NiDemon

by Cormier, Shawn P.

  But Philion, the NiDemon, had said Reknamarken wasn't evil at all. He was the Creator. He wanted all creation to live under his rule in paradise, as it was meant to be. It was the Nomadin who were evil. They were the ones who had imprisoned the Creator, who, as Philion had put it, prized freedom for freedom's sake, prized it above all else. If it wasn't for the Nomadin, evil wouldn't exist at all.

  Ilien peered up at the Swan. Her eyes shone in the darkness. And what about her? She had told him that the Necromancer was to blame for all of Nadae's woes, yet it was the Nomadin who had destroyed the Drowsy Wood, not Reknamarken. And it was the Nomadin who had sent the Groll to kill him. The Swan remained silent. Her glassy black eyes seemed to hold some sort of sorrow, or regret. Wasn't it she who had been more interested in retrieving the key than in rescuing Windy?

  And what of this recurring nightmare? Three nights in a row now. The same dream. So real. He had dreams before that felt less like dreams and more like prophesies. Were these dreams meant to show him something? He remembered the others with such clarity. The first one came to him outside Evernden. In it, he was swallowed by the ground itself, the whisper in his ear. Ilien Woodhill, I know you. That very day, Gallund fell in the marsh, was devoured by the earth, his fate the same as in his dream. Then the other, while camped in the Far Plains, seeing himself as someone else, clothed all in black, and the Groll finding him. Again the dream seemed to come true, for the Groll did find him, and Kink had been killed. Now this dream, so vivid like all the others, so vivid that he knew for certain that both the Nephalim and the Gorgul, creatures he had neither seen nor heard of before, existed outside his nightmare. So vivid that he knew what everyone in his dream had been thinking, had felt what they had been feeling.

  The Nephalim has spoken of a witch. Was Gallund held captive by a witch? It seemed unlikely. The three witches they had met in the forest outside Southford proved easy opponents for the wizard. Regardless of what it all meant, there was one thing he knew for certain—the map in the dream was important. It was the map that mattered. But a map of what? And what about the Nephalim's final words to Gallund? Your son. He died at Drexhage Hollow. I slew him myself. A darkness passed before Ilien's eyes, and a cold weight filled his heart. If his dreams were prophetic . . .

  Ilien flopped back down to the cold rock beneath him and shuttered, recalling the nightmare he'd had when he passed through the Necromancer's shadow. The boy who looked like him, who taunted him over and over. Who are you? Who are you?

  It didn't make any sense. None of it did. He needed answers. He needed to know. More than anything he needed to know the truth.

  Who was he really?

  He lay in the darkness feeling more lonely than ever. The wriggle from his back pocket gave him a measure of comfort, and he pulled out his pencil, his wand, the wand Gallund had made for him. He had grown fond of the mischievous little pencil after what they'd gone through together. "At least I still have you," he said. The pencil didn't answer, but it didn't matter. He pulled the Swan's warm wing down around him and fell back into a fitful slumber, his wand clasped tightly to his chest.

  "Rise and shine my chickadees!" sang the Swan, lifting her wings, letting the morning sun and cold breeze fall upon her sleeping brood. Windy rolled over and flopped an arm across her face. Ilien blinked and sat up. "Head ‘em up, move ‘em out!" she cried.

  "You really are a bit too cheery in the morning," said Ilien, hugging himself against the cold.

  Their perch of a campsite clung high upon the tallest peak around. The early morning sun hung just above the horizon and lit the tips of the world below them. Dim valleys between bright ridges stretched dark and misty into the distance, some of the deeper crevices still filled with night.

  "I suppose we're still not privy to where we're going today, are we?" said Ilien. He tucked his wand back into his pocket. "And hey! I'm hungry!"

  The Swan lifted her wing higher above Ilien, revealing a leather pouch strapped beneath it.

  "No more Awefull!" cried Ilien, referring to the off- smelling and perpetually damp grey loaves of bread the Swan carried with her. Ilien didn't care that they were made from the rye grasses of the Drowsy Wood. As far as he was concerned, plain old moldy bread was better than freshly made magical bread any day of the week.

  "Keep it down," moaned Windy. She reached up and tried to pull the Swan's wing back down. "It's too early for breakfast anyhow."

  The Swan stood and shook her tail feathers, folding her wings upon her back.

  "You're right. It is too early for breakfast. And besides, Ilien, you can't possibly be hungry. You ate two days ago and Awefull goes an awfully long way. And yes, you will find out where we are going today."

  Windy sat up and rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. Ilien slid next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Temper clement," he whispered.

  Windy looked suddenly wide-eyed, as if afraid she'd be turned into a toad, or something worse. Then she smiled. The air grew warm around them.

  "How—"

  Ilien shrugged. "I don't know. Spells just seem to pop into my head lately."

  "How about conjuring up some coffee then?" said Windy. "Cream, one sugar please."

  "Will you stop? It's not funny."

  "Touchy, aren't we?"

  Truth be told, he was touchy lately, especially about magic. Having spells spill from his mouth without warning was unnerving. The heat was appreciated; he just wished he felt like the one responsible for it.

  "So where are we going?" he asked, ignoring Windy's inquisitive gaze.

  "I'm not at liberty to say," replied the Swan.

  "Not at liberty to say! But you just said you'd tell us!"

  "No. I said you'd find out. And as with any trip, Ilien Woodhill, you will find out where you are going when you get there."

  Ilien flexed his fingers. "I could force it out of you, you know," he said with a sly smile. "I could use the Truth Sear Em spell."

  The Swan smiled back. "The Truth Sear Em spell burns the hands of those not telling the truth, Ilien."

  "I know."

  The Swan flapped her wings in the air. Windy laughed. Ilien didn't get it. "She has no hands, Ilien," said Windy.

  "I will tell you this," said the Swan. "Our journey is nearly at its end."

  "And then we'll rescue Gallund?" asked Ilien.

  "No. Then your journey begins."

  Both Ilien and Windy stared blankly at her.

  "I am bringing you to someone who will help you on your quest."

  "A friend?" questioned Ilien.

  "Not a friend of mine, but perhaps a friend of yours. I will tell you only this. Not all appearances are as they seem. Remember what you have learned. Now hop up. It's time to fly."

  Ilien took a sharp breath. He usually enjoyed flying, once the initial horror of takeoff had passed. But he felt more anxious than usual. Truth be told, he was homesick. And though he would soon fulfill his childhood dream of crossing the Midland Mountains, he knew that each mile of their journey took him that much farther from home, and his mother.

  She's probably worried sick, he thought. It had been a week since he left home that early morning on horseback, headed for Evernden. His mother would have arrived back from Dell three or four days ago. The note he had left explained that he'd be staying in Evernden for several days with Gallund, but those several days had passed. And the smoke from Evernden's burning towers might bring news to Southford of the wierwulf attack. She would think the worst. He had to get word to her somehow. He had to get word to her that he was alright.

  "I suppose Anselm won't be joining us for breakfast this morning," said Windy, climbing to her feet and looking down on the grim land below. The Giant had somehow been able to catch up with them every day near sunrise. He'd usually jog into camp just before breakfast, not that anyone but him ate it, and finish off a nauseating amount of Awefull in the brief time they had before the Swan drove them onward. But their previous campsites had been laid at t
he foot of the mountains, never so high up as now, and this morning was the first morning Anselm had not caught up with them.

  The Swan seemed unconcerned, yet something in her mannerisms told she felt otherwise. "Don't be worrying about Anselm," she said. "A fourteen-foot Giant has little to fear west of the Midland Mountains. He'll be fine."

  Ilien looked sideways at her. "You don't want him to follow us, do you? That's why you had us camp so high."

  The Swan craned her long neck to trim a wayward feather from her wing. "Nonsense," she answered. Her beak chattered as she clipped a few more. "Anselm has more important things to do than chase after you." Satisfied with her work, she speared Ilien with a sharp glance. "He'll no doubt be joining us for dinner in a day or two."

  "How can you be so sure?" asked Windy.

  "Because he has a fondness for Awefull, that's how. And besides, he knows where we're going." With that she refused to answer any further questions regarding Anselm, or their destination. "Now climb aboard before the morning winds pick up. It's hard enough carrying both of you on my back even when the currents are fair."

  Ilien looked down over the land below. The dizzying height of their campsite made his head swim. He regarded their small ledge with sudden horror. "How are we going to take off from here?" he asked. "Don't you need a running start?"

  "Don't worry. There's plenty of room," replied the Swan, as she ushered them onto her back. Soon Windy and Ilien perched between the Swan's broad wings, their legs sunk deep into her downy feathers.

  "Plenty of room?" Windy wrapped her arms tightly around Ilien's waist. "There's barely ten feet in front of us!"

  The Swan jumped forward without warning. "But there's over a thousand feet below us!" she cried, and with that she leapt from the ledge. Windy and Ilien screamed in unison as their stomachs rushed to their mouths. The Swan dove downward, her wings angled back, her long neck stretched forth. The wind whistled around them. The sheer face of the cliff rushed past in a blur as they skimmed over its vertical surface. Still the Swan dove, picking up speed. They passed into the shadows cast by the mountain tops above them. The air grew colder, but the warmth from Ilien's unsummoned spell still held.

  "Here we go!" shouted the Swan. Her wings snapped outward to capture the force of the wind. Up they rose. The sudden change in direction pinned Windy and Ilien to the Swan's back, but the feathers around their legs held them firmly in place and their screams soon turned to giddy laughter as they realized the worst was over.

  "That was actually sort of fun!" yelled Windy.

  But Ilien found himself in a grim mood. Though the cheery morning sunlight returned as the Swan climbed above the mountain tops again, Ilien's thoughts turned to the task ahead of him. Below, the jagged spires of the Midland Mountains reached up at him like the pointed claws of some terrible monster, a monster who guarded the mysterious land beyond its reach. Was it a monster meant to keep people out, or keep other monsters in? The Eastland was a land of kings, that much Ilien knew. He recalled Thessien's words to King Alan of Evernden. My country knows not the squalid splendor of peace. What the Eastland Prince had meant by that Ilien could only guess, and he shivered despite the warmth of the spell around him.

  He clung to the Swan's feathers and shut his eyes against the sights below. So much had changed in so little time, and the adjustment was beginning to catch up with him. Only a month ago he would have been laying out by the small, meandering stream behind his house, putting off the day's chores until his mother came calling for him. Now he wielded uncontrollable magic, magic the Swan thought could help rescue Gallund, a Nomadin, his father. But rescue him from whom? Or what?

  He had no idea what he was getting into. He clung to the back of a giant talking bird, the Princess of Evernden clinging to him in return, all of them heading off to meet a mysterious stranger that the Swan obviously didn't like. Not a friend of mine. But perhaps a friend of yours. And he still had no idea what or who he was supposed to be.

  He opened his eyes with a sigh. The bright blue sky stretched close overhead, so close it seemed he could touch it if only he had the nerve to let go of the Swan and try. The land beneath him was all shining points and dim hollows. Looking ahead he could see where the distant clouds touched the last of the mountains. Beyond lay the dim plains, blue and green at their nearest edge. He tried his best to block out his doubts. Windy's arms around him gave him a measure of courage, and he settled in for the days ride and their final destination, wherever it might be.

  "Tell me something about Gilindilin," said Ilien after a while.

  Gilindilin, his true mother. It felt strange to think of someone other than his mother back home as being his mother, but he couldn't hide from the fact that his mother back in Southford, though she gave birth to him, was not his biological mother. He was the child of two Nomadin, Gallund and Gilindilin. He knew much about Gallund, from his history in the wars against the Necromancer, to his fondness of ale, to his favorite annoying sayings. Gilindilin, on the other hand, was a mystery.

  "Who's Gilindilin?" asked Windy.

  Ilien had nearly forgotten that Windy knew nothing of the prophesy, nothing of his heritage. He drew a sharp breath and bit his lip. He wasn't ready to tell her yet.

  "What would you like to know?" asked the Swan. She peered back at her left wing as if it held an instrument panel and she was checking the gauges.

  He had to be careful what he said. "Well, for one, why wasn't she at Greattower with the other Nomadin?"

  "None of the Nomadin wizardesses were there," said the Swan.

  "There are others?"

  "Of course," laughed the Swan.

  Windy chimed in from the rear. "Why is it that men always assume women aren't just as capable as men?"

  "I didn't say that!" cried Ilien over his shoulder.

  "The fact that you think there are more male Nomadin than female Nomadin proves that you do."

  "Point well taken," said the Swan. "There are an equal number of Nomadin wizards and wizardesses on Nadae, for balance is the key to everything."

  "If balance is the key to everything, then why is there so little of it?" asked Windy, poking Ilien in the back.

  Ilien fell silent. If balance was the key to everything, he suddenly realized it was lacking at that very moment. A thousand feet above the earth, it was two to one in favor of the women! Silence seemed prudent. Besides, he had dodged the issue of his heritage for the time being. He was happy to let the conversation turn in another direction.

  "Balance is a hard thing to see," said the Swan. "It's there in the world today, though not as abundant as in days gone by. Thank God it's an adjustable thing."

  "When you say God you mean the Creator," said Ilien. He remembered the NiDemon had said that the Necromancer was actually the Creator, bound and imprisoned by the Nomadin.

  "It's a figure of speech, Ilien. But yes, I guess you could call one the other."

  "Then where is the Creator now?" pressed Ilien. "If balance is so important to him-"

  "There you go again!" said Windy. "Why does the Creator have to be a he?"

  Ilien shook his head, took a deep breath, and started again. "If balance is so important to the Creator—" He paused for the expected commentary from Windy, but she only smiled behind his back. "—then why isn't the Creator here to keep everything balanced?"

  "What makes you think balance is important to the Creator?" answered the Swan.

  "You said—"

  "I said, thank God that balance is an adjustable thing."

  The wind suddenly lashed across the Swan's wings, threatening to unseat her passengers. "Hold on! Just a moment!" She tipped her wings and turned into the wind. "My point exactly," she said after a pause. "You see, it's up to creation to choose, to make adjustments. Good and evil, right and wrong. The choice is ours to make, as individuals. Our choices adjust the balance one way or the other."

  "But who's to say what's good and what's evil?" asked Windy.

  "The Creato
r, of course. Good and evil are both creations, after all."

  "You haven't answered my question," said Ilien. "Where is the Creator now? If God makes the rules, then why isn't God here to enforce them?"

  The Swan stretched her wings out wide, and they swept upwards on the rising air currents. The sudden climb filled Ilien's stomach with butterflies. "Some believe that the Creator is within us all, Ilien. And that makes our choices that much more important, doesn't it?"

  God within me? thought Ilien, and he said no more.

  By mid afternoon, Ilien found it difficult to cling to his precarious perch on the back of a giant bird a thousand feet above the earth. The weariness of the last four days settled over him like a smothering blanket. The head that rested on his back told him Windy too was exhausted. Below them the mountains sailed past, but the highest of the peaks had long since vanished behind them. Ahead, the valleys stretched longer and gentler into the distance. The monster's claws had given way to tall, rounded hills of stone, not so menacing, and in his exhaustion, even somewhat comforting. He longed to set down and make camp, to let a long night's sleep take away his worries for a while. As if in answer to his wish, they began to descend. They circled in the air, the turns of their descent breathing life into Windy behind him.

  "Are we there?" asked the princess.

  "Nearly," answered the Swan, sounding tired herself.

  Ilien surveyed the twisting landscape below. They spiraled down toward a wide, grassy valley filled with bright patches of green between steep, grey slopes. He looked for signs of a town, or roads, but saw nothing that indicated civilization, not even a solitary house.

  "Hang on!" shouted the Swan as she dove sharply downward. A cold wind buffeted them as they descended, so cold it even breached the warm barrier of Ilien's spell. Windy held tight around Ilien's waist, and Ilien shut his eyes to the tilting landscape. Soon they would be down on the ground.

  An icy blast drove under them. Windy cried out and pitched sideways, dragging Ilien with her. Ilien clutched at the Swan's thick feathers, pulling clumps out as he slid toward the open sky.