Nomadin

by Cormier, Shawn P.

  "It's not true." Ilien pressed himself against the wall. "I'm the one." He seemed to fold in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, head turned down, shoulders slumped. "It's not true."

  But it was. It had to be. The Swan's words came back to him. You were brought to me by three Nomadin. One was Gilindilin, the wizardess. The other two were wizards. Yes, one was Gallund. But the other was . . .

  Philion! The NiDemon was Philion! But how? How was that possible? It just couldn't be. Ilien stood against the wall, a small boy, lost and frightened, who only wanted his mother.

  "Look at you!" Philion took a final step forward. "Just look at you." The glow in his eyes retreated, faded away, till what remained were the eyes of an old man, soft and blue. The shadow of his wings disappeared and he laid gentle hands on Ilien's shoulders. "It's okay, Ilien. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not like them. I only want you to know the truth."

  He turned and strode back to his desk. "Come. Sit. You will see. I am civilized, not a monster as they would have you believe. And they would, you know." He sat in his chair, leaning back to take a look at the boy before him like a professor studying a potential applicant to school. "We're not monsters at all. It is they who are the monsters. The Nomadin. Not us. We follow the ways of Reknamarken." He saw the look in Ilien's eyes. "There's no reason to fear Reknamarken," he said, sitting forward in his chair. "He's not a monster either, though I'm sure that's another lie they've fed you. He's far from it. He is the Creator, after all."

  Again Philion read Ilien's face. "Yes, yes, I know. Disconcerting, isn't it, to be told that God is the boogie man. But it's true. What is it they call him? The Necromancer?" Philion shook his head and frowned. "The Nomadin are masters at bending the truth, graying black and white until both look the same, or reversed. Just look at the name they chose for us. NiDemon. So sinister. So evil sounding. It's nothing more than Nomadin in reverse. A child's trick. They've been that way since time immeasurable. Freedom seekers they call themselves. Freedom at the price of truth maybe. Freedom for freedom's sake. That sort of freedom is worthless. Evil thrives on that sort of freedom. And if it wasn't for the Nomadin, evil wouldn't exist at all."

  Philion's hands clenched into fists. "They're the ones who rose up against the Creator to fight for their twisted sense of freedom. They destroyed the Eden that was once Nadae and they're the ones who locked Reknamarken away!"

  Ilien remained silent, fear and doubt turning circles in his mind.

  Philion raised a hand. "I know what you're going to say," he said, lowering his voice. "That I was once with them. That I, too, was once a Nomadin. That may well be true, but I have since made amends for my foolishness. I have endured their company for three hundred years, always seeking release for my banished brothers. You see, I might have come late to the call, but not too late."

  He leaned back in his chair again. "How many wasted centuries have I studied nothing but what they fed me? The True Language they call it. As true as the eye on a butterfly's wings, and as fragile, I might add." He swiveled his chair in a gentle circle, finally coming to rest facing Ilien again.

  "But I have since seen the light." His face stretched into a wide smile. "And what a glorious light it is. I have studied the secret power of Nihilic, the secret power the Nomadin have denied the world. I have endured their company, always loath to do so, always waiting for the chance to free my brothers from Loehs Sedah. And now a Crossing has been unearthed. The Prophesied Child has been brought before me, and the key as well. How delightful. How truly delightful. Now the world will see that evil is their doing, not ours."

  Ilien shook his head and pressed himself against the wall.

  Philion fell silent, his brow furrowing in anger. "Need proof?" he spat. "Who else would send a Groll to kill one of their own?"

  Ilien gathered himself up. "Now I know you lie. Gallund would never send that monster after me."

  The NiDemon steepled his hands behind his desk and smiled. "You're right. He didn't send it after you. He sent it after her. After all, you're nothing but a worthless, little boy."

  The tips of Ilien's ears began to burn. His heart raced. The wall at his back felt like fists beating against him. It wasn't true. Lies! All of it lies! He possessed powers. He was the one. They told him. He'd seen it with his own eyes. Powers beyond any mere wizard. He was being tricked, and he suddenly didn't like being tricked. Philion was wrong. He was a Nomadin through and through. Not a worthless, little boy. A Nomadin!

  Philion smiled, reading his thoughts. "Will you never learn? You can't save her. You haven't any magic and the sooner you get that through your head the better it'll be for you in the end. I have her and I have the key."

  Ilien's mind raced. The NiDemon was wrong. He did have magic. He'd show him just how wrong he was.

  "I have the Book, too." The glow in Philion's eyes returned and he seemed pleased with the effect his words had on Ilien. "Yes. The Book. It's right in here." He stroked the open drawer beside him. "Would you like to see it?" He reached a hand forward.

  Ilien felt the hairs on the back of his neck crawl into the air.

  Philion drew out a small lock box and placed it on the desk before of him. "You're witnessing history in the making, my boy. In fact, you'll be the last living soul to see the Book before it's opened. The last person in all Nadae to see God imprisoned."

  He looked up with a smile, his eyes ablaze. "Of course, we'll have to get that girlfriend of yours to do the actual deed but behold, it's right in here, the Book. The end of evil, the beginning of—"

  He opened the box and his wings flew outward in stunned surprise.

  The Book was already open.

  The wall behind Ilien jumped and a crack spread across its clean white surface like a split across a frozen lake. Another blow and the wall exploded, chunks of wood and plaster showering past Ilien, across the desk, knocking the lock box to the floor. A black barbed tail snaked through the hole in the wall, followed by the limping form of the Groll.

  Its mouth, once a curve of gleaming fangs, gaped open, its lower jaw missing, its razor-sharp teeth reduced to a mangle of bloody, jagged edges. One eye stared forth, an oozing white orb surrounded by puffy, red flesh, the other eye a swollen slit. Its right hind leg dragged upon the floor, broken and useless. Its human-like hands hung loose at its sides, chafed raw from its battle to climb from the raging river. Only its tail remained unharmed, black barb gleaming with oily venom.

  Ilien jumped back. The Groll shuffled forward with amazing speed, its tail lancing out, streaking across the space between it and Ilien with an audible hiss. Ilien threw his hands up, a silent scream caught in his throat.

  The air in the room exploded. The thunder-shock threw Philion from his chair. White hot fire raced from Ilien's pencil, striking the hurtling tail, igniting it into a flaming torch. The Groll jerked back and fell to the floor as magic surged through its body, worms of fire burrowing into its flesh. It writhed and screamed, its burning tail stabbing at the floor in agony. The force of Ilien's unsummoned spell flung him across the room and he struck the wall behind Philion's desk, debris raining down around him.

  A shroud of smoke hung in the air, tinged with the bitter odor of burned flesh, and Philion rose from the floor. The Groll lay in a heap, unmoving, curls of steam rising from the barb of its tail. Vitreous fluid seeped from its ruined eye. Ilien moaned and Philion spun around. On the floor beside Ilien lay the Book, torn in two.

  Philion sat heavily on the edge of his desk. "How could I have been so blind?" His crestfallen eyes fell on Ilien.

  Ilien crawled to the wall, still clutching his pencil, his lungs fighting for air. He coughed and gagged, aware that he was being watched but helpless to do anything else. When he finally caught his breath, he gazed up at Philion, dazed.

  The NiDemon sat staring at him, the glow in his eyes gone, his wings vanished. A look of awe spread across his worried features and he covered his mouth with a bloody hand.

  "F
orgive me, Master," he whispered. "Forgive me. I didn't know it was you. I never saw it. Your final prophesy, so simple, so brilliant. A Nomadin-child would set you free."

  He rubbed at his eyes, then looked at Ilien again. "It's you. You're him. You've been free all along. Reborn! Reborn outside your prison. Reborn as a Nomadin-child! Brilliant master! How truly brilliant!" He rose from the desk.

  For a moment, Ilien thought that Philion meant to help him up, but the NiDemon froze, hands outstretched, his mouth wide open. A trickle of blood slipped from his lower lip.

  Philion's chest exploded in a spray of crimson as a long black spike jutted from between his ribs. He rose in the air, impaled upon the Groll's tail while the beast's ruined body still cowered on the floor. He released a silent scream, arms spread wide, and his wings flew up to beat the air. A brilliant flash lit the room and Groll and NiDemon disappeared without a sound.

  Chapter XXIV

  Nomadin

  Ilien sat with his back against the far wall and watched the smoke settle, listening to the falling silence. It wasn't until his heart had stopped pounding and his breathing came slow and steady that he noticed the changes in the room since the NiDemon had vanished. The room was bright again, the toads gone, replaced by the lights and pictures they had once been. The door, too, had reappeared, only now a gaping hole had been blown through it. Globe flew up from the floor to hover over Ilien's head, released from her amphibious prison. Lying at Ilien's feet was the Book, torn neatly in two along its binding.

  You're free! He heard Philion's words again, those impossible words. It's you. You're him. You've been free all along. Reborn! Reborn outside your prison. Reborn as a Nomadin-child! Brilliant, Master! How truly brilliant!

  It wasn't true. A demon's trick. All of it lies. It had to be, for if Philion was the NiDemon, present with Gallund and Gilindilin when they brought him before the Swan, then that would make Gallund his father. And if Gallund was his father then how could he be—

  The Swan's words came back to him, frightening him. Your mother in Southford gave birth to you, but only to what you see in the mirror, not to who you really are, not to what you really are. You would be wise to remember that not all appearances are what they seem.

  "Fiera fundari." The words spat from Ilien's mind without a thought. The tattered remains of the Book burst into flames. Lies. All of it lies. He was just a boy. Son of Nomadin wizards, yes, but a boy. Not . . . not . . . he couldn't finish the thought.

  "Not what he thinks I am," he said aloud. He kicked the ashes of the smoldering Book away and huddled closer to the wall.

  "Ilien!" urged his pencil. "Ilien. Get up! You have to—"

  "Wait!" Scattered around Ilien lay Windy's belongings—the lightstone, the key, the feather. "Windy!"

  As he called her name the wall behind him gave out and he fell backwards to the floor, peering once again at more flameless torches hung from the ceiling. He scrambled to his feet. The wall had been another door, hidden until the NiDemon, until Philion, had vanished. It opened into another small room, this one without desks, without pictures on the walls. This room was empty except for a small figure sitting bound and gagged in a chair by the wall.

  Ilien ran and threw his arms around the princess. She screamed through her gag, thrashing, trying to throw him off.

  She was blindfolded as well.

  Ilien yanked off her blindfold and Windy's eyes grew wide and filled with tears. She said something under her gag and Ilien pulled that off too.

  "You came for me," she said. Then she thrashed again. "The NiDemon! He's in the other room!"

  "He's gone," said Ilien. "He's gone. You're safe."

  "He'll come back!"

  Ilien gripped her by the shoulders. "No, he won't. He's dead, Windy. You're safe now."

  Windy stopped her struggling and looked at him curiously, her eyes still touched with fear. "You killed the NiDemon?"

  "No," he answered. "The Groll did. It's dead, too."

  The princess looked past Ilien and into the other room. "He thought I was the savior." Her eyes found Ilien's. "I'm supposed to open the Book and release the Necromancer. He said I held the key. He said I was the child of wizards."

  Ilien knelt down and started untying her in silence.

  "He said it was my destiny. And he has the Book!"

  The ropes around Windy fell to the floor. "It was a lie, Windy. All of it a lie."

  "But the Book! It's here!"

  "No. It's not," Ilien assured her. "Another lie."

  Windy stared at Ilien, dumbfounded.

  "Some appearances are not what they seem," Ilien pushed through clenched teeth. "That goes for words as well." Inwardly Ilien winced at the lies he told, lies to cover more lies. "I don't know what his game was, but it's over now. The NiDemon is gone. There is no Groll, and there is no Book. You are the Princess of Evernden, and I . . ." He paused just long enough to remember that Windy knew nothing of the prophesy, nothing of what the Swan had told him. "I'm just a wizard's apprentice."

  Windy hugged him suddenly, and he knelt beside her, feeling her warm embrace, her trust in him. A part of him relaxed, something inside unwinding like a clock that had been keyed too tight, but deeper down he still felt ashamed.

  "Let's get out of here," he said. He rose to his feet and pulled the map from his pocket, hoping there was an easier way out than retracing the way he'd come in.

  Soon they stood blinking in the bright light of mid-afternoon, the mouth of a wide cave behind them. The journey out was quick, without the twists and turns and awful smells of the way in. Stairs led down the mountain in front of them, carved from the rock itself. A heavy mist shrouded the land below and Windy ran for the stairs and freedom.

  Ilien caught her by the wrist. "The last I knew, the Giant's army was camped at the foot of the mountain, preparing for battle. I don't think it's wise to go running down there just yet."

  The pencil wriggled in Ilien's hand. "I don't think that's mist."

  Windy wrinkled her nose, suddenly wide-eyed. "It's smoke."

  Ilien looked past her at the impenetrable white blanket that hid the plains below. "Then the battle is under way."

  "Or it could be over," Windy offered, huddling closer. "But who won, I wonder."

  "There's only one way to find out." And with that, Ilien led her reluctantly down the stone steps.

  The clear air quickly gave way to a shroud of stinging smoke. Its odor was not the comforting smell of campfires, but the acrid stench of battle and death, tinged with a bitter reek that Ilien could not quite place.

  They navigated the stone stairs carefully, keeping close not only for fear of losing each other in the smoky haze, but for fear itself. What if the Giants were the victors? Would they be caught? Would they have come all this way just to be killed at the very end? They traveled slowly, methodically, on guard against anything that might jump out at them in the smoke laden mist.

  A warm breeze stirred around them, driving away the mountain's chill and swirling the heavy smoke into tiny, white eddies. The stairs finally ended at a small landing of flagstones. Globe's light cast a hazy halo around them, and they could see nothing save for what lay at their feet. The blind white silence was unnerving. Then suddenly the wind gusted and swept the air clean, and the flagstones they stood upon became a pedestal for the gruesome sight below.

  The smoking, ruined bodies of Giants and men stretched out before them, crumpled and blackened, strewn across the battlefield like a field of smoldering campfires. Swords and shields littered the ground, sticks and driftwood now, useless without the men and Giants who had wielded them.

  Windy covered her mouth. "Why are they all burning?"

  Ilien knew the answer, and it sickened him in the pit of his stomach. "Magic. Nomadin magic."

  They stood frozen. No one turned away. No one spoke. Each was lost in their own horror. The silence was broken by a forlorn call for help, weak but urgent.

  "Is there anyone there?" The cry cam
e from further ahead, from somewhere amidst the hissing wreckage of burning bodies. "Help me. Please."

  Without a thought Ilien ran forward, weaving through the maze of smoking corpses toward the spot the cry had come from. He flung his hand to his mouth to keep from choking on the stench.

  "I'm here!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

  The voice didn't answer at first, and Ilien thought he'd been too late after all. But then, "Here. Over here," came the call again, quiet now, weaker.

  Ilien came upon the man suddenly, nearly stumbling into him among the surrounding bodies. He found him behind the burning remains of a Giant, clutching at the spot where his legs had been, legs seared to ashes now. He knew there would be no helping this man.

  "Thank god. Thank god," whispered the soldier, then noticing the look on Ilien's face he added, "It's not that bad. Help me up. I could walk if only you could help me up."

  Ilien stifled a gag with his arm and knelt beside the dying man. "Lay still now. Rest."

  The soldier grabbed his shield. "Here. Take this. There may be Giants still about." He fell into a fit of coughing.

  Ilien grabbed hold of the shield and caught his reflection in its polished surface. He jumped at what he saw and threw the shield aside.

  "That's right," the soldier said dreamily, studying Ilien as if he'd never seen a twelve-year-old boy before. "You don't need a shield, do you?"

  "Don't worry," Ilien said, trying not to look at the man's cremated legs. "The battle is over. Lie still. You'll be okay."

  The man's grim smile faded, replaced by a serenity Ilien had never seen before. "I've done well, then," he whispered, and he said no more. Ilien knew then that the man was dead.

  The others soon arrived, falling silent as Ilien gently closed the man's eyes.

  "Halt!" The sudden shout issued from behind them. Without warning a small company of men approached with weapons drawn, weaving their way through the smoking corpses. "By order of the King of Berkhelven, hold or be killed!" cried the leader. The soldiers, in full battle regalia, chain mail and helms, gauntlets and shields, swords and spears, quickly surrounded them.