Shard

by Wayne Mee

  "Well done, Erin!", Nobert grunted. "Though I doubt there be much there for you to hit!"

  "I was aiming at his gut!", Erin replied, tossing the small crossbow away and reaching for his sword. "The damn thing fires low!"

  "Get them!", bellowed red-beard, lumbering to his feet and drawing his heavy shortsword. His crew sprang into action.

  The fight that followed was both brief and savage. Amid the screams of the terrified girls and shouts and curses from the fleeing patrons, Madame Spinette's high-pitched wailing could be heard, alternately pleading and demanding that the lot of them 'lake their business elsewhere'!

  The Companions stood their ground as the well armed sailors charged. Erin slashed one in the leg and another on the forearm before engaging with the red bearded captain. Kel leapt unarmed from a table onto two attackers. All three of them fell to the floor, the Chin's feet and hands striking out like serpents at exposed flesh. Roary fended off one sailor while trying to protect his beloved harp. Onooga struck her lover's attacker from behind with the flat of her sword and then guarded his back as the bard shoved his priceless instrument back into its leather bag. Flynn and Nobert stood to either side of Zoean, their blades ready to cut down anyone foolish enough to approach their princess. Even Mithdar's shortsword was out, and though he did little but defend himself and his friends, his ancient Nim weapon caused more than one of the sailors from Anon Hep to leap back.

  "Thorn!", Timin screamed, rising from the floor where he had fallen when their table had been overturned. "Behind you!"

  But the warning came too late. Thorn crouched and spun, Shard held tightly in his hand. The blow that was aimed at his back struck the black blade instead, slid down over the crossguard and laid open the back of his thumb. Bright blood gushed out, wetting the infamous blade and causing it to suddenly pulse with a life of its own. A reddish mist seemed to rise up around him, and Thorn felt himself being drawn ever deeper into it, much like a fallen leaf being swept over a thundering falls.

  Later that day, when they were safely under sail and Erin was guiding them smoothly down the broad waters of the Nal Verg-Loth in the red-bearded captain's 'borrowed' coastal sloop, Thorn once again regained his senses.

  Timin, who hadn't left his cousin's side since he had swooned during the fight at the inn, smiled down at his life-long friend. After giving Thorn a drink of water and helping him to sit up, Timin explained what had happened, telling a bewildered Thorn how, after he had passed out, Flynn had carried him down to the dock and taken him on board while Erin and the others fought a rear-guard action to escape Red Beard and the rest of his crew. Erin had ordered the lines cut and, with Kel and Flynn keeping the angry sailors at bay with their bows, had raised the sail and tacked up-river to the where the Nal Verg-Loth branched off from the Nal Torrent.

  "But why did I pass out?", Thorn demanded. "I don't feel wounded. A bit sore here and there, but..." Then the Kirkwean's face clouded and a look of utter and complete sadness overcame him.

  "It was Shard, wasn't it? It 'took' me again." This last was not a question.

  Timin nodded. "I --- I thought, that after the last time, when you used it against those Balikie and you still knew me when it was over that ---"

  "That I was at last free of its terrible spell?"

  Timin nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.

  "I know, Timin-lad. Me too." Then, after a lengthy pause: "Was it very bad?"

  The pain in the portly Kirkwean's face spoke louder than any words ever could. "Do you really want to hear, Thorn?"

  "I fear I must."

  "Five," Timin said flatly. "Perhaps only four. You didn't have time to, er, 'make sure' with the last one."

  Thorn didn't want to know what 'make sure' meant, though he felt he could guess. He held out his right hand. Reddish-purple stained it from fingertips to elbow. The rest of his clothes were almost as bad. In a sudden fury he tore them off and stood naked and trembling on the deck. Several of the Companions also on deck politely turned away.

  "Here now!", Timin scolded, covering Thorn's body with his own cloak. "None of this is your fault! It wasn't really you that killed them; it was THAT!"

  Both Kirkwean glanced at the dark shortsword where it lay in its scabbard at Thorn's feet. Hating himself for doing so, Thorn bent and picked up the cause of his inner anguish. It felt both cold yet strangely familiar to his touch --- almost like a part of him. A part of him, the 'real' part that was Bramblethorn Higgs, the little Kirkwean from the Wold, wanted with all his heart to toss the accursed thing into the river --- longed to do so and be rid of the hateful thing! But another part of him --- this newer, colder part clutched the slightly pulsing weapon to him and held it fast. Thorn's words, when they finally came, where little more than a sad whisper of dark despair.

  "I fear, dear friend, that I shall never be rid of this. That I will continue to fall deeper and deeper under its cruel spell, until, in the end, I become like the blade itself --- a hard, cold instrument of death."

  "In the end, Thorn, it may come to that," said a deep voice, charged with both pain and understanding. "But that is just one of the paths stretching out before you. A wide one, I'll not deny, but only one of many just the same."

  Thorn looked up into Mithdar's stern yet strangely soothing eyes and the kind old mage continued. "I have told you before that Shard will attempt to bend you to its will, and, that the more you use it, the more it will succeed."

  "But he had no choice, Mithdar!", Timin said, springing to his cousin's defense. "When those others came we were outnumbered two to one! Even Erin and Kel couldn't last against THAT many!"

  "I am not, Timin Goldenberry, blaming Thorn for his actions, I am merely stating the truth. Thorn knows that, even if you do not."

  The little Kirkwean's head sank and Mithdar placed an arm around both of them. "Let us not give up hope. Thorn, though he has several times succumbed to Shard's evil lust for blood, has never harmed any of us, nor anyone else whose heart is true. There is some comfort at least in that. I believe that he will never harm any of us, even when ---"

  "Even when I loose myself completely to the Black Blade's terrible power? I pray you are right, Mithdar, for if I ever awakened to find out that I had harmed any one of you I -- I --"

  "Enough!", the wizard warned. "Such thoughts will not help you, and may only strengthen Shard's power. We are all safe, for now. Several wounds were taken but they are slight and will quickly heal. We are on a stout ship, with a full wind at our backs and a stout captain at the tiller. By my reckoning we should reach The Wold in three days. Let us rest peacefully while we can."

  "But --- ", Thorn began.

  "But me no buts, Bramblethorn Higgs! You and your cousin are going home, and though sadness and sorrow may await you there, it is still your home none-the-less, and kith and kin will have need of your strength. Indeed, it is their 'need' that will aid you most, for, in the end, love always overcomes fear. The pair of you are proof of that! Now, get below the both of you and find some clean clothes for this impetuous young fool here before he catches a chill!

  "Yes, Mithdar!", Timin smiled. "I'll brew up some mint tea that'll chase any chills away, and perhaps find a bite to eat as well!"

  As the two Kirkwean went below, the mage sat on a hatch-covering and took out his pipe. As he slowly filled the carven bowl, he watched the greenish-blue water glide by. On the western bank a heron stood one-legged in the shallows. In the trees birds flitted about, making one last darting dash over the river before settling down to roost for the night. As the sun sank slowly behind a purple bank of clouds the mage sighed, muttered a short spell over a small twig he held in his hand and smiled as the tiny bit of wood burst into flame. Lighting his pipe he reflected on how the little things of this world often gave the greatest pleasure --- and often proved the most durable.

  ***

  Chapter 43:'A NEW UNDERSTANDING'

  Erin ap Conn managed to sail their 'borrowed' craft down the Nal Verg-
Leath with a minimum of trouble and a maximum of cursing. "Just look at that mainsail!", he grunted. "Those Hep Coasters could o' rigged it to get another two vels o' canvas if'n they had used a top-spar n' tackle!"

  "Undoubtedly," Mithdar said, a broad smile peeking out from under his long, silver beard. "Perhaps you should have discussed it with their captain before you smashed his teeth in with the hilt of your sword?"

  Erin grunted again and accepted the piece of stale bread and cheese the mage offered him.

  "Och, the quiffer needed a lesson in manners, speakin' as he did in front o' the lassies!"

  "Indeed!", chuckled the wizard. "I doubt he'll be speaking at all for some time to come!"

  Erin eyed the old man as he sat close by the tiller. "N' what be you so smug about, wizard? Seems to me that you could have been usin' your 'powers' back at the inn instead o' flailin' about with that pig-sticker o' yours! N' how about conjurein' up something better than this to eat! Faith, man, the bloody cheese be moldy!"

  "Whatever 'powers' I have, Longshanks, are not to be squandered in a tavern brawl or to be used to present you with meat to gulp and wine to guzzle!"

  Erin grinned, easing the tiller a point or two to starboard. "Ho, now! It's more like Herself that you're after becomin', always goin' on about 'guzlin' n' gulpin'; aye, n' 'nuzzlin' innocent virgins' as well! Why, she'd have every man turn monk if she could!"

  The mage chuckled to himself. "I seriously doubt that Zoean Ithilian wants you to take monkish vows. Her people have never seen the need for them. Indeed, the idea of 'religion' itself, at least as we know it, is completely foreign to them. Though extremely long-lived, they have no concept of either reward or punishment after death, just a 'fading and blending back' into the primeval forces they sprang from."

  Erin, taking the steaming cup of tea Timin had brought up with him, nodded his thanks to the little Kirkwean and then again addressed the mage. "But what about this god Lear n' his 'wife', Quent? N' how do you ken those maids that big quiffer Gwailith took me to, er, 'visit' back there in Gareth Withrin? Why, the darlin' lassies coudn't have been more willing!" The tall, weapons-man grinned from ear to ear.

  Mithdar shook his head. "You misunderstand, Erin. The Nim-Loth's The House of the Four Winds is not a brothel and the Daughters of Quent are anything but common doxies!"

  The man from distant Loamin gave Timin a knowing wink. "Then it's foolin' me they were, old salt; n' me bein' a sailor, whose better to know?!"

  Mithdar sighed and crossly banged out the dottle of his pipe. "The Nim-Loth, you great, thick-headed oaf, worship Nature! Life and death for them are but two sides of the same coin. The 'creation of life' is considered a sacred and profoundly holy act, and not, as you seem to think, a mere few moments idle pleasure! Children conceived by the Daughters of Quent are considered to be twice-blessed, by Lear, the powerful 'father' above and Quent, the life-giving 'mother' below. The males are reared to be great teachers, poet-warriors and philosophers!"

  "N' the females?"

  "The same as the males, with the added option, if they so choose, of themselves becoming Daughters of Quent."

  Erin sat scratching his head. Timin, however, had a question.

  "You said 'poet-warriors'. That seems like a strange combination."

  "The Nim-Loth," said Mithdar; "are a very strange race; and a very old one. The taking of life, any life, is repulsive to them. Oh, they hunt to eat and make war when it is forced upon them, but they prefer to follow a more gentler way of life. Warriors are encouraged to learn the use of pen and harp as well as sword and spear."

  "Hmmph!", Erin grunted. "It was no 'pen' that quiffer Gildar used against me when first we met! He like to took my head off with that great blade o' his!"

  Mithdar sighed. "As the Norlabrin or Champion of his people, Bar Gildar was honour bound to best you if he could. The fact that he has a personal prejudice against other races was secondary. It may interest you to know, Erin, that Gildar is also considered an excellent poet, and that several of his works have been read during their Yule Festivals."

  "It doesn't!"

  "I didn't really think it would; but then your own people of Loamin place great value on your bards. Look how much you enjoy hearing Roary sing and play his harp."

  Erin drained his tea and tossed the cup back to Timin. "The lay o' a good harper stirs the heart n' sets the blood boilin'. They tell o' the great deeds n' heroes o' the past n' proclaim the feats o' the weapons-men still livin'! They do NOT sit scratchin' flowery words on perfumed parchment, meant only for the tear-filled eyes o' some cow-like maid!"

  "And do they never," Mithdar asked; "deal with the gentler things such as love and beauty? Must they all be of death, dying and honour? What about the one Roary sang last night? The warrior Tris seemed to truly love the maiden Isil."

  "Aye!", Erin countered. "N' the quiffer slew a whole boatload o' Slathers to get her back before he himself took his death wound! N' don't be forgettin' the part where fair Isil threw herself into the sea rather than let the savage quiffers touch her or be brinin' her back to that slavering degenerate, Alexis II!"

  "That's strange," Mithdar said whimsically. "And here I thought she did it rather than live without her lost love. Ah well, so much for the sentiment of old age." Then, with a sly look, he rose. "Perhaps, Erin, you should try your hand at composing, since you've such a gift with the three necessary ingredients."

  "Oh?," questioned the weapons-man. "N' what, pray tell, be those?"

  "Why, 'words, women and wanton killing', of course. You seem to me to be a past-master at all three." With that the wily old wizard went below, leaving Erin to glower at a chuckling Timin.

  ***

  The creature circled low over the grassy, tent-strewn field, banked high over the lake, then swooped down with a great beating of leathery wings to land in one of the gigantic pines above the Forge.

  "Slath protect us!", Nex said under his breath, as he stood gaping with a group of others outside the one stone building in the Root. Alexis V strode out of the ancient structure, taking care to duck his head as he passed through the low doorway. As always, Skatha and the ugly Shag creature were not far behind.

  "So, the first of my pets has arrived! Good! The others should not be far behind!"

  Nex, grabbing a wineskin from Nelock, his ever-present orderly, downed a healthy pull and tossed it back before stepping forward to confront his supreme leader.

  "My liege, when you told us that you had summoned 'special aid' to help root out the renegade Wee'ns, we, er, assumed that you meant more Slathlanders. If you remember, Sire, I myself suggested bringing some of the archers from your fiefdoms in the Twin Isles of Itchca. Itchca Major in particular, it being both the closest and their stiff-necked goathearders being uncommonly good with a bow."

  Several of the officers present murmured their agreement, for, three years earlier the Isle of Itchca Major had proven to be a tough nut to crack for the mighty Slathland War Machine. It was in the eventual conquering of those 'stiff-necked goat herders' that Nex had won his highest fame as a commander.

  Nex, emboldened by his comrades, continued. "But this, this THING, my lord? How can such a flying monster aid us?"

  Lucfelian, now in the guise of the High Gnash of all Slathland, turned his cold, cruel stare on Nex.

  It had been nearly a month now since Skatha had tricked Slathland's High Gnash into drinking the 'ensorcled wine', allowing Lucfelian's life force to 'take possession' of Alexis V's body. Now, almost four weeks later, though there had been none of the tell-tale tremblings and fevers that always before heralded the burning out of the 'host', there had been, 'other signs'. The strangest of these being that somehow the mind and personality of Alexis V still lived on even after The Shadow's coming!

  The second new thing about this 'host' was that it TALKED to Lucfelian! Words and pictures formed in their shared consciousness that utterly amazed Lucfelian! It was like nothing he had ever encountered before, and one that, as l
ong as he remained the 'dominate one', he was becoming more and more loath to give up, for Alexus V was proving to be a sly and crafty cuncilor!

  And it was this inner personality that now whispered to Lucfelian as he stood before Nex and the others.

  For the last month Lucfelian had brooked not the slightest questioning of his methods. Nex, like the dozens before him, would have died screaming, either by Skatha's or, when the mood struck him, by Lucfelian's own hand --- but now a voice of caution spoke to him from within, a voice that urged restraint, pointing out that not only Nex, but most of the commanders resented these harsh demands their 'supreme ruler' was forcing upon them; resented having their battle plans questioned and their power being replaced by the hook-handed foreigner, Skatha.

  'And, most of all, 'Shadow-lord',' The Voice of Alexus V urged; 'they resent you!'

  Lucfelian laughed inwardly. 'What care I about their petty resentments?! They are only cattle to be used as I see fit!'

  'Ahhh,' crooned The Voice. 'But before you had less to lose, for I was not within you then!'

  'You think I need you?! I am Lucfelian and my name is legion! Gorgoroth; The Shadow Lord; The King of Darkness Past and Future! I am He that comes in the night and feeds on your fears! I have no need of you or anyone!"

  'Oh, but you do, 'Lord of Shadows'. You have need of Shard,' The Voice that had been Alexis V said cooly. 'And to get Shard you have need of me.'

  'Explain!'

  'It's quite simple, really. In your mind I have seen your need, felt it eating away at you night and day. It drives you on, causing you to make hasty, even foolish decisions. You crush instead of control, react instead of plan.'

  'It is fear that drives these human scum, not kind words and promises!'

  'Ah, yes!', said The Voice. 'But their fear of you may drive them to take desperate steps; a blade in the night, a poisoned cup of wine.'

  'I will live forever! This 'host of flesh' can easily be replaced!'