Stalking Darkness

by Lynn Flewelling

  As Rhal had observed, much of the coastline was ledge or cliff. The boom of the surf echoed back at them across the water and they could see the spume thrown up by the breakers. Great blocks of reddish granite shot through with bands of black basalt lay in tumbled disorder between the water and the trees above.

  As far as the eye could see the land looked desolate and uninhabited. Dark forest blanketed the hills. Higher up, the stark, stony peak of the mountain rose forbiddingly against the evening sky. The setting sun behind them cast a thick golden light over the scene, enhancing briefly the color of water, sky, and stone. Great flocks of sea ducks and geese floated on the swells just beyond the pull of the breakers. Overhead, gulls uttered their whistling calls as they circled and dove.

  “I never thought I’d be setting foot on Plenimaran soil,” Micum remarked, steering them closer in. “I’ve got to admit, it’s nice-looking country.”

  The sun sank lower. Kneeling in the bow, Seregil squinted intently at the harsh shoreline.

  “I think we may be spending the night out here,” Micum said, steering them past a rocky point.

  “You may be— Wait!”

  The forest was thick here, but he caught the distinct yellow flicker of firelight in the shadow of a cove. “Do you see that?”

  “Could be a campfire. What do you say?”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Steering into the cove, they discovered a tiny, sheltered beach at its head. Above the tide line, a large fire crackled invitingly, illuminating the thick tangle of evergreens that edged the shingle.

  “It looks more like a signal fire,” whispered Micum, tacking just off shore. “Could be fishermen or pirates.”

  “Only one way to find out. You stay with the boat.”

  Slipping over the side into the hip-deep water, Seregil drew his sword and waded ashore.

  The beach lay at the head of a deep cleft in the surrounding ledge, making an oblique approach impossible, and the slanting evening light lit it like a stage. The shingle was made up of small, wave-polished stones that crunched and rattled under his boots as he continued up toward the fire.

  I might just as well tie a bell around my neck, he thought uneasily, picturing archers tracking him from the ledges and swordsmen in the thickets.

  But the cove was peaceful. Standing still, he listened carefully. Over the sigh of the wind, he heard the mournful music of doves and white throats in the woods, the clacking croak of a heron stalking the shallows somewhere nearby. No one was disturbing them.

  Encouraged but wary, he crunched up the shingle to the fire. There was no sign of habitation, no packs or refuse. As he came nearer, he realized with a nasty start that the flames were giving off no heat. It was an illusion.

  A branch snapped in the forest and he crouched, bracing for ambush. A tall, spare figure stepped from the trees.

  “Here you are at last, dear boy,” a familiar voice greeted him in Skalan.

  “Nysander?” Still wary, Seregil remained where he was as the wizard pushed back his hood. Dressed for traveling, Nysander wore an old surcoat and loose breeches, and his faded cloak was held at the throat with the worn bronze brooch he always used.

  As he came forward into the light, Seregil let out a startled gasp. Even in the ruddy light of sunset, Nysander looked ghostly. His face was the color of bone and more deeply lined than ever. Worse yet, he looked shrunken in on himself, diminished, like the gnarled caricature of an old man carved in fresh ivory. Only his bright eyes and the familiar warmth in his voice seemed to have come back to him intact.

  The surprise of their unexpected meeting left Seregil wary of illusion, however. Quelling the impulse to embrace his old friend, Seregil kept his distance and asked, “How did you find us?”

  Nysander made a sour face. “That blood charm you left with Magyana, of course. It took some managing and magic, but here I am.”

  Sheathing his sword, Seregil gave the old man a joyous hug. “I knew you’d do it, but by the Light, you look awful!”

  “As do you, dear boy,” Nysander chuckled.

  Micum hauled the boat in and ran up the shingle to join them.

  “You mean to say you were here waiting for us?” he cried, looking Nysander over in wonder. “How did you know? And why didn’t you send us a message by magic?”

  “All in good time,” the old wizard sighed, sinking down on a driftwood log and waving the illusory fire out of existence. “I must admit, I am equally relieved to see you. I feared I might have missed you after all.”

  “Do you know anything about Alec?” Seregil asked hopefully, sitting down beside him.

  “No, but you must not despair,” Nysander told him, patting his shoulder kindly. “If he were dead, I would know it. The force of the prophecy is binding us closer with every passing day.”

  Micum kicked together a pile of driftwood sticks and fished a firechip from a pouch at his belt. “Well, I haven’t had any great visions or dreams, but the more I see of this business, the more I believe it. By the Flame, Nysander, look at you. How can you have gotten here at all?”

  “Look at me, indeed,” Nysander replied rather ruefully. “One does not return from such a journey as the dyrmagnos sent me on without showing a bit of wear. But there was some value to it. While my body healed, my mind floated free among dreams and visions. I believe I know how to find the temple we seek. It is marked by a large white stone surrounded by black ones. And it is near the sea.”

  Disappointment settled in Seregil’s belly like a bad dinner. “That’s it? You’re telling me in all the hundreds of square miles around that mountain we have to find one rock?”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Micum noted, echoing his skepticism.

  Yet Nysander appeared perfectly complaisant. “We will find it,” he assured them. “It does not guarantee our success, but we will find it.”

  “I’ve been having dreams of my own,” Seregil told him.

  “You’ve done more than that,” Micum snorted. “Show him your chest.”

  Seregil peeled off the bandage and showed Nysander the crusted yellow scab that had formed around the scar. “It must be some kind of sign. Leiteus claimed this was the night the comet would appear.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Nysander agreed. “Whether it is an omen of good or ill remains to be seen. What was your dream?”

  Seregil picked up a knife-shaped stone and rubbed it between his hands. “I can never remember much of it, just the image of a figure with a misshapen head looking down at me through water while I drown. Isn’t there something you could do to sort of pull more of it out of me?”

  Nysander shook his head. “I must conserve both my strength and my magic. What little I have was hard-won and will be needed for what lies before us now. Even the fire I used to signal you was from a spell Magyana made for me. As for the dream, it must be some sort of preparation for the task ahead.”

  Micum ran his hands back through his thick red hair and sighed. “Do you think you could be a bit more specific?”

  Nysander nodded. “Before the attack on the Orëska I hoped I would never have to tell you. Afterward, I was unable to.

  “As Seregil has told you, there is a prophecy which names four persons, the Guardian, the Shaft, the Vanguard, and the Guide. I am the Guardian, and have been since the days of my apprenticeship with Arkoniel. What we have guarded, there below the Orëska House, was a fragment of a necromantic object called the Helm of Seriamaius.”

  “The bowl,” Seregil interjected.

  Nysander glanced at him in surprise. “How on earth did you learn that?”

  “More visions,” said Micum, tossing wood on the fire. The sun was disappearing into the western sea, leaving the stars spread like a diamond veil above them.

  “Yes, it was a bowl,” Nysander went on. “And then Seregil and Alec brought me the wooden disk. Just before the Festival of Sakor, I sent Seregil after a third object, a crown which had been hidden deep in the Ashek mountains. He knew at
once, both by the condition of the bodies of sacrificial victims he found there and the evil magic that surrounded it, that it was related to the disk. However, I told him nothing and swore him to secrecy. Not even Alec knew.”

  “I still don’t see how you’d get any sort of helmet out of those odds and ends,” said Micum.

  “Their appearance hides their true form. A powerful protective glamour was placed on them by the necromancers who created them. Who would guess, even having all the pieces in hand, that a lopsided clay bowl, a crystal crown, and a handful of wooden disks could be parts of a common whole?”

  “What does it do, when it’s all put together?”

  “It was created to channel the power of the dark god. No one knows how long it took to forge the different elements, or what magicks were used. It first appeared near the end of the Great War, when it was assembled and placed on a man they called the Vatharna, or chosen one. Fortunately, the wizards of Skala and Aurënen overcame the first Vatharna before he had the opportunity to fully manifest the magic of the Helm.”

  “You mean to say that this Vatharna of theirs would eventually have all the powers of their death god?” asked Micum.

  “No one knows what the extent of its abilities might have been, but there is evidence that even in the short time it existed, the Helm granted its wearer terrible necromantic power. If it had not been dismantled when it was, I doubt anyone could have overcome it.”

  Seregil shook his head slowly. “Then those old tales of walking dead, armies of them, were true?”

  “It is likely there is at least a kernel of truth in them.”

  “You said dismantled, not destroyed,” Micum noted.

  “So it was, to the great sorrow of subsequent generations. The wizards managed to reduce it to its component parts, but before they could learn how to destroy them, Plenimaran forces attacked to reclaim them. When it was clear that the Skalan position would be overrun, six wizards were chosen to flee with the pieces and hide them. Only one was ever seen alive again.”

  “The one who took the bowl,” said Seregil.

  “Reynes í Maril Syrmanis Dormon Alen Wyvernus. It was he who eventually created that chamber in the lowest vault of the Orëska, and he who passed the onus of Guardianship down to his successor, Hyradin, who passed it to Arkoniel, who passed it to me. Neither the Queen nor the Orëskan Council ever knew of its existence there. Any who tried to learn their secret were killed.”

  “These Guardians didn’t even trust the other wizards?” said Micum.

  “Who could be trusted with such knowledge? The Empty God understands nothing better than the dark corners of a mortal heart. Fear, pity, remorse, greed, the lust for power—these are the Eater of Death’s most potent weapons.”

  “Did Thero know?” asked Seregil.

  “No, he was not ready for such knowledge.” Nysander rested a hand on Seregil’s shoulder. “Part of my grief in losing you as an apprentice was the knowledge that you would have been such a worthy successor. From the day I took you on, I knew in my heart that you were capable of assuming the burden. When you could not learn the magic, I was devastated. But now I see that I was not mistaken about your worthiness, only about the role which you were destined to play. What you learned after leaving me, the life you went on to, it all prepared you to be the Unseen One.”

  Seregil scowled. “You think the gods made me a thief and a spy, just so I could steal the disk from Mardus? You think my whole life means nothing more than this one task? I refuse to believe that!”

  “No, not entirely,” Nysander said. “You recall me telling you that there is always a Guide somewhere, and all the others of the prophecy? Perhaps your life would have been no different if the Helm never existed, but being what you are, you are the Guide. I have speculated on it many times over the years, but it was only after you brought me the disk that I truly began to believe. When you were also able to snatch the crown away from the Plenimarans, I prayed that it was simply good fortune, that by being vigilant I could keep all the fragments out of Mardus’ hands and prevent the restoration.”

  “Then you knew about Mardus already?”

  “Only that he was a bastard relation of the old Overlord, a noble of tremendous ability and ambition, and one of Plenimar’s most formidable spies. Now I suspect he means to make himself Vatharna.”

  “He sounds like the right man for the job,” Micum said, scowling. “But you still haven’t told us where this prophecy of yours came from, or what it says.”

  “No one but the Guardians have ever heard it, or were ever meant to,” Nysander replied solemnly. “While still a young man, the second Guardian had a dream vision which has been passed down from one Guardian to another ever since as our greatest source of hope. ‘The Dream of Hyradin’ is this: ‘And so came the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death, to strip the bones of the world. First clothed in Man’s flesh it came, crowned with a dread helm of great darkness. And none could stand against this One but a company of sacred number.

  “ ‘First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen One, goes forth.’ This same prophecy names the Pillar of the Sky, and speaks of a temple there.”

  “That gives us about as much to go on as your rock dream,” Micum grumbled.

  But Seregil felt a sickening chill pass through him, recalling the visions he had experienced when in contact with those pieces—the scenes of death and choruses of agony. “Then everything Mardus has done since Alec and I ran into him up in Wolde—the disk, Rythel and the sewer plot, the attack on you—it’s all leading to him bringing all the pieces together again?”

  “Of course, and bringing them together at the correct time and place. The time is during a solar eclipse five days from now.”

  “We’d guessed that already, after talking to your astrologer friend,” said Seregil.

  “Well done. Now that the three of us are together again, we must find the temple and see where the gods lead us from there. This time the Helm must be destroyed completely, and to accomplish that we must allow it to be reassembled—”

  “What?” Seregil sputtered.

  “It is the only way we can be certain that every fragment is accounted for,” Nysander went on. “Arkoniel himself believed it was the only possible course of action and I believe he was right. If the knowledge passed down from Reynes í Maril is correct, then it takes a certain amount of time for the power of the Helm to gather itself, and more time for it to increase to its full potential. Therefore, once it has been reassembled we will have some brief moment of opportunity to strike. As the Guardian, I charge you both by your life and honor to strike whatever blow necessary to destroy the power of the Helm. Will you swear to that?”

  “You have my oath on it.” Micum extended his hand. Nysander took it and they looked to Seregil.

  He hesitated, still toying with the beach stone, as an inexplicable ripple of misgiving went through him.

  “Seregil?” Nysander raised an eyebrow at him.

  Shrugging off his apprehension, Seregil tossed the stone aside and covered their hands with his own. “You have my word—”

  As soon as his hands touched theirs, a sharp stab of pain lanced through his chest like an arrow shaft. Gasping, he pressed a hand over the scar.

  Pushing Seregil’s hand aside, Micum opened his coat and gently pulled the bandage off. “You’re bleeding again,” he said, showing Seregil and Nysander fresh blood on the linen dressing.

  “It’s nothing,” Seregil rasped. “It must have broken open when I moved.”

  “Look there!” Nysander exclaimed, pointing up at the night sky.

  A distant streak of red fire had appeared against the white band of stars to the east.

  “Rendel’s Spear!” Micum exclaimed.

  They gazed up at the comet for a moment in silence, then Nysander said softly, “The necromancers call it by a different name.”

 
“Oh? What?”

  “Met’ar Seriami,” the wizard replied. “The Arm of Seriamaius.”

  43

  MOVING NORTH

  “Met’ar Seriami!”

  Framed against the last light of sunset as he stood on the forward battle platform, Mardus swept a hand toward the fiery scintilla just visible above the eastern horizon. A victorious cheer went up from his men.

  The throng assembled on the nearby shore echoed the cry, waving torches and shooting flaming arrows into the air over the cove. Drums throbbed out in the darkness.

  Even before being brought on deck, Alec was uneasily aware of changes in the ship’s routine. First, Mardus had foregone their walk that morning. Then the guards had brought Alec a long tunic, the first clothing he’d had since his capture. As the interminable day wore on, he felt the motion of the ship change and guessed that they were nearing the Plenimaran coast. He was proven correct that evening. When he and Thero were finally brought on deck, the Kormados was riding at anchor off a desolate shore. Desolate, but not uninhabited. There was an encampment of some sort, and he could see black uniformed men hailing the ship excitedly.

  On board, Alec sensed an air of expectation. Everyone seemed to be watching the eastern horizon as the sun set. Finally, the comet appeared with the stars, a red point of light clearly visible below the waxing moon, and the great shout went up.

  Standing under guard on deck, Alec leaned closer to Thero and whispered, “Look there. A plague star! Do you see it?”

  “Plague star for you, maybe!” Captain Tildus scoffed disdainfully. “For us great sign. Lord Mardus and voron had say there should be such sign tonight.”

  “What did Mardus say just now—‘Mederseri’?” Alec asked.

  “Met’ar Seriami.” Tildus searched for the words in Skalan to explain. “It is ‘The Arm of Seriami.’ A very great sign, I tell you before.”

  “Seriami? What I call Seriamaius?” A vague sense of dread gripped Alec as Tildus nodded. “Aura Elustri mal—”

  “Shut that,” Tildus growled, seizing Alec roughly by the arm. “Your madness gods don’t be here. Seriami eat hearts of the false ones.”