Syonne buzzed past and tugged at his shirt. “Now!” she yelled.
Together, they leaped, diving through the image in the wall.
Kyrn found his hand wrapped around the king’s glaive once more, and he pulled it through with them.
Part Two
Buried in the Sands
Chapter Thirteen
Digging in the Dirt
Biddledur Foltar followed behind his Dark Lord, keeping up with the master’s brisk steps beneath his robes. The halfling didn’t quite know where his master had taken him.
Like Alathain before them, Biddledur and the Dark Lord had traversed through the shimmering mirror, into what seemed all too similar to the spire within the Black Rock Mountains.
They walked through smoothly-polished tunnels, the black rock glowed a deep orange with the flickering flames from braziers on the walls. The silence alone was enough to disconcert the halfling. There was no echoing of guttural goblin grunts, no clashing of steel as they honed their combat, and, not last, no Grizlok to torment the sullen halfling through his captivity.
You’ve only done this to yourself, Biddledur reminded himself. Thieving and spying in businesses that never concerned you.
He remembered the day in which he’d first laid eyes on the wily demon, its wretched claws and unsettling eyes. He’d merely been in search of a gem, outside the base of the Valhulan mountain range. It all seemed so cliché to him now, a small thief on the hunt for magical riches. And, worst of all, he’d heard tell of the stone from a wandering bard, as he sang his tune in a deserted tavern. Always following temptations. If only he’d known folks like the Dark Lord searched for the same trinket, if even that it could be called.
“Do not let yourself get lost in your thoughts, little one,” the necromancer said, sneering down at Biddledur. “There are already one too many crooks and crannies to lose yourself in as it is.”
That would not be the worst of things, Biddledur thought. Though, deep within, he knew he’d never truly be out of the Lord’s vision. “Where are we going?” he asked, almost too scared to let the words drop from his tongue.
“When I found you, you were merely digging in the dirt,” the Dark Lord said. “Hunting, if a small treasure seeker like you would prefer.”
Staring up at the master, Biddledur could see the shadows fill the gaunt cheekbones and sunken eyes beneath his hood, like deep, black oceans.
“You were seeking something which you did not understand. Something which you have no place understanding.” The necromancer scoffed. “And to think, you heard of such a gem from a homeless musician.”
“Surely the bard knows more than I!” Biddledur retorted. “Why not seek information from him?”
“Seek, we have,” answered the Dark Lord. “This… bard, he knew nothing of anything, really. In fact, he claimed to have written the tale himself. ‘Spun the story from me own strings,’ he said to me. Such a fool.”
“Then, perhaps he did.”
Again, the Dark Lord laughed. “Of course not. No mortal knows of such an ancient power, nor has one mindlessly invented such.”
Ancient power.
The words rattled in Biddledur’s mind like a lost memory, fighting desperately to be remembered.
“Let me ask you a question I’ve withheld thus far, Biddledur.”
Hearing his name fall from the Dark Lord’s mouth for the first time caused the brown hairs beneath the halfling’s stained sleeves to rise. He halted, as the necromancer stopped and looked down at him.
“What do you know about the Stone of Ezroch?”
Biddledur closed his eyes, recalling the bardic melody to the best of his recollection.
He began to sing through a shaky voice:
Far and flung in distant lands
Hidden under desert sands
Windswept fields of a moth-eaten city
Life, love, and magic’s cry
To their Lords, the fealties lie
Far and flung in distant lands
Hinder those with righteous hands
The Stone of Ezroch cleansed their lands
Here, the lords shall gather
Squander those who do not matter
After a moment of silence, the Lord said, “Yes. Now I remember. Not much of a spoken map, now is it?” He glared at Biddledur, his tone deepening. “I will only ask once more. What do you know of the stone?”
Biddledur only allowed the question to fester for a moment. “Only what the bard told me,” he answered.
“And that is why he is dead,” the Lord said. “And, why you are not. The man you deemed a bard knew nothing of this stone. At least, nothing he cared to tell me. In the end, it was the pathetic musician’s choice to allow Grizlok to do with him as he pleased.”
Biddledur curled his lip at hearing the demon’s name.
“You fear my pet,” the Dark Lord said.
“Who would not?”
The Dark Lord laughed. He said, “That is only a fair question. Though, he will only harm you if I bid him to. And rest assured, little one. I am in need of you yet.” The necromancer knelt down to Biddledur. “Do you feel their presence?” he whispered.
The halfling answered with only a confused cock of his head.
“We walk in the presence of the Dark Lords. Those that remain.”
“There are more of you?”
“There are none like me,” the necromancer scoffed. “Should the council of the Dark Lords hold the Stone of Ezroch once more, it would merely be used as a weapon.” His deep eyes bore into the halfling. “Would you like that?”
Biddledur slowly shook his head. He saw no use in lying to his master.
“Of course not,” the necromancer said, standing once more. “And neither would I.” He laughed at the shocked expression upon the halfling’s face. “My masters of the Dark Council abide firmly by beliefs of countless centuries ago. I will not allow the Black Order to fall with their insolence. That is why I have… recruited you. Why I use the unconventional talents of the thief, Alathain. Together, we will take this order from their wilting hands. We will transform it into what it should have been hundreds of years ago.”
Had Biddledur ever feared his Dark Lord, it seemed petty compared to how he felt now. His Lord wanted to betray the Black Order, and, though Biddledur knew nothing of this, his master had Lords which he answered to. This was a fright the halfling hadn’t wished to face.
“The mirror has been set for you, young Biddledur,” the necromancer said. “Leave now, and do keep yourself hidden.”
Biddledur turned, wanting nothing more than to be rid of the Dark Lord’s presence. But, as he did, he felt the master’s necrotic grasp freeze him in place.
“Biddledur,” said the Dark Lord. “Do not fail me again.”
The halfling didn’t look back as he scurried away.
Chapter Fourteen
The Fifth Finger of the Dark Hand
The necromancer opened the wide double-door of the Black Order council room. As he walked in, he saw something he hadn’t seen in over four hundred years, though it felt as if no time had passed since his last meeting with the Black Order.
Perhaps that is how time passes when you are dead, he thought.
Circled evenly around the black rock chamber were five chairs, finely carved from the black rock stone, all but one of which were occupied.
The necromancer took his seat upon the empty chair, the shuffling of his robes the only noise in the chamber.
When he was seated, all Five Fingers of the Black Order removed their hoods in unison. Biddledur’s master sat eyeing the other four Lords with his dark, red eyes. They perfectly matched the eyes of the other Lords, though he felt so displaced. As his head turned around the room, studying the others, he felt as though he’d lost himself. And he could tell the others felt the same.
Each of the other Lords were as gaunt and skinny as he was, but it was entirely different. He noted their red eyes, sunken into their skulls. But that w
as all that still remained of the Black Order’s faces: stark-white skulls, only their distinctive brow and jawlines differentiating them. They wore no skin. And they stared blankly at him.
The head of the order stood from his smooth throne. “The mask of such a mortal that you wear upon your bones does the Black Order a great disservice,” he said through a rasped voice to Biddledur’s master. “Do you wish to enlighten our befuddled minds, Lord Daen?”
Lord Daen bowed his head in a nod of approval. “My Lord,” he started. “I have been tasked with the rebuilding of the Black Order’s army.”
“Not of mortal creatures!” Lord Daen’s master fussed.
“My Lord.” Lord Daen seemed to beg. “The resurrection of the Black Knights and their draelor takes a great deal of time.”
“Of which we have had centuries.”
“And I suspect I was to raise these warriors while I was encased within my black rock tomb?” Lord Daen carefully questioned.
Another Lord rose from his chair. “And what do you plan with these mortal goblins and men?” he asked.
Lord Daen stood with the other and his master. “To us,” he continued, “to our fiercest Knights and draelor, mere goblins and men are nothing. But that is not the foe we seek to destroy.”
“You assume there is to be another war,” said their master.
Lord Daen smiled, briefly showing the advantages of the skin he wore. “A war there will surely be,” he said. “The minds and bodies of mortals are weak, of that there is no question. Though, they will fight. They will muster allies.”
“The elves have already been sought out,” said one of the fingers who had not yet spoken.
Lord Daen stared at him questioningly, forgetting only for a moment that he’d not been the only Dark Lord in search of the final piece of their weapon.
“We are losing the advantage of the mortals’ short memories,” continued the newly-spoken lord. “We must again hold the stone.”
The master of the Black Order sat upon his throne once more. “I will find the stone. And, when I do, I expect our armies to be risen. We will not again fall to the mortals of Einroth.”
Lord Daen seated himself, now that his master had done the same. They would not find the Stone of Ezroch before Biddledur Foltar. For some reason, this was something Lord Daen was sure of.
Chapter Fifteen
By the Old King and the New
Kyrn woke on a spongy bed of moss. His head ached through and through, and, even with the slightest tilt, he found himself overly dizzied.
His eyes adjusted to the dim lights falling through the cracks of the canopy. Through shrouded lapses in his memory, Kyrn remembered the hunters, draelor, as Syonne had called them. He remembered the cool caverns, and he saw the king’s glaive.
He pushed through another dizzy spell to find the steel weapon laying at his side. It was unlit, as it rested against the moss-covered rocks.
Syonne sat just next to the old king’s glaive, admiring its beauty. She smiled when she saw Kyrn stirring. “It is good to see you up,” she said. “I had done all that I could.” She pointed to a piece of tree bark in which she’d crushed and mixed various plants. “I feared your head had taken too much to handle.”
“I feel like I’ve had a terrible dream,” Kyrn said, and he sat, holding his head.
“In a sense, you have. Not all can handle traveling between realms.”
Kyrn stared at her small figure. She seemed more blue than grey, now. As if she were in a different light altogether. Under a different sun. “That’s not the first I’ve heard you say that,” he said. “What do you mean, realms?”
“Long ago,” she started, nestling herself closer to Kyrn, “when King Mayhlan fell, the elves were nearly all but gone.”
“Gone?”
“Destroyed,” she answered grimly. “It was a long and bitter war. The elves needed a new home, away from those evils. So,” she extended her arms around her, “they formed Castreeth.”
Kyrn looked around him. He hadn’t felt any different, save the dreariness and the ache in his bones. It looked so much like any other forest. And, though he’d never been within the forest of Castrolyl, he’d noticed no change.
“I was only a young girl when that happened,” said Syonne.
“A girl?” Kyrn asked stupidly. “That was centuries ago?”
“Four hundred and twenty-two years.” She smiled.
Kyrn stared blankly for a few moments. “Will you ever tell me what you are?”
Syonne giggled at his frustration. “I have already told you. I am—”
“Yes, magic,” Kyrn interrupted. “Surely, even a blind man could see that.”
“The elves call us podlings,” she conceded. “At least, they would in your speak.” Syonne pointed above her, to the canopy, and watched Kyrn’s gaze follow.
He wondered how he hadn’t noticed before, when he lay on his back looking up. The trees were filled with them. They weren’t larger than most apples, dangling from the trees. As they swayed with the breeze, their hues shifted from a copper-orange to a lively yellow.
“I did not lie to you before,” Syonne continued, admiring Kyrn as he fell entranced by the trees and the magnificence they held. “I am truly not much more than magic itself, like the rest of the podlings above you.”
“Did the elves make you?”
Syonne nodded. “With the snap of their fingers, so they say. Though it is a much more complex process.” For a moment, she stared up at the glow of the unhatched podlings. “Few of us were created before the Castrolyl we sit in now. As you surmise, the elves brought us into being, for which we owe them our lives.”
Kyrn studied her. He said, “You mean you’re indentured to them?”
“Call it what you will, young Kyrn. There is an order to things, to keep the spin of the world in balance. This is just one of those small things.”
It hadn’t seemed just a small thing. Not to Kyrn; owing your life to your creator, though perhaps it wasn’t entirely different than the clergy of Grimmrich. He shook himself from the distraction of the new lives forming overhead. “How do we reach Castreeth now, from here in the woods?”
Syonne laughed. “No reason to be weary any longer, young Kyrn,” she said. As she did, she pulled back the thick branches of a small shrub.
The lights of Castreeth shone through the opening, stunning Kyrn. From where they sat, they overlooked the entirety of the marvelous city. Kyrn had never seen such a sight in all his days. There was a flowing river, tinted such a faint purple he’d almost overlooked it, that ran down the hillside into the city. It sat so close to him and Syonne that he wondered how he hadn’t heard its churning waters.
At the bottom of the river, and the bottom of the slightly overgrown path that lay before them, a mighty bridge curved just over the river, like an outstretched hand guiding them into Castreeth. The bridge was built from cool-grey stone, and at each of the four corners stood elegantly-crafted replicas of the king’s glaive, guarding the entrance to the city. Atop of each, paying homage to their long-fallen king, the strange, key-like symbol was lit with blue flames like the magical fires of Grimmrich, shining like beacons in the night.
Kyrn followed Syonne a few steps further onto the path leading down the hill. As they came clear of the forest’s canopy, he saw the sun brightly overhead. Even so, a dimness had fallen over the city of Castrolyl, like the morning fog within the forest.
“The city,” Kyrn said. “It’s so dark, even with the sun at its highest.”
Syonne smiled over her shoulder at Kyrn. “That is the sun of your realm, Kyrn,” she said. “It hangs over Castrolyl like an illusion, a reminder of the world which we were driven from.”
“It’s not real?"
“Of course it is real. It just does not truly exist. Not here, at least. If that is a way you would like to think of it.”
It wasn’t a way Kyrn would like to think of it, of anything. So, he continued down the slope in silence. He
followed behind Syonne as they crossed the bridge, now, standing upon it, feeling larger than an entire city street from Kyrn’s home.
When they reached the other end of the bridge, so much closer to the city, Syonne fluttered, facing two elven guards.
Kyrn was astounded by their elegance. They both looked young, not appearing much older than Kyrn, though their green eyes were weathered with ages of experience. They wore their hair long and dark, nearly black beneath the blue lights of the sculptured glaives, and they’d both braided it tightly against the sides of their heads, a sole ponytail plaited loosely at the back. It was so similar to Kyrn’s deep brown hair when he’d left Grimmrich.
He ran his hands through his hair. The braids had all fallen out, and it was matted with leaves and pines. He must have looked a mess.
The elf on the right scowled at Syonne. He spoke something in a language that Kyrn didn’t know, elvish. Then, in the speak of man, he said, “You have finally returned, Elleinor.”
Elleinor, Kyrn noted to himself. It must be what the elves had named the podlings.
“Your master is very displeased with you,” the elf continued.
Syonne let her wings slow and landed upon her feet. “I would expect nothing less.” She smiled at the elves. “Though, business between the master and myself concerns you very little.”
The elf’s body tightened, his eyes squinting with anger. “If you must know, Elleinor,” he said, “your master has given precise instruction to inform you—”
The second elven guard stopped him. “Galinor,” he called to the elf scolding Syonne. He pointed over the elleinor to the young man standing behind her, looking at the king’s glaive.
Both elves quickly fell to a knee, and bowed their heads, lowering their wooden glaives.
The elf no longer talked to Syonne, but muttered under his breath. “By the Old King and the New,” he said, “may the forest of Castrolyl be born anew.”
Kyrn stood speechless.
A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1) Page 12