A Dream of Storms, In the Shadow of the Black Sun: Book One

by William Kenney

  Chapter Eight

    

   

        

  Of all the districts in Harquinn, Tumbledin was by far the roughest, being home to some of the seediest taverns in the Midlands. The soldiers had led them to The Wicked Virgin, home of Harquinn’s underground rebellion and countless women of ill repute. Hagan and the others had been secreted below in the wine cellar to await one known only as the Red Lion, he who led the resistance and he who would lead them to Davaris.

              So among the wooden barrels and crates, they sat, each wrestling with their thoughts and picking at the trays of victuals that had been brought some time earlier. The air was thick with the strong odor of ale and very warm.

              “Gorin’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” D’Pharin asked in his brother’s direction.

              Vasparian answered.

              “Not to worry, lad. It would take a lot to bring down a Troll from Rathnok, especially Gorin Grimandin. He will make it out, I am certain.” he said with a forced smile.

              No one wanted to speak of the Woodwarden. They all feared the worst. Eventually, Hagan rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth on the dirt floor.

              “Hagan, relax. None of us knew. Our only course of action is to await the aid of Davaris and the remaining council.” Vasp said.

              “I cannot believe this!” Hagan shouted. “They used us. All of us. Now, they’ve taken Windenn and they’re going to twist her and break her until she does what they want. Before long, she won’t be the same person we now know. What do you think they are doing to her?”

              “Just as you have said,” Shindire said quietly. “They will use everything in their power to break her. I wager that she lacks the discipline at this point to resist for long. Her power is incredibly strong, it seems, yet she has not learned to wield it. In but a few days, she will obey their every command.”

              “Shut up, Shindire!” D’Pharin screamed.

              She remained all too calm.

              “It is simply my opinion, dear boy … ” she said.

              “We do not want to hear it! Tell it to your books.” D’Pharin stated.

              “Just as most of your kind. You will wait until after it happens to admit that it could happen. Typical.” Shindire said with scorn.

              “Shindire, please.” Vasp said in an attempt to calm the tension.

              “No, Vasp, she’s right.” Hagan said.

              “What?” D’Pharin asked. He couldn’t believe his brother was siding with the High Elf.

              “We don’t want to admit what is most likely happening to Windenn. Why avoid it? They will probably beat her into submission by the morrow. She may already be their slave.”

              D’Pharin shook his head and stared at the floor. Soon, he was quietly sobbing, his tears hitting the floor next to his boots. The others pretended not to notice and went back to their own thoughts.

              Sometime later, the cellar door was thrown back, the sound of music and laughter following the trio of men that descended into the damp room. They were dressed in dark colors, hoods pulled close about their heads. Each thrust out their right palm, displaying the black tattoo that had been placed there, the silhouette of a crane.

              “For the Crane and the Crest.” they stated in unison.

              The man at the forefront stepped forward while his escorts backed away to guard the ladder that led above into the tavern. Tussled, red hair nearly covered his bright eyes as he glanced around, throwing back his hood. He studied Hagan’s face long and hard, then his attire, his eyes finally coming to rest on the sword hilt at his hip.

              “They call me the Red Lion.” He paused. “Is it truly you, my Lord?” he then asked.

              “Hagan Marindel.”

              “Thank the Wind. The rumors are indeed true, then. You have come once again to deliver us.” the man said excitedly.

              “That remains to be seen.” Hagan said.

              “We are of the resistance. Those that would see Khienen destroyed and his followers removed form Harquinn. We are the hand of Davaris. He awaits you within the ruins of Paren-Rothe. By tomorrow evening, we hope to escort you and your friends into the new council’s chambers. The Crest lives and he shall rise once more.”

              “How is my old friend?” Hagan asked.

              “He is weakened and only days ago near death. His battle with Khienen bit deeply. They took him by surprise, my Lord. He never suspected their treachery. Minions of the East within Councilkeep? He is wounded in many ways. He will once again ask for your service. Will you offer it, Lord Marindel? Will you once again lead the armies of Good?”

              Hagan did not respond immediately. Inside, the old battle raged. He had sworn to avoid this exact thing but now that he sensed the peril, the coming of Mournenhile, he knew only one option remained.

              “I swore the oath.” he said, simply.

              “I was there, Lord. As a child. I remember it well for it was my fourteenth birthday. There was blue as far as the eye could see, everyone in formal dress. The sun shone brilliantly on that day. My father would have loved it. He had fallen the day before, you see, defending the southern wall. My mother and I watched from the balcony, high above it all. It was like a dream. The end of all the death and the beginning of a time of peace.”

              His voice grew quiet, his eyes somewhere far away. One of his men placed a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. He nodded.

              “To think only a decade later, that time has come again and I will stand in my father’s place and defy Mournenhile as he did.” he said.

              “I am sorry for your loss, my friend and I am certain you bring your father great pride. Let us hope that this battle is small compared to the Battle of the Black Sun. Such things should never be seen again. Red Lion, how soon can we leave this place?”

              “Ah, yes. Soon, my Lord, very soon. Unfortunately, the roads in and out of Harquinn are now guarded heavily. We must disguise ourselves to leave the city. My plan is to depart with the morning merchant train through the south gate.” he explained.

              Hagan shook his head.

              “I don’t like it, we are too easily recognized. They will know what to look for. There has to be another way. I cannot risk the lives of my companions so easily.”

              “The only way is through one of the gates.” The Red Lion explained, seating himself on a barrel in front of Hagan. “I have studied every map, spoken to countless people. Every other plan I devised was flawed. There truly is no other way.”

              “There must be… if we attempt your plan, we will surely perish.”

              The Red Lion begin to argue against Hagan, but was cut short.

              A rustling of crisp parchment turned all of their heads in Shindire’s direction. She had suddenly thrown her journal down upon a packing crate and was feverishly flipping through it in search of something.

              “What is it, Shindire?” D’Pharin asked. She paid him no heed. Her silvery eyes intently scanned the pages, her mouth occasionally forming silent words and then she stopped, her forefinger frozen upon the script there.

              “There it is.” she announced, seemingly astonished with her find. “I had thought it was just a passing anecdote, another unimpor
tant fact about the mainland, jotted down in haste ... ”

              “What? Explain yourself.” D’Pharin urged.

              “Here.”

              She grabbed the heavy book and placed it on the dusty floor in front of them. They crouched there, searching the pages but none could comprehend what had been written. It seemed Shindire wrote in only her native tongue, the flowing and graceful High Elven hand.

              “It is here, in the section regarding Greymander and the Wood Elves that dwell within. ‘Each Elven army shall be led by twelve captains and they by twelve generals. To each he gave the Windcall, to guard unto death and treasure until all the worlds light be vanquished. Those lost servants of the creator shall return upon that call. Return and render aid so that the darkness not fall upon the land.’”

              “What does all of that mean, Graelund?” Hagan asked.

              “Do you not see? In the Morning of the World, the Wind provided the Elves with his promise. Call upon my servants in time of darkness and they will come.” Shindire explained, growing impatient with the human’s lack of understanding.

              “That’s wonderful, but unless you happened upon this magical artifact out in the wild, we have no-“ D’Pharin was suddenly cut off.

              “Wait.” Vasparian stood. His concern was etched hard on his face. “Shindire speaks truly. I know of what she speaks. It is the same in Elfwhere but ... Graelund, I dare not.”

              “If you dare not, then, who will, Vasparian Grael?” Shindire responded, meeting him eye to eye.

              The others glanced about in confusion. It seemed only the Elves understood.

              Vasparian backed away from the group to more easily address them as one. He cleared his throat, preparing himself and then began.

              “When the Wind came to the Elves ages ago, there were two-score of these Windcalls given to our Generals. Years and years have passed with many of the gifts being lost in war or stolen in foreign lands. We cannot be sure of how many still exist, but we are sure of how many still rest in Elfwhere.”

              “How many, Vasp?” asked Hagan.

              Vasparian held up two fingers.

              “Lyndremaene wears one around his neck at all times. I learned of its true nature when I was just a boy.”

              “And the other?” D’Pharin asked.

              Vasparian stood still momentarily, eyes fixed to the ground. He exhaled slowly and brought his hands to his neck. He pulled a long leather necklace up through his shirt collar and held the object at its end gently in his palm. He then revealed it to those gathered there, holding it out at arms length.

              At the end of the leather hung a thin, tapering shell of gold. Like a tiny unicorns horn, it spiraled down to a sharp and delicate point.

              “This is the Windcall.” Vasp announced and the others gasped, for as he dropped his hand it remained there, standing out at the end of the necklace, floating at eye level.

              “What ... what is it doing?” the younger Marindel asked, stepping cautiously toward it.

              “I do not know. It is an odd thing, with its own will. I was charged with its keeping after the Black Sun came, but I have never been comfortable with it.”

              Vasparian reached out and pulled the Call back to his chest. It stayed there, reflecting the small amount of light like tiny white flames all along its surface.

              “You see, with this power, Vasparian Grael can call upon the servants of the Wind. That which he requires, they will surely provide ... ” Shindire said.

              Vasp shook his head. Truth be told, he was very much afraid of the Windcall. What would happen should he use the thing? Is this how the Wind intended it? Would this action anger the Wind in some way?

              “Vasp” Hagan said. “The fate of our world could be determined tonight. We need to reach Davaris and learn his wishes. There is no doubt that Mournenhile is coming. If this thing can help us then we should try it. Khienen’s men are certain to find us here and soon.”

              “We do not know what will happen, Hagan. My people have never used its power. Even as the leaves fall in my home, Lyndremaene refuses to call upon the Wind ... ”

              “My Lord, this was a gift.” The Red Lion interjected. “A gift that was to be used. This Call could have aided the Elves many times throughout the ages if they had only asked. Of course, such a gift should never be used in vain, but from where I sit ... this situation nearly demands it.”

              D’Pharin patted the Elf on the shoulder and smiled.

              “Give it a try, General. If it is truly a gift from the Wind himself, then only good can come of it.” he said.

              Vasparian nodded in agreement.

              “I will wait until this place clears out a bit, then we will summon the Wind, for you all speak truly. If ever we needed his divine help, it is now.”

              All gave a low cheer, smiles on every face.

              “This will be a tale to tell, my friends!” The Red Lion said, dancing in place.

              “Yes, I am sure it will be.” said Vasparian. “But will I be hero or fool?”

   

   

  Midnight came and went and the boot-steps and music had dwindled above. The majority of customers had gone home, tomorrow being another long day of work for many of them. Vasp had withdrawn, sitting himself in a corner and had succeeded in worrying himself nearly to death.

              Why did I agree to this? I’ll surely be struck down and rendered blind for my stupidity. No one uses the Wind’s power so carelessly! I have no idea what will happen.

              Once again, the cellar door was thrown back, bringing Vasp’s attention quickly around to reality.

              “Friends,” the Red Lion called down. “All is clear.”

              Together, they climbed the wooden ladder up into the tavern. They gathered at the bar, each occupying a stool in silence. Several serving girls still worked, cleaning tables and removing rubbish.

              “Do not worry, all here are of the Wind. They can be trusted.” said the Red Lion.

              The front door swung inward, turning all heads. A lone figure dressed in the same attire as the Red Lion entered and quickly made his way to Hagan.

              “My Lord, soldiers are quickly making their way to this part of the city. It will not be long before they search this place. One of ours was captured and has since been killed.” he said, his face filled with emotion.

              “I am sorry for your loss.” said Hagan with concern. “Vasp, it is time. Call upon the servants of the Wind.”

              Vasparian drew a long hard breath and moved to the center of the room, his boot-heels echoing on the hardwood floor. He turned his eyes once more to his friends, unsure and pulled his necklace into view.

              Was there a ceremony to perform? A ritual he was required to complete? There was no time to question it.

              He slowly placed the Windcall to his lips and blew. No sound came from the thing. None at all. He frowned and blew once more. Again nothing.

              “I do not know what is wrong ... ” he whispered as his hands traced the length of the tiny horn.

              Shindire immediately drew out a journal and quickly thumbed through the pages. Perhaps she had missed something.
She knew she had not.

              “After all these years, maybe its power has faded.” D’pharin said.

              Hagan shook his head.

              “Let’s hope not. If that is the case, it’ll be one hell of a fight out of here.” he said.

              Outside, the lanterns cast a dim yellow light along the near-vacant street. All grew silent, the crickets even withdrew and a sudden gale whipped up, throwing dust and debris against the tavern door. All eyes went to the windows.

              “It is the call.” Shindire announced in awe. “The servants have heard. Now they come.”

              The light outside became a deep indigo and a low fog moved in, swelling and writhing like a turbulent sea. Pressure filled the room as if an electrical storm approached, their ears popping in protest. The serving girls made for the kitchen, screaming in fright and throwing their dishes to the floor.

              Vasparian’s eyes darted from window to window. Had he done something wrong? Had he made the servants of the Wind angry in some way?

   

   

              Several streets over, Apolenn barked orders to his frightened steed. Khienen himself had given him command of this particular group of soldiers and he would not let the wizard down. Many had before and not seen another day. His search for Hagan must be successful.

              “What in hell is this?” one of his underlings called out. Hailstones the size of his thumbs had begun to rain down upon the cobblestones below, building to a thunderous roar. “It only storms upon us? Look up into the city, Apolenn! All is calm. This is sorcery! Let us return to the keep while we can!”

              “Fool. Khienen would skin us all alive were we to give up so easily. Make for that alley. We will wait there until this infernal storm lets up.” He nudged his horse in that direction; however, the animal refused to move.

              “Damn you, beast! Get your arse over there or so help-“

              He stopped abruptly as did his dozen men. The hair on their necks bristled and their eyes grew huge with fear. They looked up the small rise ahead of them, between two large clusters of stone buildings, their cloth awnings whipping and tearing free of their windows. Snaking white lightning erupted there upon the cobblestone street, alive with an inner fire. It did not dissipate, as lightning should. It held its form and danced eerily, slowly descending toward them. A whirlwind of pure energy, ghostly shapes seeming to emerge and then vanish within the flashing thing, like animals.

              Apolenn gasped as he and his men dropped suddenly to the street, their horses collapsing under them. Baffled, they jumped to their feet, cursing. Their horses, however, did not. Their hearts had stopped in unison, the whirlwind too much for their simple minds.

              “Hell! We’ve got to get out of here!” he screamed, but his men could not hear. The crackle of electricity and pounding of hail had become deafening. The movement of the shape quickened and the forms of ethereal horses could be seen, appearing and disappearing within the dark cyclone, galloping toward the men with great spectral manes flowing out from them like pennants atop a castle wall.

              He felt the bitter cold, like an adder’s deadly venom, pass through his flesh, then into bone. Then he died where he stood, face forever frozen in fear. The spectral horses shot through his men, ghostly harbingers of death, leaving naught in their wake but lifeless statues that were once animate things. Few, quick screams were heard and then only the hollow sound of hooves as they moved deeper into the city.

              Hagan heard the screams even within the tavern. Something moved this way. Something unearthly.

              “Vasp, get away from the windows!” he called out but the Elf was beyond his reach. He heard nothing but the approaching horses. They searched for him, he knew. He must make himself visible.

              Small fingers of lightning danced upon all items of metal around them, sparking randomly. Hagan reached for his sword but withdrew his hand quickly, the hilt sending a shock through his arm and numbing his fingers. The pounding of hooves grew deafening as the deep blue glow from outside nearly blinded them. Suddenly all was silent. All was still.

              Vasparian reached for the door without hesitation.

              “Hagan ... ” D’Pharin whispered. His brother paid no attention. His eyes were on the back of his Elven friend.

              Vasp slowly drew the wooden door open, a long shaft of light shooting into the center of the room. Just across the threshold stood a host of some three-score magnificent horses of a breed never seen before, unbelievably noble, with an intelligence shining from their large, dark eyes. At the forefront, the largest of the horses snorted and tossed its huge head, its flowing mane thick and dark. The coarse hair there fell in slow motion, gently returning to its neck, reaching nearly to the street.

              The taverns occupants were stunned in disbelief, many now backed against the far wall or hid behind the bar. What were these great spirit beasts?

              Vasparian stepped through the doorway, one hand reaching out to touch the mare’s nose. It gazed upon him for a moment as if once again meeting an old friend.

              She knows me.

              He reached up, grabbing a handful of lush mane and in one leap vaulted onto her broad back. Instantly, the substance of his body changed, becoming transparent and bluish in color, almost merging with the form of the mare. She stomped her hooves in excitement, her tail tossing wildly behind her.

              “Choose a mount, friends. The Wind has provided as was promised.” Vasparian said, his smile wide.

              Very cautiously the others exited the tavern and approached the horses. It was all very unnerving for as D’Pharin drew near he could see the buildings opposite them through the bodies of the horses. As he wrapped his hand in mane, he saw his arm grow faint. Once upon his chosen steed, he looked about him. His eyes saw things differently as if the souls of things and not their skins were clear to him. Perhaps he did not see with his eyes at all but with some other part of his being. As he took in the animals around him, he felt their strength. He could sense their age and ultimate wisdom. They were as pure as when the Wind had created them.

              He turned his eyes toward those in his party, first to his brother who shone with a golden glow that cast all of those around him in an orange hue. A heat like that of the sun emanated from within Hagan’s chest. Honor. Courage. The hero inside.

              The color of Vasparian Grael shimmered in a similar fashion. He and Hagan seemed woven of the same fabric with Vasp emitting a tinge of dark green representing his love of nature.

              Shindire gave off a cool blue shade. As blue as the far western oceans that were her home. He could not feel her, however try as he might. Somehow she remained closed to him even in this state. He turned his eyes away as she became aware of his stare.

              Once all had mounted, including the Red Lion and three of his men, Vasparian leaned forward and whispered into his steed’s ear. She nodded in approval and whinnied loudly. She turned in place to face the southwest and the others did the same. Rearing up on her hind legs she kicked at the air and shot off into the city like a sparrowhawk. Vasparian nearly lost his grip but managed to stay on her back, squeezing her sides with his legs. He took his eyes off of his white-knuckled hands and looked ahead, his long hair whipping about his head like mad. The mare was traveling down the street impossibly fast, the buildings merely a grey blur at the corners of his vision.

              Ahead of them, at the end of the street, stood a large stone warehouse.
/>               She cannot stop in time.

              He shut his eyes, tightly and braced for the impact.

              There was none.

              A strange sensation overcame him. It was not unlike when he looked upon Hagan and felt his soul, his mind going back to the Woodwalk in his home of Elfwhere. He felt the stone and timber as he and the horse passed through. They held an ancient magic, hidden from modern mortals. They were solid and strong and could be trusted. They stood unmoving, protecting for eons. Both stone and timber breathed with life though they seemed inanimate. Power still pulsed within, held together with the sweat of the beings of Kirkaldin.

              Then, they had passed through. They shot through countless other buildings of similar structure and strength until finally they galloped into the open air within the southern gate. The horses pulled up short there, still a fair distance from the wall. There, barring their way, stood a deep shadow. A tall and thin figure seemingly woven from darkness, yet standing out harshly to their eyes. It stood motionless before the huge iron gates and waited for them to come. Vasp could feel the horse’s conversation, silent though it was and sensed that they had come to an agreement. He felt the energy build within the mare and clenched her tightly. In the blink of an eye, they were rocketing toward the Inquitis. They closed on it quickly and it raised both skeletal arms before it to stop their passage. There came a tangible meeting of magics as one forced the other back. After a slight resistance, the horses ran through the servant of Mournenhile. For a moment, everything slowed to a crawl.

              Vasparian’s insides tightened as the presence of the Inquitis enveloped him. Never before had he felt so helpless and tiny. Evil overshadowed him, covering him like an ominous thundercloud. Wrapped about him, it caressed his body and called out to him. Such abhorrence for that which lives and casts light. It detests us and everything about us. Vasp felt the forests die and the rivers dry in their beds. The bleeding landscape cracked and buckled, fire bursting from the crumbling mountains as the children huddled below their mother’s skirts. The creatures of Kirkaldin cried out and dove into the seas to drown lest they serve Mournenhile. Tears burned his cheeks and his throat tightened with utter grief.

  “How can this be?” he mouthed without a sound.

  The voice of the Inquitis moaned in his skull.

  Come. Ours is the way. He is Lord. The only Lord.

  His lower lip trembled as he began to lose control. His mind gave way, fell away from him, left his body completely for a moment. Then, all returned to normal. He and the others rode away from the city of Harquinn, free of the darkness and free of Khienen.

  On a low hill, not far from the city, the mare turned, waiting. Moments later, her kindred joined her, casting the landscape all about them in a deep blue glow. As one, they reached her side and she nodded to each as they sought her out.

  “Take us to Davaris, friends, for it is only he who can guide us in these perilous times.” said Vasp and at once, the group struck out like lightning for the southern horizon.

   

   

  “Do not be concerned, Ayanor. Lord Hagan is near. He and his companions will arrive very soon.” The near-transparent form of Thyris spoke, staring with long dead eyes across the northern landscape. From this elevated vantage point, they could see nearly to Harquinn, although they were many leagues away. Together, they stood in the uppermost meeting chamber within Paren-Rothe, the ancient city of the first Council of Kirkaldin. Largely ruins in this day and age, the main structure still stood fast, constructed from the rock of the earth, nearly indestructible. The building rose high into the clouds culminating in a wide circular section, pierced its entire length with tall, dark windows. This section seemed to spin of its own volition, its power seemingly pulled from the ghosts of the mages themselves. In ages past, the council’s mages held their most important assemblies concerning war and peace, issues tiny and overwhelming, within this part of the fortress and very soon another meeting would be held.

  In this day, the people of Kirkaldin avoided this place for the most part, knowing it to be haunted by long dead councilmembers from every era of the past. No one could remain with the walls of Paren-Rothe for long, the presence of the spirits draining the sanity of even the most willful of people. The present-day council knew this and so would soon depart, garnering what wisdom they could from these ancient scholars in the little time allowed them.

  In the century he had been of the council, time had not been kind to Ayanor and his tanned forehead bore the furrows of much inner turmoil. Of the current council, he seemed to force his worry inward more than the others and it seemed to constantly churn within him. He attempted to hide his worry, knowing he did this in vain. Thyris and the other residents of Paren-Rothe could gaze into most minds as easily as one gazed into the sky. They need only part the clouds here or there to find what they sought.

  “Hagan does not realize how important he is to the future of this realm ... ” he said, his eyes tracing the detailed scrollwork that covered the stone columns within the room.

  “No, he never has. Even his deeds under the Black Sun, he would deny. His leadership turned the tide without doubt, sending Mournenhile back across the Edge.” Thyris said, his faint voice fading in and out of reality.

  “If he knew the outcome, do you think he would still see it through, Thyris?”

  “You know I cannot answer that, my brother. Issues of the future are easily seen by us. We cannot interfere. Utter chaos would result. Mortal minds would crumble if they gathered such knowledge. There is a reason one’s fate is kept a secret. Character can only be built in this manner.” An odd smile crossed his grey face, somewhat unsettling his companion. Though he had been here before, Ayanor could not get used to conversing with the dead.

  “I wish that I had been gifted with ‘the sight’, Thyris. Lorys almost seems to squander the talent she has as a seer. This plague. Elfwhere. The events in Lauden. The Runeglobe. To know even the tiniest fragment of what is to come. So much could be gained from this knowledge, yet ... ”

  “Ayanor, though you are aged as Men go, much of you is still childlike. That is probably why I admire you so. Lorys has the sight indeed and contrary to your belief, she does use it. Now, what she does with this knowledge, she keeps to herself but you can be sure that she is not squandering her talent.” Thyris said with another crooked smile.

  Ayanor brooded for a moment. He had always been the most average of the mages. He had power, yes, but a seemingly equal amount in all areas. He could not excel in any of the disciplines. Yet, for some reason he had been brought into the council.

  “Childlike?” he said, with a laugh.

  “Just a ghost’s opinion.” he responded with a wink and for a moment became more tangible, long enough to place a cold hand on Ayanor’s shoulder. Movement on the horizon outside drew his eyes once more to the window. “Look there, they come.”