“I know,” he said soothingly, taking her hand in both his and gently unclenching her fist; he held it for a moment before letting it go.
Marilee turned and took one step to go forward but then turned back quickly; he had not moved. “And whose bright idea was it to separate us? I specifically requested . . . ,” she started to say but then stopped again, looking warily around, then looking back at him. “I am glad we were both raised to company commanders, but we hardly ever see each other anymore, except for when some other fool wants to gawk at our faces, and orders us to uncover our scars and stand together so they can see. . . .” Again she stopped without finishing her thought. “I hope that is not the reason she wants to see us both,” she noted, emphasizing being seen together.
Delgart sighed. “Think of my younger brothers,” he noted, “and how much worse it is for both of them: both thrown out of their orders for being chosen and marked.”
Marilee nodded but said nothing; instead, she turned and finished climbing the stairs, stopping at the top where two seklesam stood in front of double doors. Delgart followed her up, and they were immediately allowed into the Feragwen’s private office. Feltha sat writing behind her large, ornately carved desk and did not look up or acknowledge them until she had finished, folded, and sealed the parchment before her. She was tall and lithe, with iron gray hair pulled back from her face and tied at her neck in a tight bun. Her face was lined, tanned, and angular, and the dark circles under her bright blue eyes indicated that she had been working long hours with little sleep, and when she did rest, it was probably not peaceful, still mourning the loss of her husband.
“Please sit down,” Feltha said as she folded and sealed the parchment, pressing her signet ring into the wax while it was still soft. She got up from her desk and went to the door, passed the letter out, then returned to her desk. “I’m certain you are both wondering why I called you here,” she noted, smiling fondly at both of them, “and my summons likely upset one of you more than the other,” her glance strayed to Marilee, who had begun to blush, “and there is a very good reason for the temporary separation, which should become clear by the time we finish.”
Marilee bowed her head, to cover her flushed cheeks, and apologized for her hasty words. “I am so sorry,” she said.
“There is no need,” Feltha replied, and she was smiling widely. “I did the same thing when I was your age, and my late husband and I were separated, for very similar reasons, so for me, there is nothing to forgive.”
Marilee looked up into the eyes of Feltha and Delgart saw understanding, and a kindred spirit; the Feragwen smiled back at her, and Delgart took and briefly squeezed her hand; a quick glance passed between Delgart and Marilee, and Feltha smiled at them.
“We have received disturbing reports of late,” Feltha began, her tone becoming more formal, “from the Forsaken Outpost concerning what appear to be coordinated attacks by groups of a rare breed of wedaterem on the merchant caravans traveling the road north of the Mariskal between Kilnar and Southpass. The guild of merchants is screaming for extra protection, threatening not to pay their quarterly tax assessment if we do not solve the problem immediately.” Feltha shook her head and sighed.
“I take it,” Delgart noted, “that attacking in groups is not normal behavior for this rare breed?”
“Not unless driven to it by purem,” Marilee replied, “as we saw recently.”
Feltha nodded. “We have always known that there was a different strain of the wedaterem nesting deep in the swamp, green skinned instead of the blue skin with which we are more familiar, but they are solitary creatures, smaller than their blue-skinned cousins, seldom venturing anywhere near the caravan road, and if one did, it would never attack a large, well-guarded caravan; it might carry off an animal that had strayed, or a person who ventured too far from the road or camp, a thing which seldom happened. What is worse about these apparently coordinated attacks is the intelligence behind them: all the reports, and I will give them to you to examine, tell of patrols divided, chasing what they believe are persons taken by these wedaterem, but turn out to be phantoms: illusions created to draw our seklesem into carefully prepared traps from which few return.” She paused for a moment before continuing; Delgart sat with his fingertips together in front of his mouth; Marilee glanced once at him. “Another facet of our difficulties, one which draws off much of our strength in the Mariskal, has to do with the outpost itself. Marilee,” she turned to her, “you’ve served in the outpost on several assignments in the past; how much do you remember about the sponsum that inhabit the western marches of Mariskal?”
“I was with patrols that encountered them only twice,” she replied, “so I know little beyond what we are taught.”
“For Delgart’s sake,” Feltha noted.
Marilee nodded. “The sponsum are another of Gar’s creations,” she went on, “spider-like, generally the size of a large dog; they nest in the trees in the western marches of the swamp and the lower slopes of the mountains. They tend to live in packs, reportedly hunting in these same packs, something like the wolf; however, like the swamp wedaterem already mentioned, they avoid contact with us, only taking those who blunder into their territory. These two groups avoid one another.” She paused for a moment. “I think I remember some rumor or legend that the sponsum have some kind of queen that they worship.”
“It is no legend,” Feltha added, “one of the reports mentions that there is one of these creatures, much larger than the others, nesting at the edge of their territory near what is called Morokolu, a large dome of granite at the center of the swamp, which is the main nesting place of these rare wedaterem: the entire surface of Morokolu is riddled with holes, which are the homes of the swamp wedaterem. The sponsum have been seen taking things to this other creature, worshiping it, according to the report. For reasons that we cannot determine, the sponsum are multiplying at an incredible rate, and increasing in size, many as large as the ponies used by the awemem.”
“This is troubling,” Delgart noted, one eyebrow rising slowly.
Feltha nodded. “More troubling is the fact that these creatures are no longer content with their territory,” she went on, “they have begun to attack our outpost, which keeps Southpass open, and this attack keeps much of our strength in the fortress rather than patrolling the road from the outpost to Kilnar . . . ,” she paused, and Delgart finished her sentence.
“. . . Leaving the wedaterem almost unhindered,” he added, “as they attack and plunder the caravans.” He thought for a moment. “What happens to the goods carried by these caravans?” he asked.
“As far as we can determine,” Feltha replied, “everything is carried away, including the people, but where it ends up, no one is sure, and this is another puzzling feature. These swamp creatures would normally make straight for their lairs, but now the trail wanders all through the Mariskal, and the wedaterem divide going in all different directions, laying down many false trails that lead into traps or impassable bogs. Any seklesi scout who follows them closely enough not to get lost is captured by the wedateri returning from creating a false trail, or from leaving the main group to hide and wait for whoever might be following.”
Marilee shook her head. “They know our jobs better than we do!” she exclaimed with some surprise.
“Their trail,” Feltha went on, “as far as we can determine, goes southeast through the swamp toward Rykelle, but then turns west as they near the sea, and that is where we lose them: many of the channels there are so deep as to be impassable at high tide, and many of the sea’s more violent denizens have taken up residence in those channels and claimed no small number of our troops caught as the tide came in.”
“Have you attempted to approach from the sea?” Delgart asked.
Feltha nodded. “Every channel that we might have used has been carefully blocked by jagged stones strategically placed just beneath the surface; any small, flat-bottomed craft that approaches is pulled under by what our most seas
oned sailors think must be some kind of giant, squid-like creature.”
Delgart shook his head. “They are all guarding the same place,” he said, rising and going to the large map hanging on one wall. He stood looking at the Mariskal for a moment, then pointed to the one significant feature in all the swamp: Morokolu. “Here,” he said, “all that is happening in the area centers here.”
“What makes you say that?” Feltha asked, Delgart heard the interest in her voice, reaching the same conclusion as she had.
Delgart looked back at the Feragwen, still seated behind her desk, and Marilee, who had turned in her chair to look at him, and he could see on her face that she had made the same connection he had. “How long ago did all of these things begin to happen?” he asked, instead of answering her question.
The Feragwen eyed him for a moment before answering. “We began receiving reports about two weeks ago,” she said, then paused again, “my late husband was just planning a response when the call for aid came from Shigmar.”
Delgart smiled and glanced at Marilee, who returned his knowing smile. “Exactly the right time,” he noted, “and place.”
“The morgle?” Marilee suggested.
“And from what we’ve discussed,” Delgart agreed, “the rod is certainly capable of altering the wedaterem and the sponsum in the ways described.”
Instead of being puzzled by Delgart and Marilee’s cryptic comments, Feltha was smiling at them both. “I can see already that I was right to choose the two of you for this special assignment,” she said, and there was something in the way the Feragwen used the word ‘choose’ that made them both look at her more closely. She touched a gold bracelet on her wrist, and a door not before visible opened behind her. A tall, gray-haired wetha in white robes stepped out of the dimly lit passageway; she resembled the Feragwen in face and form. “My sister, Malfa,” the Feragwen noted without turning. “Come,” she said, taking up the sheaf of parchment reports and rising. Malfa pinned a silver brooch to Feltha’s cloak; the white stone at the center of the brooch began to glow softly. Malfa turned and re-entered the doorway; without another word, the Feragwen followed. Delgart and Marilee exchanged a quick glance before hurrying after them.
The dimly lit, narrow passageway went straight forward a short way, then plunged down in a series of steep stairs. A pair of the elite seklesam who guarded the Feragwen led the way down; another pair took up a position behind Delgart and Marilee. For at least twenty minutes, they descended, finally stopping at a blank stone wall the Feragwen opened with her scepter. When all had passed through, she closed the door behind them; they were in a wider stone passage with doors spaced evenly on either side.
“Forgive the theatrics,” Feltha said when the door had sealed, “and my abruptness, but I reasoned that you were about to speak of things that should not be discussed openly, not even in my private office. I suspect that there is a spy among my late husband’s advisors, someone who was very close to him, and that is why I brought you here, to the secret home of the gwenakso.”
Marilee drew a breath sharply. “It actually exists?” she whispered.
Feltha smiled. “Only when I, the Feragwen, organize the Seventh Legion,” she said, “and the last time that happened was during the reign of Reema IV, 1239 years ago.” She turned and opened the nearest door, again using her scepter. The Feragwen whispered to Malfa who nodded and went down the long hallway, escorted by two of the elite seklesam guards; the other two took up positions on either side of the door as the three of them passed inside, finding an office very similar to the one they had left.
After the door closed and Feltha had reseated herself, she motioned them to sit. “Now,” she began, “you may speak freely, and tell me what you know that makes you believe that Morokolu is the center of these problems and related to what happened to Shigmar.”
Delgart nodded once as they sat. “My Feragwen,” he began, “because of the way you said choose earlier, I am assuming that you are familiar with Shigmar’s prophecy concerning the chosen of the One?” Feltha nodded; Delgart pointed first to Marilee, then to himself. “We are two of those chosen, described in the prophecy as the three from the ‘younger order,’ and the third is my younger brother, Rokwolf; from Shigmar’s order, my other younger brother, Klaybear, and his wife, Klarissa, from Karble, a young kortexi named Sir Blakstar eli kerdu ghebi, from Melbarth, Thalamar, son of Kalamar, and an awemi scout named Tevvy. The prophecy mentions three keys: the first is the sword of Sir Karble, given to Sir Blakstar on the Mountain of Vision; this led us to the second, Shigmar’s staff, stored safely in Shigmar’s tomb, and the third is Melbarth’s rod, which is in the hands of a morgle, the same creature who we believe commanded, in Gar’s name, the attack on Shigmar. Each key has unique powers: the sword, named will-giver, literally drains the courage from anyone the kortexi faces in combat; the staff, named breath-giver, is what sucked all the life out of Shigmar and the surrounding area, as I’m sure you read in several reports.”
Feltha nodded once. “What about the rod?” she asked. “Does it have a name?”
“We believe it does,” Marilee put in, “although we cannot confirm what it is.”
“If it follows the others,” Delgart went on, “its name is thought-giver.”
“Which means,” Feltha interrupted, “that it has the power to alter the thoughts and minds of others, explaining what happened to the swamp wedaterem and the sponsum. But that still does not explain why you think Morokolu is the place.”
“The three keys,” Delgart continued, “are connected to one another in some elemental fashion; we used this connection to help us discover the direction to go to find Shigmar’s tomb, along with other clues, and in the process, we discovered the attack on Shigmar by the morgle who holds the rod. Following the battles, my companions again used this connection, since they had two keys, to discover where the morgle had gone with the rod, and the line pointed straight at Morokolu.”
Feltha nodded, then smiled at them both. “I did choose my new legion commanders well,” she noted. “For some time now, I have thought of the gwenakso and knew that the time was fast approaching when the secret Seventh Legion would need to be organized. After hearing reports of your actions during the recent battle, I knew who I would appoint as commanders. So I began to make discreet inquiries and discovered no lack of volunteers to join the Seventh Legion with a new seklesi named Delgart as commander, who had distinguished himself as a hero, and a seklesa named Marilee as his second, who had also shown herself more than capable and in every way Delgart’s equal.”
Marilee put her face into her hands to hide her tears; Delgart felt his face flush in response to the Feragwen’s praise. “My Feragwen,” he stammered, bowing, “you are too kind, and we would be honored to accept.”
“Then you must swear the oath,” Feltha said, rising and holding out the scepter as she came from behind the desk. “Kneel, and place your right hands on the scepter,” and after both had done so, “now repeat after me, ‘I swear before Feragwen Feltha, that I do hereby pledge my heart, mind, and life in service of the One, the people, and the land, as commander of the gwenakso, to do all the Feragwen asks of me, as long as I shall live or until she releases me.’ Rise, Commander Delgart,” Feltha said, holding out her right hand to him and lifting him up. She pinned a crowned golden eagle on the right shoulder of his cloak. Feltha turned to Marilee. “Rise, Commander Marilee,” she said, helping Marilee up in the same way and pinning the right shoulder of her cloak with a similar crowned golden eagle, wings raised and talons gripping a miniature replica of the Feragwen’s scepter.
The door opened and Malfa stuck her head in. “I waited until you were finished,” she said.
“But you are here to remind me that my time is up,” Feltha finished. She slipped her scepter into loops down her right pant leg, and picked up the sheaf of parchments, handing them to Delgart. “You will want these,” she said. “Malfa will lead you to your office and briefing room, where you
r command squad is waiting, and your company captains are assembling.”
Delgart was still trying to process what had just happened, but one thing jumped to the front of his thoughts. “My Feragwen,” he stammered, “won’t there be some jealousy because you have raised me so quickly, passing over many who have more experience?”
Feltha touched his arm gently. “We were very aware of that,” she replied, “so we were extremely careful about who was chosen for the Seventh Legion, and I repeat, there was great enthusiasm to be a part of it with you as its commander: put it out of your mind. Your recent actions on the battlefield proved you are capable, and we chose those who witnessed your actions–they literally lined up outside my door when the rumor started going around.” Delgart noticed that Malfa was moving toward the door. “Now, I must get back upstairs before I am missed. Do what you must to solve this problem, and send me daily reports: your staff will know how. May the One guard and guide your path, and bring you home with honor.” Malfa opened the door, and Feltha vanished in a flash of light as she crossed the threshold.
Malfa led them further down the hall to another, larger office with two smaller rooms off the main room; the main room had two small desks at which were seated and working two people, both of whom had the same golden eagle pinned to their right shoulders. They both stood and placed their right fists over the center of their chests when they saw Delgart and Marilee enter.
“These are your messengers,” Malfa said, pointing first to a short, narrow-faced wetha with short-cropped blond hair, “this is Forsonta, your messenger, commander, and this,” pointing to the young wethi, slightly taller, with a similar narrow face and sandy hair, “is Nofero, your messenger, second commander.”
“Are you two related?” Delgart asked, as the two of them continued to stand at attention.
Delgart felt Marilee jab him sharply in the ribs. “You need to return their salute,” she said in an aside, “and give them permission to sit down.”
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 86