by K L Reinhart
Terak heard a low moan of despair coming from both elf lord and human Hexan as all the light in the room seemed to fade. Even the guttering candles, although still alight, appeared to not offer half as much radiance as they had a moment before.
Terak felt a layer of freezing cold air emerge into the room. It was an effort to keep his eyes open—but he did. He forced himself to.
The mirror of black storm clouds had shifted, revealing a form coming closer and closer to the surface. To Terak’s eyes, the form constantly changed and recombined, but it most often returned to the shape of a human or humanoid.
As the figure drew toward the surface of the mirror, Terak saw the suggestion of an ever-shifting head, a torso, limbs, and . . . wings?
It was a woman. She dressed in gossamer veils that fluttered and billowed with every step. Her pale form reminded Terak of the Aesther spirit Hyxalion. The one who asked me to kill Mother Istarion, Terak’s fevered and taut mind remembered. He could feel that his thinking was confused and unsure, his eyes only more so.
As the woman’s shape shifted, Terak thought he caught a glimpse of a writhing mass of tentacles in the clouds, each one ending in a perfectly-sculpted female face.
It’s as if the form took the shape of what I can remember. Terak’s mind tried to compress and combine these images together to make sense. He failed.
Once again, the shape almost at the front edge of the glass was a gossamer-clad woman with long, flowing hair. Her form could have been human or elf or Aesther or an amalgamation of all three. The maiden raised her arms. Terak saw that underneath her normal arms, another set of arms were rising too, and another, and another until the image blurred. This form, this woman, this Ungol spirit had ten pairs of arms, a hundred, a thousand—and each one was stretching to the rippling glass.
It was too much for Terak’s mind to assimilate. His eyes blurred, once again seeing the writhing nest of tentacles ending in a woman’s face pressed up against the glass. They resembled a full net of the boiling bodies of mountain Tartaruk salmon that Terak had once seen, their bodies black and glistening and constantly moving, yet seeming to belong to one ever-moving creature.
No. Terak was forced to shut his eyes at the assault. The cold and nausea wracked him. But even with his eyes closed, what he heard next was worse.
It was a voice. A woman’s voice that was as light as the wind and yet as deep as a storm. It echoed strangely and doubly in the little room. The elf got the sense that, just like her form, he was only hearing the version of her voice that made sense.
“Hexan. The hour is drawing near. And you seek to bother me with this?”
Terak let out a cry of misery at the mere sound of this voice. He didn’t know why, but it evoked in him such deep and terrible sadness—and cold.
“Noble Ung’olut, one of the First, Restoration of Night—we had a bargain, made in blood and with deed,” Terak heard the Hexan say. “I sent my emissary to the Blood Gate. I have acted as you requested. And now, I have destroyed the strongest city of man.”
Terak had no idea how he did so against the force of such a will, but the Hexan managed to maintain an air of superiority, as if he were a negotiator or an ambassador bargaining with a foreign power.
“But surely, when the Blood Gate is fully opened, the forces of my brother can find the Blade themselves. What need do they have of you?” The freezing chill in the room drew even deeper as the Ungol spirit appeared to anger.
But the Hexan was adamant. “This was our pact, my lady. The strongest city of man in return for the Sword of Damiel.”
“And the safety of the Fourth Family—” Lord Yuliel gasped from somewhere else in the room. Terak thought he sounded at the end of his sanity and his exhaustion. The combination of that magical act—powered by at least two of the largest ochullax orbs that Terak had ever seen—and the arrival of this Ung’olut was almost too much even for the elf lord to bear.
Terak heard a small, annoyed grunt from the Hexan, as if the man was annoyed at the interruption. It seemed that even evil sorcerers kept their bargains.
“Yes, the safety of the Fourth Family of the elves against the hordes of the Ungol and the Sword of Damiel . . .” the Hexan repeated his offer. “As you already see, I have kept up my end of the bargain. The city is falling. Your spread through Midhara will be unimpeded. Finally, eventually, this world will be yours!”
The temperature in the room dropped suddenly. Terak could have sworn that he heard the crackle of frost settling on the stones, the tables—and on his skin. He shuddered as his teeth ached with the suddenness of it.
“Your bargain is upheld, Hexan. The Sword of Damiel, my Ungol Blade, is to be found in your Tombs of Heroes, by the Vandra Mountains,” the woman or spirit, said.
“And . . . and the Fourth Family?” Yuliel had the audacity to whimper.
“The elves of the Midhara have always had a . . . confused relationship with the Ungol,” Ung’olut said. Terak was sure that there was a hint of exasperated humor in her voice. “They are the ones who have worked the most to keep the Gates closed and yet were the ones who labored to build them!”
“Puh-please, my lady . . .” Yuliel begged.
“The bargain is upheld. No member of the Fourth Family will be harmed when the forces of the Ungol invade.” At that, the woman’s voice disappeared with a sound of cracking and splintering glass.
The sudden loss of the evil spirit brought with it a gasp of relief, but it was also so fast that it felt to Terak like the times he had trained by climbing out of the Lake of Mourn for the Enclave. Even though his body was no longer filled with the icy cold, it still shuddered and shook with the shock of the new. He panted and gasped, attempting to marshal control over his body.
“Pull yourself together, elf,” Terak heard the Hexan say. For an absurd moment, Terak thought that his enemy was speaking to him.
The sword! The sword . . . Terak opened his eyes, feeling them crack with a rime of frost that had settled over everything.
But the Hexan wasn’t talking to him at all. There was a grunt and a sound of shuffling feet. Terak realized that the Hexan was talking to Lord Yuliel.
“Time for me to go, Yuliel. I advise you to do the same,” the Hexan said.
“You would leave me here?” The lord sounded pathetic, broken by the experience of encountering the Queen of a Thousand Tears, as well as betraying the world.
“The bargain has been struck. I will get the Sword of Damiel, and you get the safety of your people when they come. What else is there?” the Hexan said. There was a sudden scrape of boots as the Hexan moved, paused, and slowly turned back around again.
“On second thought, my Lord Yuliel . . .” the Hexan murmured under his breath. Unlike the elf lord and Terak, he appeared to have become energized by his experience of the hellish otherworld. Terak heard a rustle of robes, and there was that teeth-grinding sensation of magic again in Terak’s jaw, before a dull whumpf exploded in the room.
“Urk!” Lord Yuliel gave out a terrible cry. There was the horrible sound of twisting and breaking bones.
“Your precious Fourth Family will be spared, I am sure,” the Hexan whispered in a self-satisfied way to himself, “but you will not be there to see it. You have to be strong to survive the rule of the Ungol. You clearly have too much weakness for such a task.”
Another terrible crunch of bones, and then elf lord Yuliel stopped his screams entirely.
I have to move. I have to get that sword . . . Terak forced himself to look at the pommel of the shattered elvish sword. It was still at the other side of the room. He would never make it before the Hexan cast his bone-breaking curse on him, Terak knew—just as he had done to Lord Yuliel.
But I have to try. Terak grunted, forcing himself to snail forward a few inches.
“Ah.” There was a clip of boots beside Terak’s head, as the Hexan—the man masquerading as the High Chancellor—reached him with ease. Terak growled in agitation and frustration, kno
wing that the end was nigh as the Hexan knelt down beside the injured elf.
“You are still sane in the face of one of the most powerful spirits of the Ungol, I see,” the Hexan purred at him. “A remarkable achievement for one so young. Better than even poor old Yuliel managed.”
“Ixcht you!” Terak managed to hiss, earning a low chuckle from the Hexan beside him.
“And with an arm that looks like the orcs have already tried to roast you as well. Very well done, little elf. What was your name again? Terak something or another?”
Terak hissed his annoyance, given that his own body refused to obey him.
“Hmm. Interesting, little Terak,” the Hexan murmured. To the elf’s ears, he sounded quite cheery at everything that had happened. “And you managed to destroy that orb, somehow. Very interesting.”
Terak grunted, forcing one hand under his body. He attempted to push himself upright again. But with a casual thump against his pained shoulder, the Hexan made Terak scream and crumble back down on the floor again.
How could it have come to this!? Terak’s mind raced. The Enclave had taught him to be a killer. The Second Family of elves believed he was something called the “Dagger of the World”! I have to kill him! The elf demanded more of himself.
But the Hexan was already rising from his crouch. “I could kill you, you know, little Terak. But I am running out of time. And it seems in bad taste to kill one elf for being too weak, and then another for being too strong.”
The Hexan gave Terak another prod with his boot on his battle-burned shoulder, making Terak grunt through clenched teeth and roll over. There was no controlling and escaping this pain now.
“Yes. I see that you are strong. Maybe even strong enough to survive what comes next,” the Hexan purred. “When the Blood Gate opens, and the Gatekeeper emerges, there will come an age of darkness and bloodshed for the weak. They will finally be washed away like chaff from the wheat.” The voice of the Hexan paused reflectively. “We will have a need for strong people like you in the new order, little elf. Remember this offer—because the next time we meet, you will have to choose sides.”
I’ve already chosen my side! Terak wanted to shout, but the pain and torment he was going through forced his jaws shut as he clamped down on it. He did not want to let this human see him scream, so he stayed silent.
And then the footsteps of the Hexan retreated. Terak was left alone in the dark, once again trying to control his pain.
14
No Prize for Being Clever
Get. Up! Terak forced his eyes open once more, despite the fact that they felt heavy and drooping. His body was no longer wracked in the agony of the direct blast of battle-magic that the dead Lord Yuliel had used against him.
Instead, Terak the Enclave novitiate knew that he was in far worse danger. He felt thick and sleepy, filled with a heavy malaise that was so inviting and so cold.
Your body is shutting down. It’s seen too much. The pain is trying to take over your senses, Terak told himself. And after this? Terak knew if he allowed himself to succumb to sleep then he would never wake up again.
It’s only a sensation. Only a sensation like pain, or hunger, or . . . The elf repeated, as he tried to clear his blurring eyes and focus on what was in front of him.
Flag stones. Cold flag stones.
How long have I lain here? Terak’s memory wasn’t quite working as it should, somehow. He seemed to have terrible blank patches in it where he knew time had passed. He remembered the words of the Hexan, and he remembered an uncountable time of panting and looking at the floor followed by . . . sleep?
No, unconsciousness, the novitiate knew.
So. Get. UP!
Terak forced himself to concentrate on his hands, by the side of his body, pressing against the cold stone. His palms hurt where they had been grazed. Good. Focus on that pain, he thought. The small, sharp feeling was easier to hold than the wracking waves of burning. He held onto the feeling as he ground his palms into the stone. He pushed himself up first to his knees, and then to a gasping, panting crouch.
The elf’s eyes blurred and a wave of sleep threatened to undo him. But the novitiate wasn’t about to give up, not yet. He allowed himself to breathe once again, waiting for the dizziness to subside.
The ground beneath his feet was tremoring and shaking, reminding him of Lord Yuliel’s magic. What have you done!? he thought in anger at the weak lord. That anger was fuel enough to allow him to rise from his crouch and stumble to the edge of the table. Once again he half-collapsed with panting, gasping breaths.
Think about the fate that awaits us all if we don’t stop this, he consoled himself. Think about Father Jacques, somewhere far to the north of here. Think about Reticula . . .
“Well, you’re not getting any prizes for being clever,” said a musical, sing-song voice.
What? Terak screwed his eyes shut to open them again. Had he really heard that? Was his mind fraying apart from the encounter with the Queen of a Thousand Tears?
But no. With clearer eyes, Terak now saw that there was a soft radiance filling the room. A blue-white light and a calming, soothing sensation washed over him like light summer rain in a spring breeze.
The elf lifted his head, feeling like it was heavy and made of granite, to see that he wasn’t alone in the Hexan’s hidden chamber.
Ung’olut! His mind at first registered before his heart knew otherwise.
There was indeed a woman before him. She was a fey, almost elvish woman whose eyes were a little too large in her head, but her features were too angular and too narrow even for an elf. She was dressed in gossamer shifts that were almost translucent, nearly revealing the pale shape of a lithe form underneath them. From beneath the billows of her skirts, Terak could see two small, perfectly-formed feet hovering just a little way above the floor.
It was Hyxalion, the Aesther spirit.
“You!” Terak gasped, almost falling back to the floor in his shock. Am I dying? There was no explanation why he would be seeing the Aesther spirit here in the mundane realm of the Midhara.
“I am no hallucination, Terak Var,” the spirit said in her light, musical and almost bird-like voice. “The worlds are close now, and it is easier for me to travel.”
“But—but she needed a ritual to come though! The Queen—” Terak blabbered, his pain making him feel light-headed.
“Hsss!” Hyxalion drifted toward him, looking distracted by the objects around the room. It was an almost elf-like hiss. “She is no Queen. Or no Queen that we should recognize, anyway.” The spirit seemed unconcerned by Terak’s gasping, wheezing pain as she drifted further into the room. She paused to sniff disagreeably over Lord Yuliel’s body. Then, she turned quickly from the clouded mirror, its surface now cracked and shattered.
“Suffice it to say that those of her kind are like dark is to light. It is harder for them to travel between the worlds than my kind.”
“But—” Terak had so many questions that he wanted to ask. But his mind was fraying, and the waves of deep sleep were rising up toward him. What is this Ung’olut? How important is she?
As if Hyxalion could finally sense Terak’s unease, she turned with a small sigh to drift back toward the elf. She reached out to make the two remaining ochullax orbs glow a deep, viridian green before their light faded.
“Yes. You have been stupid, elf.” The Hyxalion paused before him. “Am I to think that I was wrong in placing my trust in you?”
“To kill—to kill Mother Istarion?” Terak gripped onto the table with all of his strength and sanity. How could I ever have agreed to that? Did the Aesther flowers that I retrieved even ever heal Reticula?
“Yes,” the Aesther spirit said uncompromisingly.
“I won’t do it.” Terak collapsed forward over the table. If I am to die, then at least I die according to my principles, he thought finally.
But Hyxalion had other intentions, clearly. “Oh, you will, elf. You will because you will have to, before this
is all over.”
Terak tried to argue, but he had no strength left.
“You are brave and strong, Terak Var, but you are also stupid. You sought to stop the wheels of fate here and now before you were ready. My people know a little about fate. About destiny. We Aesther have studied their workings as you elves study the lives of living things.” Hyxalion’s radiance surrounded Terak. It was soothing, even if her words were unsettling.
“Know this, Terak Var: there will come a time when you will have to choose between killing Mother Istarion or letting your world burn. I have already placed my geas upon you in the silver mark on your palm. You will kill her. That is why I am here, to ensure that you will be alive to do so.”
The silvery-white radiance surrounded Terak completely. Even with his eyes closed, he could still see it. It was a nourishing and softening light that seemed to bleed through his mind and into his soul. It was a light that re-knitted him, both in heart and body, making him feel stronger, and clearer . . .
“What did you do to me?” Terak opened his eyes, blinked, but the only light came from the guttering of the candles in the small ritual room all around. Had he dreamed the entire encounter? How could she have ever been here at all?
But Terak knew that it had been no near-death hallucination. For one, when he looked at his shoulder and arm, he saw a thick mass of silver-colored skin. It had previously been deep, bubbled, and boiled flesh, almost down to the very bone.
The elf felt fine. In fact, he felt better than fine—he felt good, if still a little exhausted. He tentatively flexed his arm, out and in, up and down, to see the mass of silver scar tissue—just like the geas mark on his right palm—pull and stretch as normally as any other scar tissue on his body. But there was no pain, no heat, and no tightness..
She healed me, Terak realized. So that I can kill Mother Istarion.
