by Eve Forward
Valeriana paused and wove her hands in mystic patterns through the air. The others tensed, in case she was about to cast some devastation spell. But it was only a shimmering image in midair of a windswept summit of barren dark rock. Like a mirror of night, a slightly slanted black pit was visible in the image of rocks, a circle of darkness unlike anything natural.
“This Gate was the greatest Darkportal, an artifact of strange power and great age. While the minor portals only allowed the passage of energy, the Gate was, as it sounds, a Gate into the dark plane from whence the powers flowed. It, like the Lightgate, had remained unthought of for eons, only remembered in rumors and tales. The gradually increasing forces of Light were able to bring the Darkgate from its place in the under-fabric of the world...”
“What?” demanded Sam. Valeriana scowled.
“The Darkgate and Lightgate, unlike the Darkportals and Lightportals, do not exist here as we know it. Rather, they are everywhere and nowhere, like threads that run through the underside of a fabric rather than across the surface. The Heroes figured out how to pull the Darkgate to the surface. They managed to open it as the Heroes drove the last of the forces of Darkness toward it. The last of the dark forces fell into that Gate, vanishing, and the Gate was sealed by means of mighty magics and hidden from the knowledge of men. By the Labyrinth, which became another thread hidden in the under-fabric.”
In the image between her hands, a shimmering field wove itself over the top of the pit, and then the image vanished in a swirl of golden fog. Valeriana let the fog disperse, and rubbed her hands together.
“Then the forces of Light went on to track down all of the remaining Darkportals and destroyed them. Their world was cut free of evil, and all that remained was to clear up the evil still remaining in their monsters, in their criminals. Heroes and adventurers sprung up like weeds, raiding dungeons, destroying monsters, attacking cities ...”
Her voice trembled a moment, and she halted. For a moment all was silent, then she continued, strong again.
“Meanwhile, the wizards had developed ways to dissolve the evil in the minds and spirits of men and women who followed that path, burning the darkness away with a pure white magic that left the victim what they never wished to be: a good citizen. And thus more goodness flowed into the world. Without the Darkportals to provide a release, a counter, the world becomes like an inflating bubble, stretched thinner and thinner, until finally, ‘Pop!’” She folded her hands and looked at them from within her hood.
Arcie spoke up. “Kaylana here says we’ll be sublimated.”
Sam broke in. “Yes, I mean, both of you ladies seem to know your stuff, but I don’t know which one of you to believe ... what is really going to happen?”
Kaylana shook her head and spoke. “Though our sharp-toothed escort has a few of her theories crossed, she is basically confirming me. There is too much light, not enough darkness to counteract it.”
Valeriana’s voice had a bit of a snarl in it. “If that is how you can make sense of it in your common little minds, yes.”
Kaylana continued. “And as for what is going to happen at the end of the world ... I cannot say for certain. I have never seen it before, and I do not think I shall see it more than once.” She looked over at Valeriana. “At any rate, sorceress, I think you have given us enough background, and now likely you mean to inform us as to what you are going to force us to do.”
“Fair enough,” replied Valeriana in a dark voice from the depths of her hood.
“Unfortunately, the only way to save our own skins will also save the skins of a bunch of worthless fools whose fault the whole mess is in the first place. But, for what’s at stake here-ourselves and our way of life-it’s justified. No one else will help us. We’re among the last of the people of darkness in the world-excepting you, Druid-and the only ones among those who know what’s going on.”
“So what do we have to do?” sighed Sam.
“I should think it would be obvious. We’ve got to open the Darkgate. To do so we will need the Key that has been scattered and hidden across the Six Lands, by the power of the Six Heroes of the Victory and guarded by unknown wards. And, should we succeed in that, we will face the most difficult task ... The way to the Labyrinth of Dreams will be opened, that much my research has shown, but beyond that...” She shook her head. “I will go with you, because, somehow,” she smiled at them, “I do not think you would go voluntarily.”
That evening, they camped in a small dell at the edge of a forest. They were well into the southern wilderness of Dous by now, some days from the next inhabited area.
They sat around a small fire while the horses and stag cropped the grass nearby, and watched each other warily.
Though all were tired, no one wanted to be the first to fall asleep in this company.
Kaylana heated up the last of the stew in a pot and ate her share, while Sam and Arcie appropriated the rest and supplemented it a bit with meat from squirrel Arcie had managed to kill with a handmade sling when Kaylana wasn’t looking. Valeriana watched them with mild amusement, as she pulled out a silver bowl, filled it with dark wine from a wineskin in her saddlebags, added some dried chunks of meat, and dipped a finger into the mixture, murmuring a few words. In an instant the food in the bowl was simmering and steaming slightly. With an evil grin at Sam, who seemed to have lost interest in his squirrel, she casually licked off her fingernail and took out a silver fork from a pouch and began eating. Sam turned away. Arcie was puzzled, but since Sam didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk, he decided to strike up a conversation with the sorceress.
“Here, how come, if you’re a dark sorceress and all the power supplies for dark magic are gone, can you do magic?” he asked brightly. Valeriana looked at him coldly.
“I have my methods, gnome.”
Arcie shrugged. “All right, be that way. My name’s Arcie, by the by. And I’m a human, not a gnome.”
Valeriana glowered at him. She’d taken off her cloak and lain it on the grass and was sitting on it. The firelight flickered around her face, and Arcie wasn’t sure he liked her expression. He decided to introduce the other two, in hopes of diverting her attention. “And that’s Sam and that’s Kaylana.”
“Sam?” Valeriana’s voice carried the sneer that turned her dark lips and transformed the name into a scoff. “An assassin, by his clothing and his manner, and his name is Sam? What sort of name is that for a hired killer? It sounds like the name of a farmhorse.”
The idea intrigued Arcie. “Aye, blondie, how come your name are Sam?” Always better to side with the stronger party. Kaylana watched the exchange silently.
Sam didn’t turn around, just stared out into the dimness around them. It was awfully light out for this late at night. He answered after a moment.
“It’s short for Samalander.”
The name, the flickering light on the trees, the heat at his back, the crackle of the fire, plunged him into reverie. *Smoke in the eyes, legs too weak to move, fire everywhere ...
Sorrow and anger and pain ringing in the ears ... hands, slippery, scrapes, splinters on the palm... ash and cinders, loud ripping noise and things falling, me falling, tumbling, spilled out among charred timber and coals and a black leather boot in front of my eyes as my sight fails. Voices echoing, male voices but not frightening ...
“Well. what’s this?”
“Some kid, looks like ...”
“Can’t be more than five summers. Crawled right out of the burning building there, just like a samalander out of a Wintertide log.”
“Blood on him, look ...”
“Not his, though. Come on, little samalander, something tells me you’re one of us... “ Hands lifting up, gently, as consciousness falls away...
“Really?” said Arcie. “Hmm, I can see why you prefer Sam.” Sam shrugged. There was a pause, then Kaylana asked cautiously, “Do you not mean ‘Salamander’?”
“No,” Sam retorted firmly. “Samalander.” And that seemed to end
conversation for the evening.
Night was clustering on. Though it wasn’t getting very dark, the company felt slumber coming on. Kaylana silently drew a wide circle in the soft grass with the end of her staff, speaking softly to herself. Then she looked at the others pointedly and lay down inside it, curling up in her armor and robes like a dormouse, and fell asleep. No one bothered to ask her what she’d done or risked finding out if the circle was a bluff or not. Shortly thereafter, Valeriana pulled a black fur coverlet out of her saddlebags and curled up in it in the softest hollow in the turf.
The raven. Nightshade, seemed to be waking up. It sat on her arm as she lay there, fluffing out its feathers against the night’s chill, and clucked to itself. Sam got the distinct impression it was watching him. In an effort to be friendly he tossed a crust of bread at it, but it had already shared Valeriana’s meal and regarded the offering with withering scorn. Sam gave up and curled up in his cloak, setting his instincts to wake him in the event of any danger. Arcie had fitted himself inside a nearby hollow log they’d broken pieces off for kindling, after checking to be sure it held nothing more fearsome than some woodlice and a few mushrooms. He lay on his stomach with his head propped up in his hands and looked at Sam.
“Laddie? Be you asleep?” he whispered after a moment.
Valeriana’s breathing was even and deep. Sam opened one eye and looked at the Barigan.
“Yes. What is it?” he asked.
“What are a Nathauan?” the Barigan inquired softly.
Sam rolled over to face him and rubbed his eyes sleepily.
“They’re a race of evil people that used to live in the Underrealm, below where the Dwarves used to tunnel, in mountains and hills and fens. You probably didn’t hear much about them in Bariga. Some say they used to be Elves once, others say they’re of demon blood. They used to raid the surface world and take slaves and prisoners and such, and no one who was captured ever returned. They torture people as a form of beauty and art, they hate everything sunlit, they’re fearsome sorcerers but not very good at fighting, so they raised some of the dark monsters from the tunnels to serve as their guards. They’re also gourmands. They especially like eating the sapient races, like humans and Elves and such, and they eat each other, too. They were all wiped out years ago by the Verdant Company, under Sir Fenwick of Trois. I was about twelve at the time. Right after that we caught one skulking around Bistort, and the Guild brought him in. He told us what I’ve just told you, adding that he was the last one of his community. The Company had moved on and were wiping out the rest of them that year. He was a nasty fellow, almost as bad as Sharkbreath over there. No one would hire him for a normal job, so we tried to train him. He wasn’t a very good character for the craft, too messy, no real talent... and not very stable.” Sam’s voice trailed off.
“What happened to him?” asked Arcie. “Did he get whitewashed?”
“No,” said Sam, with a sudden coldness in his voice.
“Quite the contrary. He did something stupid and got himself killed. By the Guild.”
Arcie was quiet a moment. “What are we to do about her?”
Sam glanced over at the dark figure of the sorceress.
“I’m already on an assignment, you cheap-donkey.”
“We canna let her threaten us around like this, yet.”
“True... all right.” Sam switched to the silent rogue’s language. “I will incapacitate her, leave tied up in ditch somewhere, how’s that? No charge,” he added magnanimously.
“Fine,” replied Arcie, in the same code.
Sam rolled to his knees stealthily and slipped the sections of his eighteen-inch blowgun out of his sleeve. He fitted them together swiftly and silently. A brush of his collar yielded a two-inch thin steel needle, while his other hand felt in a pouch and ran a finger along the lids of several secured vials, feeling the code of raised dots that were the labels. The hand found and brought out a small ceramic tube of thrice-distilled bluewort leaf, blended with rasophar oil for consistency. His thumb popped the flip cork, his fingers dipped the point of the needle, the lid thumbed shut, vial set aside as blowgun raised, leveled, needle inserted, vision contracting, nothing but the target...
“Craaawwow!” Sam was knocked backwards by a furiously squawking heavy ball of black feathers. He lashed up with one arm and batted the angry raven to one side, but it kept yelling. Valeriana and Kaylana awoke, looking about in confusion. Through the nailing jet feathers Sam saw the pale sorceress slowly rising from the black fur like a poisonous snake in lethal anger, her long-fingered hand pulling her gown close about her ... but not before he’d had a glimpse of the strange pendant she wore. It was like an oval the size of a hen’s egg, a flat cabochon made of some stone so black it reflected none of the bright starlight, set in a ring of gold. Her gown covered it, and she called to her raven as she sat up.
Nightshade flew back to her shoulder and glared, as did its mistress, at Sam, who was silent. Kaylana started to speak, but hesitated. Instead she held her staff across her knees and waited to see where the confrontation would lead.
For a moment they faced each other. Then Valeriana smiled. “I suspected as much. Yes, it is not surprising you have lasted ... you will be useful. But-” and her eyes turned a deadly purple in the light, the smile vanishing.
“Do not try this again, or I will turn your bones to ice and your blood to molten lead, and you will die.”
With that she curled up again. Sam turned away with a shiver and looked around for Arcie.
“So much for your bright ideas, Arcie ... Arcie?”
A soft snoring emanated from the hollow log. Sam looked and saw the Barigan flat on his face, blissfully asleep, with Sam’s blowgun needle hanging from his left earlobe like an odd bit of jewelry. Sam smiled, reached out and pulled the needle free. Arcie didn’t even snort.
“One way to shut him up,” muttered Sam. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Kaylana, secure in her circle, shook her head. “Hopeless,” she muttered and went back to sleep.
The next morning, they continued westward. The air was bright and warm, the birds were singing, the flowers were blooming, the bees were buzzing, and Sam was plotting.
Arcie had awakened at the smell of breakfast being heated and had wriggled out of his hollow log with no ill effects. He was surprised to see both Sam and Valeriana still with the group, and with a shrug passed the whole incident off as a dream.
As they rode, Sam looped Damazcus’s reins around the saddlehorn and let the animal follow placidly behind Arcie’s. The ground was dry and even, and the animals spread about and shifted position as they walked along.
The sun rose in the sky, becoming a burning on Sam’s face and arms, and he suffered in his black garb.
Valeriana had her hood up again, he noticed, to protect her precious face. The raven, sleepy from its night vigil, rode her shoulder in silence with its head under its wing.
Good. He took up the end of his cloak and inspected it.
Dirty from prison and mud and blood, torn by sword and thorn and wear, the whole thing was altogether too long and hot for this weather. It carried too many items to simply discard, however. Ah well, he would trim it. He flipped out his fourth-best dagger, the one with the pearl set in the pommel, and went to work.
The odd sound of tearing cloth prompted first Arcie, then Valeriana, to look around. Sam, busy at his tailoring, glanced up and gave them a bored look. “Too long,” he commented, by way of explanation. After a last suspicious glance, Valeriana turned back, as did Arcie... but a moment later the Barigan turned to look at him quizzically and Sam winked. Arcie grinned and looked away, but continued to watch the assassin out of the corner of his eye.
The assassin was tearing strips off of the edge of his cloak; cutting, checking the line of the cut, cutting again to even the edge, checking, cutting... and collecting variously sized strips of black fabric, which he was knotting together stealthily. He worked fast but innocently, whistlin
g softly through his teeth. No one trusts an assassin who’s being very quiet. At last he dropped his shortened cloak to fall down behind his back and picked up his reins again. Valeriana rode her liver-chestnut horse to the side and a little ahead. Arcie’s was only a few paces away.
He urged Damazcus forward a little and caught up with the pony. Wordlessly he handed Arcie a double handful of black strips, tied into an untidy but strong net, about three feet in diameter. As he did so, he signed in the silent language: “Get bird. Hold. Listen me.” He looked ahead.
Valeriana was just heading down the other side of a hill.
“Go!”
The two criminals whomped the sides of their horses in unison. The horses leaped forward in surprise, bolted up and over the hill in a few strides, and came scrambling down upon Valeriana, one on each side. Her horse shied and reared, and then there was chaos.
Arcie made an astonishingly quick and dexterous lunge, tossing the folds of the net out over the startled raven just as it was spreading its wings. He yanked, tangling its head and wings in the mesh and ripping the taloned black feet from Valeriana’s hooded cloak. It cawed and squawked in fury.
Even as the bird was snatched from its perch, Sam was standing in the saddle. A flash of the fire that came with sudden action sprung him out of the seat like an arrow, and he crashed into Valeriana in midair as she turned to grab her torn shoulder. The force of his leap threw them both off the horse and sent them crashing onto the grass.
A struggle, then Sam held the sorceress pinned on the ground, one hand holding both her wrists painfully tight, the other holding a dagger to her throat. Valeriana, her impressive chest heaving theatrically, her eyes almost magenta with rage, opened her mouth to call words of power that would blast the assassin into oblivion. Then she saw over his shoulder the figure of Arcie, cockily sitting on his pony with her beloved Nightshade in his grubby paws, his hands around her poor darling’s throat!