With that, Indalvian began to walk down the hill. Dormael shared another look with his friends before stepping after the old wizard. Everyone else followed close behind.
“First, a few questions. How did you come to possess the Sign you brought to Orm?” Indalvian asked.
“It’s a long story,” D’Jenn said. “It belongs to the Lady Baroness.”
“It was gifted to my mother by the King of Cambrell on her wedding day,” Shawna said.
“Cambrell?” Indalvian repeated.
“A kingdom to the east, across the Sea of Storms,” D’Jenn said.
“In the east?” Indalvian said. “Things have changed more than I anticipated, then. You say it was given as a wedding gift? What fool would gift such a dangerous thing to be worn about as a bauble?”
“No one knew what it was,” Dormael said. “The armlet’s secrets had been lost to history.”
“Not completely,” Shawna pointed out. “The Galanian Emperor knows something of it. He had my family slaughtered so he could get his hands on the armlet.”
“This emperor,” Indalvian said, “he’s seeking the Nar’doroc? Looking for the Seven Signs?”
“That’s our theory,” D’Jenn said.
“How many of the others are in his possession?”
Dormael and D’Jenn shared another uncomfortable look.
“We don’t know,” Dormael said. “All we know for sure is that he came after this one. His people have been chasing us since we escaped from the east. Soldiers at first, and now a vilth.”
Indalvian’s jaw tightened. “Vilthinum have become involved in this? I failed, then. At the last of it, I failed.” He let out a long breath and turned to gaze over the hills, gritting his teeth. “Would that I had killed that boy when he was under my power. Time…so much time must have passed.”
“Boy?” D’Jenn asked.
Indalvian turned back to them. “Never mind that. What are your intentions with the Nar’doroc?”
“We’re trying to gather the pieces before the Galanians can find them,” Dormael said.
“And then?”
“Destroy them, if we can,” D’Jenn said. “If not, then we’ll drop them into the depths of the sea.”
“You do not wish its power for yourself?” Indalvian asked. “Great and terrible things could be done. This is not something you desire?” He turned his gaze on each of them, and Dormael thought he felt an odd pressure at the corner of his senses while Indalvian regarded him. The old man’s eyes lingered on Bethany for a moment, his thoughts hidden behind a blank expression. It made Dormael uncomfortable.
“We’ve seen what it can do,” D’Jenn said, “or some of it. We know what it does to those who wear it.”
“Besides,” Dormael put in, “we’ve been charged with its destruction.”
“I doubt you know more than a small piece of the Nar’doroc’s power,” Indalvian said, his eyes going distant once again. “Or what it can do to those who wear it. Who charged you with finding the Nar’doroc? Who bade you destroy her?”
Her? Had the man confused the language, or had he meant to use that word?
“The Mekai of the Conclave,” D’Jenn said.
“The Conclave,” Indalvian repeated, a smile breaking the apprehension on his face. “Not a complete failure, after all. Come—I shall tell you everything I was left here to say.” He turned and started walking again, forcing the party to follow.
The scenery around them began to change. Dormael almost fell as the hills dissolved, though the ground under his feet was steady. Mountains sprang up to either side, a narrow pass materializing under Dormael’s feet.
Ranks of men stood all around them, bristling spear-heads poking between painted shields. Battle lines were drawn at the mouth of the pass, where men huddled under a storm of arrows. A mob of screaming infantry were sprinting up the rise, covered by the rain of projectiles loosed from behind. Beyond them, in the valley below, was a teeming mass of humanity and horses.
The spearmen defending the pass were doomed. Though their battle line was strong, it had yet to be tested. The dead were already piling at their feet, cut down by the arrows raining from the afternoon sky. They might withstand a charge or two by the mob, but the sheer pressure of numbers would see the spearmen to their ends in due course.
“The Battle of Whiterock Pass,” Indalvian said. “The eastern horde met a small force of Duadan warriors here, and wiped them out. It was the first that the southern tribelands heard of the invasion, though the northern valley had been lost to the invader for a year by this time. Once this battle was lost, the horde was free to move into the lands of the Farrans, the Jerrans, and to overtake the Duadan hills. Many died, many more were taken as chattel.”
The scene dissolved again, this time resolving into rolling hills. A river snaked to the southern horizon, sparkling in the midday sun. A great body of people was moving across the land. Horses, carts, armed men, scampering children, and herd animals all walked in a great line from north to south.
Behind them walked a mass of dirty, bleeding people, bound with ropes and bare to the elements.
“There had been a long stretch of blistering summers,” Indalvian said, looking over the sea of humanity. “Droughts. Sickness. Storms that swept from the sea to destroy entire towns, or came south from the mountains and blanketed the land in ice. Many believed the gods were returning, that they would destroy all of Eldath in their displeasure.” He snorted a laugh to himself, and turned to look at Dormael. “A bit prophetic, in the end.”
“This is the First Great War,” D’Jenn said.
“Is that what you call it?” Indalvian asked, turning to look at the blue-eyed wizard. “The First Great War? In my day, we couldn’t have imagined a war more destructive than this one. It pains me to think there were more of them on this scale.”
“Just one,” D’Jenn replied. “So far, anyway.”
Indalvian nodded, and turned back to the mass of people. “This horde invaded from the north, but they hailed from far to the east—a place that lived only in legends, before this. Those invaders whom we captured told tales of crop failures, sickness, great unrest in their homelands. The hot summers had revealed a passage across the winter-locked north, and down into the mountains near Vendonia. The enemy was desperate. They didn’t come to conquer more peoples for their chiefs, or even to take slaves—though they did plenty of that, as you can see. These people came for land, for food, for safety. This was a colonization. It was genocide.”
“The size of the army,” Allen breathed, looking over the horde. “Gods. I’ve never seen its like.”
“I hope you never do,” Indalvian said. His eyes darkened, going distant. “The gods can be real bastards. Divining their intentions is a fool’s game—believe me.”
“That’s a truth well spoken,” Shawna muttered.
Dormael was struck by the memory of her after their battle aboard the Seacutter—covered in a mixture of rain and blood. Her hair had been so drenched in the stuff that even in the rain it clung like a paste, and ran in stained rivulets down her chin. To this day, he still hadn’t been able to find a word to describe the expression he’d seen on her face.
Indalvian waved his hand, and their surroundings dissolved into endless black.
“Their capriciousness is an abominable thing,” Indalvian continued. “Think on it. They float somewhere out in the Void, a world beyond anything we can comprehend. They look at us like ants beneath their golden boots. Do you spare a heart’s pang for the gnat crushed between your fingers? Over the years I’ve pondered the question of the gods. I don’t think they give more than a passing care about what happens down here in the muck, if they indeed care at all. Perhaps it’s time to rethink using the word gods to refer to those creatures, whatever they are.”
A new panorama began to reform from the darkness, and Indalvian gestured at Bethany.
“Cover the girl’s eyes. This one is not a pretty sight.”
Sh
awna reached down and did so, while Bethany let out a dramatic sigh. Dormael caught eyes with the noblewoman, and they shared a nod. He turned back to the scene resolving from the whirling sands of Indalvian’s illusion, and his breath caught in this throat.
They stood on a long, hilly plain under a late summer sunset. Wind blew the tall grasses that blanketed the scene, making purple wildflowers wave in the breeze. The vision was so complete that Dormael could feel the touch of the air on his face.
From horizon to horizon stood a line of thick posts driven into the ground. Upon each post hung two or three corpses, bloody and drying in the sun. Crows were everywhere, picking at the dead. Coughing echoed from somewhere in the distance, though Dormael couldn’t see the source. The architects of this display had been indiscriminate. There were children mixed with the men, and women nailed up beside wrinkled ancients.
The smell was acrid, and it brought bile to Dormael’s throat.
Beyond the fearsome border, a group of horsemen trotted across the hills, too distant for Dormael to make out details. He watched as arrows arced into the bodies nailed to the posts, a macabre game of target practice. Crows scattered, and the horsemen disappeared into the distance, their voices echoing across the grass. The coughing continued, and the crows returned.
“This was the area between the conquered lands, and what remained of Vendonia. These people were sacrificed to the cruel gods of the invaders, and put here to mark the border, as some kind of magical protection.”
“Did it work?” D’Jenn asked, turning an astonished look on Indalvian.
“No,” Indalvian said, gesturing at the gory display. “It’s only religion. The horse-people killed the Blessed wherever they found them, and kept little pieces of their bodies as talismans. Not all blood magic is superstition, though. At the time we didn’t understand much about their rites, and their gods. We quickly learned.”
The wind picked up, tearing the grasses from the dirt. Soon the view was evaporating into that endless darkness, carried away like it had never been. Screams began to echo through the black, then more, until a chorus was roaring somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, they were caught in the midst of a furious battle.
A formation of bloodied men stood nearby, a hedgerow of shields and spears. A loose mob of skirmishers struggled on the field before them, no two of them equipped in the same fashion. Horsemen appeared from the far side of the battlefield, and bore down on the skirmishers. They loosed arrows from the saddle, even while their horses were at a gallop, and pulled long, curved swords to chop into the infantry as they thundered by. Dormael watched as men were cut down by the fearsome charge, the horsemen taking a vicious tithe as they bowled through the Vendonian skirmishers. As they passed to the far side of the field, the horsemen wheeled in a great turn, and loosed another volley at the Vendonians. Men fell like wheat before the scythe.
“Our people had no horses before the invader came,” Indalvian said. “The horse-people rode like they were born to the saddle. Our armies were too slow to close with them. The enemy would simply pepper them with arrows until they were softened, then turn and destroy them to a man. Each year they pushed farther south, killed or enslaved more of our people. We were desperate, too, you understand.”
The battle exploded into a billion flecks of sand, and sucked back together to form a new picture.
A man stood before a crowd of robed officials, beams of sunlight shining upon him. The room was wide, circular, and filled with terraced benches divided by low walls. Gilding decorated the edges of the chamber, and rich fabrics hung from every corner.
The man at the center was speaking with passion, gesticulating with both hands in sharp, angry motions. He was dressed in a robe like those of the men in the terraced seats, though his was blood-red in contrast to their lighter colors. A slim silver chain decorated his shoulders, made to resemble swords linked side by side. The faces that watched him wore sweaty, anxious expressions, and eyed each other with dread.
“The city-states of Vendonia were ever fractious, mistrustful, and all of them had their eyes turned inward,” Indalvian went on. “Even after many of the chiefs and king-men and council lords could be convinced of the danger, it was still harder to get them to work together. Entire seasons were lost arguing with the gentry, cajoling and politicking. Meanwhile, the invader conquered more lands. Ten years the war raged on, and with no end in sight. The horse-people and their allies weren’t going anywhere. Our people were dying, and even the Blessed of Eindor couldn’t help as much as we’d hoped.”
“Why not?” D’Jenn asked. “Magic is a fearsome thing in battle. Surely it turned the tide here and there.”
“Here and there,” Indalvian nodded. “It allowed us to slow their advance. But in those days wizards were scattered throughout the land, loyal to none but their own masters and apprentices. There were few of us, and even fewer that had contact with others of our kind. What knowledge about magic there was existed in isolated pockets, hidden away in these mountains, or those caves, wherever civilization had failed to take hold. Some were worshiped as gods by their own cults, and thought themselves divine. Few concerned themselves with the goings-on of normal society—until, that is, they were affected by it. Most who came to us in the early years of the war had been chased out by the horse-people, or escaped from them. They were reclusive, and balked at working with any cohesion.”
“You were losing the war,” Allen said.
“Even so,” Indalvian nodded. “Then, she came.”
A dark wind rose, bringing another change of scenery.
When Dormael looked up again, they stood around the bowl of the ancient altar, facing a man who knelt at its base. The familiar panorama stretched around them, the sky threatening rain with its color. A sprig of ivy sat in the bowl, but something was different. In the dreams the armlet had shown Dormael, it had been water that filled the bowl, still and clear as glass.
In Indalvian’s vision, the bowl was full of hot, red blood.
It ran down the sides, dripped onto the stone beneath the altar. The ivy was half-submerged in the thick blood, and what leaves poked free were spattered with it. A trail of droplets was strewn between the praying man’s knees, leading to the edge of the flagstones. Dormael looked and saw a troop of fighting men standing some distance away, and what looked like a younger version of Indalvian himself. He was dressed for the road, and scowled with cold eyes at the man before the altar. A dead warrior lay at his feet, redness staining the grass beneath his throat.
“It was an old rite,” Indalvian said, following Dormael’s gaze. “Ishamael was a Teptian, you know. They still sought death in battle to please the gods. He was a smart man, but he was just as superstitious as the rest of them. He let an old blind woman convince him to perform this ritual to draw the gods’ attention. I told him it was useless, but he would not be swayed. By that time, Orm lay deep in enemy territory. A trek to this place would risk lives, and it would all be for nothing—that’s what I told him. In the end, I was the one to be proved wrong.”
Ishamael went rigid, back arched as if he were in pain. Dormael turned to see the younger Indalvian moving a step forward, concern on his face. The shadows lengthened as clouds rolled over the sun. Thunder rumbled overhead.
Lightning arced into the bowl, striking in quick, bright flashes. The fighting men scrambled for cover, but the lightning was centered on the altar. Sparks flew with every vengeful flash, but none of them touched Ishamael. The younger Indalvian was screaming, but the noise of the lightning drowned him out.
When Dormael was able to see again, the blood in the ancient stone bowl had become liquid silver. Tendrils reached out like creepers, and the blob of living metal pulled itself from the bowl. Glowing gems pushed their way to the surface, each leaking nebulous light in its own hue. The tentacles quested out as it moved, until they alighted upon Ishamael’s rigid body. Like an insect capturing its prey, the thing whipped its feelers around Ishamael’s bod
y, and enfolded him in its alien embrace.
The light blazing from the gems flared until it washed out the scene with iridescence. Dormael caught glances of Ishamael’s silhouette, struggling with the whipping tendrils of the Nar’doroc. Through the thunder, and the crooning song of the alien weapon, Dormael thought he could hear the man screaming.
Then, the entire scene froze in place.
“I spent years thinking on this moment,” Indalvian said. Dormael turned to look at him, and saw the older version standing close to the younger, scrutinizing himself with a distant expression. “I was so young in those days. Orphaned from my master. Alone in a world that could not decide what my place was to be. I was so…unsure of myself. Would that I had done more to prevent this moment from coming to pass.”
“Forgive me for saying,” D’Jenn interrupted, walking around the motionless form of Ishamael, which was caught in the act of wrenching one of the tendrils from his face. “But had you stopped this from happening, would that not have doomed our people outright? The Nar’doroc may be a dreadful thing, but sometimes dreadful things have their uses.”
Indalvian turned his eyes to D’Jenn, and nodded. He stepped forward, moving to join D’Jenn in regarding Ishamael.
“Who is to know what would have happened?” he said. “Perhaps the horse-people and their allies would have wiped us out. Perhaps not. Perhaps, with time and effort, our people might have pushed them back to the mountains, or into the sea. It is generally useless to ponder on such things. What I do know is what would not have happened.”
The surroundings dissolved once again, leaving behind Ishamael’s struggling profile. He hung there, caught in his fight with the Nar’doroc, against the endless darkness that lay behind Indalvian’s illusions. Indalvian looked to him, a sad smile on his face.
“He was my friend, you know. One of the few people who showed me true kindness. True courage.” His expression darkened, and a rumbling noise started somewhere in the darkness. “This thing…it twisted him. It crawled into his mind and changed the person I’d known. He became addicted to it. It sang to him even in his sleep, walked with him in his dreams.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 113