The Harrowing Path

by Cleave Bourbon

  “You mean we are to begin the training?” Gondrial asked.

  “Aye, Gondrial, it is time for preparation. We may already be too late. The Drasmyd Duil are already on the prowl, looking for our young men here.”

  “This should be good,” Gondrial said as he lit his pipe. He packed a second pipe and handed it to Ianthill.

  “Do you boys have any idea of the situation Symboria is in?” Ianthill asked.

  The boys looked at each other with puzzled expressions before Rennon finally spoke up. “Soldiers have been coming to Brookhaven whispering something about a coming war and possible invasion, but that rumor has been around as long as I can remember. Scarovia never makes good on the threat.”

  “Rightly so, young Rennon,” Ianthill said as he searched for a book on his bookshelves. “Dark minions called Drasmyd Duil have visited Brookhaven of late. These creatures were created by Toborne using ancient magic. Their numbers are few the last I heard. There are many more Dramyds than there are Drasmyd Duil to lead them. Their purpose is to gather what information they can and report back to Naneden.”

  “They are very convincing in human form now. It isn’t like the old days when they had tells that gave them away. They are almost undetectable now.” Gondrial added. “If they can fool Shey and Sylvalora then they can fool anyone.”

  Ianthill selected a blue-bound book and held it into the air, showing he had found what he was searching for, and he placed it on his desk. “This prophecy I open on my desk tells of the last and only hope of our known world.”

  “What kind of prophecy?” Rennon asked. “How can the future be revealed by a book? Rennon held his hand up to his mouth in a mocking drinking gesture as he looked at Devyn.

  Devyn chuckled.

  Ianthill raised an eyebrow at Rennon. “Amusing, but I don’t have time for your mocking.”

  Rennon abruptly protested. “I will not sit down and shut my mouth. I will not stand here and be insulted.”

  Ianthill smiled smugly. “How did you know what I was thinking boy? I spoke no words you suggest.”

  Vesperin gasped. “He’s right. He didn’t tell you to sit down or to shut your mouth.”

  “A trick, a simple trick he played,” Rennon insisted.

  “Trick! Tricks and sleight of hand, is that it, boy?” Ianthill’s words were venomous. “Sit down and hold your tongue, or did I not speak clearly enough that time?”

  Rennon stood steadfast in defiance.

  Ianthill’s eyes narrowed, and Rennon sank down onto the divan.

  “Prophecy is just that, my boy, a prediction. Nothing in this world is an absolute certainty.” Ianthill took another puff of his pipe. “However, prophecy does give us a map to follow when hope fails us.” He stood and seemed to be examining the bustling port in the distance below from his window vantage point. “Hope is failing us.” He turned back to his desk and the tome.

  “How so. Master?” Gondrial asked.

  Ianthill closed his eyes. “The situation has become grave. Naneden possesses a power capable of granting him his goals. We are but a few, and we have to contend with madness, stupidity, and children.”

  “Master, I realize we are few, but I have seen the potential in these simple folk from the mountains. Their upbringing is working against them, but I do believe there is hope in them yet. I believe they can be trained well enough.” Gondrial said.

  “I trust your faith in them is warranted, my friend,” Ianthill said, sitting behind his desk. He opened the book and read aloud. “In times of darkness, the land will divide once again, and from this division the Silver Drake will be called to action for the search of a new high king. Once her decision is made, there will be five and then seven.”

  “That’s a bit cryptic, isn’t it, Master?” Gondrial said.

  “Hold on, it becomes clearer,” Ianthill said with a grin. “A boy will be brought to life by the gods combined will, another will unite the realms of forgotten lore, still another, of finer grace, will bring the knights of the drakes. The last shall reunite the Knights of the Orchid.” Ianthill stopped and looked directly at Gondrial.

  Gondrial shook his head, “It’s too vague. The Knights of the Orchid? The Tragic Orchids of Ishrak are no more. How can they be reunited?”

  “We need more time to figure this all out. Ianthill said, “and Naneden’s army stands ready.” His gaze became distant for a moment. “I don’t suppose you have a plan to stop an army from invading?” Ianthill said.

  “Ha,” Gondrial laughed. “And they say elves have no sense of humor.”

  “You do not have a plan then?” Ianthill asked.

  Gondrial sighed. “According to Enowene, Naneden’s army waits just over the Jagged Mountains, and if he has the tome, he will send his army to the heart of The Blight while the hapless army of the West waits in the north and south passes. He will take The Blight for himself before anyone can stop him. In addition, the Enforcers and even the general citizens will fight the use of wielders to aid them. Once Naneden has The Blight, we will not have the power to dethrone him. Even if I had a plan, how would I implement it in time? I was hoping you would have a plan.”

  “Why is The Blight so important?” Devyn asked. “I thought it was a blackened wasteland. I have never understood why the Defenders patrol and guard it anyhow.”

  “Have you ever cleared a field of grass by fire, Devyn?” Enowene asked.

  “Aye, I have seen it done many times. Why?”

  “What happens after you burn the field grass?”

  “It comes back greener than before.”

  “There is your answer, Devyn,” Gondrial said. “The War of the Oracle took place a thousand years ago, and the wielders stripped the land, now known as The Blight, of all its magical essence, drawing upon it to fight the battle. No wielder has been able to draw much essence from The Blight since the war. Now, after a thousand years, its essence will return, only it will be many times stronger than it ever was before. Whoever controls that land when the essence returns will rule absolutely.”

  “That is why we must take action. We have waited far too long and underestimated Naneden,” Ianthill said, returning the book of prophecy back to the shelf.

  “There is one hope. If we could persuade the Defenders of The Blight to aid us, we may be able to buy the armies some time to react to an invasion. After all, the Defenders are supposed to protect The Blight from ill will,” Gondrial suggested.

  Ianthill puffed his pipe as he thought. “I can think of a few allies in The Blight that may help us. The Defenders may not be strong enough in numbers to do much good against an invading army for long.” Ianthill took a deep breath. “We need to protect our interests and hide Devyn and his friends away for now.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Devyn spoke up. “I still do not understand our involvement. If you need strong men to join the Defenders in the fight to save Symboria and The Blight, then we need to join the armies of the West and do our part. Hiding us away makes no sense. We could contribute much more by fighting.”

  Ianthill feigned a weak smile. “My dear boy, you still cannot see the larger picture here. You and your friends have a higher purpose in the scheme of events unfolding.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “You will in time. You have not come here by chance and sorcery so that we might have the company of four youths from the mountains. You four have a greater significance, and it is our responsibility to see that you remain safe.”

  Ianthill began pacing behind his desk. “We need to take them to Foreshome where they will be protected by the Sylvan elves. Sildariel and the Archers of Endil will keep them safe.” Ianthill put his hand on the black tome with silver runes. It is tempting to use this tome, but I fear it is enchanted. Each time you used it you may have alerted Naneden to your location. I will destroy this book, and we will travel most of the way by ship. In fact, I suggest we use the wielders way only under extreme circumstances. I don’t wish to draw attention to the road
we travel or our destination.”

  “What about the portals.” Gondrial asked. “Shey used one not too long ago.”

  Ianthill shook his head there are not enough of them remaining and the few that do remain are dangerous and unreliable. They need maintenance and no one knows how to fix them anymore. Shey should not have risked using one of them.”

  A knock on the door startled the old elf. “Enter,” he said.

  “Sir,” Mavis interrupted. “I beg your pardon, but a man requires your audience.”

  “Oh?” Ianthill lit up with curiosity. “What sort of man would be calling to my home this day?”

  “He is quite a frightening warrior, Master. He wears armor made of what appears to be red dragon scales.”

  “A dragon knight,” Ianthill said with enthusiasm. “Show him in.” He returned to his chair. “It seems our prophecy moves swifter than I imagined.”

  Chapter 16: Burnings

  Naneden clutched the edge of his enormous, velvet chair; his attention darted from painting to painting on the walls of his study. His grey-blue eyes almost running up inside his skull. Naneden’s pale white face contorted hideously. He watched in fascination as the wall paintings slid and twisted. Battles that never took place raged on dingy tapestries, and ancient ancestors shook their heads disapprovingly, mocking him as he rocked back and forth on his throne-like chair. The colorful mosaics of his hanging tapestries moved and slithered like snakes in tall grass. Clouds blew across the ceiling in a storm of imagination as he nervously ran his hand through his oily, wild, black hair. He cut his eyes at one painting in particular, and in a sudden burst of anger, he rose up from his chair and screamed curses at the portrait of his mistress, Kimala.

  “I cannot hear you!” he yelled at her pale face. “What do you want of me?”

  “I want you to give me what you promised,” a voice said from behind him.

  Naneden whirled around to see Kimala standing in the flesh. All at once the paintings and tapestries went silent and stopped moving. “And what would that be, my pet?”

  “What do you see in that devious mind of yours when you stare at those paintings and tapestries?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Kimala slowly and seductively made her way to Naneden, placing her full red lips an inch from his ear. “You asked what I wanted.”

  “Aye, what? What is it?”

  “Power, my dear Naneden, power.” She recoiled giggling.

  “Ah yes, my precious Kimala, you poor thing. Always hungering for more no matter how much you are fed.”

  “Would you have me be any other way?” she said, tossing her jet-black, shoulder-length hair out of her face with a flick of her slender neck.

  Naneden did not answer. Instead, he left his chair and marched away from her into the forum of his castle. Naneden stopped and stood in the forum with a maniacal smile. He gazed amusingly at a young, handsome woman who tilted her head sideways and licked the black wall near one of his bookshelves and clawed the side of her face with her hand. Naneden began to laugh as another man, in the far corner opposite the handsome girl, pounded his head on a large wooden table. “You are all positively mad,” he said gleefully.

  One man near the opposite entrance of the room stopped what he was doing to see why Naneden had come, and Naneden’s glee turned to anger. Naneden spoke through clenched teeth deliberately in a low, grumbling voice. “You...are...mad!”

  The man’s startled glance converted into one of pain, and he quickly resumed burning his fingers with a candle, laughing with a high-pitched cackle.

  “Much better,” Naneden said, gleeful once more.

  Naneden the Mad picked out a book, decorated with silver bindings and red runes on the cover, from an isolated shelf and returned to his study with it. “Here is your power, my precious Kimala.” He began laughing hysterically. Kimala stared at the tome puzzled. A knock at the study door broke Naneden’s crazed laughter. A youthful man dressed in black entered the room.

  “Your grace,” the man in black said with a bow. “I hesitate to bother you, but Master Drakkius rides to the main gate.”

  Naneden’s horrified expression became somber as he comprehended the servant’s words. “Excellent, Dredor; see that he makes his way in here to me.”

  “As you wish, your grace,” Dredor said, bowing as he backed his way out of the study.

  A few moments later, a man dressed in crimson armor entered the study. His hard face was lined with sharp edges, and his brow tilted downward as if he were contemplating the best way to proceed with some evil task. His eyes were of a frightening nature, piercing, black, and cold. He entered the room, tossed his long black braid to one side of his armored shoulder, and gave Kimala a gaze commanding power, confidence, and respect. Kimala strolled seductively to the crimson-clad Abaddonian and kissed him deeply on the lips. She stopped with an evil grin as she rubbed her lips from left to right with an index finger, licking the tip as she went along.

  Drakkius addressed Naneden with lurid disgust. “Do you not care that this wench so boldly defies you before your very eyes?”

  Naneden, barely glancing up from reading a passage in the silver bound book, replied stoically, “Hmm, what? Oh, Kimala, not at all. Her heart is as black as a lump of coal and just as cold. She goes to whomever she perceives has power, wealth, or both. I suspect she would kill me if it suited her needs.” Kimala smiled contemptuously. Naneden shut the tome with a thud and stood up from his desk. “Begone from us now, wench, I will play with you later. Drakkius and I have much to discuss.”

  Kimala’s grim smile turned into a venomous snarl. “I am just as much a part of the plan as anyone,” she said, tapering off as she left the room.

  “You say far too much, Naneden. You are reckless as well as foolish.” Drakkius looked back through the still open door. “Why do you surround yourself with insanity? Does it cloak your own madness?”

  Naneden slammed his fist on the desk. “And you are far too presumptuous about things you have no mind for.” He took the book to his desk. “What of the army, is it ready?”

  “Aye, it is ready. What of the Silver Drake, have your servants found it yet?”

  Naneden grinned. “I know where it is, and I know how to use it; however, we must take Symboria before I can get my hands on it.”

  “How do you expect to capture it? It tore Toborne’s soul from his flesh just for trying.”

  Naneden laughed his raspy, low laugh. “I will control it.” He tapped the book. “I have the secret, the key; I am its master. Do not fear so, Drakkius. Have faith, have faith. If you keep up your end of the plan and assemble the army for the conquest, I will keep mine.”

  “I have assembled all of your foul creatures and some of my own, as well as Scarovian and Abaddonian troopers. The army stands strong.”

  “Good, good, I want you to lead it to the Southern Pass first. I hear that the second tome I made no longer resides in Symbor. Drasmyd Duil tell of a band of wielders from Brookhaven that defeated an entire brood of Dramyds.” Naneden again pounded his fist on his wooden desk. “I want Brookhaven to fall first. Level that filthy village to the ground! Kill everyone within its wall, no prisoners.”

  “What of the armies of the West stationed near Brookhaven?”

  “They will meet you at the pass, of course, where I have a little surprise for them.” His eyes gleamed with madness. “As well as the rest of the Western army. When they meet our army on the march through Symbor, they will be ill-prepared for what I have planned.”

  Drakkius watched as Naneden moved his hand through the flame of a black candle on his desk.

  “The enemy knows of our army,” Drakkius stated coldly.

  Naneden looked up from the candle. “I know that. I would have it no other way.”

  “Then you are twice as mad as I expected.”

  “Am I?” His gaze turned thoughtful. “Or could it be that my plan is really that good?” He put his hand to his temple and ta
pped it with an index finger mockingly. “Is my plan good, is it good, and is it brilliant? Aye, it is brilliant. I expected as much from myself, and I was right. I trust me; do you not, Drakkius?” He scowled at Drakkius with his last statement.

  “Just make sure you do not fail, or you will see how brilliant I can be,” Drakkius replied.

  “How,” he searched for a word, “original.”

  Drakkius scowled and left the room without another word.

  “I hope I do not offend,” Naneden called out after him. As soon as Drakkius was out of earshot, Naneden laughed at his own wit.

  A few moments later, Dredor returned with several parchments. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have several matters of the castle to discuss with you.”

  “Not now, Dredor,” Naneden said, waving the servant off.

  “Sir, you have put these matters off for a week. I must insist.”

  “I said not now,” Naneden snapped.

  “When then, your grace?”

  “When I am not so tired of your constant persistence,” Naneden replied.

  “Not good enough, sir, I need to—”

  Naneden sighed. “All right, all right, I will look at your parchments, but first, hand me the parchment on that table to your left.” Naneden pointed.

  As Dredor responded and turned to retrieve the parchment, Naneden took the candle from his desk and casually tipped it to light the back of Dredor’s robes on fire, all the while Dredor never suspected. Black smoke began to rise above the servant’s head.

  “What is that smell?” Dredor asked after a moment.

  “I believe you are on fire.”

  “What?” Dredor asked confused.

  “I lit you on fire,” Naneden repeated, appearing nonchalant.

  Flames leaped up from behind Dredor. A look of utter panic crossed his face, and he screamed.

  Naneden laughed maniacally as he enticed the flames to completely engulf Dredor. The burning man ran screaming from the room.