by David Adams
Lucien stood apart from everyone, needing time to come back from the trance-like state in which he had been enfolded. He felt his heart banging in his chest, stubbornly refusing to slow for several minutes. He closed his eyes to shut out the world, but the iron tang of blood was still fresh in the air. When he allowed his eyelids to open again, he saw a black wolf approach.
“I remember you, Lucien,” the wolf said. "When last we met I said I would taste your flesh.”
“And I said you would feel warblade, Krellos," Lucien replied, but without malice. It seemed ages ago when they hurled such threats at one another in the Great Northern Forest, back when Lucien and his companions had been gathering the shards of the Soul Sphere. Back when Alexis yet lived.
The wolf looked at the dead scattered a short distance away from the goblin. “It seems your warblade has spilled much blood today.”
“As your teeth,” Lucien said, raising his blade in salute. “Appears fate makes us allies again.”
“This is so. Perhaps I will walk with you. If we cannot test one another, we can watch each other fight, and take our measure in that way.”
“Good plan,” the goblin said.
They both wore toothy smiles, friendly and threatening at the same time. Slowly they relaxed, knowing that for now they still fought together.
* * *
Demetrius sat a short distance away from the latest pyre, one he had helped build with the headless bodies of the dead. He could feel the heat from it on his back, and the foul smell filled his nostrils, but for now his legs refused to carry him any further away. He had never known exhaustion like this, so complete, deep inside his spirit as well as in his aching muscles and battered ribs. He looked up at the starry sky, thinking of nothing and of everything at once, his mind drifting with a will of its own. The image of a bed under a sheltering roof tried to come into focus, but he pushed it away. He thought he could sleep for a month.
He saw a familiar pair of boots stop by his right leg. Corson sat down with a low groan.
“Sounds like you feel like I do,” Demetrius said.
“Like a giant put me in a box and shook it around for a couple of hours.”
Demetrius’ laugh came out as a quick, exhaled breath through his nose. Even that sent a sharp jab of pain into his side. “You have an interesting way of putting things. But that’s probably a fair description, especially if there were logs and boulders in the box.”
“Some spear and swords, too, for good measure.”
Demetrius nodded. “And still we have to consider ourselves fortunate.” He indicated the pyre with a slight turn of his head.
“I know.” They were quiet for a while, then Corson said, “You didn’t need to help move the bodies. People know you are still healing
from injuries.”
“As are many. We have to do what is needed, like the soldiers that we are. Do you see the way some look at us?”
“As if we are kings or lords, or maybe wizards or ancient mages.”
“Yes. Because we are among those that gathered the shards. In their eyes we have become special because of that.”
“We were tested by Solek and live to speak of it. They hold us in awe, despite the injuries we bear, despite all the evidence that we have not been marked by some higher power to win this ultimate battle.” After a pause he added. “Despite the fact that Alexis fell.”
Demetrius nodded solemnly.
“Do you think Rowan feels a higher power wills us to victory?” Corson asked. “His faith seems strong.”
“It is, but it’s being tested. I’m sure if you asked him, he would say victory will be ours if it is the will of his God.”
“Why would any god will evil to win?”
Demetrius shrugged. “Gods are gods, not men. Perhaps evil exists to temper and refine men, as a fire does to metal. Some will be stronger for it…”
“Others will be broken.”
“That is the way of it,” Demetrius agreed with a sigh. “Right now I feel like one of the broken. Old. Worn out.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m forty-one. Far different than I was at twenty, or even thirty-five. Wiser perhaps, more wily in combat I hope. I need to be. I’m slower, and not as strong as I once was.”
“You were injured nearly to the point of death, and since then you’ve marched halfway across Arkania and survived several battles. That hardly indicates you’ve lived past your usefulness.”
“Still useful. But less than I wish to be. Then again, I'm happy to have only a minor role in things now. We played the heroes and are still here to tell of it. Now we will see if the groundwork we laid will bear fruit.”
“We draw ever closer to our goal.”
“And grow weaker with each step. We lost a quarter of our strength today. I’d say fewer than ten thousand remain.”
“But the enemy weakens as well.”
“We can hope.” Demetrius saw the grave look on his friend’s face and spared him a smile. “If he could have finished us by now, he would have.”
Corson’s spirits lifted a bit at hearing such words from his friend and mentor. Demetrius had always been quiet and close, but his injuries had made him more so, and occasionally gloomy as well. All things considered, if “gloomy” was the worst that could be said of someone sitting here on the Dead Plain, marching toward the said-to-be-unassailable city of Citadel, with a funeral pyre of dead brothers-in-arms blazing at their backs, then that person must be keeping themselves together mentally. “By the way, you’re forty-two.”
“What?”
“You turned forty-two a few weeks back. Sorry I didn’t get you a gift.”
“I’m sure you’ll make up for it next year.”
I hope I get the chance, Corson thought. He looked to the northeast, toward Solek’s unseen seat of power. There the Dark One waited for them, plotting. Corson could only hope they had planted a seed of doubt in his evil mind.
* * *
Rain arrived late the next morning and lasted through most of the day. Once past the initial fear that it was of the dangerous variety conjured up by Solek—a more frightening prospect in that Adiel and Roldon were so exhausted from the battle with the troll-men that they had to be carried on litters—it was most welcome. While no substitute for a bath and a cake of soap, it washed away enough of the accumulated dirt and blood they had collected while traversing Veldoon that they started to feel themselves again. Water flasks were refilled and the hot sun gave them a day off. All things considered, it made for a day that could almost be termed pleasant.
The sun was back the next day, and not altogether unwelcome. Once the falling rain had served its purpose, it left a person feeling uncomfortable in soaked clothes. Today they would dry out.
They reached the end of the Dead Plain around noon, the sickly grass of the Belt a welcome relief from the dust that had choked and blinded them for most of the last ten days. Here the grass was brown and brittle, and it gave beneath their feet and crumbled to nothing. It appeared the Dead Plain would soon extend further in this direction.
Late that day they found some semblance of a road, rutted and unused for an age, overgrown with scrub brush that was as brown and brittle as the grass. Tala cast her finding spell and pointed north along the road, which would lead them to Citadel. They proceeded in the silence of their own thoughts, as if speech and laughter were driven away so close to evil’s current dwelling place in Arkania. Word spread that Tala had guessed they still had two days march ahead of them, and that relaxed them a bit. It wasn’t yet tomorrow when they would face their ultimate battle.
The ground yielded little in the way of shelter from the elements or spying eyes, the land still flat and featureless. They camped in the open, with fires locating them for any who wished to know exactly where they were. The guard posted was large in number, and when not on duty many kept a vigilant watch of their own. They could feel the oppressive weight of the Dark One’s malevolent gaze pressing u
pon them.
Rowan had taken a light meal with some of his men, after which a messenger requested his presence in Deron’s camp. He followed the messenger back, a short journey, and was welcomed into Deron’s tent. The elf was just finishing his own meal, and offered Rowan his hospitality, limited though it necessarily was.
“I thank you. I have already eaten.”
“When this is done, we will have to sit down to a true feast. We will have earned it, all of us.”
“I think my stomach would rebel at what I used to consider a normal meal,” Rowan said with a wan smile. “It stopped grumbling over small portions some time ago.”
“Then I envy you,” Deron said, even as he set aside his worn andsoiled plate. “Mine still reminds me of its displeasure.” He changed subjects, getting down to business. “How are your men?”
“As well as could be expected, and not bad considering. They’ll fight, they’ve shown that.”
“That they have. As have all gathered here. I was pondering whether we should send scouts ahead.”
“Normally, yes, but I hate to send any off alone. We’ve proven strongest together, when we support one another. Perhaps if the land is more friendly to our purposes as we near Citadel...”
“I fear it will not be so. The city sits on the sea. It is unlikely there will be any hills or forests to disguise our approach, not that surprise is a real possibility for us.”
“Do you think Solek will come out to meet us in battle?”
“Would you?”
“Unless I was sure of victory, I would fight from behind my walls.”
“And he will think the same,” Deron said with a nod. “We should hope he does not come out. It would be an ill omen.”
“How are Adiel and Roldon?”
“Weak. Spent. But better able to help us than yesterday, and they’ll be better tomorrow and the day after. It would be best if we could wait a week, but that would give Solek time to rest as well. The closer we draw to him, the less we can afford to let that happen.”
“Then we press on, as swiftly as we can.”
Deron agreed.
“Should we call the others to discuss things?”’
Deron shrugged, then shook his head. “They look to us for leadership.”
Rowan was taken aback. “You I understand. But me? Why?”
“Your sword. Your courage. It is there for those who wish to see it, and most have. Men recognize leadership in others before they admit it to themselves, unless they are vain or arrogant. You are neither.”
“I suppose meetings matter little,” said Rowan, deflecting the compliment. “We either go on or go back. Not much of a choice.”
“At least that makes it an easy one.”
A few minutes later Rowan took his leave and stepped from the tent, and there he found Tala waiting, silhouetted by the campfire that blazed behind her.
“You look tired,” she said.
“No more than anyone else. It ends soon, though, for good or ill. For that I am happy.”
“ ‘Happy’ is not a word heard much these days.”
“Too many have fallen. The price of this quest has been high, and will grow higher.”
“And the price if we had not undertaken it?”
Rowan yielded to her logic, though his heart remained heavy. “Far worse. I do not question what we have done. It was the only reasonable choice. I only wish less was asked of me, and…” He looked away, unwilling to let his eyes meet Tala’s.
“She died a noble death.”
He turned on her swiftly. “Is there any such thing?” he asked, his voice harsher than he intended.
Tala touched the cross stitched on his shirt. “Your faith would tell you so. Alexis died so that we might live. Surely you understand the meaning in that.”
“It could have been someone else. It didn’t have to be her.”
“It could have been you is what you mean.”
He gazed at the horizon, seeing nothing. “I should have been quicker. Stronger.”
“You have done what you can, and more than most. You have faced death, and would have gladly died for your fellows a dozen times over. You have rallied your people when their hearts failed, led them when you did not wish for the responsibility. And you will do so again.”
He nodded but did not speak.
“We will need all that have survived in the coming days to be present physically and mentally. You have mourned her passing, and will do so again, hopefully in fairer days. But now you must show strength, even if you do not feel it.”
“I will,” he said in a whisper. He cleared his throat, forced a smile, and spoke in his normal tone. “I will.”
“I would ride with you tomorrow, if you would have the company. Perhaps we can speak of more pleasant times and places.”
“Tomorrow dawns brighter,” he replied, accepting her offer. He bid her good rest and departed.
She watched him go, continuing to look in the direction of his camp even after he was out of sight. She had enough worries of her own to worry for him, but she couldn’t help it. Sleep would come hard that night, and when it did it would be haunted by dreams of pain and death.
Chapter 9: Island of Fire
At least on the surface, Rowan’s spirits had lifted when the new day dawned. He rode at his usual place at or near the head of the column, sitting tall and confident in the saddle with his chin up and his face bravely facing whatever might lie ahead. He was not of royal stock, but those who followed him into battle took note of his bearing, and gathered what hope they could from his unbowed posture.
Tala was pleased to note the change in outward appearance, and knew better than to question how he felt beneath the surface. She found herself struggling to suppress a yawn.
“Rough night?” he asked.
“Bad dreams.”
He nodded gravely. “They plague us all. Tricks of our own imaginations, or images sent by Solek perhaps. I, for one, am thankful I can only die once. In my dreams, it can be several times per night, usually with great suffering. It is much the same with the others.”
“Your people share these things?”
“Speaking of them in the light of day they often seem silly, and we are reminded that they are indeed dreams and nothing more. Though in these days there’s no laughter over them, even when the sun is up. They strike too close to reality. Some believed they were having visions of a dire future.”
“ ‘Believed’? They do not think so now?”
“Not openly. Too many have had the same dreams. Kept to himself, they haunt a man. Shared, they lose some of their power.”
“My people are much closer with such things,” Tala said. “My ancestors used to consider nightmares a sign of either a weak or overactive mind. We know better now, but still tend to keep these night visions to ourselves.”
“I’m surprised,” Rowan said. “I would have thought elves beyond such thinking.”
“We are an ancient people, but all races have their quirks.”
Rowan laughed. “I see I should redirect this conversation. I need not hear what quirks you would assign to humans.”
“It might fill the day,” Tala said with a grin. “Help pass the time.”
Rowan shook his head. “I’ll pass. Save it for the journey home. It’ll keep me from thinking too much of myself if we win this battle.”
The day was overcast and mild, pleasant for early July. But an eerie silence pressed in on them, the sounds of their own shuffling feet and paws, the beat of the horses hooves on the hard ground, the metallic clink of armor or a pot against a pan, whispered conversation—the sounds of an army marching in enemy territory—seemed unnatural and out of place here. They saw no living creature, no small animals scurrying off at their approach, no birds in the air. All around them, everything was dead or dying, and they, the living, knew that death wished to embrace them as well.
Before the sun reached its apex, towering forms appeared some distance ahead on the
road. It gave the Arkanians but little pause, as these soon showed themselves to be great statues, used to mark the place where the roads from south and north joined to form a single road east to Citadel. As they neared, the true majesty of these sentinels was revealed, the master work of artisans from some long forgotten time. The statues were one each of a man and a woman, each wearing a long, flowing robe and a laurel wreath on their head. They faced west, their backs to the city, and each held their arms open wide, as if to welcome and embrace any visitor who passed this way. The carved faces were noble and proud, perhaps a king and queen whose names had been lost through the passing of the ages. Certainly they bore little resemblance to the current denizens of Veldoon.
The towering height of the stone figures became more real as the Arkanians approached, and could only be guessed at. Even those on horseback would need to reach upward to touch the statues’ ankles. It was likely that the tops of the stone heads of these figures were 200 feet or more off the ground. How these figures came to be here was a mystery they had no hope of solving. As the lead elements of the advancing army reached the point where the north road met the south, they turned east to follow the new road, and to pass between the stone guardians. All eyes rose to take in the behemoths, and up close they could see that the new ruler of this land had left his mark here, just as he had on the dying land about them.
On the chest of each figure there was carved a pentagram. It had been hewn roughly into the rock, no pretense being made that they were part of the original work. Where the figures had been etched the stone was a lighter gray, but as the lead elements of the army gazed upon the marks they darkened and began to run, a liquid of some sort filling first the pentagram and then spilling over to flow down the front of the carved man and woman. The liquid was dark where it bubbled up into the pentagram, nearly black in color, but as it ran it was clearly a deep red. No one doubted what it was. The statues' eyes began to well up as well, and tears of blood soon trickled down their cheeks.