by Greg Curtis
It ate souls too, and that was the truth of its power. It ate thoughts, and wills, and souls, and that he could use. It would have eaten his as well, save for the deal he had made. But the Reaver in return for his service had granted him protection from its power. And that in turn let him use it instead of being eaten by it.
A little water run over the shining surface of the thing, poured into a cup and drunk by an unsuspecting man, could leave him confused and easily manipulated. That was power to Y’aris. The number of people he had served with the cursed water was countless, and all of them had soon learned to see things as he wanted them to. For a watchman with dreams that was power.
So a battle in which he stood safely behind all the others and hid from the enemy, in the minds of his comrades in arms became another glorious encounter where he had knocked back the enemy almost single handed and saved his fellow watchmen. He had been promoted several times simply for that story alone as it kept being repeated. Watchmen were so easily led.
Yet promotions weren’t always so easily achieved. Sometimes there were people that stood in his way. Strong people who would not be so easily swayed by a cursed drink. Or who would not take a drink from his hands simply because he was unnamed. For them he chose poison most often, and simply the touch of his hand on the tablet and a thought, could grant him a recipe for any poison he needed. It seemed that the demon, despite never having been a part of the world, had vast knowledge of its workings.
And so it was that troop leaders, watch commanders, and eventually the High Commander himself had all fallen ill with ailments the healers could not fix. And then in time, when he had finally reached that lofty position and found himself at odds with many of the other advisors to the high lord, they too had suffered similar fates. And none of them suspected him. Not even as he got closer and closer to the high lord and the throne.
No more did any of them realise that he was building an army for himself. It wasn’t the high lord’s army, though its members were the Royal Watch. It was his army. The soldiers were completely loyal to him. A drink every now and then of his special water kept them that way. He called it a benediction, and they drank it as they drank his words. They were even grateful for it. So grateful that they didn’t even question when every few months he blessed the water of the rain tanks that fed each watch house in all the cities. They welcomed his blessings as they welcomed his visits. And none suspected what he was doing. They thought he was simply being an attentive and responsible commander, checking on his soldiers. Fools.
Of course he had to be careful with his dose. Too little and the power of his words to sway them would wane. Too much and the Reaver’s insatiable hunger for their souls would take more than just their thoughts. It would take their souls and when they had been consumed, what would be left behind would be a half dead monster. A creature with little mind, a withered body and no soul, but the same endless hunger of their master. An abomination.
It had taken many years to find that perfect dose, three sips every three months, and there had been many accidents along the way. Despite his best efforts to kill them all before they reached that stage, some of them still roamed the great forests, hunting and killing anyone they came across. He sent his soldiers after them.
He couldn’t afford for them to be seen. Because the moment they were, someone would tell the elders and they would know that the Reaver’s power was once more in the world. They would know that his servants once more walked the land. That had to remain a secret.
Discovery was a constant worry for him. There was only one fate for anyone who served the Reaver. Death. But since he was neither a priest carrying the Reaver’s markings nor one of the shambling abominations, he could mostly conceal his connection to the demon. That too was a part of the deal he had struck with the demon. And it kept him safe.
It was the end that worried him most. When he had become the king in his own right, and taken the Heartwood Throne. When the other races had been exterminated. What then? His master would still be hungry, and somehow Y’aris doubted that he would be willing to stop with just the outsiders. He would want the souls of the true people as well.
Though that day was still a long way off, there would be many wars between now and then, many outsider souls fed to his master, it was something Y’aris had to be ready for. He had to have a plan. And a plan that even when his master could read his thoughts, he would not know of. Or a plan that he could not prevent even if he did.
Destroying the stone was one thing, and he was sure that a typical blacksmith’s forge would be sufficient. But the priests were another matter entirely. Their devotion to the master was absolute, so much so that their faces and bodies showed his marks. The black eyes, sallow cheeks, and dark veins that were legend. For that reason they had to be hooded and masked at all times. To be seen was to be killed on sight.
But with those marks of the master upon them, they had also been granted gifts. Dark magic, speed and strength, and unelven vitality. When the time came they would stand against him, and he wasn’t sure that his army could stand against them, or even that it would. If they had drunk too much of the water, their loyalties could be divided between him and the Reaver. And in any case they would have their own army of abominations by then. Not just the few they had now.
And for the moment he needed the priests. Not only did his master demand it, they were useful. If nothing else they made truly terrifying torturers, which was why he had made them his inquisitors in his prison. None could resist them. None could keep any secrets from them. And they would confess any crime. Even ones they hadn’t committed.
But the Reaver’s priests too would have to die.
Still, for the moment the Reaver had to know what had happened and Y’aris had to tell him. He couldn’t just walk away from him. The Reaver’s power was what had made him who he was, and it was what would make him who he would become. Without it he would soon return to the nobody he had once been, assuming the priests didn’t discover his crimes and kill him first.
Besides, he reasoned, as he needed the Reaver, so too did the Reaver need him. Without him the demon would never get the feast of souls it so desired. So even though the demon surely knew his secret plans, he could do nothing about them. Not yet. And as he drew his plans for the end of the Reaver’s reign, it surely drew its own plans for the end of him, and neither of them could do anything about them.
Theirs was a bond of necessity and nothing more, but it was still a bond.
Taking a deep breath to calm his thoughts, he held the artefact before him in both hands, gazed into its infinite black depths and began the incantation. And when the familiar darkness began to emanate from the tablet and creep up his hands and arms he didn’t pull away.
Not yet.
Chapter Five.
It was a nice cottage Dura thought. Perhaps it could have used another coat of stain, and there were a couple of timbers slightly askew, but in the spring sunshine it struck her as a good place to spend a few days. Especially on that front balcony, which even in the middle of the day seemed to be bathed in light.
Of course there were some oddities about it. Things that struck her as strange. The door was the first of them to catch her eye. Placed in the very centre of the cottage, it was far too tall and too wide. And the handle, a solid wrought iron hoop was higher than it should be as well, and clearly designed for very large hands.
The front steps, just two of them leading to the front balcony, seemed far more solid than they needed to be. Massive slabs of timber that sat on heavy piles. They could have supported an army. Or a giant, as she abruptly realised. And the elder was supposed to be partly of giant blood.
Yet giants, what little anyone knew of them, didn’t garden. And the cottage was surrounded by gardens. Some were obviously ornamental, planted purely for the flowers which, because it was spring, were blooming. But others were for vegetables, and even from what she could see as they approached, the elder had an obvious liking for root
crops. Carrots, suedes, potatoes, turnips and so many others, were there in abundance. Given all the stories she’d been told, that seemed somewhat reassuring.
“Captain. What brings you to my door?” The elder came around from the side of the house, where from the looks of the dirt covered hoe in her hands she’d been gardening, and Dura froze in shock. The others had told her tales of Trekor, long dark stories that she’d taken with a grain of salt knowing they were likely false, but still she’d thought she’d had some idea what to expect of the elder. But when her eyes first saw her, she realised she’d had no idea at all.
And the strange thing was that she wasn’t completely sure what startled her so. It wasn’t the outsider blood. She rode with outsiders. She rode with those with troll blood. And in her new life in the chapter house she was surrounded by many more.
Aellwy Te was a wild village, and as such many villagers had troll blood. Most elves instinctively feared them for their size and tusks, and as such they often found themselves more at home in the smaller, less civilised towns and villages. The town blacksmith was at least half troll, and yet for that a relaxed, friendly and even polite man.
So it wasn’t the tusks that shocked her. And actually they were quite small compared to some she’d seen. It wasn’t her size either, though she was surely the largest woman she’d ever seen. It wasn’t even the two massive crag cats that padded beside her. All of that she could accept easily enough.
It was the wildness she decided, that surprised her. The way the woman’s hair was uncombed, unwashed, and full of twigs as though she’d been pushing her way through bramble bushes. The dirt and mud that almost caked her. The torn clothing. No elf would let herself be seen in such a state.
Then again maybe it was the bond of life she could feel flowing from her. The mark of the Mother upon her child. As a child, like all of her house, Dura had done her studies in the grove, and she knew the feel of an elder. She had enough of the art and faith to recognise one immediately. But the bond this woman had with the mother, it was far more powerful than any she’d ever known before.
Of course it could have been the smile that undid her. Warm and knowing. The smile of a doting aunt perhaps.
The captain indicated to her as he started telling the elder of what they’d encountered, and it was somehow enough to shake her out of her daze. If there was one thing that Dura had learned in her months riding with the Otters, it was to never ignore the captain. It didn’t work out well.
So she dismounted hurriedly, unstrapped the leather saddle bag, and carried it to him, before opening it up and dropping the contents on the ground in front of him.
“Ohh!” The elder sighed, not so much surprised as disappointed as far as Dura could tell. Yet Dura even having seen the head before, and knowing what to expect, was still shocked by the sight. It was simply so horrible that it staggered her each time she saw it.
“It is an abomination?”
“Yes. And not the first. Tell me where you encountered it.” Immediately Captain Maydan launched into a detailed account of the battle, most of which seemed of little concern to the elder. The only thing she wanted to know about was the where. Still she listened politely, something that seemed at odds with her appearance, and said nothing until she had the information she needed.
“Cypress Fields. Damn!” She seemed even more disappointed than before.
“There is a problem?” The captain was being very respectful she noticed. Not as he was with the rest of them.
“Of course. It’s nowhere near the others. So there’s no way of knowing where it came from.”
“Where it came from?” The captain looked askance at her.
“The temple. Somewhere out there is a temple where the black priests of the Reaver raise their army of abominations. For ten years now we’ve know it existed. Ever since the reports of abominations started trickling in. It’s been only a few here and there, but still the fact of any could only mean that the demon is stretching forth his maw into our world once more. And that means he has at least one temple and some priests to do his bidding. But we can’t find it.”
“The reports have come from all over Elaris, and some reports have come from even further away. And now the reports are coming in faster than before. Yours is the third this month.” That didn’t please Dura. She knew the stories of the ancient demon and the plague of living death he’d inflicted upon the world a thousand years before. Everyone did. And no one wanted him to be back.
“Is there no clue elder?” Foolishly Dura interrupted the conversation and received an unhappy glance from the captain for it. But she was curious.
“One child. Only one. And his name is Y’aris.” The elder suddenly stared at the ground for a moment, lost in thought. No one interrupted her until she was ready to speak. But they all knew whom she meant.
“He is an evil little toad. A murderer and a poisoner. And cunning with it. But if that were all he was, the Grove would not worry about him so. But there is something wrong with his watchmen. Something that speaks of evil clutching at their souls.”
“It’s not obvious yet. But there is a taint. Something evil. Something perhaps even demonic. And if there was any man of sufficient wickedness to have consort with the demon it would be him.”
“Then -?” Dura’s words trailed off before she finished the question as she realised that she knew the answer.
“He does not show the signs child. He has neither black eyes nor veins. He has neither faith nor magic. And until he shows something the ancient accord between the Grove and the Throne must stand. We cannot interfere.”
The elder was right of course. Fifteen hundred years of custom, history and law could not be set aside so lightly. But it was a shame. In the two short years since Finell had ascended to the Heartwood Throne the realm had fallen apart, and the watchmen on the streets and that terrible prison were only the most obvious signs of its fall. The people cried out for fairness and decency. And the Grove remained silent. As they had to.
And as she realised, that included the rangers. The rangers rode for the Grove. They had freedom in many things, but they could not go against the wishes of the Grove. So they would follow the elder’s lead and do nothing.
But as she carried the head on the end of her pike to the fire pit to be destroyed, Dura couldn’t help but think that it was damnably unfair. These things and whatever had created them, needed to be put to the sword. And the elder was right about Y’aris. He was a black blood.
Even if he wasn’t involved, he should probably have been put to the sword. And the high lord with him. Too young they’d said, and they’d been right. But it wasn’t his age that truly offended. It was his heart. Every bit as black as that of his advisor.
And when she tossed the head into the burning pit where the elder was disposing of her garden wastes, she could easily see two more heads joining them. Unelven or not, she would cheerfully have killed them both. Especially if they had something to do with this evil.
Of course if she did, the captain would likely have her doing chores in the chapter house for the rest of her life.
Chapter Six.
It was a lovely day in the early spring. The sun was up high in the sky, beaming down upon them all, the sky was blue, the air warm, and for once Iros was almost enjoying his duty. Almost.
True being an envoy wasn’t usually an arduous duty. But it did require sacrifice. And part of that was in always looking respectable. That didn’t come naturally to him. He had been a wild child, and still he’d rather play in the fields of home than walk the streets of a strange city in all his finery. And he wasn’t sure it even helped. Those that didn’t care that he was human, didn’t care what he wore. While to those that did care, he could have worn a suit of moon silver and it wouldn’t have mattered. They saw his sturdy frame, dark brown hair and muscles grown from years of training in combat, and saw a savage. Dressed in all his finery he was still a savage to them.
At least Leafshade was
a pretty city. Very pretty with its polished wood filigree adorning every building, fence and lamppost. And of course every building and structure was constructed of wood, sawn, sanded, stained and polished until it shone in the sun. Carefully trimmed flower gardens were bedded in front of every house, while the vegetable gardens and orchard trees filled the back yards. And between all the buildings were large open tracts of lawn, the green grass glowing with vitality.
Even the paths had been thoughtfully set out. The perfectly placed flat river stones ran across the endless green lawn that was the base of the city. Together they formed a delicate tracery of river stones that ran in gentle curves from one end of the city to the other, and connected every house and building between them.