and looked back at the man sitting up in his chair, grinning at him through yellow teeth stained with ale. “What do you want, Rollon?” he asked.
“Oh, just curious where the wolf is going among all of these sheep, that’s all,” he said. “And about the word I’ve been hearing around here; something to do with you and that other pale skinned friend of yours breaking into the chapel and smashing the alter of Muari… Or maybe I’m just hearing rumors again.”
“He’s my brother, and his name is Dril’ead if you’d like to know,” said Neth’tek. “Now, excuse me for not being able to answer your concerns at the moment, but more important matters seemed to have come up in this town of yours, it would seem.”
He turned and jogged out of the tavern before another word could be uttered from Rollon’s mouth, and Neth’tek had to shake his hands loose from the fists that they had formed at his sides while listening to his cursed voice.
Helen had said the trouble was outside of town, he reminded himself as he ran on the main road between the houses and shops, people going about this way and that on either side of him. He stopped a man in the middle of the street who didn’t look like he was in much of a hurry, and asked him if he had seen Helen go by.
Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle Page 5
