by Dan Gillis
“Shien …” Firah’s voice came somewhat more strained than she intended. She heard his body shuffle close.
“I’m here, Firah.” He placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him and sought for warmth. She could hear him breathing softly, his heart beating rhythmically. It was comforting for her.
“This is such an awful place. Why are we here? Was it that important to be brought into a grave?” She shuddered as she recalled the ghastly grinning faces of the skulls within the room beyond the near door. She pulled closer to Shien in response to the thought.
* * *
It was nighttime and the Halls seemed to loom overhead ominously. The fire was low and smoldering, providing a little warmth. The companions rested in subdued silence.
Firah slowly slipped into a dream-like state. Her mind drifted off on seas of thought between reality and illusion. As she sailed along she saw in the distance a black mass forming. She felt strangely attuned to the dark oppressive blot and moved closer. It seemed to grow ever larger and more terrifying. It consumed her mind and vision until all she could see was blackness. Strangely, while before she had felt that she must escape from it, she now longed to be unified with the darkness. She felt uplifted and supported on wings of unholy power. It filled her whole frame with a lust for power and control. She laughed harshly as the mist filled her lungs and veins, her very soul. It was a feeling of pure ecstasy.
As the darkness sought to utterly consume her, she detected a new presence. It slipped through the shadows effortlessly like a ghost. It was cat-like, walking upon all fours but its features were obscured by a dark pelt. Firah’s mind slipped back into memory where the same creature had stirred before. It seemed to blend and meld with the oppressive shadow and took a firm grasp of her hand in its mouth. Suddenly, they were moving, the strange guide leading her through unknown wastelands, over scorched barren ground, even through high impenetrable walls. Nothing could deter their progress.
The darkness dispersed.
Firah’s eyes flicked open to reveal her standing at the edge of the forest. The moon rose high above, while the cool night breeze tossed her dark hair. She looked around, still trembling from the dark vision. She saw the Broken Halls behind her and wondered how she had left. Zyr and Shien had sealed off the camp, closing all the doors with great effort. There was no passage except for the birds and air through masonry vents high above in the ceiling. Yet amid her confusion she was unafraid; something of the experience in her vision remained, an absence of fragility, a hidden confidence. She looked as the winds gusted and tossed the trees nearby. Deep within the boughs of the silent sentinels she spied upon the form of her rescuer. Pale yellow eyes gleamed within the shadows with the hinting of a low predator form.
Wisps of blue light whipped about in the wind and began to swirl and form over the creature. Gradually, the light took shape before her eyes, dazzling and bright. At once, the form of a woman was before her, with great lengths of shimmering hair that twisted and flowed over her slender alluring body. She looked down at the young girl from where she stood above the creature and a small smile traced her lips. It seemed to the girl that all the sorrow and pain of the world was within that smile, and yet so much love and concern that it warmed her completely, body and soul. Firah took her whole form in; the brilliant woman was tall like the trees around her and breathtakingly beautiful. Without a word, she gestured for the girl to follow her into the woods, and then she slipped through the wood like it was a pool of water, the trees enveloping her body and that of her stalking primal guardian. Firah could see her light within the woods, slowly fading. She briefly considered what to do. Something within her heart urged her on, beyond all sense and reason which cried out against rash actions.
Without a backward glance, the girl stepped past the threshold of the forest and disappeared within.
Zyr floated between the realms of sub consciousness and meditation. He sensed the demon growing stronger. Somewhere, within the land this night, another sacrifice was offered. He mourned within himself and glowered with frustration. How could he prevent any of this from occurring? It seemed the inevitable dark cloud grew steadily larger, to eventually consume the whole land. And so it would, if unchecked. He felt frustrated and alone. Despite his every effort, the enemy of Mother Aerluin was marching on, stronger than before. What could be done to battle such a demon? Certainly he had not the strength within himself. He only took comfort in the fact that as long as Firah was safe, the end was prolonged. As he pondered upon the billowing mass of dark fumes in his mind, a rush of feelings came over him. It struck him so suddenly, that he dropped from his meditative state, and his eyes snapped open. What had those feelings meant? What was Mother trying to tell him? He searched deep within his soul for the answers and felt a small sense of understanding. The letter which remained unheeded within his robes …
He pulled the parchment from the inside pocket and felt the surface which was made from cured goat skin. Slowly he broke the seal as his mind raced with wonder of what was contained within. He held it lightly in his hands. Zyr felt an ancient connection root his mind and body to the parchment. He rolled the cured skin open revealing an intricate symbol that lay centered upon the page. It was the Seal of the Masters. His hand moved through his hair, rubbing his scalp subconsciously. It had taken years to learn the unsealing seals, and at times he forgot about them from disuse. They were taught to him shortly before his ascension to the rank of Master. As such, he had only seen the seal once, for he had left the day following his investiture to the Council of Masters. That had been almost two decades of time.
He sought back in his mind for the lore which would unseal the message hidden within. After many moments of reflection, the memory came and he performed the incantation, touching the key points upon the circular seal. It was strange irony that with one misstep he would require the services of a physician. Tampering with mystical seals of this order was a deadly business. As he whispered the last word and formed the last glyph, the seal parted and formed words in an ancient language upon the parchment. The moment was tense and anxious. As Zyr confronted a past long forgotten, his mind raced even as his name formed upon the upper corner of the document. His hands shook slightly as his gaze fell over each word.
Zyr Tareniel:
Due to your flight from the sacred Halls of the Order, your status has come into question, and many have sought to have you banished and sealed from the Hall. Since that time, on several occasions, members of the Council have volunteered to venture forth and escort you back to your proper place, within or without the grave. Yet, all this time the will of Dear Mother has remained consistent. You are to remain outside of the Order, and yet not in banishment. These words will come to you when you are sufficiently prepared in our Divine Mistress’ will and time.
This is what you must know and what the whisperings of Mother direct. The Order will soon be expunged from this realm. The Servant has flown into her arms before his time. He was murdered within the walls of his chamber and his body has never been recovered. The Scepter cannot remain here as these holy Halls will soon be desecrated by the filth that besieges us even at this time. There will be instructions as to its location sealed in the Chamber of Ascension. You can understand our caution; the Servant’s Scepter is the key to everything this Order has stood for. It contains great power but only for the worthy. It is the will of our Mother that you, Zyr Tareniel, are to take up the Scepter in the role of Servant. Your trial will be as with any of the Chosen, to reach the Chamber of Ascension by your own hand and none else. If you are successful and unseal the map to the Scepter, you are worthy to take up this most sacred position. This is the will of Aerluin, despite those who would oppose this action.
Now we bid you to move speedily, for you will not be permitted to stay long in the Halls once they are broken. Great Mother will tend our home now, and her own sentinels keep it.
Farewell, Master of the Open Hand. May it remain thus for fr
iend and closed upon the foe.
Greil, Master of Lore
Zyr sat in solemn bewilderment of the words which lay between his trembling fingers. He? How is it that Mother would select him as the lowest and greatest among all? He was too arrogant and self-righteous. His plans usually led to difficulty and he was still far too reckless. How could he possibly fulfill the role, especially as he had not followed the tenets of the faith for so long? He shook his head and stared up into the lofty barrel arches of stone that spanned the ceiling. How was it possible? His mind was jumbled and he stood in anticipation of pacing the hall, which sometimes cleared his thoughts. “Strange, the letter does not bear the crest of the Council …” As he began to move, he saw Shien laying peacefully near the low fire, and suddenly he realized Firah was gone.
Cursing himself for an oblivious fool, he ran to the far door they had entered, even as his hands erupted in white light. The door was sealed, and after quickly checking all available exits, he found them all soundly sealed as they had left them. He brought his glowing hands to his head and groaned in frustration. The light cast great shadows of his profile upon the massive walls. He slowly slipped into a shuffling walk as the puzzle of her disappearance eluded all logic. Finally, as he reached the far door, he feverishly removed the debris which had been set as a deterrent. ‘She has to be near! She has to! Perhaps if I can detect her within the grounds …’ Finally, the monk wrenched the door open and stumbled outside. He looked about the courtyard and saw nothing but the flowing grass under the moon. He began to chant softly, to bring the power forth.
“I would not do that if I were you.” A low rumbling voice toned. Zyr flashed a glare at the motionless Wilder who leaned against the cold stone next to him. “The guardians sleep. You start throwing weaves around here and they will awaken. That will end her little adventure too soon.” Zyr was trembling in anger, something he realized he had not felt in quite some time.
“Where is the girl?” he demanded, his fists clenched but without power. He knew what it meant to cross the guardians.
“Hands closed upon the foe … is that it, vagabond? I really shouldn’t tell you, but perhaps it is old age dulling the brain.” He looked smugly upon the monk who stared back with contempt. “You cannot help her, for she has begun her Awakening. Time will tell whether she has the gift.”
“She is more gifted than any would know, particularly you,” Zyr retorted. Rhagal returned a look of equal disdain. The healer continued, “She will succeed, and may you choke happily upon the words that you have spoken in measure.” The monk looked away for a moment, and then spoke quietly. “Which reminds me, I owe you something for your untimely help.”
Zyr stepped suddenly into a crouch, and shifted under the large man, driving his open palm under Rhagal’s chin while striking him in the chest with the other open hand. The manoeuvre lifted the unsuspecting Wilder cleanly off the ground and into the near wall. Zyr stepped back and prepared for an unseen assault from the darkness. He was well aware of the Wilder’s connection to the dark stalkers. Rhagal rose as a shadow from the forest floor. Pure spite and loathing flowed through the air from eyes intently locked upon the monk. “Farewell, Zyr Tareniel. May your paths find misery and despair which is your due and destiny. Vagrant. Consider your oath fulfilled. The Wilders shall have no more dealings with you, except in retribution.” Rhagal leapt effortlessly to the wall. He glowered toward the monk a last time. It was full of hidden meaning which Zyr understood clearly. His oath was served but their business was far from done. Without another word the Wilder moved noiselessly away into the dark.
Zyr smiled and spoke aloud to the departing man. “I kept my hand open for you, Rhagal. It was a favour for Firah. Consider it closed.” He looked to the forest which swayed silently beyond the inner wall. His face softened and he spoke quietly into the wind. He offered a small prayer of protection for the girl.
“I cannot help you, Firah. Be true to yourself for I know you can do this … It seems we both have trials and paths to walk.” The monk took one last look into the blackness and moved toward the large door to tend to the duties of the Order.
“You may not be aware, but many named at the cenotaph at the south wall fell in the First War of the Order. I was an Initiate then, and I remember those dark moments. I remember them so I do not have to repeat such unpleasant experiences. Learn from the past, protect the future.”
Syf - Teralor: Master of Historia, Earth and Delving
Culling the Cadre
THE ONE SEAT escort moved swiftly across the hardened plains toward the river crossing in the southern Mehnin foothills. Beyond that they would move on to Kespa, one of the twin river cities just inside the border of Jandor. The sun was fading in the west while painting elaborate streaks of colour, mocking the most studious craftsman’s attempts to emulate such grandeur.
Ebyn watched his mistress closely as they rode hard across the browning grass. Her hood had been drawn over her face for quite some time. Her quiet features were as subdued as her voice had been since the rendezvous point. The remnant of the offensive - which had waylaid the White Guard the previous night - reported late Mena morning to receive new orders. The Ashori had noted a distinct chill in her voice as she ordered them to move fast to the small arena city in the next province. There were nearly a dozen mounts that had been provided for all those of seniority in Ahtol. The remainder, whether henchmen or lower ranked forces, had been subjected to a long laborious march. Regardless, the Ahtol company had not lingered in the area long after connecting with Nuril. It seemed that the enigmatic Wilders had disappeared into the air after fulfilling their mercenary oath. They also appeared to be anxious to be somewhere.
Ebyn could feel the sensations in the land. Something was moving, and perhaps the time was coming for all the servants of Ahtol to make their move. While such business was guarded with the utmost care, it had become evident to him that there would be an eventual strike made against Syrion. It seemed logical and the most prudent course after reviving all the fragments of Ahtol. Menhin still needed to awaken; under Nuril’s watch the ritual had been delayed indefinitely. He did not envy her position, and he hardly blamed her frustration. Ebyn had encountered the cursed monk, thankfully briefly, and realized since that Zyr had allowed himself to be taken. He had to admit that their adversary was shrewd, both in devising a clever plot to break the black altar to stall their progress and in harbouring the girl and helping her to elude their grasp. Gratefully, he was only one of a few who knew anything of what was truly happening in the land. It would be over before most had a notion of what had befallen them. Kenhar would belong to Ahtol with his faithful guiding the stroke which would fall in every land. Ebyn’s mind swam in visions of wealth and power. He would need to be careful and pick his paths through the ranks carefully. He laughed softly to himself. The great oaf Gaeth and all his overconfidence had not saved him. There was one less to worry about, removed conveniently by the enemy.
He turned from Nuril to listen to the sounds of horses approaching from the southwest. There were several riders dressed in dark tones, matching their mount’s colour. They had slipped from dusk’s shadowy embrace, covering the ground between them rapidly. Nuril slowed up the pace and, after several minutes, the two assembled groups stopped a fair distance from each other.
Nuril turned sharply to Ebyn and spoke harshly from within the depths of her hood, “you are with me.” Ebyn bowed and dismounted, handing his reins to another cadre member. He stepped in behind the striding woman. Her head was held high, though still shrouded by the veil and hood. There were two others approaching from the other riding party. They too were shrouded by hoods which masked most of their faces, including the eyes. Ebyn knew by the colours that this was an envoy from the other sister cadres, perhaps from Syrion. They must have traveled through Jandor, and prepared to meet up with the Blade of Ahtol. Nuril stepped with an easy cadence as she came near to the others. The expressions on the faces of the two towering men wer
e nothing but cold disdain. They halted a few feet away, their black cloaks billowing in the Darkwood breeze. Ebyn checked his own stance as he stopped just behind his cadre mistress, he bowed his head slightly, enough to still catch everything in his peripheral vision. He would not miss the opportunity to see Nuril’s haughtiness culled.
“Remove your hood,” one of the men spoke with an edge. Nuril complied and slipped the hood from her head, although Ebyn could not make out her expression due to her veil. The other man, the more powerful of the two, nodded. The one who had spoken came close to Nuril and struck her hard across the face. The blow buckled her body to the ground as her veil fluttered away on the gusts of wind. Her face was still turned away from Ebyn. Within, he felt a sense of fascination; he had never seen her brought low like this. It was quite refreshing.
“You have caused us serious delay with your incompetence!” the one next to her barked with contempt. He slammed his foot into her body, causing her to cough violently upon the ground, and yet she made no attempt to defend herself. Ebyn knew that would be instantly met with more serious consequences. This current discipline would be relatively mild in comparison. Nuril’s assailant grabbed a handful of her dark locks and yanked her to her feet, while driving a fist into her gut, in which she retched out spit and blood.