“Thank you, dear,” Dormael said, brushing an errant strand of wet hair from Bethany’s face, “You saved my life back there.”
“I didn’t want him to hurt you,” Bethany replied, looking at the ground, “and you said that sometimes it’s alright to hurt people, if you’re protecting someone. I needed to protect you.”
Dormael smiled at the comment and ruffled the girl’s hair, “Were you listening to what was happening, like you were on the Seacutter?”
“No. The dark man told me you were in trouble. He said you needed my help.”
Dormael’s hand froze for an instant, but he quickly recovered and tried to hide his reaction from the little girl.
“What dark man?” he asked.
Bethany turned and looked back toward the temple, pointing to the entranceway, “That one.”
Dormael looked down the line of her arm and saw Tamasis standing there, regarding the two of them with a relieved and satisfied expression. Dormael caught eyes with him for a moment, not knowing what to say or what to do. Indalvian had said that Tamasis wasn’t malicious. Dormael wasn’t sure about him yet, but Tamasis had obviously been trying to help, this time. The problem was that Dormael didn’t know why he kept helping.
He nodded to the entity, and Tamasis nodded back at him. Then he was gone.
****
About an hour later the rain dwindled down to a steady drizzle as the storm moved off to the south. Allen and D’Jenn had come out of the rain, supporting each other and grumbling about it, but alive. Shawna had been with them, and she had seemed fine except for a long cut along her side. She grumbled about her armor being ruined, but when Dormael had presented the satchel carried by the Vilth – and the strange healing lights contained in the bottle of water – she’d quieted.
There wasn’t anything much in the satchel besides the bottle; a piece of chalk and a kit full of different razor sharp knives that Dormael didn’t care to guess the use of, and what looked like a doll of some sort made of wool and rough stitching. D’Jenn inspected the lot of it and deemed it all worthless, save for the bottle, so Dormael had tossed it aside. Better to leave the dead their playthings.
D’Jenn had stood over the barrow, which was a wide mound of melted rock that looked oddly like some sort of black pudding, delving the ground with his senses, and Dormael didn’t blame him. Neither of them knew what sort of tricks the Vilth had kept up his sleeve, and they both wanted to make sure that the bastard was completely dead. D’Jenn had debated constructing some sort of Circle to contain him, but they weren’t spoiled for materials, and since they hadn’t sensed any spark of power or life from the ground, they decided to leave it as it was.
D’Jenn had disintegrated all the corpses on the hill with his strange corruption spell, but when they’d come to the man that Shawna had said that she’d fought, she stubbornly insisted upon a burial with his sword as a headstone. Dormael and D’Jenn had protested, but Shawna had been insistent that there had been something different about this Maarkov, and she wanted to observe the proper rituals for her fellow Blademaster. She’d made such a scene about it that the wizards finally agreed, and buried his body into the hillside where he lay. Shawna had stood over his grave alone for a time afterward, staring down at the sword that was stuck halfway into the ground. She’d finally joined the rest of the part as they were making ready to leave.
Bethany, for her part, said nothing to anyone about her encounter with Tamasis. Dormael had praised her for her bravery and told the story of how she’d faced down the Vilth and Splintered his magic all on her own, and everyone clapped the girl on the shoulder and offered her praises and encouragement. Only D’Jenn caught the deeper meaning of what Dormael had been saying – that the girl’s magic was vast, and wild. It was dangerous. Today she hadn’t let it get the best of her, and Dormael had been there to tap into it and control it, but tomorrow could be a different story. They would have to start training her more intensely.
They left Orm behind sometime in the afternoon. Though everyone was exhausted, there was no debating the issue of camping near the temple that night. No one wanted to be near the place.
Three nights later found them staying in a small village to the east, in the loft of a farmer who was kind enough to let them bed down in his barn for a small fee. The food had been delicious, and the night was warm. Dormael had climbed onto the roof of the barn and sat with his feet out over the edge, kicking them idly.
He heard footsteps behind him as someone came to sit down next to him, and wasn’t surprised to see D’Jenn there, offering out a pouch of tobacco to his cousin. Dormael smiled and took the pouch, packing a bowl into his simply carved pipe and passing it back. He lit it with a small flash of his Kai and settled back to continue gazing up at the stars.
“We should head north soon,” D’Jenn said, blowing out a cloud of bluish smoke into the night, “The Gathan Mountains will be a hard place to explore, and it will take the most amount of time, I think.”
“It’s hunting season up there,” Dormael commented, “The Madmen will be out looking for food.”
“Aye,” D’Jenn agreed, “but it must be done.”
“Do we even know where to start?”
“The Mekai was kind enough to include a recounting of the path that this adventurer had taken when he supposedly observed the strange ritual with the Garthorin,” D’Jenn said, “It’s not much, but it’s a good starting point. And, of course, it’s all we’ve got.”
“I see.”
The two cousins sat for a time silently, smoking their pipes and gazing to the south. Dormael turned his head to look back to the north, toward the forbidding mountains, and shuddered. He didn’t relish the idea of combing the passes, looking for some obscure cave or totem. The Garthorin were nasty, dangerous things.
But then, that’s all he’d been dealing with lately.
“I think we should split up after that,” D’Jenn went on, as if they hadn’t just sat silently for the past few minutes. Dormael grunted in reply and nodded. He’d known that they would have to, if they were to have any hope of tracking down the pieces of the Nar’doroc before Dargorin or his ilk.
“We should have copies made of the documents,” Dormael said. D’Jenn nodded and went back to silently brooding. Finally, he took a deep breath and rose to his feet, clapping Dormael on the shoulder as he made his way back down the roof and into the loft.
Dormael sat there for some time, looking off to the south and thinking of the events of the past winter. So much had happened since that night in Ferolan. He found himself wondering about Alton and what had happened with him and Lord Eric. He imagined that the King had received word by now of what had happened, and hoped the situation had been summarily dealt with. He promised himself that he’d send a letter the next chance he got.
Footsteps sounded again on the roof, and Dormael smiled as he smelled wildflowers and soap, the scent carried to him on a gentle southbound breeze. Shawna stepped up to the edge of roof and sat lithely down next to him, just touching his leg with her own. She smiled warmly at him in greeting and Dormael smiled back.
“Bethany’s asleep,” she said, “Your brother was regaling her with tales of his battles in the Tournament. She kept him talking until his throat went dry and she was asleep in the hay.”
Dormael smiled, thinking of how Allen must have embellished his adventures a bit, just to entertain the youngling. The next thing he knew, Bethany would be asking him to teach her the spear, and going about armed to the teeth like her uncle. He groaned to think of it.
“She does enjoy a good story,” he commented, and Shawna smiled. The two of them fell silent for a moment, enjoying each other’s company. Finally, Dormael cleared his throat to ask her a question.
“Shawna,” he said, “the man we buried back there at Orm, the one that you fought…why did you fight so vehemently for his burial?”
She sighed and shook her head, and he could see a far off expression in her eyes as she tho
ught it over, “There was just something in his eyes, Dormael, something different. He was in pain, I could see that. I think he wanted to die. I think he let me win, as much as I hate to admit it. He was so…unhappy.”
“Did he say something to you?”
“Nothing specific. Just something like ‘perhaps you will be the one’. I think he meant ‘the one’ that would finally kill him. He looked so…relieved, almost, at the end.”
Dormael made a thoughtful noise under his breath and turned his gaze to the stars again. Thinking back, something struck him that he hadn’t noticed at the time. It was something that he perhaps should have, but maybe he’d been too tired or overwhelmed to see it.
“He sort of looked like the Vilth,” Dormael said, “Their facial features, I mean. Do you think they were brothers?”
“It’s possible,” Shawna replied, “He did say that his Mark was ninety four years old. They were brands, too. The Kerallians haven’t branded in ages…but how can someone really live that long?”
“Necromancy,” Dormael replied, “If the Vilth was his brother, then perhaps he was using his power to prolong both of their lives. We still don’t know enough about them to really make a good guess at it. He did have those ritual scars all over him, but why would someone willingly go through something like that if they weren’t a Necromancer themselves?”
“I don’t think he was willing,” Shawna replied quietly, “At least, not at the end.”
Dormael nodded and grew quiet. He’d been trying to put the events at Orm out of his mind lately, but something about that had kept nagging at him. The entire situation was just so…odd. There were still so many questions that he needed to answer and their fight with the Vilth and his retinue had answered none of them.
“You know,” Shawna commented idly, looking off to the south with him, “Everyone’s lying down to sleep. In the loft.”
“Yes…and?”
Shawna sighed as if Dormael were the biggest fool in the entire world, “And there’s all this nice, quiet country out here. It’s a lovely night. I think I’d like to sleep under the stars.”
Dormael felt a smile creeping onto his face. He guessed everything hadn’t been all bad since Ferolan. He almost laughed out loud, but steeled his expression and leaned over to Shawna to whisper conspiratorially into her ear.
“Want some company?”
****
Epilogue
Arian sat in his study, surrounded by his books and gazing out over the nighttime expanse of Ishamael. He’d enjoyed his time here, and he loved this place. It had become his home in the many years he’d been a part of it, ever since he’d left his home in Orris and travelled here to become a wizard.
Over the years as his family and friends had all withered and died, Arian had fallen to that inevitable disease that all wizards faced: extended life. He’d watched as his brothers had all died of various causes, and had even watched as their children had aged into their middle and then their later years. He’d distanced himself from them since then, having learned the painful lesson of grief. Since then, his family had been the wizards he’d served with, and the ones that had served under him.
That was what made this so painful. That was what drove the knife so deep.
He knew what was coming, and had made arrangements for the most secret and dangerous items of the personal library of the Mekai to be spirited away somewhere safe. He’d outright destroyed most of the writings he’d found that mentioned even the barest whisper of the Nar’doroc – and he hated the destruction of knowledge for any reason. Victus, though, could not be allowed to take up the trail of the artifacts. It was bad enough that he’d be chasing D’Jenn and Dormael for the rest of their lives, or for the rest of his, whichever came first.
Arian would do what he could to prevent their capture, and to keep those artifacts as far away from Victus as he could.
He wondered idly how they were doing out there. He wondered if they’d made it to Orm, and if they had, what they’d found there. He longed to travel the world, to discover ancient ruins and forgotten relics. He longed to go out and study the most mundane things about the land that most people took for granted. At heart, he would always be a Philosopher, no matter what he’d become. Study and discovery would always be the dearest things to his heart.
The dearest things, that was, next to his family.
At his age, Arian’s Kai hardly ever slept. His magic existed in a constant state of wakeful interaction with the world around it, and as he got older Arian found that he spent more and more time meditating in order to keep it from attempting to change things. He had a theory about that, but he feared that he’d never get to test it.
He knew his time was coming.
He felt it when the guards at the entrance to his chambers were put to sleep by unexpected magical brushes on their minds. It was despicable that Victus had those children that served him using magic against their own, but there was nothing to be done about that now. It was too late. In that, Arian had failed. He felt it as Victus’s Kai swept his chambers, searching for wards and traps that might be in place. Arian had purposefully lifted them for this exact occasion. He wouldn’t have them going off and injuring misguided Warlocks. This was between Victus and himself.
The door to his chambers opened politely, and Arian almost smiled at the manners of his would be usurper. Victus stood in the doorway, hair bedraggled and wild as always, beard sticking out in all directions. He wore a simple blue robe and carried no weapons. For a time, the two of them just looked at each other, waiting for the other to speak. When Arian said nothing, Victus finally sighed and opened his mouth.
“It’s time, old friend.”
Arian rose slowly, brushing off his robes and straightening his amulet, the symbol of his office as Mekai. He stretched his spindly arms and cracked knuckles that felt younger than they looked. He smoothed his beard, and only then did he meet the gaze of his former friend.
“I suppose that it is,” he said.
****
Vardic Arynthaal, King of Thardin, called the Frost Bear by some, Lord of the Winter Highlands and Protector of the High Passes, Bearer of Ice Shard and Leader of the Sworn Men watched as his family was marched into the Great Hall at sword point. His wife, his two sons, and his three daughters were prodded forward along the carpet leading to the throne and forced to kneel in a line behind him. Vardic forced himself to keep his mouth shut, and his hands to his sides.
He stood before his own throne, facing down the man who’d invaded his lands and against all odds, defeated his army on their own ground. He was a tall man, only a half hand shorter than Vardic himself, and was built like a leader. He looked to be a swordsman, and Vardic could at least respect him for that, while hating him for everything else.
He wore a steel crown on his head, fashioned to look like three sword blades braided together. It sat upon a head of curly, well groomed dark hair. The man had a strong face, good cheekbones and intelligent eyes, and a beard trimmed short in the military style. He sat upright in Vardic’s throne, Ice Shard laid across his knees, regarding Vardic with narrowed eyes.
“This does not have to be an unpleasant day, good King,” Dargorin said, “In fact, you may not see them now, but there are benefits to becoming a part of the Empire.”
“Beg your Pardon, Your Eminence, but I don’t see the benefits of being conquered, having lands that have been in my family’s care for generations invaded by a foreign army, having my Sworn Men slaughtered, and innocent Thardish people murdered and raped. Forgive me,” Vardic replied.
One of the six Red Swords that stood behind the Emperor moved forward as if to bring Vardic to task, but Dargorin held up a hand, gesturing him back into his spot. Vardic shot his eyes to the soldier, pouring his hatred and outrage into that stare. The Red Sword mutely returned the stare, his face revealing no emotion.
“Murder and rape? No, I believe you have me mistaken, Your Highness,” Dargorin said. He stood suddenly, coming
out of the ancient mahogany throne easily and gripping Ice Shard, the ancient sword passed down from King to King, point down on the carpet. He stepped forward, moving up to Vardic and stopping just out of reach of a punch.
Vardic regretted that.
“I assure you that my men killed no unnecessary innocents,” Dargorin said, “and I never sanctioned any rape upon the women of your lands. It is not something that I condone, nor tolerate in my soldiers, and especially not in my officers.”
Vardic eyed the man suspiciously. What was his game? Murder and rape were part of every war.
“What do you want from me?” Vardic asked him.
“What I want is simple,” Dargorin said, “First, an oath of fealty. You remain here, a King, answerable only to me in all matters of state. You owe me a tithe of troops, as any feudal Vassal owes his Lord military support, and you owe me a small percentage of your tax revenue. Your laws remain your own, so long as they don’t conflict directly with Imperial law, and you retain the rights to police your lands as you see fit.”
Vardic snorted, “Except where you Galanians are concerned, I imagine.”
Dargorin held up a hand, “Not so. My armies will leave this land, save a small garrison I leave here in the capital, contingent upon your good behavior. Your laws will be binding upon all members of the Empire in your lands, including the men I leave here, and all Galanians, Nelekans, and Shundovians who enter your lands. No one gets a free pass, Your Highness.
“I will also be taking your sons and making them officers in the Imperial Army, commanding their own troops and auxiliaries, as they see fit. You and your sons will remain in power here in Thardin, and you may pass your titles as you see fit. Furthermore, your titles become official in the Empire as well as here at home, and you will be accorded all respect due your station. You will be no prisoner, Vardic Arynthaal. You will be a King. You will only answer to me, and only in a minor sense of the word.”
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 100