by Sam Ferguson
He looked up beyond the beach to where the great pine trees stood. They were each several feet in diameter. They were so large that he doubted whether even the two of them would be able to touch fingers if they both tried to hug around one of the trees.
“They are Elder Pines,” Silvi said without looking back. “They only grow here in AghChyor.”
“They’re big,” Aparen noted. He took in a breath of warm, salty air and could almost taste the rich, thick pine scent from the trees. As soon as he neared one he picked up a fallen pine cone and wiggled his fingers in between through the tough layers looking for seeds.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Silvi cautioned.
“Why not?” Aparen asked. “I eat pine nuts all the time back at home.
“Elder Pines are different,” she said. “The nuts they produce are bitter, and can make your stomach go sour if you eat too many.”
Aparen shrugged. He plucked one nut out and plopped it into his mouth. He didn’t see what the problem was. The nut was larger than other pine nuts he had eaten, but otherwise it still smelled the same. He bit into it and started to chew. For the first second and a half the taste was pleasant, woody with a hint of pine and a meaty texture. Then it turned extremely bitter the more he chewed. He noticed Silvi standing and watching him then with an “I told you so,” look on her face. Aparen forced a smile and kept chewing until all the bits were just small enough to swallow without gagging.
“Worth it?” Silvi asked.
“Not horrible,” Aparen replied. His face involuntarily jerked to the side and a shiver ran down his neck.
Silvi laughed and shook her head. “Come on, we have a long way to walk yet.”
Aparen shuddered again and scraped his tongue against his teeth to make the aftertaste go away. He weaved around the lumbering pines, following Silvi’s white silk dress and glancing around at his surroundings. The forest was not unlike the area around his home. The trees were similar, albeit much larger, and the ferns and bushes were all familiar as well. Yet, there was something about this forest that felt different. He kept scanning the plants, looking for what it might be, but he couldn’t quite figure it out.
“Death,” Silvi commented dryly.
“Excuse me?” Aparen said as he double-stepped to catch up to her side.
“That thing you are looking for, the thing that makes you feel uneasy, it’s death,” she explained. “Come this way.” She motioned for him to follow her down a thin, fading path of old flagstone nearly buried in the underbrush and dirt on the forest floor. They walked for about ten minutes before finally stopping before a large mound of dirt covered in dead grass and rocks. She pointed to it. “The gnomes used to be the guardians of this forest,” she said. “They were driven out. Many of their dead are buried in mass graves, like this one, others have their bones scattered about the island. Since their death, the balance in this forest has shifted. That’s why it feels different to you than the forest around your home.”
“You feel it too?” Aparen asked.
Silvi nodded. “This forest has great magic in it. With the gnomes killed and driven out, that magic has been left imbalanced. Imagine an eternal night without the promise of the dawn. That is how this forest is. The magic it produces no longer has its counterpart that created the balance here. Now there is only death.”
“Who drove the gnomes away?” Aparen asked.
Silvi shrugged. “Dremathor is his name.” She paused for a moment and then turned back to Aparen. “Dremathor is the shadowfiend we are looking for. He is the one who helped Gondok’hr.”
Aparen nodded. “So there is no life on this island anymore?” he asked.
“Some,” she said. “But not much. Certainly not the kind of life that used to exist while the gnomes presided over the Elder Pines.”
The pair walked around several large mounds and then through a long forgotten settlement. A wall of stone roughly nine feet high stood before them. There was no gate, only an opening in one side that allowed them to enter through. Aparen noted that the walls were almost twice as thick as they were high.
“It must have taken a long time for gnomes to build this,” he noted.
Silvi nodded. “They lived here for thousands of years. There are many villages like this one on the island.”
Rectangular stone houses stood all inside the wall, rising just about as tall as the surrounding barrier, and topped with square, flat stone shingles. Lichen and moss grew on the stones now, but even still, Aparen could see that the gnomes had used colored stones in their building to create geometric shapes and designs on every outward surface. Between the houses were small pens of stone, with rotted wooden gates crumpling off to the side and weeds overgrowing the area. In the very center of the village stood a monolith about four feet wide by four feet thick. Its surface was polished smooth and it rose twenty feet into the air. A brass pyramid capped the top of the monolith, pointing to the sky above.
“How could gnomes lift something like this into place?” Aparen asked.
Silvi turned and shrugged, but she didn’t slow her pace. She continued on through the village and out the other side while Aparen leaned in to rub his hand over the smooth surface of the monolith. When he finally realized how far Silvi had gone, he hurried to catch up with her.
Outside the village, an old stone path led into a thick forest. They followed it, winding their way in between the massive oaks and pines that stood over them like silent sentinels. The silence unnerved Aparen. There were no birds, no rustling leaves, not even a wind. It was as if the land itself was nothing more than a quiet monument of the past.
Aparen glanced up to the trees, and then shook off the nagging fears that nipped at the back of his mind. The two of them walked for an hour before they came to a stream. Silvi pointed onward, and the two of them walked alongside it for a while. Neither of them made a sound until Aparen clumsily kicked a stick with his feet while looking above at the trees. The stick skittered across the ground and smacked Silvi in the leg.
“Sorry,” Aparen said quickly.
“It’s alright,” Silvi replied. She bent down, raising the hem of her skirt a little to brush off her leg. He watched, admiring her curves as she rose back upright. If she noticed him watching her, she didn’t show it. She just continued on. Aparen watched her walk away for a moment before moving to follow her.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
Silvi stopped and half-glanced over her left shoulder at him. “Why does it matter?” she asked.
Aparen shrugged sheepishly. “No reason, I just… I don’t know. I was just wondering.” The young witch turned around to face him and leaned in close. Aparen’s heart thumped loudly in his chest when the two locked onto each other’s eyes. “What I mean is…” Aparen stammered, and couldn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. There was just something about her that entranced him at times. He could feel the warmth from her breath as she sighed. Her lips were only a foot away from his.
“I am old enough to be your mother,” Silvi said suddenly, breaking off the trance.
Aparen cocked his head to the side and studied the woman from head to toe. “I don’t believe that,” he said. Her skin was far too supple, her curves were tight and youthful. She didn’t have any wrinkles in her face, and even her voice lacked the sound of age. He couldn’t believe that she could be more than five years older than him.
“Believe it,” she said with a short nod. “I have been a witch since three years before you were born. I joined the coven when I was fourteen.”
Aparen mentally added the fourteen years to his seventeen, and then added the additional three years. Thirty four. He shook his head again in disbelief and looked her over once more. “That is not so old,” he said after a moment. “My mother is much older than that.”
She moved in closer and caressed his cheek with her left hand. “My magic has kept me looking the same since my twentieth birthday.” She then smiled and moved
her index finger to the corner of his mouth. “It will keep me like this long after the gray hairs have started to set in on you.”
He was no longer listening. He leaned in with hungry, slightly parted lips. A strong palm is all he connected with as his face smushed against her hand. He backed away awkwardly, blushing. “Sorry,” he offered.
“If you want me, I will be yours,” Silvi said quickly. “But you have to want me for me, and not just for my appearance.” She turned abruptly, swinging her hair into Aparen’s face and walked away.
“How do I prove that to you?” Aparen shouted enthusiastically.
Silvi shook her head and laughed. “You are a young man, it is going to take a lot to convince me that your desire comes from above your belt.”
He stopped mid-step, taking the words in for a moment and then he shrugged it off and walked after her. He wasn’t sure how to convince her, but he was sure that he did want her, now more than ever before.
CHAPTER NINE
“We have made anchor,” Nerekar said dryly as he peered out a small porthole.
Gilifan moved over to take a look and saw rock wall lined with wooden pikes protruding straight out two-thirds the way up. “This is Pinkt’Hu,” Gilifan said. “Formerly an orcish stronghold, until the noble knights of the Middle Kingdom conquered it. Too bad most of the buildings were destroyed in the battle though, it was surely a much better looking city before the humans put their hands on it.”
Nerekar grunted. “I am not concerned with such things,” he said. “Will you need me to come with you?”
The necromancer shook his head. “No, I have a short meeting here. I won’t need anything from you at this time.”
“The men above are moving that large crate,” Nerekar said. “What is in it?”
Gilifan shot a sour look at the assassin. “That isn’t any concern of yours,” he warned. “Just know that it is something the master holds dear to his heart.”
Nerekar nodded that he understood and went to the cot that he had been using for the duration of the journey. He dropped onto it and slung an arm over his eyes.
Gilifan made his way up to the main deck. He stretched his left shoulder by pulling it around his back and gently tugging upward with his other hand. The waning light of the sun cast long shadows over the docks that stretched outward to the sturdy, tall buildings. He could see a lamp man walking on stilts, lighting street lamps with a hooked torch and pausing only long enough to ensure that each lamp was fully lit before moving on to the next. A few people moved along the docks, carrying boxes and crates from the other ships into large warehouses that lined the docks.
The necromancer heard soft, steady footsteps coming up behind him. He turned to see the captain. “We are ready to move the crate,” he said.
Gilifan nodded slowly. “Do exactly as I instructed you,” he warned. He wasn’t all that worried about the egg being damaged. Dragon eggs had thick, unrelenting shells that could withstand much more than one would expect. However, he did not like the idea of others discovering the precious item. He shuddered to think what might happen if word were to spread of a dragon egg in the Middle Kingdom.
The captain, sensing Gilifan’s reticence, laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “How long have you known me?” he asked.
Gilifan turned and looked the man in the eye. “You are my late sister’s husband,” he answered. “Which is the only reason I have trusted you so far.” The captain smiled and nodded contently.
“I will not fail you.”
Gilifan sniggered indifferently. “Still, if you should fail me, or allow your men to be careless, I will end your life faster than a boy kills a spider on his kitchen table. Remember that.” Gilifan turned and walked down the gangplank toward the dock, leaving the captain to contemplate his warning.
As he strolled into the city, a cold breeze came in off the sea, bringing with it the stench of salt and low tide rot. The odor mixed and swirled through the streets among the heavy wood smoke that stung the necromancer’s eyes and assaulted his nostrils. A mangy, gray cat skittered across the cobblestone in front of him. Fast on its heels was a much larger, tabby cat growling and pouncing at the gray cat’s tail.
Thin, waist-high fog rolled in from the sea with the next wind. Gilifan gathered his cloak about himself in an effort to keep the chill out as he strolled farther down the main thoroughfare. On either side of him merchants were packing up the last of their wares from the street and moving them into the stone and wood row houses lining the cobblestone road. They also pulled the wooden shutters in and Gilifan could hear the slight ring of metal hooks slipping into the eyelets to hold them closed.
With the sun sunken under the horizon, darkness fell upon the city quickly. The street lamps did their best to chase away the shadows, but with the fog growing thicker, it was becoming more difficult. Luckily, as Gilifan made his way closer to the looming manor at the end of the street, the streetlamps became larger and more frequent. He also noticed more people out and about in the street, though they were almost all guards or patrolmen. Walking in pairs, the guards wore black tunics over rustling chainmail with black, shiny greaves protecting their shins and thighs. Their helmets were simple, open faced steel caps with a sheet of chainmail sloping down the back of their necks and a few inches down their shoulders. Most of them carried spears or halberds. An unnecessary show of power and strength in a city as well run and orderly as Pinkt’Hu was said to be.
Each pair that he passed watched him closely, but none of them stopped him. Even when he approached the wrought iron gate that sealed off the manor from the rest of the city, no one said anything to him. He stood for barely more than a moment before the gate was opened from the inside by a large, gray haired man.
“I will escort you inside,” he said. “Lord Finorel has been expecting you.”
Gilifan nodded and followed the large man up the gray slab walkway as it wound around a circular pool with a pair of cherubs spouting water in the center. The necromancer hardly glanced at the bubbling fountain. He just walked past it, keeping his eye on the grand, arched mahogany double doors and the trio of guards standing before them.
When the gray haired man waved, the three door guards all scrambled to the side, well out of the way. The burly guard barreled into the doors, hardly seeming to slow as he pushed his way inside. The light from the foyer was almost blinding. A rush of warm air, scented with lavender and vanilla wafted out to greet Gilifan.
He stepped onto the tan marble floor and a servant rushed in to close the doors behind him.
“May I offer you some tea, or perhaps a brandy?” the servant asked.
Gilifan shook his head. “I would prefer mulled wine,” he said.
The servant cocked his head to the side and bowed slightly before backing out of the large entryway to disappear into a hallway on the left.
“Mulled wine?” the gray-haired guard asked. “Interesting choice.”
“It’s cold outside,” Gilifan replied. “Besides, Lord Finorel always keeps mulled wine on hand. Has ever since I have known him.”
The guard nodded and pointed through the arched hallway before them. “I can lead you to the drawing room.”
“I can manage,” Gilifan said sourly. He strode beyond the guard, down the marble hall. He passed ivory colored pillars alternating with busts and statuettes, mostly of famed warriors past. He walked beyond the first two doors on his left and then turned to enter the third. He pushed it open and moved quickly inside to take a seat in a red, high-backed velvet chair near the hearth.
A small fire crackled and popped, giving its heat to the room around and allowing Gilifan to thaw his legs and feet. He had only just relaxed into the chair when the door opened again. In walked the servant with a silver goblet. The smell of chives mixed with the aroma of warmed wine. The necromancer took the drink and offered a small nod of appreciation to the servant.
“Anything else?” the servant asked.
“I don’t suppose Lord Fin
orel has any roast duck around?” Gilifan asked.
“I’m afraid not, milord,” the servant said. “Duck has been rather scarce this season.”
“I see,” Gilifan said as he took another sip of his drink.
“I can offer mutton, or perhaps a cut of veal.”
Gilifan shook his head and waved the servant out.
His wine was nearly gone by the time the door opened again and Lord Finorel walked into the room. The man was dressed as regally as ever. Black leather boots polished to a high sheen, laced with golden silk cords and topped with a pair of tassels. Billowing red pants swept out to the side, exaggerating the man’s girth. A thick brown leather belt held the ridiculous pants up around Finorel’s wide waist with a silver buckle prominently displayed over the man’s bulbous belly. A maroon shirt fitted with two vertical rows of gold buttons clung tightly around him, straining to hold itself together. The sleeves puffed out like the legs of his pants, making his arms look as though they were fancily wrapped stuffed sausages. A high, ruffled white collar emerged from the shirt’s opening to hide the man’s thick, flabby neck and double-chin. Whatever wasn’t covered with the collar was discretely buried under a reddish-brown beard which was always oiled and impeccably neat.
“I apologize for the delay,” Lord Finorel said in his rough, husky voice. “There was some business which needed tending to.”
“Pirates?” Gilifan asked nonchalantly.
Finorel closed the door and stomped over to the drawing table. “Heavens no,” he said with a laugh. “Trade matters. We lost our main supply of iron ore last week to a cave in accident. I had put out the word that we were looking for new suppliers. For the last three days I have been negotiating with the four biggest mine operators in these parts. Just finished the deal a few moments ago.”
“Who did you choose?” Gilifan asked as he rose to his feet and joined Finorel at the drawing table. He didn’t actually care which mine Finorel got his ore from, but he had always found that the small talk helped make Finorel more agreeable when it came to discussing his own business.