The Eye of Everfell

by Bard Constantine

  Nyori knew what it was only from the whispers in her mind.

  A Reaver.

  Wicked spikes studded dull black armor covered by a tattered tabard and cape embroidered with ravens. Fiery eyes flared from the visor slit, eyes that radiated all of the fury and hatred that Marcellus fought to control. Against the snowy backdrop with vapor streaming from the tiny holes in the helm, the Reaver looked blasphemous, an irremovable stain standing out against an untouched canvas.

  Leilavin wore a satisfied smile as she circled him, her black-lacquered fingers tracing his armor. Snow melted upon impact against the still-smoldering metal, streams of water hissed to the ground.

  "What have you done?" Nyori could not believe she dared to break the silence, could not believe she brought the attention of the baleful woman upon her. Had she thought Leilavin benign?

  I made a terrible mistake.

  Leilavin's ruby-eyed stare was inhuman; her pupils animalistic. And her presence...it dwarfed everything, a force as old as nature, as malevolent as hatred lying raw in the open.

  "Nyori." The word was a crystal dagger. "I thank you for supplying me with a warded host. Without that, I could never have accomplished this. A Reaver is an invaluable tool. You are fast becoming a worthy apprentice."

  Nyori flinched. "Why did you do this? What is it that you want?"

  Leilavin looked puzzled. "What do I want? Revenge, child. You were there when Alaric attacked my realm. I was tied to it and my Reavers by powerful binds. His attack left me terribly weakened. He freed himself and the akhkharu from my control, but could not free them from their curse. You took care of that when you stole Eymunder from his grasp."

  Nyori stepped forward. Eymunder flashed, clear and shimmering as though she held a spear of ice in her hand. The golden orb blazed like a desert sun.

  "You cannot have him!"

  Leilavin shielded her eyes. "You have learned some things, it seems. Not enough. Without a Tome, Eymunder will be practically useless to you. Just as trying to save Marcellus is useless to you. I have transferred a portion of my essence into him. My will is his will. If you believe that the man you knew is still within my new servant, then speak. I will not bar your way."

  Nyori took a step forward. "Marcellus?"

  The ebon specter said nothing. It did not even look her direction. Nyori stifled a sob as she lifted a hand helplessly.

  Leilavin laughed as she turned to it. "Do you know who you are?"

  "I am your Reaver." Its voice boomed as though from the depths of a deep cave.

  "And whom do you serve?"

  "I serve you, my Mistress." Its head swiveled slowly, as though it searched for something.

  Leilavin smiled. "Yes, you feel it, do you not? You are not yet complete. It will not be long now." She turned and thrust out her hand. "Vergost."

  The darkness rippled from the shadows of the thicket as if transformed into black fluid. An ear-splitting shriek rent the air, and Nyori took a fearful step back as an equine head emerged, followed by a flailing mane and a powerful neck and shoulders. The stench of sulfur hung heavy in the air as vaporous smoke billowed from the specter's nostrils.

  The rest of the horse emerged slowly as a dream until it stood against the snow-filled sky, statuesque as if carved to capture what a god of Death might ride. It was frightfully massive as it stamped and snorted with a rumble like low thunder. The snow was starlight glittering across its gleaming coat, and its hooves were burnished silver that flashed with every step. It gazed at the Reaver with large black liquid eyes as it connected the bond that would complete them.

  "Take a good look, Shama," Leilavin said. "This is Twilight, a Night Mare from Everfell, my domain. She will act as the Reaver's guide, as surely as Eymunder does for you."

  The Reaver grabbed the pommel of the elaborately designed saddle and hoisted itself onto it. Seated on the gargantuan steed, it looked even more ominous and foreboding, an obsidian specter with eyes of flame, ready to do the bidding of Death.

  Leilavin's teeth gleamed from her blackened lips. "You are no longer a man. Your baptism of flame has freed you of your earthly sorrows and needs. You exist to do my bidding. And my will is that you eliminate the akhkharu that poison this world with their existence. Ride forth, and show no mercy. Let the Reaver scourge the Co'nane once again."

  No, Marcellus. Nyori stood paralyzed, frozen in disbelief.

  The black-armored Reaver bowed from its mount, speaking with the sound of distant thunder. "As you command." It wheeled the Night Mare around. The horse shrieked again, rearing up to flail her powerful legs. Vapor exhaled from her nostrils in billowing clouds.

  They streaked across the drifts like an arrow, leaving no mark of their passing. The falling snow swallowed them.

  Nyori stared in stunned silence. This must be a dream; it cannot be real.

  But it was not a dream. Leilavin stood in the white garden, motionless as she gazed at Nyori with glimmering ruby eyes. Snow swirled about, yet shied away from actually touching her. Her feet were planted in a patch of brown grass, though all around her was knee-deep in snow.

  "It is well that you witness this, Nyori. In a way, you made this possible. The ways of warding were lost for ages, taken along with the Aelon when they left this world. I have been severed from that Craft since Alaric destroyed my first Reavers. But to think a mere girl would stumble upon such a thing..."

  Leilavin shook her head wonderingly. "Now one last task remains for you: to lure Alaric into the open. You know by now that he will never rest until he captures the staff. I do not think you will survive when he does."

  She slowly raised her hood over her head, then slid her arms back into her sleeves. Her eyes glowed from her cowl. "Farewell, Shama. We will not meet again."

  Without a backward glance, she walked into the shadows and vanished.

  Nyori slowly knelt as her knees gave out, she would have fallen had it not been for Eymunder. The snow lessened, falling gently as if apologetic for its earlier fury.

  Nyori heard voices behind her, Dradyn and the others calling out. It was too late. Marcellus was gone, almost as if he had never existed. She stared helplessly at the marble statue that loomed over her.

  Though snow had piled on her wings and shoulders, the statue defiantly stared into the unseen, blindly vigilant against the evils that lay hidden in the shadows. The wind moaned through the garden, causing a clump of snow to fall from the marble woman's head and run down her face, leaving tracks of wetness streaming down her cheeks.

  Chapter 26: Alaric

  Alaric sat up, disturbed by the quickly fading sensation of uneasy dreams, cobwebs of darkness that sullied his subconscious mind. The orb lanterns in his room blushed softly with dim light in response to his movements, illuminating his bedchamber in waxen rays.

  Serona stirred beside him, her violet-black hair glimmering as it splayed across her face. She murmured, her face reposed and lovely even in slumber. Sleeping was one of the few things they still did together, something Serona fiercely insisted on. She claimed that their bond would heal in time, optimistic despite the fruitless centuries that followed Alaric's return to Aceldama. Her faith in their love never wavered despite every indication that the sword Mothros had severed their union, leaving them severed halves of one soul.

  Alaric gently stroked her hair, smiling despite the sadness that welled in his chest. It was his fault that she suffered, his choices that stabbed her deeper than any blade could. The solestra bond was supposed to be permanent, with only death able to unravel it. But Alaric had found an exception to the rule when Mothros linked to the fabric of his soul, tearing apart his union with Serona. She had to deal with that loss, fighting to retain the passion and strength of will that defined her. All the while he drifted, fixated only on his obsession in recovering Eymunder once more.

  But it wasn't his guilt over the past that pulled him from the realm of sleep. The feeling was still there, nestled in his mind behind doors he had closed and never
hoped to open again. It was a pulse, a heartbeat that only grew more intense. More insistent. He practically heard the whisper tickle his ear, the venomous murmuring of conquest and retribution. His heartbeat quickened, adrenaline roared through his veins so intensely his muscles quivered from the rush. It had been so long, so many centuries had passed since last he had felt the irresistible pull, the adamant demand to obey.

  Mothros called to him.

  Alaric rose from the rose-colored sea of silk and velvet; unclad save for his loinclothes. Mothros lay in the lowest level of Aceldama, buried as deep as Alaric could manage. On foot, it would have taken him nearly an hour of negotiating elongated hallways and winding staircases before arriving there. But Mothros called, and Alaric was compelled to find a swifter passage. He focused, snuffing the orb lanterns while binding Mental and Aetheric energies together where the gloom was thickest. His Shadowmeld opened; ripples of liquid darkness formed an aperture that he stepped through, immersing himself in clammy blackness.

  The only indication of movement was a quivery rush, the sensation of walking through a wall of wriggling insect legs. Shadowmelding was not without a certain degree of risk, and the feeling was only a harbinger of dangers to come the longer one traveled through the darkness. Fortunately, the distance was not far. The revulsion barely had time to register before it was over; he emerged into an entirely different portion of the palace.

  Where Mothros waited for him.

  The sword was the only thing in the small, rounded stone chamber. It lay across the bars of the simple wooden sword stand like a jungle serpent: cold, beautiful, and poisonous. The scabbard was heavily gilded with silver carvings of dragons, and dragon wings formed the cross guard, the hilt long enough to be wielded with two hands. An obsidian orb centered the cross guard, glassy and black as wet ink. It was the fusorb that made the sword deadly, the source of its parasitic nature.

  Alaric heard its pulse, the whispered resonance that echoed across his mind. The fact that the fusorb reacted in such a manner meant only one thing. He heard the murmur, the deadly harbinger of doom that once again meant the destruction of his people.

  Reaver.

  Reaver.

  Reaver.

  "Alaric, what are you doing?"

  Serona stood a few paces away, her eyes wide with alarm. She undoubtedly sensed the energy he used to create the Shadowmeld and followed the traces to trail him. He sighed, wishing she was spared the sight of his weakness. He knew it only fractured her anew to see him drawn to Mothros, the very thing that had separated them.

  He managed to tear his gaze away from Mothros to look at her. "Contact the Speakers of the Sects, Serona. Let them know that there is to be a Gathering. They are to immediately report to the Blood here in Aceldama. Many issues need to be addressed."

  Serona hesitated at the unexpected command. "Which of the Speakers do you wish to see?"

  "All of them. It has been too long since they have been under my eyes. An old enemy has risen again to threaten their existence. They will need leadership to survive. That leadership must stem from the Blood, not their own misguided interests."

  She gazed at him, then at Mothros lying menacingly on its unadorned sword rack. Her mouth tightened. "Where is this new interest coming from, Alaric? What is it that disturbs you?"

  His head dropped, his eyes fixed on the sword. "It has begun again, Serona."

  "What has begun? Why have you come here, when you know what that thing did to you the last time you wielded it?"

  "There is no choice." Emotion had fled his being, leaving his voice flat and lifeless. "Mothros would only activate if a Reaver entered into this world."

  "A Reaver?" Serona's voice quivered, her hand hesitantly drifted to her mouth. "That's impossible. Their creation requires Elemental properties. Leilavin would have to emerge from her hiding place in Everfell to create another, and we both know that she would never—"

  "She dared," Alaric said. His smile was mirthless when he glanced at Serona. "Leilavin finally found the nerve to take a risk, something you and I know she would not do unless she was sure of the odds." His eyes peered at the stark walls as if he could see through them and spy her out. "But the gamble will have tragic consequences for her."

  "What do you mean?"

  Alaric's gaze drifted back to Mothros, the pulse in his head grew only stronger. "I altered her Threshold when last I saw her. Once activated, it will not open again at her command. She is trapped here, unable to slink back into her protective haven and disappear again. Alert the Legion, Serona. Let them know that their mission is Leilavin and that I want her brought to me alive."

  "Easier said than done," Serona said. "Leilavin has always been deadly, even before Stygan took her under his wing. She will be desperate, and that will mean a high death count for any who try to capture her."

  "The sheer numbers will be enough." Alaric's gaze never left Mothros. He stepped closer, despite every ounce of reason screaming for him to flee the room. "Not even Leilavin is a match for a full assault of the Blood. She will fall, and then she will be brought before me. Give the command, Serona."

  She placed her hands on her hips. Her violet-eyed stare penetrated, reading him almost as if their solestra bond was still in place. "And leave you here with that fusorb? It nearly killed you the last time, Alaric. I remember how you looked when you returned from battling Leilavin. You resembled a corpse. Your body was crippled, your skin nearly transparent. Your hair never returned to its natural color. You should have died, Alaric." She shook her head, her gaze defiantly resolute. "Where your strength came from, no one could explain. But you survived. You came back to us. To me." The glare she directed at Mothros was pure venom. "I won't let it have you again. You should have never bargained for that weapon. It will be the death of you."

  "You speak as if I have a choice." Alaric's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "The decision was made long ago, Serona. I'm sorry you had to pay such a high price for what I chose to do. But were I to choose again, I would do the same. I saved our people from destruction then because I was willing to suffer for their sake." He met her anguished gaze resolutely. "I am again willing to do so now. No matter what the cost. There is no one else who can."

  His hand closed around Mothros' hilt. And like every time before, the rivers of Alaric's soul disgorged, pulling him into the eye of the maelstrom. Power and destruction, life and death whirred about him in the tempest, waiting for him to choose.

  One last time, Mothros whispered.

  One last time.

  Chapter 27: Darvade

  Darvade toted a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other as he strode up the stairway of the Golden Blessing, a luxurious inn on the outskirts of Parand. He stepped to the side as a pair of chambermaids descended, showering him with admiring glances. They could not feel the compelling waves that unconsciously pulled them, the mental stimulation that stroked just the right places in their minds.

  It was second nature for him to always have Coercion focused. Like the others of his Sect, it was a natural gift. Coercion could be strongly focused to compel a person into action, but Darvade found that a light touch was all he needed in most circumstances. The human mind was easily manipulated. It was in their nature to follow their baser instincts, despite their attempts at decorum and civilized behavior.

  He smiled and caressed their soft skin and bare shoulders with his eyes, rewarded by their flushed faces and embarrassed giggles as they passed by. He paused at the top of the stairway for a moment, watching the pleasant roll of their hips as they continued downward.

  Perhaps he would play with one of them another night. He wondered if they had heard the noise from his room. His lovely had been quite loud only a few minutes earlier before she had begged for rest, begged for a drink before she could begin again. The art of lovemaking could be strenuous on one ill-prepared for the challenge.

  Well, the bottle of Runet's finest should do for her, and then they could begin again.
..before he enjoyed refreshment of his own.

  He nudged the door to his room open and smiled at the sight. His lovely had rolled over, her voluptuous form covered by the velvet bedcovers.

  "Turned in so soon, my sweet? The night is still young, and we have much to do before the sun rises."

  The bedcovers were snatched back.

  Darvade's eyes widened. His lovely was not there. In her stead was a dark-skinned warrior in a turbaned headdress. His cloak swirled as he rose; killing weapons swung from his sides. He clutched a uniquely designed crossbow equipped with a rounded cylinder in his fist.

  The attacker's face contorted in rage. "Odji, the only thing you have to do is die." He pulled the trigger. The bolt hissed as it snapped forward.

  Darvade focused Effluvium at that moment. With an earsplitting wail, he dissipated into mist. The bolt passed through harmlessly, striking the wall behind him. More bolts followed, fired from the Huntsman's modified weapon. Darvade would have been impressed by the weapon's design had his life not been in immediate jeopardy.

  His vaporous form swirled across the room unharmed by the deadly darts; his howl swelled throughout the inn. He retained his misty form until he reached the window, where at the crescendo of his blood-curdling scream he solidified, hurling out the window in an explosion of shattering glass.

  The shards flashed around him, and the air whistled as he fell three stories, landing in a shower of glassy debris. He ran almost before his boots hit the ground. Vaporous clouds exhaled from his lungs, but the cold did not touch him as his long hair flailed and his boots pounded the gravelly street.

  He growled a curse when he heard his pursuer land unharmed as well. Heads emerged out the windows from curious lodgers with flickering candles in their hands. Some exclaimed in astonishment, but he ignored them as he bolted down the alley.

  Gravel scattered under his boots as he rushed around the corner. He spotted his companion Godfrey wrapped around a tender young morsel, pressing her softness against the splintery side of the building as his fingers eagerly sought to drain her flesh.