Sir Bertrom had been fighting toe-to-toe with Warwielder Ghat and seemed to have gained the upper hand. The orc captain was moving with a slight limp, his right leg bloodied. But when the named warrior saw Mistress Dagger’s predicament, his concentration faltered.
“Dagger, flee!” he cried.
Ghat smashed Bertrom’s shield aside with a backhand blow and when he spun to strike again, the named warrior raised his sword a fraction too high. The orc saw this and swung low, aiming for the named warrior’s forearm.
The orc’s axe sunk into the flesh of Sir Bertrom’s sword arm, but it didn’t cut through. A named warrior’s right arm couldn’t be broken or severed. His rune protected it. Nonetheless, the impact of the strike spun the man around and the orc kicked out with a spiked boot.
The spike caught Sir Bertrom in the side and pierced his mail shirt. As he staggered away, blood poured from the wound. Warwielder Ghat followed after him, swinging his axe back once more.
“No!” shouted Lucinder. “Stop fighting. I’ll go with you!”
Priestess Sren, who was now standing over Mistress Dagger’s unconscious form, turned her menacing gaze his way. “Silence, boy,” she said and threw something at him.
Lucinder felt a sting in his shoulder and he lost feeling in his limbs. He crumpled to the ground and as his vision faded, he saw Nurse Deena rushing to his side.
When Lucinder woke, he was standing in a room made of polished black marble. Every surface was dark with only small swirls of green and gray. He knew this place. His parents had brought him here once a month every year of his life since he could remember.
The room was lit by a chandelier of burning candles that reflected off of every polished surface. In the middle of the room was a slight depression and at the center of it was a pedestal that held up a wide bowl of purest silver. His parents stood next to the pedestal, watching him with stony expressions. Lying on the floor in front of them, stripped naked, were the still and bloodied bodies of Mistress Dagger and Nurse Deena.
A sob caught in his throat. Those poor women. He shouldn’t have gone with Deena. This was all his fault.
“Father! Mother!” Lucinder said and tried to move towards them but rough hands held him still.
Priestess Sren spoke from behind his ear. “Quiet, boy!”
“Let go of me!” he said, struggling in her grip.
“She said quiet!” shouted Lucinder’s father.
King Karl Drelbach was entering the sixteenth year of his reign and his once black hair and goatee were streaked grey. A dark and solemn look was etched into his angular face. Lucinder noticed that both his father’s gloves were off. The king never removed the glove on his right hand because it exposed his blackened and withered ring finger.
He raised that hand and pointed at the prince. His voice was strained and furious. “You may not have taken part in the planning of today’s treachery, but you are not without blame!”
Lucinder’s mother’s face was just as solemn, but her eyes were tinged red and filled with sorrow. Her lips quivered, but she said nothing.
Priestess Sren propelled him towards the pedestal. Lucinder struggled, but it didn’t matter. He soon found himself standing before the silver bowl. The interior of the bowl was polished silver, but the underside was carved with the shapes of tortured faces. Sitting in the center of the bowl, floating atop clear water, was a shriveled black orb.
“You know what to do,” Sren said.
Lucinder did know. As he had done every month that he could remember, he reached into the bowl and picked up the black orb. At least the voice would understand. He repeated the words he had been taught to say. “I . . . stand ready.”
The Dark Voice rose in his mind. Is that so, Lucinder? Has the time come?
He cried out in pain as an all-powerful force searched forcefully through his mind. The Dark Voice had never treated him this way before. It had always spoken to him as a friend in the past. When the search was over, Lucinder’s head throbbed and the voice spoke to him again. You very nearly are.
“Is he ready, David?” asked Priestess Sren eagerly.
When the Dark Voice spoke again, it filled the minds of everyone in the room. Its tone was exultant. The time is close. I have set plans in motion to retrieve the necessary tools. In just a few short weeks he will be ripe, and I will return!
Priestess Sren cried out in joyous prayer to her god. King Drelbach nodded grimly. Lucinder’s mother, Queen Elise Drelbach, once Queen Elise Muldroomon, looked away, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter Three
Sir Edge - Elemental
Fall came early in the northern reaches of Dremaldria and though the sun had only just begun its westward descent a chill had risen in the air. Edge carried the sleeping child back through the ruined and burning town to their horses. He then wrapped her in a blanket and mounted the horse, sitting her small form in front of him.
As Deathclaw moved to the side of his own horse, the animal shied away. He let out a low hiss of disgust and grasped its reins. Though the raptoid understood the practicality of using such a beast for transportation, and had often done so as situations merited it, he would much rather be afoot. His own feet were something he could depend on while even Academy-trained horses such as this one resisted being ridden by a rider with his particular predatory scent.
“You miss Gwyrtha, don’t you?” Edge teased, sensing the raptoid’s discomfort through the bond.
Deathclaw didn’t bother to deny it. “She could grow large enough to carry us both,” he replied. “She is faster than these horses, and the energy she gives us is invaluable.”
Edge smiled at him fondly, knowing that the raptoid’s desire to have the rogue horse around wasn’t just practical. The two of them had grown as close as siblings. “I miss her too.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Deathclaw growled as he mounted his horse. “You do realize that this mission we have undertaken brings us no closer to finding her or the Prophet.”
“You don’t know that,” Edge replied. “We are here because we were guided by the Creator’s will. John could show up at any time.”
“So you have been saying,” Deathclaw grumbled. “But it has been two years since he ‘borrowed’ Gwyrtha and nothing you have done has helped us find them yet.”
Edge couldn’t argue with the raptoid’s logic. When the Prophet had appeared that day, the horse he was riding had been nearly dead with exhaustion. He had asked Gwyrtha to go with him and since she had been willing to go, Edge hadn’t thought it necessary to ask many questions. After all, John had given no indication that their absence would be a long one.
Edge also hadn’t expected that her thoughts would be cut off from their bond. He couldn’t even tell what direction she was in. The only reason he knew that she was alive and well was because his bond with her was still strong. It was just blocked off.
“We both knew it was a long shot when we set out,” Edge reminded Deathclaw. “All we can do is trust in him to bring her safely back to us.”
“I don’t dispute his trustworthiness,” Deathclaw replied. “It’s his sense of time.”
“True,” Edge said. As far as he could tell, John had been around since the world had been created. He worked on his own schedule and had a definite tendency to show up only at the precise moment he needed to.
Deathclaw wheeled his horse around in the opposite direction Edge was facing. “While you find the child someplace to stay, I will track down our prey and discover just how formidable they may be.”
“Very well,” said Edge and as the raptoid galloped off, he set off on the road towards the next village.
The foothills of the Trafalgan mountains were a dangerous place to live. There was always the possibility of monster raids and only the constant patrolling of the Academy and Dremaldrian soldiers kept the roads clear of bandits. Nevertheless, the soil in this part of the land was fertile and the relative freedom that came from rural life made the
risk worth it to hardy frontier folk.
Those benefits were appealing enough that the region was booming. People staked out land and clustered together forming villages that dotted the countryside, even extending up into the more dangerous areas of the mountains. Generally, the villages were no more than a day’s ride apart. A traveler could ride along these roads and never have to spend a night under the stars.
While Edge rode, he sent a tendril of thought through the network of spirit magic connections that composed the place within himself that he knew as “the bond.” He searched out one connection in particular; the bond between himself and the naming runes on his hands. This connection was different from his others. It had been created by the Bowl of Souls itself. This made it his closest connection to the Bowl and thus, the Creator’s will.
Every named warrior or wizard had this connection. It was the source of the odd promptings that led them to the places the Bowl needed them to be. Over the years, Edge had learned to open himself up to this place. It took a great deal of concentration, but sometimes if he communicated his desires and listened closely, he would receive promptings. They usually weren’t specific, just a general positive feeling when he was going in the right direction. But every once in a great while he would receive a direct impression of what he needed to do.
He and Deathclaw had set out from the Mage School in an attempt to use this connection to lead them to the Prophet. The logic was that since the Prophet used a similar method to decide where to go, they might be able to find him. So far, the method had seemed to work, but not in the way they had intended.
All this connection had done was lead them from one person in need to another. They had spent the last two months traveling across the country of Dremaldria doing a lot of good, but mostly in small ways, slaying the odd monster or escorting people through dangerous areas. Edge found satisfaction in this work, but as far as he could tell, it hadn’t brought him any closer to his goal.
This time, as he listened to his connection to the Bowl, he focused his mind on another question. Where would be the best place to take this child? No sooner had he asked the question than he felt a strong desire to travel in a specific direction. He immersed his thoughts in this feeling and let it guide him off of the main road and down a small but well-worn trail.
It was dusk when he topped a rise in the trail and saw the torchlights of a village in the valley below. He didn’t continue to the village proper though. He turned his horse down a side path that led him along a section of fenced in pasture and up to a rather large farmhouse.
The family that lived here seemed well to do. As he approached, two farmhands armed with axes came out to greet him. He expected that he would need to explain himself, but they took one look at the sleeping child in the saddle before him and led him up to the door of the house. One of them ran inside and by the time Edge dismounted, a woman appeared at the door. She was middle-aged and a cluster of children peeked out from behind her.
“By the gods!” she gasped and hurried down the steps to take the child from him. “Lillian?”
The child stirred at the sound of the woman’s voice and opened her eyes. “Auntie Jane,” she mumbled before falling asleep again.
“She is alright physically,” Edge said. “But she’s seen some horrible things.
“What happened?” the woman asked. “Who are you?”
He showed her the naming rune on the back of his right hand. “I am Sir Edge,” he began.
She lifted one hand to her chest. “Sir Edge, himself, here at my home.” She swallowed. “It must be bad, then. Lillian’s parents?”
“The village was razed to the ground,” he told her. “She was the only survivor.”
The woman squeezed her eyes shut, then nodded and turned towards the house. She called a few older children out and had them carry Lillian inside. She turned back to face him. “And the people who did this?”
“They will be dealt with,” he promised.
“It’s getting dark,” she said. “I have astew in the pot. Please, eat with us and stay the night. We have a spare bunk. You can sleep with the farmhands.”
Edge’s immediate instinct was to refuse her offer, but it had been a long day and he needed at least a few hours sleep if he was to do battle the next day. If he’d had Gwyrtha around, he could have just pulled the energy from the rogue horse’s limitless stores, but that was a luxury he didn’t have.
He accepted her offer. He ate quickly at the long farm table, uncomfortable with the room full of stares directed his way. The people were kind enough not to ply him with too many questions, but as soon as he could, he excused himself and escaped to the bunkhouse.
Troubled by the day’s events, he laid down, twisting the Jharro wood ring on his finger. The living wood was warm between his fingers and he could faintly sense Jhonate’s presence far to the south where she was at the Mage School, helping train the new Academy recruits. Seeing the child’s memories had made him miss her desperately. He wished he could reach her through the ring and speak with her. Unfortunately, the connection that the ring provided wasn’t strong enough to communicate at this distance.
In their sixteen years of marriage, they had rarely been apart this long. He normally wouldn’t have left her side to undertake a quest this nebulous. It was just that she had work to do, while he didn’t. It also hadn’t helped that the curse she was under had made her distant lately, but he wouldn’t admit that fact to himself.
Sighing, he closed his eyes and sent his consciousness into the cloudy whiteness of the bond. He reached through his bond with Fist, but the ogre was already asleep, and he saw no need to wake him just yet. Instead, he approached his link with Artemus.
His hand moved down to the hilt of his great grandfather’s dagger that he kept sheathed at his waist. The cracked naming rune at the base of the pommel was sealed with ice.
When Edge had first discovered the bond between himself and the ghostly elemental that inhabited the scar on his chest, there had been an icy blockage in the bond that kept them from communicating. He had helped his great grandfather overcome the creature that his magic had become and gradually the two of them were able to break down the barriers between them.
Now, instead of a blockage in the bond, there was a door. It was made of solid ice, but carved with a wood-like grain. In order to interact with it, Edge had to visualize a physical representation of himself within the bond. Soon, he was standing before the door and was able to grasp the handle and push it open. The neutral warmth of the bond was hit by a cool blast of air as Edge stepped into the Scralag’s world.
The construct formed by Edge’s own stolen magic was represented as an enormous open cavern. The ceiling far above was covered in icy stalactites. The ground at the entrance to this place appeared to be smooth rock covered in a layer of frost.
When he had first come to this place it had been taken up by a huge maze of ice. Where those towering walls had once stood was now a grove of leafless trees. Their branches were made of icicles, and the multifaced fruit that grew on them was blood red. Standing in the middle of this forest, towering above the trees was the Scralag.
Gaunt, with long pale limbs and long black talons, it stood motionless, passively watching him through beady red eyes deeply set in skeletal sockets. A chill mist radiated from it, giving the grove a ghostly aura. Its jaw hung open and he could just see the pointed blue tip of its tongue through its razor-sharp teeth.
At one time he had been terrified of the spectral creature. The knowledge that such a horrible being was living in his chest had given him nightmares. But that had been years ago. Edge gave the elemental a casual wave as he walked past the trees.
He headed down a paved walkway towards a small cottage that stood in the middle of a field of pale yellow grass. It was a quaint building that looked out of place in this frozen construct. Its walls were made of stone and it had a thick thatch roof. Smoke rose in a lazy trail from the cottage’s single chimney.
>
Edge walked up to the wooden door and knocked twice before stepping inside. The interior of the cottage was a cozy place, a single large room with a fire in the hearth. In one corner was a plush, empty bed. Along one wall was a tall bookcase packed with books. In front of the hearth, in an overstuffed chair, snoozed Artemus.
The old wizard was dressed in a light blue robe embroidered with a series of circular and crescent runes and a knitted blanket lay across his legs. He seemed to have embraced his age. His wrinkled hands were folded over his belly, his fingernails a well-trimmed gray. His hair was brittle and white. He wore an odd beard that stretched from ear-to-ear across his chin but did not touch his lips.
Edge reached out and grasped his shoulder. “Great grandfather Artemus? I need you.”
The wizard’s eyes fluttered open and he snorted awake. “Already? Why how long has it been?”
“A few weeks,” Edge said. “Not since we had to put out that forest fire near Dremald.”
“Is that so?” Artemus said. He stood and dusted himself off, then peered through the cabin’s solitary window, gazing at the Scralag standing in its frozen forest. He stuck out his hand and a small tea cup appeared in his fingers. Steam wafted from the cup and he took a sip. “Well, dear boy, the elemental dozes so I suppose it has been long enough.”
Whenever Artemus expended a great deal of the elemental’s magical energy, the wizard had to undergo a long period of sleep afterwards. If he didn’t, the Scralag’s wild nature began to take over his mind and there was always the danger that it could break free and wreak havoc. It had happened a few times in the past and it was always difficult to get it back under control.
“I assume that you aren’t here simply to talk?” Artemus said. “Have you found John? Is Gwyrtha back?”
“No,” Edge replied. “Unfortunately. We have another problem.”
He sent Artemus a series of memories, showing the old wizard what had happened. “Deathclaw is already tracking the raiders, but from Lillian’s memories I think there will be a great number of them to deal with.”
Sir Edge Page 3
