“If you do not believe in this threat, there is a way for you to verify it,” the old man said quietly. “Your heart is strong, sir. You can enter that house.”
Silence followed those words, and Timothy seemed to hold his breath. Sir Conrad turned and watched the shadowy cabin that still lay in quiet mist. Then he shook his head. “No, witch,” he said contemptuously. “I have no desire to barge into some hermit’s dwelling. Not for your stories and not for my squire’s childish head. We continue now.” The knight turned on his heel. “Tim, come!”
The squire gave Alwarul a last wide-eyed look before following his master. The old man turned sorrowfully towards the lonely house, though nothing could be seen in its empty, black windows — now all silent.
“You must be ready, Nathelion,” the old man said. “It is all happening faster than I had feared. Who knows what terrors we will have to face before the end?” He shook his head and released a breath. “It is all happening too fast...”
“Yes, well,” Nathelion answered uncomfortably, “you truly don’t need to worry about me. Besides, we’re riding now, so I think we’ll make good time.”
Alwarul would not quite smile. “Perhaps you are right. You are a steadfast man, Nathelion. Thank you.”
In the camp, Tim and Sir Conrad were already saddling their horses, though the knight still looked frustrated. “Where has the damn moinguir gone?” he asked no one in particular.
“He went into the forest.” The squire shrugged. “Said I wasn’t to follow. I thought he went to take a shit.”
“Well, how long has our friend been missing?” the knight demanded, tightening the straps on his saddle.
“An hour maybe. Two.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you wake me up earlier?” Sir Conrad said, and he swiveled around. “What way did he go? If the dwarf’s missing, then what’s the...”
The sound of branches stirring silenced him, and soon, Molgrimin came within the light of the fire with his yilval mount at his side. He stopped in the camp, looking confused. “I heard screams. What happened? Are we leaving?”
“Yes,” Alwarul informed him. “I think it will be best. This place is no longer safe.”
Oddly, Molgrimin quickly agreed. “Aye, I know.” The moinguir patted his golden steed and then went to fetch his own saddle, saying no more.
Sir Conrad muttered to himself before turning to his squire. “I expect you to be smarter from now on,” he warned dangerously, not mentioning particularly about what. “Now, ready the packhorse.”
Nathelion felt relieved to be saddling Skull again. He was sure nightmares would haunt him if he tried to sleep. The horse was already eager to be moving, and it neighed impatiently, whereas the other animals appeared uneasy and frightened. The fire was still fluttering oddly. Or was he just imagining it? He thought about commenting on it, but he would undoubtedly seem silly, especially in the eyes of the already annoyed knight. I’m just a bit unsettled, he assured himself. Alwarul quickly quenched the flames with a bit of water from his waterskin.
They mounted upon the slope, and the animals whinnied and rolled their eyes. “What’s this, now?” Molgrimin asked uneasily, looking out over that inhospitable place. He soon turned his eyes to the house. Somehow, it seemed to darken its surroundings. A deserted house, so located. Of course it looks sad, Nathelion reflected. Or even haunted.
“Meriehse does not like that place,” Molgrimin said at once, his voice tense, without even asking about it. “It is a...bad place. Meriehse does not like it at all.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we rode some way around this valley,” Alwarul suggested. “The taint is—”
“I won’t be delayed by your superstitions, witch,” Sir Conrad said curtly.
Alwarul inclined his head, but Nathelion thought he could see tension in his features. “Very well. I shall attempt to ward us against this darkness.” He raised his staff. When he continued to speak, it was in a tongue that none could recognize. “Mouvohol au’raivur milinridothur aul danor, aul danor su’muhra, aul danor telofrimal, aul...” The chant went on, a powerful rhythm that made every word carry into the valley and echo all around them. The horses almost reared at the man’s somber intonations, neighing and stepping about wildly. Winds picked up, sudden hales that swept up over the slope and made the branches of the trees whip the air, seemingly adding their voices to Alwarul’s. Tim gaped dumbly, and Nathelion could not deny feeling uneasy.
Alwarul finished his eerie incantation just when the winds coincidentally settled, and the forest again found peace. There was silence. Then a hoarse laughter shattered it. “You liked that, didn’t you?” Sir Conrad mocked, unimpressed. “Very well, witch. Protect us with your spells. I’ll have my sword ready for whatever dangers they fail to fend off.” He laughed again and spurred his horse into the valley, the destrier no longer showing any hesitation before cantering down the slope and into the mist.
They all rode after him. Nathelion spared a puzzled eye for the silent house as they passed it by, trying to discern anything in its dark windows. But nothing was there. Abandoned, he confirmed, turning forward. Just an abandoned house.
It was he and Molgrimin who rode last, a bit behind the others, and the moinguir soon whispered to him, “Is Alwarul a spellcaster?” The dwarf sounded so incredulous and awestruck that Nathelion had to laugh.
“Why, yes. Didn’t he tell you how he is a member of the Rizych...?”
His recount of the history that Alwarul had told him was made in good humor as they left the misty valley behind. But no eye turned to the darkness beneath that high hill, and no eye witnessed how the lonely house remained for a moment silent — until, with a screech, it faded from the world once more.
13
The Harp
Alwarul was tired when he rode behind the knight and his squire. The spell had exhausted him, yet he knew that it had been necessary. Sometimes, the immediate dangers required you to ignore the possible ones, and the things that were carried on the winds in the valley had made him act according to this principle. The darkness there, which he above all had sensed, had chilled him to the bones. Every moment spent in that cursed place had seemed like an eternity. Indeed, it might have been made an eternity if not for the spell that he had uttered, drawing upon energies that were reluctantly invoked, names that made the shadows whimper.
It had been necessary. The damned had looked at them with envy, reaching for their hearts and their souls. He had seen their bleak countenances painted with regret and wrath as their group had ridden into the brief presence of the abyss, the darkness suddenly rising. It had been worse than he had thought. The energies had battered against the shield that he alone had upheld, and he had been put under great strain to keep it intact. But he was still strong enough. No specter had overcome his will.
Yet it had also shocked him how deep into the abyss they had truly ridden, even if it had been but the shade of the abyss, too unclear for the others to recognize anything beyond their sense of discomfort. Truly, the squire had been fortunate to escape that manifested memory after venturing so close. His young mind would undoubtedly have been broken by the experiences it held...even if the things that lingered there with their shadow lives would not have slain him.
Alwarul had been afraid that his use of the arcane would draw the eyes of older things. But the spell had been necessary, and now...now the danger was mostly passed, for the moment. His relief upon leaving that valley had been greater than his companions would realize. Yet there was no lasting deliverance in this relief. He knew that darker things would undoubtedly cross their paths. And then, when the abyss finally rose fully around them, no spell of his could serve as a shield. They needed to reach their goal before that happened. They needed to undo the force that was driving their world into darkness. Already, it had gone too far, become too dangerous. And what of those who know no spells? What of those who are without protection now? The darkness was pouring in, and it would wash over places fa
r from them as well as close. What judgment have I laid upon the world?
Undoubtedly, he was already a thousand times a murderer and worse. And I shall be damned for it. But not before I restore order. Not before then.
It all rested upon Nathelion Nightshadow. All hope depended on the Chosen One. And the man continued to show heart — that still gave Alwarul strength. Hyahiera must endure until he can be properly unleashed upon the enemy. There must be a chance.
“This road will take us to Hearthglen before nightfall. We’ll be able to find an inn there,” Sir Conrad said when they reached the Green Road, and then he added with wry amusement, “Hopefully, it shan’t be haunted.”
The knight’s reaction to Alwarul’s introduction as a wizard had been expected, as was his mockery now. The man was wise enough not to trust his words as evidence, and Alwarul felt no reason to provide other. His behavior now was preferable to the wrath of one more superstitious and zealous. That the knight merely thought him insane was a comfortable arrangement. Alwarul was free to cast his subtler spells as needed without having to handle the presence of a fearful man with a sword and combat training. It was only unfortunate that he might be forced to reveal his nature, in a way undeniable, before long. Perhaps we will be lucky. Perhaps our journey will be easier than I fear.
They rode swiftly along the broad dirt stretch that was the Green Road, which was well traveled and marked with the lasting tracks of heavy beasts of burden and wagon wheels. It arrowed through the rich lands of the Harp, and the farms they passed here — still on the outskirts — were large and prosperous, with fertile fields that stretched far in nearly every direction. There were great orchards also. Now, in autumn, the apple trees swayed like fires, red, orange, and yellow. Under the angry clouds that darkened sky and land, the Harp seemed not half as friendly as it could have. And even so, our final destination is doomed to be grimmer still. It was only made worse by the fact that he did not yet know what their final destination was. Indeed, there were far too many uncertainties for him to have any peace of mind. At first, he had been completely consumed by the need of finding the foretold champion, but now that he had done so, he had to turn to the puzzle of understanding their enemy. Unfortunately, he found himself lacking pieces.
The tomes and scrolls that he carried from his expedition did not hold the information that he needed. He had already searched through the texts concerning the Queen Beyond in all her names. Damn me for venturing so blindly into that temple. He should have been wiser. He had followed the clues yet without questioning the prize, searched for location but neglected nature. He had been consumed by the promise of power for the past twenty years. That time was now only a haze of frantic studies and travels in his memory, a journey undertaken by a madman unknowingly rushing to doom the world. But of course, that must have been the Queen Beyond’s plan.
He knew now, looking back, that he must have been under some outer influence during his raving hunt. Somehow, the dark deity had reached out from her prison to lure to herself a rescuer with the necessary capabilities. Only, how she had been able to do that from the dark void of the N’rilum Lithes was beyond him. According to all his knowledge, it should have been impossible. But then, he had seen too many impossible things done to allow himself such certainty. Unfortunately, Hyahiera had offered precious few answers.
Alwarul had considered changing course to the Cloudshroud Mountains and bringing the Chosen One to the secret shrine of the goddess to seek further guidance. That would take too much time, however, and there was also the risk that Hyahiera would not appear again. She had been weak already when he had seen her. To judge by the darkness that was swiftly flooding their world, she had grown even weaker now. Lourne will have the answers, he thought. The tower has the answers.
The Secret Tower housed the largest and most ancient library in the world. Before the War and before the Burning, the old Rizych had gathered lore and tomes of learning throughout the centuries, creating vast archives of knowledge that had never been lost. In the Seventh Tower, tomes were kept that described the world before the earliest history known to mankind. And they were still kept there, for the survivors had saved the tower from the Inquisition, their last great tribute to Haxamalath and the elders. They had saved it, and now it would save the world. He clung to such hopeful thoughts. The Kindred can find the way to defeat her. If any minds are perceptive enough to solve this puzzle, they number among the Kindred.
He would have to call upon them. That was another concern. The Kindred no longer resided in the tower except for Seluiel, who had been named Master of Keys. By the gods, let him know where the others have gone. The man usually kept himself informed of such things. Pigeons would still need to be sent, and even if they succeeded in delivering their messages, most of the Kindred would no doubt need to travel far in order to reach the tower. Too many uncertainties. And by the gods, too little time!
Alwarul wondered if Nathelion would still be so calm if he were aware of how little he knew of their quest and how little control he had over the situation. The man was astonishingly collected, yet perhaps it was because he trusted Alwarul more than he should. I was the one who caused it all, and I don’t even know how to make it right.
They allowed themselves to gallop along the Green Road, passing ever-varying fields and plantations overseen by farms and country estates or hunting castles, and sighting villages and towns lying peacefully in a valley or upon the hills. And they passed travelers, too, most of them farmer families with children or dogs trailing slow and noisy carts that were pulled by ponderous oxen. Alwarul was too lost in thought to observe it at first, but surprisingly, many of the smallfolk were moving away from the Harp. The carts were loaded with sacks of flour and potatoes, more than enough to sustain the families through winter. And they brought their animals with them as well, pigs and hens and goats or what they had, all lashed to the wagons or brought in cages and on beds of straw. Here and there, a young boy or girl rode along bareback on the plow horse, smiling down on those who played below them on the ground. It all seemed like a migration. Caused by what?
When they reached a long, water-filled ditch stretching out by the side of the road to water the fields, Sir Conrad called a stop to let the horses drink. Alwarul felt impatient, but he knew it was wise to give the mounts some respite from the hard gallop. The countess had gifted him with a good courser for the journey, and he intended to keep it alive through the whole of it. He dismounted along with the others and led his horse to the water beneath the high oaks that lined the road and cast their gnarly shadows upon it.
Alwarul saw that other travelers were stopping to water their mounts a bit farther down the road. They were a pair of middle-aged men with stots, and they spoke silently with each other while the women in the carts did the same.
“Friends,” he called to the men, “may I inquire as to where you are heading with your families?”
One of them looked up at him, his eyes narrowing as if trying to recognize someone he knew. He seemed to be nearsighted.
“Somewhere safe.” The other traveler was the quicker to answer, a thin-haired man with good clothes of cotton against the cold. He patted his brown stot absently while he regarded Alwarul with a quizzical expression on his face. “And you, mister, are you headed into the Harp?”
“We are,” Alwarul answered, “and that with speed. What danger are we riding into?”
“As anyone else who is leaving, I’ll say much danger. You’ll find those who disagree, of course.” The man shrugged. “But the barbarians are gathering like never before. Too many scouts have seen them for there to be any doubt, even with only half returning. The Lions are telling us to prepare, but we do better still. We can’t keep rebuilding our homes. It was only ten years since they were nothing but ashes, and many did not survive then. There’s good soil in the Harp, but it’s watered with blood too often. Everyone with any sense is going elsewhere before it’s their blood that is spilled.”
�
�You mean everyone lacking a spine?” Sir Conrad said in a harsh voice. He gestured to the fields around them. “You will abandon your home at the word of an enemy? Will you let them rob you of all you have worked for with just a whisper? I remember a time when the Harp was populated by men who could more than match the barbarians for determination and pride. Where did they go?”
The farmer shrugged again, unimpressed. “Probably died fighting.” He spared a glance at the knight’s clothes. “We’re no warriors, sir, and we have children that are no warriors either. And figure we did keep these invaders away, what then? The soldiers helping us will have their ways with our wives, with our daughters, and feast on what cattle isn’t already lost. The Lions may not, but they are few and far away, holed up in Sacrifice. They care only to secure Richard’s Defense.”
“Because Richard’s Defense is the key to the Harp,” Conrad growled. “Lose it, and you’ll need a bloody decade to root out the barbarians. And if they destroyed it, well, then the next invasion would be just as devastating.”
“All the same,” the man replied. “Best to leave.”
“Aye,” the fellow behind him said, still peering at them with squinted eyes. “An’ there are trolls coming from the mountains, too. The trolls only awaken in dark times, but rumors tell of boulders rising and becoming flesh. That’s trolls, I tell ye.”
Conrad smirked, almost with pity. “You believe that?”
The thin-haired man cleared his throat at the question. “The barbarians are enough of a reason,” he answered. “The clans are banding together, they say. There are enough of the savages to take all of Undran by half the estimates.”
“Oh?” the knight asked mockingly, raising his eyebrows. “Then I guess you will have to find passage over the sea, won’t you?”
The man blushed after failing to speak, but Conrad continued. “The clans never band together. Whoever told you that is as confused as your friend here. They war as much with each other as with us. More, even. It’s not just about loot either. There are blood feuds, and no chieftain will kneel to another, nor trust him to co-operate.”
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 15