Windy remained silent, waiting for Bulcrist to come up with an answer. She saw from the corner of her eye that the NiDemon was quickly losing his patience. If she didn't do something quickly, Bulcrist might do something foolish—and deadly. Despite the warnings from her sword, Windy gathered her wits and spoke.
"You're right. I am not from these mountains. But neither am I a witch, so please sheath your swords."
"Then who are you?" asked Fikus. "Answer me truly and perhaps the swords will be withdrawn."
Windy took a deep breath. "My name is Windy, that much is true. This is Bulcrist, a great Nomadin wizard, and I am his apprentice."
Bulcrist flinched, then blinked in surprise. His grip on his reins tightened as he suddenly understood Windy's plan. He shook his head to dissuade her.
"A Nomadin?" asked Fikus. "And his apprentice?"
"Yes," said Windy, pleased with herself. Surely now they would be allowed to pass. Her smile slipped away as she noticed that Fikus still held his sword at the ready.
"What proof is there that what you say is true?" Something in his tone led Windy to believe that her plan wasn't working out so well. "I've heard the names of many Nomadin," continued Fikus, "but I've never heard the likes of one named Bulcrist."
"Surely, you haven't heard of them all," said Windy.
Fikus frowned. "You are a poor liar, little girl. Be thankful you are. If I believed for one moment that you were apprentice to a Nomadin, those would be the last words you ever spoke. We hold no love for the Nomadin here in the East. Witch lovers." With that, he spat on the ground. He turned to Bulcrist. "Are you through letting this child speak for you?"
Bulcrist bowed his head but his eyes flashed in anger. All at once he drew himself up and pulled back his cowl. "I am Tannon Bulcrist. And I hold no love for the Nomadin, for I am called NiDemon by their kind."
It was Windy's turn to grasp her reins tighter. A murmur passed among the other men, and a rustling of cloaks could be heard.
Fikus narrowed his eyes. "The NiDemon have been banished to Loehs Sedah."
"Yes, they have." Bulcrist glanced at the two young soldiers nearest him. "By the Nomadin."
"And the proof of your words?" asked Fikus. "I warn you, I have grown weary of lies."
Bulcrist nodded again. As he did so, he raised his hands and moved them smoothly through the air, tracing a rune of power. The two young soldiers behind him gasped, and their horses stumbled backward.
Fikus raised a hand to his chain mail shirt. It glittered in the sun. The once rusted links now shone like polished silver. Fikus caressed the shining mail.
"This is proof of power only," he said. "A Nomadin's power, perhaps. I see no proof that you are NiDemon. The Nomadin have meddled too often in the affairs of the East. And now their tolerance of the Witch Queen and her kind has led to war. I need more proof than magic alone if I am to believe your claim."
Bulcrist smiled. "Of course. The proof you seek is right before your eyes, though you cannot see it. But I have a warning for you as well. You may not like what you see." At that, he motioned for Windy to reveal her sword.
Windy hesitated, but Bulcrist gestured impatiently. She unstrapped the walking stick from her saddle and held it up for all to see.
Fikus's face hardened. "You offer a stick as your proof?"
Windy looked up at her sword and grimaced. It was still disguised as before. "Wait!" she cried. She willed the sword to reveal itself. There was a moment of tense silence, then a collective gasp as the Nihilic sword shed its disguise.
Fikus moved his horse closer. "A NiDemon you are," he whispered, marveling in wonder and fear at the sword before him. "Nihilic swords are told of in many evil tales of old. They have been outlawed since the Purge." He looked at Bulcrist with a cold glint in his eye. "Why is it I shouldn't have you slain here and now?"
"Which is it, old man?" said Bulcrist, his patience finally breaking. "Would you rather I was a Nomadin and she a witch? We are allied with neither. I am NiDemon. Choose quick your path. Slay us if you can, or let us go on our way. But know this. If you attempt to slay us, you will be helping your enemy."
Fikus eyed the Nihilic sword warily, then eased his horse back a step. "I have seen many strange things this last week," he said. "We will not slay you, but neither can we let you go on your way so quickly. I must consult with the others. There is war in the East. The Witch Queen now holds sway over the lands where you are headed."
"But the Eastland is Thessien's kingdom," said Windy.
Fikus started, and his horse tugged at its reins. "You know Prince Atenmian?"
Windy looked at Bulcrist for help. "Yes, I know Thessien," she replied.
Fikus snapped his reins and his horse circled around Windy. "Then you know where he is?"
"I left him four days ago, at Greattower Mountain."
"Four days?" said Fikus. "Then you truly do not know. His kingdom is in peril. The Witch Queen has taken Asheverry. I must find him at once."
"Taken the city? How is that possible?" asked Bulcrist. "What of the King and his army."
Fikus's men stirred uneasily. "The King is dead," answered Fikus. "The royal family has been slain." He turned to Windy. "Thessien is king now."
Chapter XI
Grovelstone
Ilien lay on his side, peering into the dying flames of the firefly fire. Anselm snored next to him. The night air was cold, and Ilien shivered. He tried to conjure a warmth spell, but again his Nomadin magic eluded him. He wished the Giant hadn't thrown those wolf pelts into the fire. It wasn't the cold that bothered him; he was warm enough despite the occasional shiver. But Anselm had literally given him the shirt off his own back, and a smelly, wet wolf pelt would have been an improvement over the dirty animal skins he lay wrapped in now.
Still, the gesture had been genuinely selfless, and Ilien worried that Anselm might be cold. He regarded the Giant with concern. Drool escaped Anselm's bottom lip. The Giant slept like a baby.
Not so Ilien. He had wanted to race after Windy and Bulcrist, but Anselm had insisted they rest first, if only for a few hours. They would need it, argued the Giant. "And besides, I know a short cut." With that he'd fallen asleep.
Now, Ilien lay restless and worried. Worried for Windy. Worried for Gallund. Worried for his mother and the Swan.
Worried for all of Nadae!
Bulcrist was at the center of those worries. The NiDemon had lied to him, had betrayed him. He had assured Ilien that his mother in Southford would be safe, but she wasn't. He had sent his watchdogs to kill Anselm, the same brutes he had loosed upon the Swan. As for rescuing Gallund, it was a trick. Bulcrist wanted the map of the Crossings, and he would have used Ilien to get it if the Nephalim hadn't intervened.
Now Windy was in danger. She, too, was Nomadin-born. Bulcrist could use her to do his bidding, and there would be no one to stop him.
"I'll stop him," vowed Ilien. But how would he do that? He wished he had his wand back. He wished Gallund was there. "I wish I knew more Nihilic runes," he muttered. He fell into a restless slumber.
He was awakened by the smell of steaming Awefull. The pungent, moldy odor coupled with the sour smell of his animal- shirt blanket proved too much. He shot to his feet in the predawn gloom, coughing and gagging.
Anselm sat nearby, toasting a piece of Awefull over a stick-fed fire. "Bad dreams?" He held his breakfast out to Ilien. "Want some?"
Ilien shook his head, and staggered over to the fire to get upwind of the smoke and wafting stench of Anselm's meal. "No thank you," he answered. He grabbed his empty stomach, and grimaced. "Is that all we have?"
Anselm nodded as he chewed. "You should eat. We're going into harm's way. You'll need the sustenance."
The Giant was right. He would need the sustenance, but why, oh why, did it have to be Awefull? Ilien hung his head, and held out a hand to receive his damp, smelly portion. "I suppose cooking it over the fire doesn't help the taste," he said.
"Sure it does," answered Anselm, popping his
last piece into his mouth. "Gives it a sweet, yet smoky, flavor."
Sweet, smoky, slimy and sour. Great, though Ilien. He forced it into his mouth, trying to feel grateful for the food.
"Now let me see that stone of yours," said Anselm. "I want a closer look at it in the daylight."
Ilien fished it from his pocket, struggling to swallow his mouthful of Awefull. With a grimace and a gulp, he pulled out the stone and held it out to Anselm.
"No, Ilien. Don't give it to me. Hold it steady for me to see." Anselm studied it thoughtfully. "Hmm. Yes, it's as I thought. You should be careful not to give it to anyone, ever."
"Why not?" asked Ilien, closing his hand and pulling it away.
"The Giants have a name for such a stone. Dorundum, it's called. Grovelstone, in the common speech. I suspected as much last night, but now I am certain it is one."
"Grovelstone?" Ilien looked at his hand, afraid to open it.
"Dorundum. No one has seen such a stone in over a thousand years, since the War of the Crossings."
"Dorundum." Ilien opened his hand and gazed at the stone warily. "If no one has seen one in over a thousand years, then how do you know it's one? What does it do?"
"As for how I'm sure that it is a Dorundum, your tale and that black creature convinced me. Now that I've seen it, I'm quite sure of what it is. It is a stone from the banks of the river Dorund, the river that flows through the Land of the Dead."
"Land of the Dead!" Ilien jumped back, and cast the stone to the ground.
Anselm shot to his feet. "Be careful! Don't break it!" He stood frozen for a long moment, then let out a hiss. "Are you trying to kill me? Pick it up! Don't throw it again."
Ilien hesitated, and Anselm took a kinder tone. "Pick it up, Ilien. It won't hurt you."
Ilien retrieved it and held it before him. "How do you know it won't hurt me?"
"Because it hasn't yet," said Anselm, sitting back down. "Somehow, you're immune to its powers. Perhaps it's because you brought it back again, I don't know. Just put it away."
Ilien eased it back into his pocket. "What do you mean, brought it back?"
The Giant motioned for Ilien to sit. Ilien declined. "A grovelstone is a deadly weapon. Brought from the banks of the River Dorund into the land of the living, its only desire is to return home to the Land of the Dead. When touched, it does just that, slaying its host and speeding back to where it was found. That's what happened to you, I imagine. But you returned. Somehow you returned and brought it back again, and now it seems to hold no power over you. Perhaps you were saved because you are Nomadin, I don't know. But if someone else were to touch it . . ."
"And if someone were to break it?"
"The stone's powers would be released all at once. I shudder to think about it, but I doubt even you would survive that. It has one purpose and one alone: to kill."
"Bulcrist gave it to Windy," said Ilien with a sudden understanding.
"Yes, he did." The Giant shook his head. "He kept it in a pouch, I suppose, and told her not to use it until the time was right."
Ilien nodded.
"It was meant to be the death of her," said Anselm.
Ilien looked away and hung his head. "Why did the Swan bring me to Bulcrist? Why did she think I could see through all his lies?"
"Sit down, Ilien," bade Anselm. "Sit down. The Swan is a seer. She sees things as they are, and as they could be, not always as they will be. The blame is not hers."
Ilien slumped beside the Giant, his shoulders sagging. "Bulcrist meant to use me to retrieve the map of the Crossings so he could release the other NiDemon from their banishment."
Anselm grimaced. "I figured as much."
"He meant to kill Windy with the stone when the time came," said Ilien.
"He wanted to kill you as well. You are forgetting the Nihilic blade."
Ilien straightened. "What do you mean?"
"Like the stone, a Nihilic sword is a powerful weapon," said Anselm. "The blade is etched with runes that lend power and deadly skill to its wielder, power enough even to slay the Witch Queen. Of one rune, though, the wielder is never told. I cannot speak its name for I do not know the language, but it is a rune of entrapment. If wielded often enough, the sword will drain its owner of all he is, all he knows, until he is forever entrapped within the blade. What remains will be a shell, filled with the power of the sword and all who ever wielded it to their doom, a shell with no will of its own. In the end, you would have become powerful enough to destroy the Witch Queen, but you would have become forever enslaved to the sword, and to Bulcrist. That was the fate Bulcrist meant for you."
"But I couldn't use it," said Ilien. He flew to his feet. "Windy wields it now!"
"I know. Bulcrist will be training her with it. Although he meant for you to have it, he will settle for Windy. The longer she uses it, or even carries it, the quicker it will consume her, and the quicker Bulcrist will be able to retrieve his precious map."
Ilien felt sick "How much time does she have?"
The Giant shook his head. "Hardened warriors could wield the sword for months before falling victim to it. Windy is a child. There is not much time."
"What are we doing sitting about?" cried Ilien. "We have to reach her before it's too late!"
Anselm remained seated. "They are too far ahead of us, Ilien. They are on horseback. We cannot reach them in time."
Ilien stepped forward in anger. "You said you knew a shortcut!"
"Yes, a shortcut to their destination, a shortcut to the Castle at Asheverry."
"It may be too late by then!"
Anselm was silent.
"How can you just sit there and do nothing when Windy is in danger?"
Anselm rose then, towering over Ilien as he stood with fists clenched before him. "We will not do nothing," said the Giant. "But we cannot do what cannot be done. If we chase after them, all will be lost. We will be too late. Windy will be enslaved to the sword, and she would kill even you while under such power. Our only hope is to beat her to their journey's end. It is the only place we are sure to catch her."
"Then what?" raged Ilien. "The Witch Queen will be there. Bulcrist will be there. If the forbidden Crossing is open, a thousand creatures as foul as the one that hunts me still will be there as well! Are we're to sneak in, slay the Queen of the Witches, defeat a NiDemon, save Windy and Gallund and drive the hoards of spirit creatures back into banishment?"
"Yes," said Anselm.
Ilien felt dizzy, and sat back down. The Giant sat beside him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Do not despair."
But Ilien did despair. His shoulders shook as he cried silently, overwhelmed by all that he faced.
"Do not lose hope," said Anselm. "You still have the Dorundum stone. It holds no sway over you, and its powers are vast. It may help you yet." Ilien took a deep breath. He wiped at the tears on his face. "And you still have me," the Giant said cheerfully.
"I'm glad for that," said Ilien. "But how can we hope to succeed in the end?"
"Often the way of those who seek to vanquish evil is unclear, yet often they prevail," answered Anselm. "But never has one who gave up seen anything but defeat."
Ilien wiped at his eyes again. "Is that some sort of Giant saying? It's not very comforting."
Anselm laughed. "No, I just made it up. It's true, nonetheless."
Ilien shook his head. Why were such idiotic sayings always so true? "This shortcut to the castle, are you sure we'll get there before Windy?"
"Yes. If all goes well."
Ilien studied the Giant's stony face. "What do you mean by that? Is this shortcut dangerous?"
Anselm weighed his words. "It shouldn't be. The shortcut I speak of is a long unused tunnel that runs from the roots of Ledge Hall to the cellars of Asheverry Castle. It stretches twenty miles, passing beneath the Midland River."
"Twenty miles underground? Who built it?"
Anselm smiled. "We Giants built it, many generations ago. That is a long time in the
lives of men."
"How is that possible?" asked Ilien. "The Giants live in the far west. They are at war with the East."
"We are now, but we haven't always been so. Alliances and enmities always change if given enough time. Once, my people lived in these mountains. We gave them their name, the Midland Mountains, Bolgardol in our native tongue. We lived in peace with the men around us. We hollowed out the hills, and built ourselves a castle."
"Ledge Hall," said Ilien. "The Giants built Ledge Hall. That's why everything is so big."
"Yes," said Anselm, beaming. "Ledge Hall. Men would come from both East and West to marvel at its magnificence. The Eastlanders sought trade with us, for we were rich in gold and silver from the mountains. So robust were our dealings with the East that we constructed a massive tunnel to speed the goods to and fro. It was a wonder to behold, more wondrous than Ledge Hall, if that was possible."
The Giant's face clouded. "But that was long ago," he said, "before my people fell in league with the Necromancer. Now my kin have taken up in the far West, and our prosperous way of life is no more. Ledge Hall is but an empty fortress. The tunnel lays in disrepair, unused for centuries." He glanced up at Ilien. "That is why I say ‘if all goes well,' for if we are not hindered by the tunnel itself we should reach Asheverry Castle by daybreak tomorrow, a day before Windy and Bulcrist, for they must travel north first to cross the river. But if the tunnel is blocked . . ."
"If the tunnel begins at Ledge Hall, how will we enter it? There's no time to go back."
"My kin built many exits from the Long Dark Road," replied Anselm, placing a reassuring hand on Ilien's shoulder. "Well-hidden exits. All we have to do is find one."
"Find one?" said Ilien. "You don't know where they are?"
"Sadly, no," replied Anselm, peering at the rocks all around them. "The tunnel was constructed before my father's father's father was born. I've never seen it or set foot in it. But it's here, somewhere beneath our feet. Once we find a way in, we'll reach Asheverry long before Windy and Bulcrist."
Ilien looked at Anselm as if the Giant had lost his mind. "You don't know where it is, or how to enter it? You've never seen it or set foot in it? It could take weeks to find one of those hidden exits!"
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