Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  The Vhinesse’s eyes were wary, but she didn’t gainsay him. Moving out with General Merra at her side, Dherran soon heard Delennia’s formidable shout ordering the columns into ranks to come through the barrow. The three wyrrics who had done battle with whatever had been in that pool stood to one side, visibly shaken. The woman with the violet eyes was staring at the water, and as Dherran looked at her, she turned her gaze to him. He shivered, unnerved, suddenly aware of all the skulls lining the cairn staring at him with dead eyes. Dherran could almost see them in her violet gaze – thousands of dead, standing at the walls.

  Waiting for the moment he would join them.

  Setting his jaw, he firmed his resolve. That wouldn’t be his fate today, nor any day soon. Khenria gripped his fingers and he looked down, seeing her beloved face. Those big grey eyes, her fierce cheekbones. She was ready for whatever was coming and so was he. Dherran squeezed her hand. At Arlen’s beckon, they led their horses forward – into the crystal pool.

  With a gut-wrenching, eyeball-popping contortion, they traveled through. Dherran staggered but managed to maintain his balance, holding on to his horse’s lead with Khenria at his side. Dusk choked the evening and as he glanced around, he knew they were in the same city they had glimpsed from the pool. Bog-birds whirred and clicked overhead, flitting from tree to tree in a soaring canopy. A snarling yowl came through the dense forest. Midges whirred around Dherran’s head, the ruined city topped by a shuffling canopy of living green, a rippling chorus of bullfrogs beginning far out in the dense grey-green.

  They’d come out in a rectangular pool at the center of an overgrown, tumbled rotunda. A stone rim only a handspan high surrounded the pool, but as Dherran and Khenria walked their horses out, he saw the water of the pool was pristine, though everything else around them was completely overgrown with vines and rooting trees. Stepping out with only his boots and his horses’ fetlocks wet, they moved to the side. The three wyrrics were soon through with their cats, then Grunnach and his steed.

  In tens and twenties, their allied army began to come through the pool. It took over an hour to put nearly ten thousand warriors, horses, and supplies out into the overgrown city. Campfires were kindled as night fell, kills made by Purloch’s archers now roasting upon spits to feed their host. A blithe mood had taken their forces, having braved the barrow and saved many days of impassable travel and precious time. Songs and Bog-flutes lifted around campfires as men took their rest, far from the creeping unease of the haunted hills.

  Snugging Khenria close as they lounged with their backs against a tumbled stone wall, gazing into the fire as the flutes changed into a somber tune, Dherran suddenly felt a prickling along the back of his neck. It had been assaulting him, on and off, since they had come through. As if someone watched him, as if something called through the depths of the night. Squeezing Khenria’s shoulders, he kissed her forehead, then her lips as she looked up with a question in her eyes.

  “I need to get up for a while. Go walk a bit,” Dherran murmured.

  She nodded, lifting up to kiss him again. “Be careful. Take Yenlia or Bherg or one of Purloch’s archers with you if you go out into the forest.”

  “Sure.”

  Sliding out from beside her, Dherran rose. With a fleeting smile, he turned toward an overgrown arch, ducking through a cascade of vines to leave the tumbled plaza the army was now encamped on. Sliding through the hushed grey-green of overgrown pyramids, colonnaded walkways with no roof, and past cisterns sporting fully-grown trees and ponds of duckweed and pink lotus, Dherran followed the tingling sensation. He thought it would have led him back to the rectangular pool in the rotunda they’d come through earlier, but it led him off to the south.

  His eyes adjusting to the solid night as he moved through the peeping darkness, night-birds whooping calls to each other in the canopy above, Dherran walked through the tumbled ruins. Pushing through tall ferns and cascading vines, he moved through the dead city like a specter. As he gained the rim of the citadel, where the stony plazas suddenly gave out to the forest proper, he saw a shadow sitting upon a low wall in the black-on-black. Dherran had thought this was the source of his tingling sensation, but noticed that his heart was pulling him past whoever lingered upon the wall – into the forest.

  But this shadow had to be dealt with first. Putting a hand to his sword, Dherran crept forward, keeping behind arches as much as he could. But as he neared, a grating, lordly-smooth voice issued from the man upon the wall.

  “Draw no steel, Dherran.”

  Dherran blinked, recognizing Arlen den’Selthir’s voice. Straightening, his hand left his sword as he moved forward to the shadow. “Arlen? What are you doing out here?”

  “Same as you.” Dherran felt more than saw Arlen’s shadow turn toward him. “I feel him. Calling us.”

  “Feel who?” Dherran sidled to the wall, his hackles rising high, unnerved.

  Arlen gave a mysterious chuckle in the dark. “I’ve heard the tale of the coup in the Vhinesse’s throne hall. Delennia told me how her wyrria was pulled by the Rennkavi, enhanced, engaged to do his bidding. Even without binding men, he has a sway, Dherran. The Goldenmarks call us all. I can feel it, same as you. He may not know it, but he’s been calling us, ever since that moment. I feel it – to come and be one with his magic, tingling through my blood as we speak.”

  “Wyrria.” Dherran leaned a hip upon the wall, crossing his arms. “Grump said you have it.”

  “And I do.” Arlen lifted his chin as if scenting the night. “It may not be manifest, precisely, but I feel it, hammering in my heart, enraging my fury as I fight. It’s one of the reasons I train hard, Dherran. Because battle never leaves me. So I make the most of it.”

  “You have a Khehemni ancestor.”

  “A few of them, if the stories in my family are true. The Alrashemni and Khehemni have a far more messy past than any of us would like to admit.” Arlen glanced over, considering Dherran by the wan light of a sickle moon that crept now through the canopy far above. The clouds had shifted, and a fey silver edged the ruins. Dherran could see Arlen’s austere profile, and the outline of shapes in the low wall. It shivered Dherran suddenly, to see that the wall was made entirely of skulls. He shifted his stance with an alert tingle, moving his hip off the wall.

  Arlen gave a low chuckle in the limned darkness, as if he’d read Dherran’s thoughts. “Ask me anything, Dherran. You’ve earned it.”

  Arms still crossed, Dherran pondered that. It felt like ages since they had last conversed this way, in the relative peacefulness of Arlen’s manor in Vennet, training hard by day and learning as much as Dherran’s mind could handle. But life had changed – moved on – in so many ways since that relatively peaceful time. As Dherran felt a tingle seize his neck again, he saw an answering shiver ripple through Arlen.

  “Do you trust Ihbram, and his companions?” Dherran asked, starting with the obvious.

  Arlen gave a hard sigh, his iron-blue eyes piercing in the moonlight. “Ihbram and I go back a long way, Dherran. Nothing he’s done has ever given me reason to doubt him. I know he’s far more than he seems – more than I could ever imagine. But I trust him, and so should you. He has a very good heart, and believes in peace.”

  “What about the Rennkavi?”

  Arlen gave a soft chuckle. “He’s your friend, not mine, Dherran. But I feel his call. And whether that’s a good thing or bad, I can’t rightly say. It could be a curse or a blessing in this upcoming battle. Only the death toll will tell.”

  “Do you think we have a chance?” Dherran murmured, sobered by Arlen’s words.

  He heaved a deep sigh. “I have to believe that we do. Otherwise, my courage would fail and then where would our armies be? But know when I tell you that Lhaurent has assembled a truly annihilating force. We are outnumbered, out-maneuvered, out-wyrria’d. If your friend the Rennkavi cannot work miracles...” His voice drifted off, into a midnight chorus of bullfrogs. But then, Arlen’s gaze shifted to Dherran. Gi
ving him a long, thoughtful gaze, a mysterious smile quirked his lips.

  “What?” Dherran bristled slightly.

  “Khenria’s done well to choose you,” Arlen’s gaze pressed under the wan moon. “As her father, I can’t say I’ll ever be un-protective, especially with all the years I lost not knowing her. But you’ve risen to all challenges with a tenacity and heart that shows who and what you are. You stood firm in the White Palace, against an onslaught I once collapsed under. Your heart has its own wyrria and its righteousness surges in your eyes. I saw it the first day I watched you fight and I see it still. But it’s matured now. Stronger, wiser.”

  Dherran found himself speechless at Arlen’s praise. Praise from the Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir was a rare thing, he had learned. “Heart magic. You saw it in me.”

  With his mysterious smile, Arlen nodded. “Jinne wyrdi is an ancient conundrum. A magic that seldom flows in human veins, and is practically unknown in either Khehemni or Alrashemni bloodlines. It makes the bearer wild and willful with raging passions, but also able to change outcomes in an instant, because of their heart’s truest desire. What will you do with it when your back’s up against a wall? What you’ve always done, Dherran; win. And that’s why, when we join the Valenghian army for this battle – I’d like you to lead the charge.”

  Dherran was stunned as the moon eased behind a cloud above, abandoning the dead city to a dusky shadow. Even as much as Dherran surged with satisfaction to hear Arlen’s words, something else inside him bristled, uneasy. As if a massive presence watched him in the dead city, just as it had in the barrow – turning its head to stare at him with renewed intent. As if destiny had a feel – of darkness that swallowed all light. Taking a deep breath, Dherran felt a heavy weight settle upon his shoulders. Yet, with it came promise. To lead men in battle; to become a fighter worthy of a place at Khenria’s side once all this was over.

  Glancing at Arlen, a black-on-black shadow now, Dherran nodded. “I’ll lead the charge.”

  Dherran couldn’t see it, but he could feel Arlen’s gaze lingering upon him, before he nodded. “So be it. I must head back to our forces, to discuss our upcoming strategy. Are you headed onward tonight?” Arlen nodded his chin at the looming black that rose up before them at the southern edge of the citadel.

  “I am,” Dherran nodded. “If it’s Elohl calling, this feeling we’re having, then I need to go to him. Even if just for an hour.”

  “Do so.” Arlen pushed off the wall of skulls, standing tall. “Have him alert Valenghia that we are here. I will arrive with our commanders to parlay in two hour’s time.”

  Arlen extended his arm. Dherran clasped it, feeling a strange sensation pass between them – like a meeting of equals rather than teacher and pupil. And with that, Arlen turned, slipping off through the black night.

  With Elohl’s strange call prickling his shoulders and the enormous presence watching him in the darkness, Dherran turned to face the forest’s boundary and stepped in. Pulled on through the black, he didn’t have to navigate the midnight forest with his eyes. Threading past the humped ruin of an ancient pyramid in the trees, he moved on. Guided by something he couldn’t understand or predict, Dherran only knew he had to follow, pushing through the forest by the instinct of his heart. It was only a short way. Before a half-hour passed, he found himself upon the edge of the bog, striding out from thinning trees onto a hard-packed plain with tough clumps of sedge-grasses – an abrupt change in the night.

  There were no stars above now, no moon. A seething mass of clouds devoured the deep midnight, red suffusing their underbelly. Dherran realized he had exited the bog near the towers of the Valenghian palisade across the Aphellian Way, watch-fires casting a glow up into the storm-shrouded night. Adjacent to a row of towering Monoliths – some dusky, some luminous – Dherran could see a fluttering crimson command-pavilion limned by torches. Red Valor guards flanked the entrance, their steely eyes searching the dark.

  But Elohl wasn’t there. The tingling sensation called Dherran east, as he moved on in the hushed night, not announcing his presence just yet. The temperature of the camp was tense but ready as he threaded through mess tents steaming with stew and smelling of spice-jerked meat. Soldiers came and went with wooden bowls, or sat dicing upon barrels, not sleeping though the hour was deep. Lightning flickered in the clouds, blooming in rosettes before dying to the torchlight. War-horses whiskered as Dherran threaded through their lines. Reaching a broad field that whispered with tall grass, at the center of which loomed a massive edifice of pale stone, he arrived.

  It was here that Elohl had been calling him this strange night. Moving through the waist-high grass, Dherran felt a sudden charge dig into his body. As if his fighter’s passion had been amplified tenfold, he felt it screw into his nerves and deep into his chest, setting his teeth on edge and tensing his muscles. His entire body buzzed with the unpleasant, though enlivening, sensation. As if hornets raged through his veins, ready to unleash their fury upon the world.

  Dherran shivered as he approached the gargantuan stone edifice. Carven in the shape of a curled-up dragon with a flared mantel of spiked thorns, long spines ran the length of the dragon’s back, its blunt nose snarling with fangs beneath its armored tail. Something about the beast was powerful, eerie, and explosive like Ghreccan fire-cannons. Every hair on Dherran’s body stood up as he neared, until finally he saw a shadowy figure sitting cupped in the dragon’s front talons.

  The figure rose. Clad in crimson, he seemed like a Valenghian soldier, but as Dherran stepped close, he saw no shirt beneath the man’s leather jerkin. It was unbuckled at the collar and chest, baring a rippling, incandescent light to the darkness. The simmering beauty of those marks caught Dherran’s breath, mesmerizing.

  “Dherran.” Elohl’s low voice aroused Dherran from his reverie.

  “Elohl.” Moving forward, Dherran suddenly felt at a loss. Unsure of how to greet his friend, who was so much more than he’d once been, Dherran paused, then extended a hand. Elohl glanced at it as a wistful smile quirked his lips. Reaching out, he clasped Dherran’s proffered wrist.

  “Do we know each other so little now?”

  “Seemed odd to take you up in a bear-hug,” Dherran spoke, “being what you are now.”

  “Rennkavi.”

  “I suppose.” Dherran shifted, restless, the prickling sensation still sluicing over him. “We’ve got a backup force inside the northern Bog, Elohl. Kingsmen, Bog-folk, Elsthemi, Red Valor, defected Menderians – some ten thousand strong. When it’s time to do battle, we’re here for you. The commanders are coming to parlay in another hour or so.”

  “I know.” Elohl’s smile was haunted.

  “You know?” Dherran startled.

  “Ghrenna told me.”

  “Ghrenna—” Dherran swallowed, an urge to run pouring through his veins suddenly. It was primal, the feeling predators get when they realize something stronger than they has flown overhead. “She told you of our movements? Of our allied army?”

  “Ghrenna sees far these days,” Elohl’s Goldenmarks gave a stunning ripple in the night.

  Dherran chuckled, trying to be easy but his hackles rising high, spooked. “You two against the world, huh? Just like you always were... with more wyrria now, I guess.”

  “I guess.”

  A haunted silence stretched between them. Dherran shifted again, unease pouring through him. But seeing his friend standing there, still so much the Elohl he had known, even though he wasn’t anymore, Dherran’s heart surged. No matter how much power he had, no matter how much wyrria, Elohl was like a brother to Dherran, and the ease of family and love suddenly warmed Dherran. His prickling sighed away beneath that glow, and he took a deep breath, speaking from his heart.

  “Elohl. When this is all over, I’d like to catch up. I know it seems trite, everything we’ve been through these past ten years, but... I’d like to have an ale. To put down all these dire things we’ve become and just talk. I know I was never one
for expressing myself, except with my fists, but... you mean a lot to me. You were my best friend. Maybe I didn’t value your friendship back then, not like I understand friendship now. But I’d like to have a chance to know the man you’ve become. Beneath all—” he waved his hand at the flowing marks, “those.”

  “I’d like that.” Elohl’s baritone was hushed upon the storm-wind that rippled the dry grass. But Dherran saw the small smile that lifted Elohl’s lips at the corners, a rare thing that truly expressed what he felt. “When this is all over, we’ll have an ale, just the two of us. Before Ghrenna and I set out to find a little farm in the mountains.”

  “Going for the farm-dream?” A true smile lifted Dherran’s face at last, bolstered by the glow in his heart. “I guess some things don’t change. Think you’d be happy milking cows and herding goats the rest of your days?”

  “I know I would be.” Elohl’s level gaze gave Dherran a chill. As if specters danced across his grave, laughing at the life a fighter could never have.

  “Think we’ll live long enough to get peace, Elohl? Milk cows and curly-haired little brats?”

  Elohl’s lips quirked more, a wry humor in his dark eyes, though Dherran could feel the wave of deep ease that flowed out from Elohl upon a surge of his luminous inkings. “Cut the shit. You’d never be happy in a quiet life. You’ll be a fighter to the end of your days, Dherran. You always were.”

  Elohl’s words hit Dherran like a punch in the gut. Perhaps he hadn’t meant it to be sobering, but the smile slipped from Dherran’s face as a heavy sensation settled upon his shoulders. As if Elohl had pronounced Dherran’s death, Dherran found himself recalling Elyria’s dire words as a flare of heat-lightning flickered in the black morass above, a brisk storm-wind rippling the grass.

  “And you always were a lover,” Dherran murmured, feeling something bleak eating through his heart. “But only the poets will sing our fate. For lovers and fighters both bleed when the horn of war calls.”