The Children of Isador

by Sam J. Charlton

  Myra shivered again, her gaze shifting to where smoke still dirtied the darkening sky. The Tarzark had come so close to defeating them. Myra, like many of the survivors, was surprised to find herself alive and the city free of the enemy.

  Myra raised her face to the crisp, smoky air and took in a deep breath, savoring the life that she had come so close to losing.

  Miracles, she thought wryly, sometimes did happen.

  ***

  An icy north wind gusted over the Endaar Downs and swept over Falcon’s Mount.

  Night had fallen some hours earlier. At first, the city appeared devoid of life; a hollow tomb for the hundreds dead within its walls. Then, one by one, as the wind tickled its way through the deserted alleyways and winding stairs, lights flared within the manmade mountain. Initially, they were faint flickers of fire against the darkness but as the night grew colder, Falcon’s Mount twinkled like a welcoming beacon—and at its zenith, the palace glowed palely.

  The city was subdued on this eve.

  Later, once the dead were buried and the blood washed off the streets, the townsfolk would be able to celebrate Falcon’s Mount’s liberation and chase away the Tarzark shadow that still lingered over the city. Tonight though, the people of Falcon’s Mount would tend to their wounds, eat, drink and thank the wraiths of their ancestors that the city had been spared.

  Still, there were many within the city walls who were too heart sore to be thankful—those who had lost their families and friends. There were many who grieved alone and Lassendil Florin was among them.

  The mortuary lay in an annex off the House of Healing. A windowless building constructed of granite hewn from the slopes of the Sawtooth Mountains, the mortuary was as unwelcoming as those hostile peaks. Effigies of former city lords guarded the entrance from malevolent spirits and torches hung from the walls, bathing the interior of the mortuary in hallowed light. The mortuary itself was divided into cells, like the interior of a honeycomb. Archways led from cell to cell. There were no doors and only simple stone slabs adorned each small room.

  Adelyis Florin lay in a cell at the far end of the mortuary. Here the air was close and damp and there was no sound save the whisper of Lassendil’s breathing as he knelt next to his sister. Tomorrow, he would burn her upon a pyre, as was Ennadil custom, but tonight he would stay by her side and perform the death rites over her corpse.

  Adelyis lay on the cold slab, dressed in a white gown. There was not a mark on her body. Her long dark hair lay like a silk curtain over her shoulders. Her face was serene; it was only her pallor that betrayed her lifelessness. Lassendil took her cold hand in his and closed his burning eyes for a moment. He had emptied his soul of tears. He could cry no more.

  Moments passed before Lassendil reached out with his free hand and held it above Adelyis’s unmoving breast. Then he began to sing.

  The mournful notes of the Ennadil death rite drifted through the mortuary. It was a haunting refrain in an ancient tongue. Unlike the Orinians who believed the spirits of the dead joined the wraiths of their ancestors, the Ennadil believed the soul could only be set free by performing the death rite. Once the spirit left the body, it could then travel west across Isador to the coast, where it would dive into the sea and swim back to the Ennadil’s homeland, far across the water.

  On and on Lassendil sang; his voice was soft and sure. The notes carried out of the mortuary and into the House of Healing beyond, and all who heard it were stilled by its poignant melody. Lassendil paid no heed to the stir his singing caused, or to the two figures standing motionless in the shadows behind him.

  Will Stellan and Taz, their bodies obscured by heavy winter cloaks, looked on as the Ennadil’s voice rose in exquisite sorrow. Will Stellan’s hands, hidden within the long sleeves of his cloak, clenched until his nails bit into his palms. He looked across the narrow cell at Adelyis’s serene face and swallowed the hot lump lodged in his throat.

  Will thought about the last time he and Adelyis had spoken honestly together, when he had awoken in one of Serranguard’s kitchens to find Adelyis smiling down at him. It had taken Morgarth Evictar’s taunting to make Will admit to himself that he loved Adelyis. Yet, he had not been able to tell her then—and she had not let him.

  He did not care that she was an Ennadil witch, or that she would probably have rejected him, or that her jealous brother would have run him through with a blade for his audacity—he loved her.

  He had always been scornful of lovesick men who got themselves killed over women. The risks Jennadil had taken had bemused him. Although Will enjoyed female company, he had never planned on marrying. Women complicated a man’s life. He did not want to end up with a nag or be cuckolded as Theo Brin had. However, Adelyis made all his fears seem immature and petty. He would have risked everything to be with her. That he would live through this battle, injured as he was, while Adelyis had died, was a cruel twist of fate.

  Lassendil Florin finished the death rites and silence once more pressed down upon the mortuary. Will glanced across at Taz. The Gremul’s eyes glowed in the dim light. They should leave now before Lassendil detected their presence. Will made a silent gesture in the direction of the exit and Taz nodded curtly. The two caped figures slid through the shadows out into the darkness, leaving the Ennadil alone with his grief.

  Lassendil waited until they had gone before he placed his sister’s hands over her chest.

  Those two breathed as heavily as Tarzark. He had known, without needing to turn around and look, who had lurked in the shadows behind him. He was not angry. His jealousy had not protected Adelyis from the devastating force of her own magical powers. He could no longer dredge up ill feeling towards Will Stellan but he was glad that he and the Gremul had kept a respectful silence.

  He could not face speaking to others.

  Hours passed. The night stretched on, silent and watchful. Finally, his knees numb from kneeling on cold stone, Lassendil got to his feet. He was about to leave the mortuary when he saw a shadow moving through the cells, off to his right.

  Lassendil slipped quietly after the shadow and, upon getting closer, he recognized Gywna Brin. She wore a hooded cape but Lassendil recognized her nonetheless by her walk and small, compact frame under the voluminous cloak. At first, he thought she had been looking for him—and his first instinct was to leave before she saw him. Gywna’s attachment to him was a complication that he did not need at present. He turned to go but Gywna’s sudden gasp halted him. He looked back over his shoulder but Gywna had disappeared.

  Lassendil walked over to where she had been standing and peered through the narrow arch into the cell beyond. He saw her there, a few feet away from a corpse. Her hood had fallen back and her mop of curly brown hair had fallen over her face. She was trembling.

  Lassendil inched forward and saw Lord Theo Brin stretched out on the stone slab, his face swollen and grotesque in a death grimace. The City-Lord’s body was in a terrible state. The once opulent velvet robes he wore were ripped, muddied and blackened by blood. He looked as if he had been trampled and from this distance, Lassendil could not tell how he had died. Gywna had covered her face with her hands and started to cry.

  “Gywna,” Lassendil murmured, trying to catch her attention without alarming her.

  Her tear streaked face jerked towards him. Seeing who it was, she made a hasty effort to wipe her tears away with the edge of her sleeve. Lassendil moved into the cell and saw the wound in Theo Brin’s chest.

  “I don’t know why I’m bothering to cry over him.” Gywna’s voice was small and tremulous. “He wouldn’t have shed a tear over me.”

  Lassendil looked down at the ravaged remains of Lord Brin and shook his head. “I didn’t like your father Gywna,” he began quietly. “He was not an easy man to like. But I think you underestimate him. I’m sure he cared for you.”

  Gywna shook her head fiercely. “He didn’t.” Her voice shook with anger now. “He liked me well enough when I was a li
ttle girl, just as long as I didn’t cross him, but once my mother died he was happy to see the back of me. He was a selfish man and terrible father but I still wanted him to love me.”

  Gywna broke off and visibly struggled for control.

  Lassendil watched Gywna and took a step forward, as if to comfort her, before hesitating. He knew he should put his arms around her and let her cry on his shoulder but he held back. He had lost everyone dear to him—and it had hollowed out his core. He felt so alone he ached, but still he could not go to her.

  Gywna saw him step towards her and hesitate. The perceived rejection pushed her over the edge. Gywna’s face crumpled as if he had just hit her, and she backed away from him.

  “Don’t trouble yourself Lassendil. My father and I are not your concern. You have your own loss to contend with.”

  “Gywna …”

  “I know my presence on the quest was a burden to you. You felt you had to be responsible for me but I made the mistake of thinking you cared.”

  Tears were now flowing freely down Gywna’s cheeks. This time she did not attempt to brush them away. Instead, she pulled up her hood and looked Lassendil in the eye. He stared back at her, struck dumb by her brutal honesty.

  “You remind me of my father at times,” Gywna continued. “Sharp, self-contained … and cold. I don’t need you Lassendil. I don’t need anyone.”

  She whirled away from him and seconds later was gone. Her footsteps echoed on the ancient stone, fading away until she left the mortuary.

  Lassendil did not go after her. He stung as if she had slapped him. His grief at losing Adelyis had frayed his nerves raw and Gywna’s words had lashed him.

  No one had ever spoken to him like that.

  Lassendil cast a glance down at Lord Brin’s corpse. To say he and Theo Brin shared any traits was ridiculous. He was surprised Gywna’s opinion of him mattered so much.

  Weariness pressed down on Lassendil and he closed his eyes for a moment. It was days since he had slept more than a couple of hours. He had to sleep or he would go mad. It was so cold inside the mortuary that Lassendil’s breath steamed. He wrapped his cloak around him and left Theo Brin, passing through the honeycomb of cells and archways until he reached the exit.

  Outside, a chilling north wind buffeted against him. To his right he could see the windows of the House of Healing glowing and shadows moving within. The healers would not sleep tonight. There were many people who lay on the brink of death, many who would never recover from their wounds. Lassendil knew Jennadil lay unconscious in the House of Healing but he was too exhausted and weary with grief to check on him. He would do so tomorrow. For now, the only thing Lassendil Florin could focus on was sleep—and any flat surface would do.

  ***

  When Jennadil finally awoke, he had a few blissful moments, while his eyes were shut, when he did not remember all that had befallen him. The bed was soft and warm and his stomach growled in hunger. The wizard stirred and rolled over onto his back. He stretched languorously and opened his eyes.

  A young woman with curly brown hair, hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose was staring down at him. She had a strong jaw and a piercing stare—and upon seeing him awake, her face split into a radiant smile.

  “Gywna,” Jennadil croaked.

  Then it all came back to him. The bubble of well-being Jennadil had been languishing in suddenly burst. He groaned and shut his eyes. “Why am I still alive?”

  “You nearly died.”

  “The ‘enhancement’…” Jennadil’s voice trailed off before his eyes opened wide in alarm. “Adelyis?”

  Gywna shook her head and looked away. “I only managed to save you … Adelyis died.”

  Jennadil sank back into his pillow and brought his hand up to cover his eyes.

  Adelyis had known, more than he, the danger of combining their power. Coldness seeped through Jennadil at the memory of it. The moment he and Adelyis had clasped hands it was as if he had become a different person. Suddenly he was no longer Jennadil but a powerful warlock of old and Adelyis was his queen. The magic rushed like a drug through his blood and it seemed as if he was floating three feet off the ground. He had been afraid of nothing and no one.

  Jennadil started to shiver violently. The memories were vivid now. He had enjoyed killing them and he had felt Adelyis’s pleasure as well. They may have gone on killing indefinitely, turning on the very souls they were trying to protect if Adelyis had not tried to sever their link. He was too far gone to step back from it but Adelyis had been stronger. Their minds and spirits had fused together and when she tried to break away from him, it was as if something was trying to crack open his skull and tear out his brain.

  The moment Adelyis’s hand slipped from his, the ‘enhancement’ had left them both. A second later, an excruciating pain exploded in Jennadil’s head. The corridor, littered with dead Tarzark, spun around him before a door had slammed shut in his mind.

  When Jennadil finally reopened his eyes, Gywna was still sitting there watching him. She reached out, took his hand and squeezed it. “You did it,” she said with a gentle smile that was quite unlike her. “You stopped them. Grull retreated with a small band of survivors. Falcon’s Mount did not fall and it is because of you and Adelyis.”

  “We did a terrible thing,” Jennadil whispered. “We should have never used it.”

  “If you hadn’t …”

  “I know we stopped the Tarzark.” Jennadil swallowed to ease his dry throat. “But in doing so we have unleashed something dreadful on the world.”

  EPILOGUE

  SEPARATE WAYS

  In the days following the Tarzarks’ retreat, the people of Falcon’s Mount slowly began rebuilding their city. First, they cremated the dead. It was a gigantic task to remove all the Tarzark corpses to the pyres. The fires stained the air above the Endaar Downs black for two days, and a pall hung over the city until the last funeral pyre smoldered to ash. As if on cue, heavy rains came and the fresh water washed the streets clean again.

  Aran Fire oversaw the rebuilding of Falcon’s Mount. His wife Imeldia, who had barricaded herself into a high tower during the attack, was at her husband’s side as he tirelessly patrolled the city. They rebuilt the great gates, stronger and heavier than ever. The outer wall was fortified and a moat was to be built to strengthen the citadel’s defenses. The City States of Orin had been severely weakened—if the Tarzark rebuilt their army and marched on the Falcon’s Mount again there would be few left to defend it.

  Food was in short supply. The Endaar Downs were empty grasslands for leagues in every direction and they had evacuated the few scattered villages once the Morg invasion began. Traditionally, Falcon’s Mount had always brought food in from the agricultural areas around Serranguard and Brenna. The road between Serranguard and Falcon’s Mount had once been busy with merchants and farmers who set up stalls in the Market Square every morning. These days, the highway was deserted and there was barely enough food to go around. The threat of famine hung over the city, and Lord Fire opened the palace’s food store to his people so his cooks could bake bread for the hungry townsfolk.

  Mid-winter loomed and snow came, blanketing the landscape in a pristine crust. Hunters brought animals back from Delm Forest but the price of meat was exorbitant and only the city’s wealthiest inhabitants could afford it. It was a bitter winter; the coldest in half a century and Isador hibernated in the chill. Once spring arrived, they could rebuild the cities destroyed by the Morg, but for now, winter held Isador in a stranglehold.

  It was a clear, bright morning when Dael saddled a horse and prepared to leave Falcon’s Mount.

  The sun shone out of a hard blue sky, melting the huge drifts of snow banked up against the citadel’s outer wall. The bounty hunter had kept a low profile after the Tarzark had retreated. He had been careful to stay away from the palace and out of sight of the Lord Fire and the wizard Jennadil. His slashed arm had healed well althou
gh it was still weak and he bore a wicked scar from shoulder to elbow.

  Dael tightened the saddle’s girth, dodging as the horse, a bay mare with a grumpy disposition, tried to nip him. Horses were in short supply these days and, luckily, he had possessed the gold to purchase one. Dael had very little in the way of possessions; just a couple of saddlebags with provisions and a roll of bedding tied behind the saddle. He would travel light and fast.

  It was a long journey back to the Isles of Tarantel. The journey would take him directly south through Delm Forest before he would travel southeast, skirting the edge of the Forests of Gremul. The final part of the journey would take him east across the Jade Plains before he reached the coast and the Gulf of Tarantel. The journey was eighteen to twenty days, but could take longer if the weather worsened, or if he encountered any problems en-route.

  The bounty hunter led the mare out into the stable yard. He mounted and, eager to be off, the mare sidestepped. Dael then reached down and grasped a pale, slender hand.

  Myra used Dael’s foot for leverage, and vaulted up onto the saddle behind him. Then, she reached around the bounty hunter’s torso and hugged him tightly.

  Dael smiled and enjoyed the feel of her body pressed up against him. He stroked her hands, which were clasped gently just below his ribcage, before he adjusted the stirrups and checked the girth was tight enough.

  The Bounty Hunter and Lord Brin’s widow had become lovers two weeks after the Tarzark retreated. Dael had promised Myra nothing but they both knew he would not leave her behind—and they did not speak now as the mare clip-clopped out of the stable yard and into the busy thoroughfare beyond.

  Their time at Falcon’s Mount had ended and they would not relax until they were riding south.

  Jennadil Silverstern was taking a walk along the busy street, enjoying the heat of the sun on his face, when a bay horse carrying a man and a woman rode past him.

  Jennadil stopped and stared at them. He recognized the bounty hunter and Theo Brin’s wife instantly. He was still weak and thought for a moment he may have been hallucinating—but he would have recognized Myra anywhere.