by Paul Freeman
Lorian wretched. “What in the name of the gods are you?” Words choked out from a constricted throat as tears watered his eyes. He slid down onto his knees as Aknell approached him, shaking his head as he blubbered out words, begging for mercy. The jewel Aknell had gifted him all those months before fell out from beneath his tunic, a silver light pulsed veins of light from deep within the unblemished stone. Lorian gasped for air as he clawed at his throat.
“Your body is weak and pitiful,” Aknell said with disgust clear in his voice.
“Help me.” Lorian choked on his words.
“Help you? I despise you. It pains me that I will be stuck within your weak flesh until I find a more suitable host, but your face will open doors for me another could not.”
“What…?” Lorian gasped, as tears streamed from his eyes
Aknell revelled in the pain and fear of his victim, just as he had done when he stole the body of a merchant as if it were a new cloak. The soul of the merchant had cried out in agony and anguish from somewhere deep inside for a long, long time. He fed on the exquisite pain of Lorian as he melded his emotions with the fat noble. It was an easy matter to push aside the essence of the man and assume his body as if changing his coat. Deep down he felt Lorian struggle, he fed on his fear and desperation. The power of the ancient jewel aided his own, but it was he who possessed the magic to transfer his essence into the body of another. He who could usurp the soul of another.
Rolfgot stood over them, his shadow falling on the fat nobleman. All the while the Nortman’s expression remained emotionless.
Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle
Mist swirled around her feet clinging to the dark, naked trees barely visible in the moonlight. She felt the chill of night creeping into her bones, making tiny bumps rise on her skin… or perhaps it was not the cold making her feel so. Fear instilled the iciness of winter into the blood, as every shadow became a monster stalking its prey. She knew terror’s freezing touch well enough, and the hooded creature who haunted her dreams. She turned about in a full circle, slowly, taking in her surroundings. The forest was impenetrable, an army of dead trees with jagged thorns and leafless branches sharpened into spears; a single touch from one of the poisonous tips would be death. Filtering into the air around her were noxious gases exhaled from the dying bark and stinking earth where the trees sunk decaying roots, corrupting the soil with their wrongness. There was no escape from the haunted wood, no escape from him.
The sound of snapping branches and snarls of an angry beast fighting against its incarceration in the wood caught her attention. Fear filled her soul as she redoubled her efforts to find an escape route. All the while, the hooded man laughed silently, mocking her, from just beyond her vision, seen but unseen, hidden from view and her inner sight.
Her heart leapt and stomach lurched as the fur-clad creature burst into the small clearing. He looked up, fierce anger burning in his eyes, and something deeper… hunger – Crawulf. She raised a hand, nervously, in greeting. He drew his sword. She could feel the heat of his fury burning the air around her as he regarded her with the eyes of an untamed forest creature. A wolf wrapped in fur and with the sharpest of teeth, forged from the strongest steel. She felt the mixture of awe and fear she always felt when he was near her, like being caged with a wild and unpredictable beast.
“Husband?” Her single-word question floated on the air, a barely felt breeze on a hot day. In the distance she could hear laughter, not good-natured jolliness, but cold, mocking laughter. Another shape emerged from the trees. Crawulf snapped his attention towards the newcomer. She gasped as a mirror image of her husband stalked from the forest. The laughter intensified, coming from all around her now.
The two Crawulfs ran at each other, swords raised. Thunder erupted from their meeting, lighting flashed from the clang of blades. The earth beneath her feet rolled, knocking her to the ground as her husband fought with his mirror image. They roared and swiped with savage cuts of their blades, each aiming for the killing blow, both evenly matched. Blood gushed through the air in crimson sprays, splashing greedy, black soil, as both combatants found a mark. They whirled about the clearing fighting a deadly duel until she could no longer tell which was which. Still the laughter drifted across the forest, its source just out of sight. Fear and frustration warred within her as she watched the ongoing battle, increasing in its ferocity, knowing that her fate was entwined with the outcome.
Thunder raged and wind howled as she opened her eyes into darkness. The room was suddenly illuminated as Alweise hurled lightning spears across the sky, doing battle with the dark elves of Boda who eternally besiege Eiru – home of the gods. Her heart raced as the memories of the dream overwhelmed her. She realised then that her first thoughts on waking were of the gods of her new home and not those she worshipped since a girl. Shivering, she pulled the heavy furs covering her bed up around her neck. She was alone in the bed. There was a feast, she remembered… there was always a feast. She could hear the muffled sounds of drunken warriors carousing, singing their battle hymns, and bragging about their feats of bravery to each other.
A flash of lightning quickly followed by a clap of thunder shook the walls of her chamber, the stark, stone walls and narrow windows doing little to keep out the wind and sound of The All Wise’s eternal struggle with the minions of the wife he cast out. She threw off the furs and jumped out of bed, quickly lighting an oil lamp. Elongated shapes crept up the walls as the orange glow of the lamp chased away the darkness, consigning any demons hidden there to the shadows. She dressed quickly in her warmest clothes and flung a heavy woollen cape over her shoulders, and hurried from the room. A spiral staircase led downwards, its steps uneven and awkward. She put her hand on the wall to ease her passage down, feeling the dampness seeping into the stone. The noise became much louder, the light brighter as she reached the bottom of the staircase. She could hear men guffawing at some joke or other, while others called to the servants to bring more ale. She hurried past the feasting hall, not waiting to see if she had been noticed.
Once she was outside in the courtyard, she could see how the weather besieged the castle, as rain was driven in from the sea by roaring winds. A wooden pail skipped and bounced across the cobbled ground, rolling past her at speed. Within seconds she was soaked as the icy rain froze any exposed skin. She ignored the howl assaulting her ears and ran to the stables, disturbing a stable boy from his slumber on a bed of straw in one corner.
“My lady…” he stammered, caught off guard by the late-night visitor.
“Help me,” she simply said as she pulled at a saddle from the rack. The boy was quickly on hand to lift it down for her while she selected the mount she wished to use.
“The weather, my lady…” he said, it was not his place to question a noble born even if it did appear she’d lost her wits.
“Saddle this horse for me. Quickly now,” she instructed, ignoring his concern. Spears of light lit up the sky, allowing her to see his grime-covered face clearly and the questioning look he gave her. Moments later thunder roared, making them both jump.
“It’s not a good night for riding, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, my lady.”
“Never mind that. Here, help me up.”
He cupped his hands and lifted her aboard. “I can come with you,” he said.
“No,” she replied, “but thank you. Open the door.”
The horse was reluctant to leave the warm, dry stable, but a sharp kick to the flanks from Rosinnio had it moving with a jolt. She was almost flung from the animal’s back as it reared on hind legs, protesting with loud snorts. “Open the gates and close them behind me,” she roared over the wind. The boy quickly ran across the courtyard to the heavy wooden gates, dipping his head against the howling gale sending sheets of rain over the castle wall. She calmed the horse with soothing words while she waited for the main gate to ponderously creep open. “Ha!” she roared at her mount. Even the loud echo of hooves on cobbled stone was drowned out by the w
ind.
Any folk mad enough to be abroad on such a night who caught a glimpse of her riding recklessly along the coast road, with cloak and hair streaming behind her as waves crashed against the shore, sending salty spray high up the cliff face, would swear they’d seen a ghost atop a dark horse driven by the wind.
Lightning streaking across the sky lit her way, showing her the outline of the road, worn into the ground from years of use. One slip or a misplaced hoof and she’d be thrown from the horse, with no one to find her broken body until morning. Still she urged the beast on faster. She knew where she was going, and although she’d only been there once before she knew she would find it, even in the dark. She would find it if she had to crawl all the way blindfolded.
When she reached the spot she had last been with Brandlor and the warrior Rothgar she dragged sharply on the reins, bringing her mount to a skidding halt. She leapt from its back, a flash of lightning revealed the small track that led down the cliff. She could hear the sea crashing against the shore, smell the brine in the air. Without a backward glance she began her descent, pulling up her hood against the biting rain and the spray of seawater as she climbed down closer to the shore. It occurred to her that the sea may have already invaded the cave with its violent assault on the shores of Wind Isle. Still she pressed on. When she reached the bottom she could feel the spray of salt water on her face as waves battered the rocky ledge, below that the stone beach had already been reclaimed by the sea. Without thinking she ran towards the dark entrance to the cave, a black portal to the realm of Maolach.
Wind howled through the tunnel, like the roars of some great sea monster. Each wave crashing over the ledge sent water racing up the dark passageway. She splashed her way on until she finally spotted a dim glow up ahead.
She walked slowly into the light, each breath a struggle. The wind and roar of the sea became a faint din in the background, almost forgotten. A mound of feathers stirred from before a fire, a grizzled head of white tufts looked up. “You are late,” Maolach said without looking at her. He poked at the fire with a stick sending sparks spiralling into the air.
“I don’t understand,” she answered.
“You should have come a lifetime ago,” the seer answered.
Rosinnio ignored the answer and sat on a rock opposite him. “I dreamt of Crawulf again. This time he battled a warrior with his own likeness.”
“What else?”
“The hooded man… I could not see him, but he was there.”
“How do you know he is real?” Maolach looked up, regarding her with dark, hooded eyes.
“Because he haunts my dreams,” she answered. The fire crackled as the old man jabbed it with his stick, one end blackened the other slick and green. “And I haunt his.”
“Yes, I see him. I have always seen him,” the old seer hissed. “He cloaks himself in shadow. He has crossed the bridge that cannot be crossed. He has sparked a light where there can only ever be darkness.” He glared at her then, his stare reflected in the firelight, intense and frightening, so much so that she felt an urge to flee from him as fast as she could. “He has walked among the dead and brought them back.”
The fire between them suddenly began to dance wildly as flames grew and took on the dark shape of a tormented face, writhing at the heart of the fire. Its widening mouth formed an ‘O’ as it opened in silent agony.
Rosinnio leapt back in alarm. “What’s happening?”
Maolach threw what looked like a handful of sand into the fire. Flames momentarily flared to several times their size, with burning tongues stretching outwards. The fiery face loomed over them with flaming arms reaching for them. Then the fire quickly returned to normal. “He will bring shadow to the world of light.”
Rosinnio scrutinised the fire before returning to her seat. The face was gone. “It was him… the hooded man.”
“Yes,” Maolach answered. “The ghost of your dreams.”
“He will come for me.” Terror laced her words.
“Perhaps. Or you could go to him,” the seer answered.
“I…” Rosinnio regarded the old man as if he were truly insane… perhaps he was. “I would never go to him. Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because you must. You must stop him before he drowns the light from the world.”
“Do you know who he is?” she asked.
“No. But you do.”
“He knows you are here now,” Rosinnio said, her lip trembling.
A choking sound came from Maolach’s throat. An icy thrill of fear ran down her spine as she wondered if the hooded man had cast some enchantment on the seer, until she realised the noise was laughter.
“I am just an old man in a cave at the end of the world.” Maolach cackled. “The sun has risen and the storm has died. Crawulf searches for you outside.”
“I should go to him,” Rosinnio answered, surprised at the feeling of comfort she felt at the thought of her husband’s protection.
“Yes.”
“Please, Maolach. Tell me what I must do.”
Maolach looked up as she stood over him, his eyes opening in surprise. “I have told you once already. You must take the Horn of Galen from the Tree of Souls.”
Before she could answer, voices drifted into the chamber from outside, her name drifting on the wind over the noise of the ocean. She turned from the seer then and fled back down the tunnel, towards Crawulf.
Duke Normand: Duchy of Lenstir
“How was your trip to Rothberry Castle, a worthwhile journey, my lord?” Djangra Roe asked as he walked across the polished flagstones of the great hall.
Normand looked up sharply as he poured wine from a jug into a silver goblet. “The king’s solution to all things is to raise taxes, so no, Master Mage, it was not a worthwhile journey.” He returned his attention to the red liquid filling his cup. “Help yourself.” He indicated the jug to Djangra once he’d finished with it.
“Thank you, my lord.” The mage took a cup and poured a measure of wine. Both men then took their drinks to sit in chairs by a roaring fire. “These old bones feel the autumn chill more each year,” he said as he stretched out his hands to warm them. “Did the amulet serve you well?” he asked, gesturing with his head towards the chain hanging from Normand’s neck.
“I had no witches attempting to kill me in my dreams, if that’s what you mean. Perhaps she’s already dead. Have you heard from the men sent after her yet?”
“Perhaps, my lord, but no, I have not heard from them.”
Normand sighed, his impatience evident in the thin line of his mouth and his furrowed brow. “So why are you here, Mage? I would have thought the temple in Eorotia was a better place to search for clues to the location of the dream-witch.”
“Ah yes. I have taken the liberty of questioning some of the wild mountain folk regarding the hoards of treasure secreted by the followers of Eor.”
“Those people are now citizens of Lenstir… my people,” Normand interrupted.
“I was most gentle, my lord,” Djangra responded without losing a breath. Normand shook his head and regarded the mage coolly. “They were not very cooperative, but I did manage to discover from some texts in the temple that they have a sacred place, a hidden valley high in the mountains, a place where the goddess Eor supposedly first walked among men. Of course none of them were prepared to reveal its location.” Djangra’s face widened into a smile. “But I have found a map. It’s very old and I’ve ordered it to be copied lest it fall to pieces under our touch, but…”
“A map? To a hidden valley and a god’s treasure? I have a duchy to rule, increased taxes to raise. I have no time for such idle foolishness.”
“But you were most enthusiastic when last we spoke,” Djangra said.
“Perhaps the mountain air has addled my wits.”
“Come back to Eorotia with me. Let’s find this pass before the winter blocks off the high places. If nothing else it will give you a chance to eradicate the cult of Eor. Those moun
tain folk may well be your subjects now, but as far as they are concerned their loyalties are bound to the goddess Eor and her servants, including the dream-witch.”
Normand’s brow wrinkled then, and the cup he had raised to his lips fell away. “You don’t suppose they are hiding her in those mountains? Could she have been under our noses all this time?”
“Who can say, my lord?”
The following morning, Duke Normand led his Dragon Knights out through the castle gates, with their red cloaks billowing behind them. From a distance they looked like a stream of blood flowing through the countryside.
“So you can find this hidden valley?” Normand turned towards Djangra as they sat wrapped in cloaks, warming themselves by a campfire.
“I think so, my lord.”
“Do not expect a mountain of hidden treasure.”
“Perhaps if you read the texts from the temple yourself, I have done little else since you left Eorotia.”
“I have no interest in reading any texts,” Normand snarled, “let alone nonsense from some anonymous, ancient author. If it were not for the very real possibility of the witch hiding somewhere in my mountains I would not be making this trip. Get some sleep. We have a long hard ride tomorrow.” Normand turned away from Djangra Roe and stared into the flames. His mind wandered back to previous conversations he had had with the mage regarding the mythical hidden treasure of Eor. True, he had become caught up in the mage’s enthusiasm for treasure hunting, yet events had overtaken his desire for finding an easy fortune on his doorstep. Other plans were formulating inside his mind, plans which need a seed to be planted before they would take fruition. A smile played at the corner of his mouth as he pictured the sparkling eyes of a princess, and the words of warning from Lady Isabetha, ‘princesses are not for minor dukes’. We shall see, he thought. We shall see.