Saron acknowledged the second. “The Triune would not be so strong there. If the master wishes to reach the main temple swiftly, it would be good to take the road leading closer to there.”
On the one hand, Uldyssian agreed with that logic, but on the other, he did not like leaving the Triune’s supporters in Kalinash untouched, and especially at the edyrem’s rear when it came time to confront the main citadel. Yet, to veer toward Kalinash would further slow the trek and cost lives; both things that would only benefit Lilith.
“How quickly can we reach Kalinash?”
After a moment’s consideration, Rashim answered, “Four, five days.”
“And Istani?”
“Four.”
The path was quicker. More important, with a much smaller presence of the Triune, Istani promised not to slow them in terms of struggle. Kalinash might mean many days of blood…
With some reluctance, Uldyssian came to a decision. “Very well. Istani, it is. But we must move with all haste.”
The others nodded obediently and departed. Uldyssian looked to Serenthia for some confirmation that he had chosen wisely.
“I would’ve done the same,” she returned. Her brow furrowed. “What else is bothering you?”
“Two things…or two people. Achilios, as you know…and Mendeln.”
“Of course. I’ve discussed Achilios with you enough to sicken you, Uldyssian. Forgive me for not thinking about your brother. This—this Rathma. Do you think he can be trusted?”
He grunted. “I don’t know. As much as any of the blood of Lilith can be…which I suppose includes me far, far down the generations.”
“Then, Mendeln will be all right.” Serenthia considered. “His path converges with yours, but I think it also diverges more and more.”
“I don’t care anything about that, Serry.” He had returned to calling her by her childhood name, the better to keep in his head that they were friends, not lovers. Uldyssian had no desire to stomp upon the grave of his friend, especially now that he knew that grave to be empty. “I just want Mendeln safe.”
“As he does you.”
“But it would be good to hear some word. Some word.”
She shifted into a sleeping position near the fire. “I know. I know.”
And from her tone, Uldyssian understood that she desperately desired the same from Achilios.
Mendeln had never dreamt that he would return to Partha. That place was supposed to be far in his past. He had tried to erase his memories of the town, for in Partha had come what he felt the final severing of his life as a simple farmer and the beginning of all the cataclysmic changes for and within him. There had been no turning back after Partha, even more so than Seram, which the younger son of Diomedes was also glad to avoid.
Trag’Oul and Rathma had sent him here alone…for some final test, they said. As usual, their replies to his questions were murky. In the end, with the promise that he could rejoin his brother if he finished this task, Mendeln had agreed to return to the town.
And only after arriving had he realized that Trag’Oul had used the word “if”…
He did not actually stand in the town itself. No, Mendeln sensed that what he sought was far outside the town walls. Very close to where the Parthans disposed of their refuse. A faint hint of decay already indicated that he was near the spot.
There was no one else about. Those still living in the town—which surely had to be more than half-empty—were likely asleep. The few guards would not be bothering with this area; who would be interested in their trash?
Mendeln certainly was not. He was only here because this also happened to be where the burning had taken place. According to Rathma, it was the best location to make the summoning.
Uldyssian’s brother had little desire to cast the spell, but his mentors insisted that it was necessary. He had the feeling that they were not telling him something…not at all a surprise. Their methods of teaching, especially that of Lilith’s son, left much to be desired.
The confrontation with Inarius had influenced this event. Of that, Mendeln was certain. After bringing him back to the dragon’s realm, Rathma had requested a private audience with the celestial beast. The first announcement after their discussion had been the requirement that Mendeln do this.
I should have refused, he told himself for the dozenth time. I should have demanded that they send me back to Uldyssian.
Somehow, though, even if he had, Mendeln knew that he would have ended up back in Partha.
From his robes, he removed his dagger. It would guide him to the exact location, so Rathma had said.
As soon as he held it up, it glowed. Mendeln turned, noting when the dagger flared brighter. Yes, he recalled the area well, recalled all the grisly events.
Here they and the Parthans had unceremoniously burned the bodies of the high priest Malic and his morlus.
Mendeln still recalled the man with a shiver. He was not afraid of Malic, but of his evil. How any man could give himself to such darkness was beyond him. The mere thought of Malic repulsed Mendeln so much that he wanted to turn around and leave.
But Rathma had insisted that he needed to do this.
Taking a deep breath, Uldyssian’s brother tried to summon the feeling of calm determination that the dragon had taught to him. In order to best serve the Balance…and, therefore, Sanctuary and Humanity…Mendeln had to learn to see things in a more clinical manner. Emotion was not forbidden, for even Rathma clearly fell prey to it, but that emotion had to be kept in check, for the forces with which Mendeln dealt could be very dangerous.
As ready as he knew he could ever be, Mendeln knelt down and began sketching patterns designed to amplify his efforts. They were based on the very energies binding not only his world together, but all that beyond Sanctuary. The patterns pulled to them some element of those energies, bringing them to the location of the summoning.
With that accomplished, Uldyssian’s brother held the dagger over the center. He did not have to draw blood for this, although there remained the possibility that he might have to at a later point. Now, all that mattered were the words, which themselves were parts of the energies keeping all things together.
In a low tone, Mendeln uttered one word of power after another. With each syllable, he sensed the forces swirling into place. An ominous presence began to coalesce within the area of the patterns.
Mendeln repeated everything that he had been told to say in such a situation, repeated all of it over and over. Each time, he added emphasis to a different part, in this way strengthening every aspect of the summoning.
Something drifted past his face, so very gently rubbing against his right cheek. A gauzy wisp of smoke drifted in from the direction of the town. As Mendeln continued, these and similar sights began to move around and around him like small children seeking attention.
Rathma had warned him that, until he learned to focus better, others would come in the mistaken belief that he had summoned them. There was nothing he could do right now save ignore the uninvited spirits; to dismiss any would mean to lose concentration at the most vital moment.
Yes, he could sense the dark presence gathering strength. It was in conflict, on the one side not desiring to be stirred up, on the other eager to see if somehow this could be used to its advantage.
Mendeln gripped the dagger tighter, aware that he could not let the latter happen. The dragon had warned him of the potential repercussions should that terrible thing come to pass.
And then…a black form arose above the spot, a sinister form quickly swelling to the height of a tall man. Still muttering, Mendeln cautiously stepped back. So long as the patterns he had drawn remained whole, the spirit could not escape them without his assistance.
The shadow solidified, taking on the vague appearance of a particular figure. Tall, pale, and bearded.
The high priest of the order of Mefis—or Mephisto—Malic himself.
Grimly satisfied, Uldyssian’s brother met the dire spi
rit’s unblinking gaze. Malic recognized him; that much was immediately clear. Mendeln could sense the smoldering hatred behind the emotionless face and saw the shadow of a hand—an inhuman hand—briefly emerge from the misty, translucent robes.
Whether or not the ghost could strip Mendeln’s flesh from his bones—as Malic had done to Master Ethon when alive—the son of Diomedes did not know. He did not intend to give the specter the chance to test that.
“You know who I am, priest,” Mendeln muttered. “You know that you are not permitted to act or speak in any manner without my permission or guidance. Nod your understanding.”
Malic slowly did, his eyes never leaving his summoner’s.
Satisfied thus far, Mendeln turned to the purpose of his having called up this ghoulish figure. “Malic…your master is no more…”
For the first time, he registered a brief reaction. The spirit flickered out of and back into existence with a swiftness that the untrained eye would not have noticed. There was also a momentary shift of the dead eyes.
“Yes, priest, Lucion is dead.” Not exactly true. Uldyssian had caused the demon to cease to exist. According to Rathma, there was something different about such a fate, although Mendeln did not yet understand the vagaries of such things. “And do you know who now sits in his place? Do you know?”
The ghost was utterly motionless. Mendeln frowned, having expected much more from Malic. Trag’Oul had warned him that those existing in the “afterdeath” state were not necessarily averse to attempting to cross back over or seek vengeance on those whom they hated. Malic knew him, knew that he was Uldyssian’s brother.
The sooner Mendeln was able to judge if Malic could be of use, the better. “It is Lilith, his sister,” he informed the specter. “You may recall her in another guise, priest, that of the lady Lylia.”
This time, the ghostly figure wavered and his eyes widened beyond human ability. His mouth opened…and continued to open, stretching more than a foot down. Mention of Lilith, especially her mortal guise, had finally done the trick. After all, it was she who had actually slain the priest.
Mendeln was astonished by the ghost’s continued violent reshaping. He had been forewarned by his mentors that spirits were not bound by their mortal states, that they could appear in a variety of twisted forms attesting to their deaths, their anger, or their intentions—
Intentions…
Mendeln spun around, already mouthing new words, those given to him as a quick defense against the unthinkable. At the same time, he thrust the dagger as far ahead of him as he could, drawing sharp slashes in the air.
With a frustrated hiss, the shadow of a morlu collapsed to dust. A second of the creatures, made the more macabre by this fiendish reconstruction of burnt ash and dirt, nearly had its fleshless hands upon him. Mendeln turned the dagger around for use as a weapon and touched the chest of the undead.
The second morlu also collapsed back into dust.
But the third struck him hard on the shoulder with a piece of rotting timber. Mendeln grunted and fell back out of reach. The morlu stumbled forward, bits of it flaking off as it moved.
These were not truly the monstrous warriors who had accompanied the high priest, for Mendeln himself had made certain that the creatures could never be raised to fight again. No, what stood before him were constructs animated by Malic’s evil. Still, even if only that, this morlu had the brute force not only with which to slay Uldyssian’s brother, but then assist its creator in enabling the ghost to free himself.
And if that happened, Partha would be only the first of many places to suffer horribly…
The morlu swung, but his aim was erratic. Mendeln leapt to the side, easily evading it. If that was the best the beast could do—
Then, Mendeln recalled just where Malic’s ghost stood in relation to him. As the morlu attacked again, the son of Diomedes threw himself in an entirely different direction. It meant landing hard on congealing trash, but that was a small price to pay to keep the priest’s plan from succeeding.
Indeed, Malic had come within inches of freeing his spirit. Had Mendeln been herded just a little more in the previous direction, then his boot would have scraped away a part of the patterns securing the specter.
The morlu loomed over his intended victim, but now Mendeln had his bearings. He held fast the dagger point down and cried the words of banishment that the dragon had taught him.
The last of Malic’s puppets crumbled. The timber clattered next to Mendeln’s head.
Rising, Mendeln turned back to face the high priest. “No more of such tricks!” he commanded. “Raise up another and I will cast you to a place that will make your violent death seem so pleasant by comparison!”
It was an exaggeration, Mendeln not having learned how to do any such thing, but if worst came to worst, he could at least dismiss the shade.
Malic, his appearance once more “normal,” wavered. At last, the ghost dipped his head once. Mendeln silently cursed himself for having fallen for the priest’s diabolical distraction. While Rathma and Trag’Oul had warned him that a powerful priest such as Malic might be able to circumvent the rules of the summoning, Mendeln doubted that even they had expected such a startling maneuver. Great had been the power granted Mephisto’s high priest, even in death.
But Mendeln would have no repeat of that. As the ghost hovered, Uldyssian’s brother bent low and made corrections to the patterns. He then repeated other words given to him by Trag’Oul and—on a hunch—altered some others to further add to what he believed a better spell.
Rising, Mendeln addressed the spirit again. “Malic, you heard what I said. She who slew you is not masquerading as the Primus. You are eager for revenge; why not toward her?”
It was no difficult matter to feel the priest’s abrupt interest. Mendeln decided that it was time to permit the ghost to speak.
“Well?” he asked of Malic.
The high priest’s voice came out as a vicious rasp that made Achilios’s so much more alive by comparison. “Brother…of Uldyssian ul-Diomed…what will you…have of me?”
“Knowledge of the temple near the capital. Its dangers and hidden secrets. Those things that Lucion made that Lilith now controls…”
The ghost laughed, a jarring cough with no humor in it. “Brother of Uldyssian ul-Diomed…you ask more than…can be told…” The translucent figure gave a smile. “…but it can be shown…”
This was not part of what the dragon and Rathma had discussed with Mendeln. There had been no explanation of what to do if Malic sought to accompany his summoner. Still…now that he had the specter under control, Mendeln saw the value in having the priest for constant questioning.
The only trouble was…how to accomplish this. He did not want to go back and ask the others. Mendeln considered for a moment, then turned the dagger to where the pyre had burned strongest. He focused on what it was he desired, willing the dagger to draw it to him.
The blackened ground underneath Malic’s vague form shook as if the body of the priest himself were about to rise up from the ashes like the morlu. Instead, though, what at last erupted to the surface was a small, white fragment like a pebble. It paused once it was free of the soil, then rolled directly to Mendeln’s waiting hand.
He straightened, studying the object. The largest bone fragment remaining of the high priest.
Mendeln touched the blade’s tip to the bone. He then muttered a binding spell akin to what he had utilized to keep Malic sealed within the patterns. The words used were again Mendeln’s own combinations, but something just felt right about them.
He prayed that he had not made a fatal mistake.
Clutching the fragment, Uldyssian’s brother studied the patterns on the ground. Then, with one quick sweep of his foot, he destroyed them.
The ghost let out a sigh. He lost all form. Now no more than mist, Malic suddenly swirled into the bone fragment. Once he was within, the fragment flared bright once, then returned to its normal state.
&
nbsp; Mendeln carefully checked to make certain that Malic had done nothing sinister. Detecting no fault in his spellwork, he finally exhaled in relief.
But before he could actually relax, from the direction of the town there came excited cries. Whether or not they concerned Mendeln, he did not wish to discover. His task here was at an end. As Trag’Oul had previously instructed, Mendeln used the dagger to draw a circle in the air, then two small symbols within.
Yes, I sense you…came the dragon’s voice.
The next moment, Mendeln stood in the familiar darkness. He was surprised to not see Rathma.
“I’ve done all you asked,” he told the stars.
They changed position briefly, then, as ever, became the half-seen leviathan. Yes…all that was asked…and much that was not expected…
“What do you mean?” Mendeln could think of only one thing. He produced the bone fragment. “I know that you only sought information from the priest’s shade, but I realized that questioning him would take too long and there might be other points that would come up later, when it was too late. I judged that the best course was to risk taking him with me. Was I wrong to think so?”
Whether you are wrong, the Balance shall show, responded Trag’Oul calmly. But how you managed the feat is what most interests me…
“I merely followed the teaching of both you and Rathma and adjusted as I believed would work. Thankfully, I was not wrong.” Mendeln frowned. “Did I do wrong?”
Rather, it should be said that you did the impossible…but then, the brothers ul-Diomed have been revising the meaning of that word over and over…
Mendeln did not understand. All he had done was attempt to follow through a logical procession. Why would Trag’Oul, to whom so much was possible, say otherwise?
Nevertheless, the dragon went on. You offer new hopes and potential with this direction you have taken. I have observed the binding on the stone; I cannot foresee the priest’s ghost freeing himself.
The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet Page 57