"Lie still," said Ilien.
He hung his head. There would be no rescuing Gallund from his nightmare now.
"Look!" said the Swan, gazing upward.
A small, white cloud raced across the clear, blue sky.
Ilien waved his arms in the air. "It's Pedustil!"
The steam dragon veered and swept toward them. He landed with a hiss and a crash, and billowing, hot vapor filled the air. When the air cleared, Pedustil stood peering at the stairs where Bulcrist had fled.
"He's gone," said Ilien. He will never return." A heavy silence fell between them. Ilien finally asked, "Will you go with him?"
The Gorgul looked hard at Ilien. His eyes flashed in the sunlight.
"No, I will not. Bulcrist wanted the map so badly that he threatened to kill me if I didn't take him to wrest it from Gallund." He peered at the stairs. "I refused." He turned back to Ilien. "I will go with you. I will fly you to Gallund, if you'll let me."
Ilien smiled, but his heart sank. He could still reach Gallund in time and prove his vision wrong. But in that vision, he had seen Pedustil's fate.
"I cannot let you," said Ilien, turning away.
Pedustil sank to the ground and lay as if wounded. "I understand."
"You don't understand," said Ilien. He laid a hand on the Gorgul's scaled side. "If you take me, you will die. I have scryed it."
The Gorgul rose, and pushed Ilien aside. He stretched out his vast wings.
"My fate has been tied to Bulcrist's since he first stole me as an egg. Now it is tied to yours. I will not hide from it. I will take you to rescue Gallund."
"I will not bring you to your death," said Ilien. "I cannot!"
"If you find Gallund in time, you will change what you have scryed, will you not?"
Ilien considered Pedustil's reasoning.
"Then I will not die," finished the Gorgul.
Ilien looked to the Swan.
"Go, Ilien."
Pedustil lowered his body. "Climb on."
"Do you know where the Damp Oaks are?" asked Ilien.
The Gorgul nodded. "We' ll be there by sunset."
Sunset! Gallund dies at sunset!
Ilien climbed onto Pedustil's back. He held tight to the small horned scale. "Fly as fast as you can," he bade the Gorgul. "We haven't much time."
They rose into the air and wheeled to the east. The sun was westering. Already the shadows of the mountains cast their dark shadows like shrouds in the distance. Below, Ilien saw the ruins of Asheverry: black smoke spiraling up from the roofs of buildings, empty streets strewn with rubble, the once- impregnable gates of the great walled city laying ruined on the ground. To the north, a great gathering of people stained the land brown—an undulating sea of humanity amidst the desolation caused by the Witch Queen and her spirit hordes. Although torn asunder, the world was safe once again. But for how long? Ilien peered west toward Ledge Hall. He followed the contours of the land with his eyes. Somewhere below, beneath the Long Dark Road, the Evil still lurked.
He looked up at the distant, white peaks of the Midland Mountains. Beyond them, in another world and time, it seemed, lay his home in Southford. And somewhere, somewhere in the vast space all around him, his mother was held by the Nomadin.
"I will find you," he vowed.
He would rescue Gallund, find his mother, and set the entire, disastrous mess of the world right.
"Hang on!" cried Pedustil. "Here we go!"
Ilien braced himself. All at once the sky jumped around them. Ilien cowered in the small of Pedustil's back, and prayed he wasn't already too late.
Chapter XVIII
What Came Before
Gallund ran through the forest, leaping over rooty obstacles and stones in an effort to put as much distance between him and his pursuers as possible. They were close. Tripping now would mean certain death, or worse. His soiled gray cloak trailed behind him as he raced through the dense maze of trees. His breath came in ragged gasps. A branch snagged his flailing garment, ripping it from his body. He sped on without looking back.
His legs ached and his chest pounded. How long had he been running? He had escaped from the cellars at sunrise, and it was nearing sunset now. At first he was able to use his powers to conceal his passage, but it was tiring to do so and he grew weary fast. There were too many hunting him to risk a confrontation, and they had the Nephalim with them, or more rightly the Nephalim had company. Defending against twenty men was one thing—defending against twenty men and the Nephalim was another. In his present condition, the Nephalim would be enough. Better to escape. He knew where to go. It wasn't far now. He knew because he had the map, the map the Nephalim so desperately wanted.
So he ran on, concentrating only upon shoving one foot in front of the other, reserving what magic he had left. It was close. He could feel its tug within him, pulling him along, drawing him forward and filling him with renewed vigor. He would flee through the Crossing, and when his strength was renewed, he would return to deal with the Nephalim, and the Witch Queen. He would return with help. With that thought, he redoubled his speed. But his mind was too far ahead of his body, and he faltered, stumbled and fell headlong to the ground.
The Nephalim moved with determination through the thick forest. Behind it trudged twenty black-garbed men wearing metal masks over their down-turned faces. The huge leader stopped and two red wings probed outward, wrapping around its giant frame like a well-tailored, red velvet suit. Its face lay hidden in shadow, but a smile was just visible through the gloom. Swinging ponderously on a branch hung a soiled, grey cloak.
Gallund's cloak.
The men in the rear grew anxious and shuffled their booted feet. Their leader raised a clawed hand, and the men fell silent. The Nephalim sniffed the air, wagging its head from side to side. The men nearest looked quickly away as the shifting light revealed the Nephalim's face.
The shadow knew that the men were afraid, and it was pleased. Normally, its handsome face and fair appearance would have allayed their outright horror. But the girl had destroyed its princely form at the river. The image it had been able to conjure on such short notice was . . . rather lacking. Sunken, yellow eyes, bone-white skin, tangled and matted hair as black as coal—a face even a mother could not love. If it wasn't for the velvety, red wings and fancy clothes, the only remaining semblances of its old self, one would think to be looking on a corpse
The Nephalim spat, and cursed the stupid girl who stole its beauty. When it was through here, it would find her, and make her pay.
The shadow smiled at the thought. Its cracked and swollen lips oozed blood. At least the boy was dead. It would enjoy telling Gallund that his son had been killed.
With a signal, they continued at a faster pace. As they raced along, the Nephalim cursed the weakness of the flesh around it, these men who moved so slowly, who tired so easily. It longed to leap to the air and fly, but it would need the twenty men if it were to wrest the map from Gallund. It wasn't one to be fooled by appearances either. A Nomadin was never as he looked. Created before Light, not visible in any accepted sense of the word, they assumed whatever appearance they chose, casting their image into the mind of lessers.
No. The Nephalim needed the twenty well-trained fighting men. It was necessary to tuck its wings away and run with this pack of humans. It might have taken longer to overtake Gallund this way, but it didn't matter. The Nomadin would die anyway. That much it knew.
"I sense our hunt is drawing to an end," said one of the masked men as he jogged along beside the Nephalim. "I trust you will live up to your end of the deal."
"You may be foolish to place your trust in one such as me, sir," replied the Nephalim, its voice a raspy hiss. The man fell silent as he struggled to keep up with the faster pace kept by his winged leader. "But you may be certain of our bargain," said the Nephalim. "They will be yours as promised."
The man nodded and dropped back to run with the others. The Nephalim smiled again, revealing blackened teeth. Yes. Th
e man was a fool to make a deal with a shadow. They all were. If they thought that it would make good on its promise to free their women and children, they were sorely mistaken.
The Nephalim sniffed the air. The stench of the Nomadin was overpowering. Soon it would kill. Soon it would kill them all. Even the Witch Queen. The map will be mine! Then I would rule Nadae!
The forest gathered gloom as the sun began to set. The trees hung wearily over them as they struggled to keep up their breakneck pace. This wood, in this world, was know as the Damp Oaks for a reason. The tangle of boughs overhead rarely let sunlight down to the forest floor, leaving it perpetually damp underfoot. But it was just that which made tracking the Nomadin so easy. It had been much more difficult to track him while he had been running through the hard, dry surrounding fields. Then suddenly he had swung east and had crossed into the forest, making tracking that much easier. The Nephalim knew there had to be a reason for the Gallund's change of course, but it couldn't see one. Nomadin were seldom so foolish.
No matter, it thought. His foolishness will cost him.
Without warning, they came upon their prey. Gallund stood before them, his back turned to a moss covered tree. The men stopped short and waited behind their winged leader. They had been warned about the dangers of underestimating a Nomadin. They would hold back until commanded otherwise. The Nephalim's velvety wings snapped outward to remind them of their peril, and forty boots shuffled backwards, as if afraid those red wings might reach out and grab them.
Good, thought the Nephalim. Fear in front. Fear behind. Let them all be afraid.
As if on cue, Gallund shed his shape. The old man disappeared.
The forest air exploded with the hiss of high-pressured steam as Gallund's new form sprang forward, its long reptilian neck lancing out toward the men in the rear.
A Gorgul, mused the Nephalim. A steam dragon. Clever.The men nearly fled, but the Nephalim knew they wouldn't. Their fear of losing their loved ones forever ran deeper than their fear of Gorguls. Much deeper.
"Hold the line!" shouted one of the men. "Hold the line!" Twenty swords jumped from their scabbards, creating a deadly picket in the air.
The Gorgul drew back, gathering its neck behind it like a spring. Steam vented from its gills. Its dragon-like wings beat the air, shredding the bark from the surrounding trees. But the men held their ground, and to their surprise the Gorgul did not attack.
It wouldn't, the Nephalim knew. The Gorgul was nothing more than an illusion, as was the image of the old man. Beneath both was Gallund, and if the Nomadin meant to scare off the fighting men with this image, then he chose poorly. The men waited patiently behind their winged leader.
"Give me the map, and I'll spare you," said the Nephalim.
The Gorgul hissed and blew steam.
"You leave me no choice then." The Nephalim reached for its sword, folding its wings onto its back. "You truly are a fool. The Breaching Arts are useless against so many. And your Nomadin magic holds little sway over the Nephalim. You cannot win."
The Gorgul hissed and blew steam.
The Nephalim regarded the steam-dragon curiously. Its sallow eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right.
The fighting men advanced through the shrouded air, their swords held ready.
"Wait!" cried the Nephalim.
So much steam. Why is there so much steam?
The Nephalim's wings jumped outward in anger. "No!" It waved a clawed hand through the heavy air.
"Borgata callatum!" it cried, calling forth its powers for the first time since the chase began.
The Gorgul disappeared, so ,too, the steam. The bark on the trees returned to normal. The Nomadin was nowhere to be seen.
"Clever. Very Clever." Gallund was not the fool after all. The image of the Gorgul had been a trick, an illusion to occupy them while he made his escape. No matter. They would hunt him down again. And when they caught him, their attack would be swift and deadly.
Then the map will be mine, thought the Nephalim. With it, no one will be able to stop me!
It turned to the baffled men, and flashed them a horrifying scowl. "He's on the run! Have ready with your swords. He isn't far."
The men stood suddenly stiff. They shuffled back uneasily as a cloud of steam billowed past the Nephalim's head. The Nephalim spun about. The Gorgul had returned.
"You cannot fool me twice," said the shadow, raising a hand to dispel the ruse immediately. "Borgata callatum!"
But this Gorgul remained.
Behind it, with arms raised high, stood Gallund. With a sweep of the Nomadin's hand, the Nephalim fell back, beset by a cloud of sparkling lights like a swarm of fireflies rising from the ground about its feet. Tiny sparks roiled around its hideous head, clinging to its shoulders, covering its bright red wings, dimming their brilliance. Still more lights rose from the earth, attaching to its legs. The Nephalim ignored the whirling lights and sheathed its thin black sword. A clawed hand reached out toward Gallund, palm raised. A smile split the shadow's lips. The lesions along its jaw oozed blood.
"Gillium borhai," it whispered.
The magical lights brightened in reaction to the softly spoken spell. But quickly they dimmed, and their movement slowed.
"Borhai barak," the Nephalim said louder.
To Gallund's astonishment, the lights began to gather, collecting in the Nephalim's open hand, pooling like shimmering water. Freed of the spell, the red velvet of the shadow's wings shone brightly again. They stretched outward in a lazy yawn. Still more of the magical lights gathered in the Nephalim's palm until but a few remained, smoking like spilled embers upon its boots. Soon, its clawed hand held a blazing ball of white-hot fire.
"You see!" cried the Nephalim, drawing its sword again, its gruesome face illuminated eerily by the magical orb. "Your magic holds no sway over me! Now you will pay for your ignorance!" It drew back its arm.
The Gorgul's neck thrust suddenly outward.
The Nephalim spun around, its wings rising up to block the attack. A jet of scalding vapor struck its back. The plume of steam swirled upward, deflected by the shadow's wings, filling the air and obscuring the trees all around. The Nephalim waited patiently for the assault to end, safe from the boiling storm that would have scoured the skin from a mortal man, safe and on guard, for it could sense Gallund approaching through the misty air. Though its vision was obscured, it didn't need eyes to know that the Nomadin stood within striking distance, defenseless, confused. Sword in one hand, white-hot magic in the other, it turned and waited a breath longer, then thrust its sword forward. The steam blew back, revealing its prize.
Gallund clutched at his chest, fingering the blade that impaled him. The color drained from his face, and he gasped.
"The witch should have let me finish you when I first had the chance," said the Nephalim, pulling its sword from the old man's chest. It raised the burning orb up high. "But then again, I would have missed all the fun."
The Nomadin crumpled to the ground. The Nephalim reached out. The pouch at the old man's waist flew into its clawed hand.
"Poor fool," said the Nephalim. "You've lost everything now. Your life. The map—your son, too."
The Nomadin's eyes narrowed with anger.
The Nephalim stopped. A prickle of fear rippled along its wings. Something was wrong, but it couldn't place it.
"You didn't know?" continued the Nephalim, unsteadily. "Your son died at Drexhage Hollow. I slew him myself."
The Nomadin climbed to his feet. The Nephalim stepped back in surprise, lowering the fireball.
"No," stammered the Nephalim. "It can't be."
The Nomadin began to glow. The image of Gallund changed. The wound on his chest disappeared. His body shrank. His grey hair turned brown. The wizened face of a wizard was replaced by the smooth face of a boy.
The Nephalim's eyes grew wide. Its wings snapped out in surprise, the fireball forgotten.
"Impossible!" it cried, its hideous face distorted with fear.
&
nbsp; Before it stood Ilien. Behind the boy, slumped wearily against a tree, was Gallund.
"But you're dead!" cried the Nephalim. "I killed you!"
"At Drexhage Hollow," said Ilien. "I know."
Like lightning, Ilien reached out and jerked the sword from the shadow's grasp. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped it around and thrust it forward.
The Nephalim clutched at its chest, fingering the blade that impaled it. Its sunken, yellow eyes bulged in horror. The blazing ball of magical fire extinguished in a glut of sulphurous smoke.
"You cannot kill me," it rasped. "I will return. Next time, I will make sure you are dead."
"There will be no next time," said Ilien. "You should have finished me when you first had the chance." Ilien pulled the sword from the shadow's chest. "But then again, I would have missed all the fun."
The Nephalim crumpled to the ground. Its body seeped into the damp earth like water into thirsty sand, leaving only Gallund's leather pouch behind.
Gallund's bushy brows curled upwards in wonder. "Ilien Woodhill, you've been studying behind my back."
Ilien threw down the sword and rushed to the Wizard's side. He cast his arms around the old man, and buried his face in the long scruff of his neck.
Gallund laughed and hugged him in return. After a moment, Ilien pulled away and rubbed at his chin.
"You need a shave," he said, his heart aching with joy as he looked upon the father he never dreamed he'd see again. "And a bath!" He grabbed his nose and tried to pull away.
Gallund seized him in a crushing embrace. "It's good to see you, too," he said, tousling Ilien's hair. "It's so good to see you, my son."
A wet snort interrupted the moment, and a cloud of moist steam enveloped them. Pedustil cleared his throat. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to die?"
Gallund held Ilien at arms length. His usual look of disapproval returned. "Of all the foolish, reckless and downright immature stunts you've ever pulled, this one goes down in the record books!"
Ilien looked at him in surprise.
NiDemon Page 22