One was tall and of fair complexion with long sandy-brown hair, caked with blood and slick with sweat. He pulled a locket from beneath his mail, kissed it tenderly, and let it dangle by its chain from his neck. He calmly notched an arrow and aimed at the door. A short, barrel-chested man with close-cropped red hair stood beside him, wielding a battleaxe in one hand and a short thrusting-sword in the other. Behind that pair, and standing as well with their backs to the shimmering glory of rubies and emeralds and gold, were six more soldiers. Each was wounded and weak from the loss of blood, but all were ready with sword and bow and axe.
The ring of steel against steel and the thump of edge against flesh just outside the door suddenly ceased amid the muffled cries of the dying and the stamp of many feet. The door shuddered at the impact of a ram. Again the battering ram struck, and the iron-shod oak shifted in its frame. First one hinge gave, then another, carrying away bits of cracked stone.
"So, Captain Tallin," the axe-wielding one said to the other over the din, "this shall be it for us."
"It has been an honor, Bilaylin, to fight alongside—"
The door crashed in.
The end was brief and merciless, and when it was over the bodies were piled high, choking the doorway. It took only a few more moments for the wounded to be dispatched and the dead dragged out of the way. Impatiently, Bailorg strode in across the blood-slicked floor with a party of his wary escorts. He looked around the gleaming wealth then saw what he came for and hurried to it. But the ornate case that he opened was empty. Seeing this, Bailorg realized his mistake.
As he should have expected, the objects he sought were missing. Only a fool would risk keeping them during a siege. He stood in front of the ornate case, staring at the seven empty spaces where the objects he sought had been kept, and his mind chased after every plausible notion of their whereabouts. While his escorts took care to keep out looters, a tall figure entered, wearing black armor with a red hourglass on the breastplate. He stood behind Bailorg, his face obscured by helmet and hood.
"They are not here!" Bailorg cried, pounding the case with his fists. He spun around and, seeing the dark figure, immediately cowered.
"Then Lyrium took them," the warrior said.
"Then we must find her, my lord!"
"If she escaped the slaughter she will not be found. And she would no longer have them. She is far too cunning. I am undone."
"My lord! Perhaps—"
"No!" the figure turned away to leave. "We are both undone. Take what you will of this place and let us go from here quickly. We shall not accompany the army, but instead go west."
Bailorg followed into the corridor and saw his master staring down the passage at the huge iron door at the far end. It barred egress that way, and there were scores of bodies piled against it, those who died defending the outside of the Treasury Room.
"You should open it, my lord," Bailorg said, "so that it will be thought that this place was taken in that manner."
"No. Doing so now would wake powers best delayed. Letting it remain as it is will deepen the mystery of this place. And, too, it will cast doubt upon the Newcomers. That discord, at least, will be my spiteful reward."
Bailorg, never trusting, was quick to grasp the situation, and he made up his mind, right there. Without the objects they came for, this armored warrior would be too dangerous; they would have to part ways at the soonest opportunity. He glanced back at the empty case. He had time to bide, and could turn this problem over and over. Perhaps, eventually, he would find the answer. Or perhaps it would never matter. The things he came for were gone, probably forever.
Bailorg called to the Dragonkind who were assigned to his service and ordered them to have his wagons loaded with all the treasure they could hold. They, in turn, lashed out with their whips to urge on the slaves brought for that purpose.
The loot, though valuable, was paltry compensation for failure to capture the priceless objects they came for, but Bailorg was determined to have it as a consolation. His mysterious companion, preoccupied with his own bruising failure, was impatient to get away, else Bailorg would have tried to obtain more carts. So he cut short his looting, as the Dragonkind began theirs, and they departed, the dark warrior riding silently behind their train. Ahead, and alongside the wagons and carts, Bailorg with his Dragonkind soldiers rode guard, lashing the slaves to pull the carts more quickly. They retraced their path through the litter-strewn battlefield and on through the nearby ruined woods and fields. Before the night was done, Tulith Attis was far behind them, and Bailorg was making plans for his future.
Things did not go as Bailorg wished. In less than a fortnight, events turned against him. In danger of capture by an approaching army, the mysterious warrior rode away. Bailorg's mercenaries, the Dragonkind soldiers, deserted into the forest, and his slaves rebelled, refusing to budge the wagons another inch. Bailorg cursed them harshly, took what he could carry in his saddle bags, and abandoned the wagons of loot and his slaves. Fortunately for him, he eluded the forces closing in, and by stealth and conjured fog, he slipped from their reach.
It was a devastating and embittering blow, and he barely escaped with his life. But he made good his escape, and he remained in hiding for years and years. He knew he had time to make up for his losses, nearly all the time in the world. And while he waited and sulked, the world changed. The Fifth Unknown King of Duinnor was replaced by the Sixth, and a new order was imposed. Bailorg got busy again, and soon found new patrons.
• • •
Generations of Men passed into oblivion, and new histories were written as the old ones were forgotten. Men prospered, and their settlements grew into great and powerful cities while the Elifaen gradually declined, bearing fewer offspring and burying more casualties of their incessant wars with the Dragonkind. Men slowly established new traditions, and they tenaciously hung on and multiplied, in spite of their short lives. Meanwhile, the ways of the Elifaen faltered, their population declined, and their hearts grew weary.
Five hundred and forty-eight years passed, full of glory, full of tears. In that time, Bailorg courted and obtained a new patron, and as this lord rose in power, so too, did Bailorg. Darker powers, too, did he court. Until, at last, with the cruelest of ironies, he understood that his new quarry, just as the old one had been, was in the region of Tulith Attis.
• • •
"Will marvels never cease?" he commented as he leaned back in his saddle and gazed across the misty plain at the ruined ramparts of Tulith Attis. "Never did I wish nor have the least desire to see this place again. Yet, here I am."
Fate has twists and turns. After many years of thought, he came to understand who his former employer, the traitor of Tulith Attis, had become. And, in another twist, he found himself in the odd position of protecting that identity. Someday, he might make use of the knowledge, if only he could keep it from others, reserving that power to himself. Meanwhile, the orders that brought him here officially came from Lord Banis. Lord Banis's orders came from the King. And the King's orders? Bailorg smiled. The mist shifted somewhat, and he could better see the distant walls, now crumbling and brush-covered, long cleansed of the gory streaks that he remembered.
Too bad the place was already occupied by a Watcher. Otherwise, the old fortress would be a good place to establish his own base. He would have to find out who that Watcher was. Ashlord, the locals called him, but he did not recognize the name. A mystic, they said, who came some years ago from the west. Bailorg would have to be careful to hide his presence until the time was right, and use the meantime to learn all that he could about those in this region. The One he was sent to identify was sure to be somewhere nearby. The mist shifted again, and the old fortress was completely obscured. Bailorg shivered as the last gust of winter puffed spitefully through the air.
Coming this close to the old fortress was risky enough, but, in spite of what he just said, he could not resist having a look at the place, even if from a distance. This was where his l
ife's greatest failure culminated. He would not fail again, he resolved. Yes, this is too close, he thought. The caves on the far side of this shire would have to do. It was out of the way, and people feared to venture there. He would have to obtain his own watcher, he knew, someone nearby. So many threads to weave!
One of the four horsemen who accompanied him nudged his mount next to Bailorg and said, "Go we to fortress? Tales my kind say of the place...I desires to see its stones and the brokened gates of it."
The other riders, who eschewed the company of this one, were surprised not only at the way the person spoke, but also by the fact of his speech; it was the most they had heard him say since he came into the group over two months ago. Bailorg shook his head.
"No. But the time may come—soon, I hope—when you will see it up close. Meanwhile, let us go away from here before we are seen or challenged!"
He led them back to the wooded ridge and then downward and across the stream, its banks lined with strangely leaning stones that gave Bailorg chills. They pressed on toward Passdale at a gallop, desiring to cross the bridge and back to their hideout in the hills before the day was full. Only once did he call his men to a stop, when they came on a path that led away to a dilapidated farmhouse.
"Is this the place?" Bailorg asked. "The one you met in the tavern, who told you of this way to the fortress?"
"Aye. Steggan's the name, sir. A drunkard farmer," one of the men said. "This path leads off to his place."
"Does he live alone, or has he family or servants?"
"Servants?" the man chuckled. "He can hardly keep himself! In debt, so I'm told, to nearly everyone in these parts. No servants. The man's wife ran off years ago. But he has a ward, so to speak. A young lass, his niece. But she's never there, I'm told. The Wild Girl of the Woods, the local folk calls her, a tomboyish sort. I believe she prefers the comforts of the field and forest to the beatings of her uncle."
"In debt, you say?"
"Aye, so I'm told."
Bailorg stretched around in his saddle looking back the way they had come. He reckoned it was about ten miles to the fortress. Easy enough walking distance. And only about fifteen or so the other way to Passdale.
"Well-known in these parts, then?"
"Aye, sir. Everyone knows him, and avoids him. But he's a jolly drinker, as I can vouch, though with a mean streak."
"Good. Go on ahead. I shall see if he is at home. I may be able to convince him to be our eyes and our errand boy. If people despise him so, he can carry our letters to Janhaven without molestation."
"Sir," said one of the other men, "we can leave our messages at the general store in Passdale. The Post Rider from Janhaven makes a stop there every week."
"No. It's the Post Station at Janhaven we must deal with. I do not trust storekeepers. Besides, our man, Steggan, may not be welcome in town. And we should not make ourselves familiar. Ride on, keep to yourselves! I will join you before nightfall."
Part II
Chapter 14
The Fall of the Faere
Day 94
151 Days Remaining
Robby's company decided to press on until such a time when Ullin might find a suitable place for them to camp. They spoke little, yawned much, and made a very good pace deeper into the mountains, going higher and higher until, by late afternoon, they had passed over the highest ridges. At last, Ullin took them off into the woods and they made camp as the sun set. They slept the night, grateful for sleep and rest. More confident now of their way, having seen no sign of Damar or any other dangers, it was decided they should resume traveling at daybreak. Ullin departed before dawn to scout ahead for caution's sake, but he was back not long after sunup just as the horses were being prepared. The path ahead, just as he reported, was easy, with no signs of traffic, and soon they had gone many, many miles, gradually descending, it seemed to them, more than climbing.
Conversation between riders varied as they swapped places, sometimes Billy riding up ahead with Ashlord, and sometimes falling back to let Sheila ride with him, but always Ashlord in the front, with Ullin riding well ahead scouting the way for safety and sense. But they were not so strung out that they could not hear each other's comments, for the forest was quiet and the clopping of their mounts muffled in the pine straw and humus of the trail.
Most of their talk pertained to their adventure and the ancient things that touched upon their quest. Beras was mentioned, and Sheila asked about the entity, as she had done many times before when she was staying with Ashlord. And the others listened carefully to what Ashlord had to say. The mystic answered, describing how Beras was considered the personification of the Creator, the Great Spirit that ruled over the wide Universe. Beras was merely an expression of the Creator, he told them, as all things were. Beras represented the Intent, the Tendency, and the Will of the Creator. Ashlord was very learned in these matters and struggled patiently to put things in plain words that his companions could grasp.
"And all things that happen are guided by His Hand, though not forced."
"Even what we do?" asked Sheila.
"Of course," Ashlord replied. "If we listen to the truthful voice within that Beras spoke to all creations at their birth and making, we are guided."
Ashlord smiled and went on with his explanation, "We are seeds, in a manner of saying. We do not stay as we are born, do we? And as we grow, we change. And, yet, we are ever as the seed. The passing of each day, and all the events up until the present, are the circumstances, the soil and sun and water of our planting. But we may choose, if we have the strength, to seek a different soil to grow in, a different sun, and fresher water. Is that not why you came to me, Sheila? Because your choice was for something new, something different, better? Likewise, each day, to start again or continue on is our choice. Is that not a kind of Intent? And a kind of Tendency? And by giving expression to it, are we not acting in the way of Beras? Even when our plight seems so dire, as it may seem now, we are ever faced with choices. It may not be easy, but it is right that it should be so. And things often do go amiss, most times out of misunderstanding, sometimes of clumsiness. We should always be careful not to credit to malice those things that are done of ignorance and stupidity."
They all considered Ashlord's words as they progressed through the mountains. Talk turned back again to the ancient things, and recent events that surrounded their present circumstance. Conversation turned to the subject of Tulith Attis and the people who fought at that place, to the lands their own quest might take them, and what the world must have been like before Men came to its shores. They speculated about how the Elifaen may have lived during those ages before Men came, and what they did to fill their days. Ashlord told them once again that the Faerekind were the last to be born into creation, and how they came out of the spirit of other things.
Then it came Robby's turn to ride with Ashlord, in a wider portion of the way that permitted them to ride side-by-side, sometimes bending in their saddles to duck under boughs. After a few words about the trail, and how pleasant the day was, Robby asked about the Elifaen.
"My mother told me a little about what to expect when I go through the change," Robby said. "I don't look forward to it. I take heart from knowing that so many others have done so. But there is so much I don't understand. Like, why? And, how did it all come to be this way? I mean, I've heard tales, we all have, but it's like when I do the books at the shop and the sums don't tally up. Sometimes my mistake is at the beginning, and sometimes in the middle. And sometimes the reason is that I haven't added in or taken away something that my dad knows about but I do not. All this is like that. Except this is no tally-book! Which parts go back to the beginning? And where, in the line of figuring things, are we right now? I have trouble even explaining my confusion!"
"Hm," Ashlord said. "And no wonder! All this is a great deal to ponder, surely, and, as you say, we do not yet know which parts are missing, and which are yet to be filled into the reckoning of things. Our own adventure stems fro
m a line of happenings that goes all the way back to the beginning of all things."
"As you have said before," Robby nodded. "But, for instance, Queen Serith Ellyn. She is Queen of Vanara, the land of the Faerekind. She is not the first ruler of that land, is she? Some say that she murdered her father to become Queen."
"She did not murder her father, Robby, though he died by her hand," Ashlord corrected.
"Was that Aperion?"
"Oh, no," Ashlord chuckled. "Her father's name was Parthais, and his father's name was Cupeldain. They are not related to Aperion. Sometimes, the ruler of Vanara is called 'King of the Faere' or 'Queen of the Faere' by Men, but that is not correct. Only Aperion may hold that title. The correct way is to say that the rulers of Vanara are 'Kings and Queens of the Fallen Ones,' since the true Faere departed the world long ago."
"Yes, as we have been taught and you have said," Robby nodded, "that 'Elifaen' means 'Fallen Ones.' But that confuses me. The Scathing is bound up in all that, as I have heard and been told by you and by the tales I've heard from others. It is even in some of the lesson books I have seen, and that one of the Faerekind may always be identified by the scars of Scathing and so not mistaken for Men. But why did all that come to pass to be as it is today? And what has it to do with Beras, or Aperion, or Queen Serith Ellyn, or any of us?"
"Aperion," Ashlord said, "was appointed by Beras to be King of the Firstborn, the Faerekind. When the world was made, such was the power of Beras that each thing that came into being answered first to Beras and took form in the First Tongue. Through Beras, the Creator gave to these forms the power to witness and to have joy in the emerging creations of the world. So, as the forests grew, there came into the world the Firstborn of the Forest. As the mountains rose up, there also arose the Firstborn of Hill and of Dale. As rivers flowed, so came the singing of the Firstborn of the Rivers. Thus came into the world all the Firstborn of the Faere. Aperion came last, as the spirit of the Faere was strong, and out of their spirit he was created. It was he, Aperion King, whom Beras gave to the Faerekind as their leader, the one to give guidance to the others when need be."
The Nature of a Curse (Volume 2 of the Year of the Red Door) Page 36
