by Robert Evert
Edmund froze.
He knows!
“I . . . I, I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said too quickly to be convincing.
“Yes, you do. You are a Maûa. But do not worry. If it is a secret, nobody will learn it from me.”
“A . . . a . . . Maûa?”
“Users of what your kind calls magic.”
My kind . . . ?
“I am one of sorts as well, but that is no secret to any here. It is the reason why I am being imprisoned.”
Edmund coughed and retched again, but his stomach had nothing left to purge.
“And you? Your guards mentioned something of a task they would like you to perform.”
“You’re, you’re a . . . a magic user?” Edmund asked, lowering his voice.
“Indeed, though not a purebred. I was an alchemist in my youth. So I understand well what happens if you invoke an incantation more frequently than your mind can handle. But perhaps losing consciousness was what you had intended.”
You shouldn’t be talking to him, whoever he is. He could be a goblin or a spy!
“What is your discipline? Are you a healer?” the person in the neighboring cell asked.
“Discipline?”
Don’t tell him a thing. This is a trap!
“The Maûan path you undertook. I assumed you were a healer, but given how easily you were overcome by such a minor incantation, perhaps that supposition was an erroneous one.”
I have to get out of here . . .
Edmund reached above his head. He couldn’t feel any ceiling to his cell. He jumped up. He still couldn’t feel a ceiling.
Ask him questions. Get him off the topic of magic. Find out who he is!
“You, you mentioned a . . . a name, Kar-Nazar,” Edmund said, pacing the five feet that separated each wall, his hands searching for something he might have missed. “Have you heard his voice?”
There was a disgusted grunt. “Yes, I have heard his voice. I hear it whenever I let sleep take me. He has other names that you might have heard. Your people call him Konge Spøkelse in Dunael—the Undead King in the common tongue.”
Edmund choked, but not on the stench around him.
The . . . the . . . Undead King?
Impossible!
“You’re . . . you’re . . . joking. Iliandor vanquished him. He killed him!”
“Vanquish means to completely subdue in battle,” the voice replied, “which is inaccurate. At the most generous analysis, they fought to a draw, though victors of battles are rarely revealed until well after the histories are written. As for killed, that is obviously an error. Did Iliandor say he killed Kar-Nazar? That would be a bold statement even for his ilk.”
Edmund opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words.
He’s lying. All of this is just a lie. He’s testing you. Trying to confuse you.
“What is your name?” the voice asked. “Or what would you prefer that I call you? Hopefully we will be together for a while; I enjoy the company, though it never lasts as long as I would like.”
“N-n-never, never mind that,” Edmund said. “What makes you think that the Undead King is alive?”
“What makes you believe that he is dead?”
“I, I have read . . . numerous, hundreds, of first-hand accounts of the Battle of the Ice Fields . . . all in their original texts!”
“Read? Well that is promising.”
“And how could this Kar-Nazar person still be alive if he were the Undead King? The final battle with Iliandor and his knights was 481 years ago.”
“Indeed? Interesting.”
“He can’t be alive,” Edmund reasserted. However, part of him had begun considering the horrific possibility. “He can’t be!”
“First of all, there are many things under the sun and stars that live well beyond 481 years. Trees for one. The great sea turtles are another. In fact, many of the Hiisi live well over five hundred years, the women especially, though they are few in numbers. To many, 481 years is merely a blink of the eye, as is the case with Kar-Nazar.”
“Impossible!”
“Then why do your people call him the Undead King if not due to the length of his existence?”
He can’t be alive. He can’t be the same one.
Then how did he have Iliandor’s Star?
Edmund touched the Star again.
None of this makes any sense.
The voice went on. “I envy your predilection for reading. It is a feat that I will never again undertake, I am afraid. It is one of the many things that I miss about my previous life. Perhaps you can share with me some of what you have read. Boredom, as you will learn, is the most effective torture of our hosts.”
“It’s impossible,” Edmund repeated, more to himself than whomever was in the darkness with him. “He can’t be the Undead King.”
“‘Impossible’ is a word of a closed mind.”
Iliandor slew the Undead King. He knocked him to the ground, took his dagger, Narcrist, and drove it into the Undead King’s throat. He chopped his head off and left it on a pike, just like the Undead King did to Iliandor’s father—
“Am I correct in assuming that you have only read accounts from your countrymen?” the voice asked. “Or have you read authors with other perspectives?”
“Other perspectives?”
“Yes, the Hiisi, for example. They have a lengthy literary tradition. Prior to your people coming to this continent, they had extensive libraries and institutions of learning. Scribes were prized more highly than warriors.”
Edmund snorted. “The goblins? Impossible.”
“I would appreciate it,” the voice said with some pain, “if you would not use that word. And it is becoming increasingly evident to me that you are not as educated as I had hoped.”
A faint burbling sound echoed above them.
None of this makes any sense. Iliandor killed the Undead King. How else would the war have ended? Iliandor came back—
Iliandor came back dead and whomever this Kar-Nazar is, he had Iliandor’s Star.
Edmund touched the gem on his brow. Its smooth surface seemed to be slightly warmer than before.
“If you do not wish to entertain the things that I say,” the voice said, “that is your prerogative. I had hoped for an enlightening discussion. It has been a long time since I had one.”
The burbling grew louder.
“However, if you wish to find my knowledge of any value to you, I suggest that you move against the wall of your cell and do not peer upward.”
“What? Why?”
Edmund looked up, mouth slightly open. A wave of sewage fell on top of him, driving him to the metal grate. For a moment, he was pinned to it, unable to move as the torrent of feces and waste pummeled him from above.
When the assault was over, the voice spoke. “You peered upward, didn’t you?”
Getting to his knees, Edmund spit repeatedly. He wiped his mouth, only to realize that his hand, indeed every part of him, was covered with fecal matter, urine, and heaven only knew what else. He kept spitting.
“I have met many of your people over my lifetime,” the voice said. “Their reputation for stubbornness is well earned. If you wish to survive here, I advise that you attempt to acquire what others have already learned rather than attempting to discover everything by yourself.”
Edmund spit some more. He drew his hands across his face, but merely replaced the sewage that was on his face with the sewage on his hands.
“Are you harmed?” the voice asked.
“How—” Edmund began and spit some more. “How often, how often does that happen?”
“Every three days or so.”
He shook himself like a miserable dog. “Ugh!”
“It will get a lot worse. Whatever reason they have you here, they mean to make you suffer. Would you accept another piece of advice?”
“Yes . . . yes, by all means. Please.”
“Do not lean up against the walls fo
r extended periods. Vihrea’s Gift grows on it, it’s an alga that is noxious to humans. Further, the water will eventually rot your skin away.”
Edmund sat up and moved back to the center of his cramped cell, spitting repeatedly. “What, what . . . what else can you teach me?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“They will be coming for you soon, Edmund,” Vorn, the voice in the darkness, said.
How many days had passed in the lightless bowels of the mountains? Edmund could not say. Vorn claimed that it had been twenty-seven. Edmund had to trust his judgment. Time didn’t penetrate the utter blackness around him. Periodically goblin guards brought him food and water, but he had lost count of their intermittent visits.
“Do you have a plan?” Vorn asked.
“I think so,” Edmund replied. However, the only plan that he had was to prevent the goblins from taking him and putting a rat cage over his head. He figured that if they couldn’t get him out of his cell, he’d be safe. Even if they stopped giving him the salty, blood-like stew that they slipped under his door, he’d survive on the biscuits and handfuls of water that he could create on his own.
You can’t stay in here forever. You have to try to escape.
Yes, but how? I need time to think.
All you’ve had is time to think. You have to do something!
“You do not seem overly interested in solving the riddle you found. Is that a fair appraisal?” Vorn asked.
It’s not a riddle. It’s meaningless.
“I try not to think about it. It makes no sense to me.”
“I am relieved. But I am afraid that they will make your last days beyond miserable if you do not arrive at a satisfactory answer. They have not even begun to torture you.”
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Things can’t get any worse.
They could burn out your other eye. Then think about your situation. You’d never get out of here. They wouldn’t even need to keep you in a cell. They could have you crawl around, feeling your way like a blind dog.
Edmund thought about this. Then something Vorn had said struck him. “Wait. Wh-why, why are you relieved? About the riddle, I mean.”
“I do not want Kar-Nazar to have the answer.”
“Why? Do you know what this is all about? Do you know what’s going on?”
“I do not know the answer to your riddle,” Vorn said with a slight hesitation. “And, like you, I do not want to know. But I understand Kar-Nazar all too well. No good will come from him having what he seeks.”
“I don’t understand,” Edmund said with increased urgency. “What does he want? What’s this all about? I mean, why is this so important to him? It’s just a bunch of meaningless words . . . isn’t it?”
There was a silence, broken only by the dripping of water and the sloshing of sewage in the tunnels below them.
“Edmund,” Vorn said from his cell. “How much do you know about Iliandor and his military victories over Kar-Nazar during their last war?”
“A great deal! That is, I . . . I mean, I have read extensively about all aspects of Iliandor’s life. He, he’s a hero of mine. I even have his personal diary.”
“You have Iliandor’s diary? Fascinating. I am sure that Kar-Nazar would covet such a prize. You might not wish to reveal that fact to him.”
“Actually, he has a copy that I made many years ago. He said his spies acquired it, though I’m not sure how. But get back to what you were saying about Iliandor and the riddle. What does all of this mean?”
“Kar-Nazar has a copy of a manuscript that you transcribed?”
“What’s this all about?” Edmund begged. “Please . . . tell me.”
“It seems to me, Edmund, that your life has been intertwined with Kar-Nazar’s for some time. It is as if many threads of history are coming down to meet at one point. I am afraid that you are very near its center.”
He knows something.
“Please,” Edmund repeated. “What’s going on? Why is he doing this to me?”
“Are you familiar with the Battle of Tor’ Age?” Vorn asked.
“No. What does that have to do with me and the diary . . . and the riddle?”
“Perhaps your people call it something else. I am sure you know the battle, it is where Kar-Nazar’s fortunes began to turn and his attempts to reclaim the lands you inhabit began slipping through his fingers.”
“Are you talking about the Battle of Endris Haflen? Where Iliandor and his thirty-two knights arrived as the town was being overrun?”
“Perhaps, but Iliandor had more than thirty-two knights with him at the battle to which I am referring. But let me pose this question to you. Why do you think that Iliandor was able to tactically defeat Kar-Nazar? Kar-Nazar’s forces were several times larger and better trained. They were experienced, battle-harden warriors. Yet, they were defeated by Iliandor, his personal guards, and a relatively small army of peasants from the countryside. How?”
“It was because of Iliandor’s leadership, his military genius—”
“Iliandor was a fool. His military genius consisted of becoming surrounded and fighting for as long as he was able.”
“He wasn’t a—” Edmund began.
Don’t argue. Just get the answers. You need to know what the hell all of this is about!
“The reason why Iliandor and his knights fared so well in battle,” Vorn said, “was because of his armor and weaponry. Somehow, whether through magic or design, he had learned of a method of producing an alloy that, among other things, was far superior to anything that Kar-Nazar has ever constructed. His shields could not be broken. His armor could not be pierced. His swords would slice though the armor of the Hiisi as if it were straw. The only way any of Iliandor’s knights were ever defeated was if they became too exhausted to fight, or if enough Hiisi could throw themselves on them while somebody stabbed them through their visor.”
Unbreakable alloy?
“How do you know this? I haven’t heard of any such—”
Father’s sword!
“Why would you? Certainly it was Iliandor’s greatest secret. Imagine if word got out that his legendary victories were not due to his leadership or genius, as you believe, but because of the quality of his material. Imagine how even his friends would attempt to acquire his secret, even at the point of a blade. What would a human king or lord give to have an entire army clad in Iliandor’s metal? Who could defy them? No. He needed to keep the alloy secret.”
The smoky steel . . . Remember how it cut through those bushes? It passed through them like nothing!
“You’re an alchemist,” Edmund said, remembering aloud. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I mean, why you’re being punished. The Undead King wanted you to figure out how Iliandor did it, how he created his weapons, his armor. And you couldn’t!”
“You are very insightful. Now you are beginning to understand my thread in this web.”
“Tell me, these weapons, this alloy that you are talking about . . . did it have a d-d-d . . . a d-distinctive color to it?”
“Indeed. It had a bluish-grey marble hue. Why? What made you ask?”
He asked if Thomas had any more weapons like that . . .
And you told him where Rood was . . .
Edmund’s heart sank.
Oh no . . .
“Edmund?”
“Be-be-because, because I had a short sword made of some strange material. It was very light and exceedingly sharp. I had it when I was captured. That’s why he . . . Kar-Nazar . . . that’s why he took such an interest in me at first. He wanted to know where I got it.”
“You had such a weapon and they still managed to take you prisoner?”
You should have fought them.
I couldn’t . . .
At some point, you’ll have to.
Edmund put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
None of this is making any sense. Iliandor defeated the Undead King. He drove him into Ice Field
s and defeated him in hand-to-hand combat.
And all princesses are pretty . . .
Edmund shook his head again, unable to do anything else.
And remember the troll’s den? Remember all of those shields? They shouldn’t have been there. None of those knights died in this region, at least not according to the histories you have read.
I wonder how much of what I know is actually true.
Father always used to say histories and faerie tales were the same thing.
I thought that he was just trying to get me to stop reading my books and dedicate more time to my magic studies.
“What does all of this have to do with the riddle?” Edmund asked the darkness.
“I do not know,” Vorn replied. “But it seems that Kar-Nazar believes that the riddle is somehow connected to Iliandor and the method by which he created his alloy. Nothing else matters to him. Once he learns how to produce such armor, he will sweep down from these mountains and drive humans completely off the continent. He’ll exterminate all of you.”
Isa. The Tower. They weren’t trying to hide the Star of Iliandor. They were trying to hide the formula for the alloy!
“The salvation of humanity can be found in buildings of wise men, doubly so in optimism of the learned, and in knowledge that is written on a daily basis,” Edmund said to himself.
It has to mean something—
A sharp clink sliced through the darkness as the outer door to the wet cells unlocked.
“Oh no!” Edmund exclaimed.
“Good luck to you, Edmund,” Vorn said. “May the gods guide your soul.”
Echoes of footsteps floated toward them from down the tunnel.
Hurriedly, Edmund unclasped the Star of Iliandor from around his head. With quivering fingers, he pushed the thin strands of silver into the tiny gap between the cell door and the dripping wall.
The footfalls grew louder.
Edmund closed his eyes, trying to remember the proper cadence.
“Forstørre nå,” he said.
Nothing seemed to happen.
The approaching feet were now directly outside his cell, torch light spilling into his cell from underneath the door.