The Pilgrim Stone

by J D Bowens

  “You should thank me.”

  Consus remained quiet. He’d be damned if he was going to thank his captor for feeding him. Zamari’s eyes glowed red as she whispered. He noticed her stare into his stomach. His gut roared and burned, and his throat became dry. Consus’ whole body started to burn like a violent fire.

  “You should remember your manners,” Zamari said. “And your place. Always be gracious to your host.” He wretched upon the floor all the food he’d just been fed. “I’ll give you another chance. What do you say?”

  “Thank you,” he seethed. What was the point in resisting? He did not need another lesson with her whip. He could see Zamari whipping and healing him for eternity. It was best just to surrender now than to suffer and surrender later.

  She fed him spoonful after spoonful. She made him thank her each time until the bowl was empty. “That was not so bad now, was it?” she said.

  She set the bowl and spoon aside on the floor. She straightened her dress and looked Consus in the eye as if searching for some sign of defiance. Consus was careful to hide it. “The Red Moon will be here in a few days, and then my reign as the Queen of Amarant will begin. I will raise my temple, and when I do, I want you by my side. There are so many relics within the temple that not even I know how to use. You can help me with that.”

  Consus snatched the spoon from the floor and thrust it like a dagger at Zamari’s throat. The spoon never met its mark. It stopped just shy of the skin. His muscles froze and burned. Consus cried out and fell to the floor. He could feel the snakes slither their way up to the base of his shoulders.

  Zamari watched him writhe on the floor. “This is how you repay my kindness?” she bellowed. “I fed you and told you of the great future I set for you, and you try to stab me with a spoon? Were I not so disappointed I would find this humorous.”

  She grabbed him by his wooly hair and shoved his face into the floor. “Perhaps you need to see what is really at stake for you.” She spit into her hand and whispered something. She then rubbed her fingers over his eyes. For a moment, Consus’ pupils burned, and he could not see. He felt himself being dragged across the ground.

  “Stand up,” she barked.

  Consus stood and rubbed his eyes. When his vision returned, he was standing in a crowd. People bumped into him as they walked by and jostled him. He struggled to get his bearing in the sea of people. Where are am I? How did I get here? This must be one of Zamari’s tricks.

  Looking around he recognized some of the stone and wooden structures. He spotted a familiar butcher’s cart.

  “I’m in Normead,” he said. It was evening, and the people around him were now screaming as they marched past him. Their destination was a stage at the center of the town square where an elderly halfling, dressed in fine attire.

  “Calm yourselves,” the halfling said. “The execution will begin momentarily.”

  A pyre of wood sat beside him with a tall pole rising from its center. A large hulking figure that grasped an enormous steel greataxe stood next to the halfling. His face was covered by a black hood, and he had the appearance of death itself. He tapped the butt of the large axe against the stage floor. The people grew quiet and ceased shoving one another as they approached.

  An icy hand grabbed the back of Consus’ neck. He did not need to turn around to know it was Zamari. She turned him around and forced his gaze to the street behind him. The crowd parted and made way for several guards in black armor marching into the square towards the stage. Their helms had gold horns that rose up, and the symbol of the Dragon was painted on their chest. They escorted three prisoners between them. One was a bulky, dark-skinned man, his face covered in stubble. He was followed by a lanky man of the same complexion, a wild beard covering his face. The final prisoner was shorter, and his purple robes were draped over his thin frame.

  Zamari leaned in and hissed in Consus’ ear. “Notice anyone familiar?”

  The crowd moved so that Consus could see their faces. His stomach turned when he recognized the prisoners. “Kyran! Ewan, Altin!”

  His voice was drowned out by the crowd as they hurled insults and rotten fruit at the brothers. Zamari’s hand left his neck, and Consus bolted after his brothers. The crowd blocked him from running up to the stage. They were an insurmountable wall of flesh. He scuffled to the edge of the stage and tried to get his brothers’ attention, but they paid him no mind. It was as though he were a ghost. The guards shoved Kyran and Ewan to their knees as another tied Altin’s weak frame to the pole. They did not struggle; they appeared too tired and too sad.

  “You have been found guilty of opposing our Father of Blood and Shadows, Nemoth,” the halfling said. “This crime is punishable by death. The two brothers will be executed, and the witch burned until dead.” There was no response from the brothers, but the crowd erupted into howls and cheers.

  “Chop, chop, chop,” they said.

  The executioner stepped behind Kyran and raised his axe into the air. The cheers reached a peak and Consus could not even hear his own screaming. He tried to climb onto the stage and stop the execution, but several spectators grabbed him and held him back.

  He writhed about and screamed as the executioner brought his axe down. It cut through the bone and sinew, and blood squirted into the air like a geyser. Kyran’s decapitated head rolled to the edge of the stage. The dead eyes looked up and gazed at Consus.

  Ewan’s beheading was not so clean. It took several chops which forced several gurgled shrieks from Ewan. When the two were finally dead, the halfling accepted a torch from the crowd.

  “Burn, burn, burn,” the crowd said.

  The executioner poured oil over Altin’s head and robes. He spat out what oil got into his mouth. The halfling tossed the torch onto the wood and walked off the stage with the guards and executioner in tow. Altin’s horrific screams overpowered the cheers from the crowd.

  Consus cried and tried to reach out to his brother, but the crowd continued to hold him back. His family was dead, and he’d been powerless to stop it.

  He felt Zamari shove him forward until he was nearly touching Kyran’s face with his own. “This could all have been avoided,” she hissed. “But if you persist in your disobedience, have no doubt that I will scour the world to do exactly this to your worthless siblings.”

  “Please, I’ll do what you say,” Consus said. “I promise.” He calmed himself. It was all an illusion, and his brothers were still alive. Zamari had not found them yet. I need to buy time. They will come for me, I know it. I need to stay alive and buy her favor. “Please, forgive me.”

  “Forgive me, what?” she asked. She shoved his face forward like a dog as Consus struggled to find the words. “‘Forgive me, what?”

  “Forgive me, mistress,” he said.

  “Good boy,” she said. She covered his eyes for a moment. When she removed them, Consus found himself once more in the small bare cell. “I will leave you alone for the night. You have much to consider about your new life. Tomorrow, I will summon the Crimson Throne. I want you there to watch it.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said. She eyed him with a satisfied smile on her face and left the cell. Consus lay on the floor and went back to the library in his mind.

  Half a breath. He recalled what happened when he tried to attack Zamari. It was only half a breath before the pain struck — these damned tattoos. Half a breath was not enough time to do anything, let alone kill a powerful priestess.

  Consus let the imaginary sunlight wash over him. He would not allow himself to feel helpless. He repeated the quote from Denpali. Mind over heart. I will find a way out of this. He imagined the library of his mind and looked over at the pile of books beside him.

  He plucked a familiar leather-bound journal from it, the spell book from the cave. He flipped through the pages and traced over the written hand motions with his fingers.

  Chapter 41

  Altin held fast to his staff in one hand and his hat in the other, his True Eye wide ope
n. The Repository was empty at this hour save for himself, the Keeper and Valderma. Messengers had been dispatched to rouse the deans from their sleep and make haste to the Repository. As Elderman, Ganbe, and Psarikt arrived together, the Keeper escorted them from the entrance to the vault.

  “What is this about?” Elderman asked with a yawn. “What emergency is there?”

  “My friends, Altin has discovered a breach upon the wards,” Valderma explained.

  Altin then began to explain to them everything he had uncovered in the past few days: Margaret’s mysterious murder, the ward eating spell beyond the door, and the threads of the tracer spell that lingered on Dandrea’s hands.

  “Impossible!” Psarikt cried. “I would have known if she was involved.” Elderman and Ganbe took several steps from Psarikt as the Keeper stepped closer. ”And murder. To even think that she would be capable of such a thing. To what end?”

  Altin studied his response closely. “The spell is upon her hand just as it is upon yours.” Psarikt’s shock seemed genuine. “My True Eye does not lie. It was brighter on her hands than it is on yours which indicates she was the person to trigger the spell.”

  “You do not honestly think I had anything to do with this?” Psarikt asked.

  Altin shrugged his shoulders. “It is likely that the spell just rubbed off on you --“

  “For the time being,” Valderma interrupted, “we must focus our attention on removing the wards and opening the Deep Vault. Altin will substitute for Margaret. She left him the key to her ward in her diary.”

  Each of the mages took a position about the door forming a semicircle. The movement and chanting for the spell was not complicated but required precise timing. Altin joined them as they meditated. He cleared his mind and pushed aside his anger towards Dandrea.

  Valderma initiated the spell, swaying his arms to and fro through the air above him like a tree caught in the breeze. Elderman immediately followed with a series of different hand gestures and chanting. Psarikt also mimicked the movements with a similar chant and Ganbe as well.

  Altin waved an arm at the door and spoke the words that Margaret had left in her journal. “Acunai Ocula Sullum Vernum.”

  He watched as the wards grew lighter and translucent until they vanished out of sight. All that remained was the black steel door. Valderma approached it and drew the five-pointed star upon it. A glowing line of white light was left in his finger’s trail. The door hummed and shook as it descended into the ground beneath, the air hissing as it seeped into the Deep Vault.

  Altin’s True Eye watched the ward eater spell disappear from the door. Without the active wards, the spell had nothing to feed on and died. It is such a weak ward eater spell. At that rate of progression, it would have taken two years for the wards to wither away fully. It seemed like such a foolish plan. The deans checked the wards on the Deep Vault once a month. It would have been discovered even if Margaret hadn’t noticed. Was Dandrea so foolish? Just more proof her judgement and mind have been muddled by the necromancy. How long until she is completely gone from me?

  A foul odor of rot oozed into the Repository. Altin gagged and covered his nose and mouth with his hat. Decaying rodent bodies lay at the threshold of the door, maggots nibbling on their carcasses. His True Eye spotted traces of the ward eater spell enchanted upon their bodies. “It is as I said. They were enchanted with the ward eater spell. It leaked through the door and onto the wards protecting it.”

  Valderma coughed and took a step forward. “The rats were an effective carrier.”

  The deans conversed behind him, but Altin paid no attention. He felt something deeper within the vault. That magic, I have sensed it before, unfamiliar and ancient, near invisible to my True Eye.

  “There is something else,” he said. “I can sense divina magic coming from within the vault.”

  “That is impossible,” Psarikt said. “Divina magic doesn’t exist.”

  “No, it exists,” Valderma said. “It has just been centuries since anyone has witnessed it.”

  Altin’s concern grew as he recalled his encounter with the brögs and the elves. This would be the third time I have come across such magic in a month. This should not even occur in my lifetime. ‘Twice calleth luck, thrice calleth fate.’

  “There is one place within the Deep Vault that could keep such a thing,” Valderma said. “Let us find what Dandrea was after. Brace yourselves and keep your wits about you. Though there are no creatures in the Deep Vault, the items entombed here have their own dark minds.”

  “Shouldn’t we let it air out a bit first?” Elderman muttered. Psarikt and Ganbe stepped past their colleague.

  The air became less foul as Altin stepped onto the landing and walked down a flight of stairs. Another landing held a doorway that opened to a balcony overlooking an enormous chamber. A treacherous flight of stairs led down along the side of the wall and to a bizarre collection of relics and artifacts below. The chamber was lit by torches and their light gleaming and reflecting off some of the metal items. As they descended the stairs, Altin’s True Eye sensed the great magical power gathered in this room.

  Racks of menacing weapons collected dust in one corner of the room, blessed and cursed alike. Siege mechanisms and their artillery towered over them. Two small sailing vessels sat upright, firmly tethered to the ground, their purpose unknown to him. Around them, several locked chests shook in violent convulsions, and another opened and closed itself repeatedly exposing a wealth of gold and gems. Another corner of the chamber appeared to be dedicated to a collection of forgotten books and forbidden tomes, the space nearly as big as the Repository itself.

  A small cottage stood near the bottom of the stairs beside three horseless coaches. An orange and red ward surrounded the house. “It keeps the house in this plane of existence,” Valderma said to him as they neared the final stairs.

  Altin had trouble focusing. His True Eye was overwhelmed by all the colors of arcana that held and protected the treasures in the chamber. He struggled to focus on the sense of divina magic. He pointed to a set of tall redwood double doors on the other end of the chamber. “I can sense it leading me there.”

  Valderma shivered and tugged his beard. “That part of the Deep Vault is reserved for ancient divina artifacts.” His knuckles turned white as he gripped his staff and walked towards the doors.

  Altin whispered a ward of protection against weapons and unanticipated attacks. Behind him, he could hear Ganbe, Psarikt, and Elderman do the same. They passed damaged statues and ignored a rack of glowing weapons. Valderma stopped before the doors and with his staff commanded them to open.

  The doors creaked open to reveal yet another torchlit room filled with magnificent items. To his left was a cluster of ancient ceremonial weapons and suits of armor. Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls throughout. On the right side of the room was a stack of finely painted plates, spectacular ornamented jewel encrusted goblets, and finely carved furniture of wood and stone.

  Yet Altin’s True Eye was drawn to the center of the room where the dark foreign sense of power was emanating from - a terrible black throne.

  “That is it,” Altin said, pointing with his staff.

  The throne was perhaps the most demonic fright he’d ever beheld. Two dragon statues - the size of large dogs - stood parallel to one another. Their front and hind legs made up the four legs of the throne. Their inner wings reached to each other and meshed together forming a seat where a red velvet cushion lay. Their outer wings rose up to form the armrests. At the tip of their wings that stretched to their hind legs was a large black slab that was the back and body of the throne. Tiny dragon statuettes were carved into the backing. They appeared to crawl up the side toward a large dragon head whose great neck was coiled into a circular loop as if it were meant to hold something. Mounted on the back of the throne were large black wings that appeared to belong to the dragon head.

  Valderma gasped and the blood drained from his face. “That is the Crimso
n Throne, Nemoth’s favored altar of sacrifice. Carved of dragon bone and obsidian. The ancient priests used to augment their power, drawing strength from Nemoth’s realm.”

  “There’ve been no priests or divina magic for centuries,” Ganbe said. “What use could this be to her?”

  “That is an answer we will have to pull out of her,” Valderma said. “From the records I have read, that artifact is one of the most dangerous. Thankfully, this chair cannot do much without its counterpart, the Pilgrim’s Stone.”

  An icy chill ran up Altin’s spine. “The Pilgrim’s Stone?” I must warn my brothers. If they’re looking for that, it can only mean great danger.

  A yellow-green mist flowed into the room, and Altin inhaled a breath-full of it before he could whisper a spell to protect the air around him. The room spun like a whirlwind as he coughed and wheezed. Beside him he saw Valderma and the deans collapse to the ground, coughing and struggling for air.

  As he fell unconscious, Altin thought he could hear someone humming the “Melancholy Maid.” Memories flooded his mind as a shadow enter the room.

  ---------------------

  A perfect circle of black sand lay on the cedar floor of Margaret’s study. A few candles lit the room, but the flames failed to chase away the shadows in the corners. Several thick candles surrounded the dark circle. Altin watched Dandrea wipe her wet cheeks as she sat on her knees in the center of the sand circle. Margaret knelt before her and held her fingers up to the girl’s temples.

  “You promised you wouldn’t tell,” Dandrea said. Her voice was barely a whimper, but it broke Altin’s heart.

  He shrugged as if trying to remove the weight of guilt he bore on his shoulders. “I’m sorry-”

  “Hush,” Margaret said. “This is for your own good, Dandrea. If it were not for Altin, you would go mad, or the Council would’ve killed you. Altin, prepare the incantation.”

  Altin pressed the palms of his hands together and whispered in the language of arcana. He twisted and moved his fingers as he spoke. Several runes of light appeared from his hands and like a gathering flock of birds, they flew over to the sand circle. A neat sphere of runes encompassed Margaret and Dandrea when the incantation was finished.