Blakstar turned back at his companions and pointed to his eyes. “This enhanced vision will be a distraction to me in there,” he whispered. “Can you stop it?” he asked.
Thal nodded once, reached out and touched the kortexi’s forehead, and whispered, “neki,” canceling the orthek. He turned to Tevvy, looking a question; the awemi nodded once, and Thal repeated his actions, canceling the orthek on Tevvy’s eyes. “I think you want to stick to the shadows in there,” Thal whispered to Tevvy, jerking his head toward the room ahead of them, “things are likely to get quite messy.”
“You don’t need to tell me my job,” Tevvy whispered back. “I’m content to hide and slip up behind when no one is looking,” he replied in a quiet voice, “unless that thing is holding Elanor, then I’m likely to run up and stab it in both eyes!” he finished with a vehement hiss.
“Such a reaction is understandable,” Klaybear whispered, “but would likely cost you your brain in a fight with a morgle, and this one is the most powerful of all.”
“And,” Thal added, “he holds Melbarth’s Rod, the most powerful mental tool ever created. Motodu could wipe your mind clean with a single wave of the rod, causing you to forget Elanor, along with everything you ever knew.”
Tevvy’s eyes widened in shock. “I would not, could not, ever forget . . . ,” he began to protest, but Thal cut him off.
“I just wanted to remind you of what we face,” Thal went on slowly. He looked at Klaybear. “One of us should erect a mental shield to protect us all from attack,” he noted, “or none of us will last a moment in there.”
“I think both of us should,” Klaybear replied, “to give Blakstar a chance to use will-giver; I think it is our only hope.”
“Maybe if I got behind it,” Tevvy suggested, “and threw a couple of daggers at his back, from a safe distance, of course,” he added before going on, “that would distract him long enough for Blakstar to get close enough to scratch him with his sword.”
Blakstar could not help but grin at the awemi. “It is worth a try,” he noted softly, shrugging and turning to walk purposefully into the room; the aura surrounding him pulsed more brightly as he moved forward. He did not look back to see if the others followed; he halted suddenly just inside the room at the sound of a hissing, bubbling voice that plunged the room into total darkness.
“Welcome, chosen,” the voice spoke out of the blackness. “We have been waiting, and preparing, for your arrival for some time now.” The voice hissed and bubbled words that he could not understand, and red light began to glow, shining toward him and illuminating two figures: one struggling on its back, somehow held two feet off the floor, probably manacled to whatever it was lying upon, and the other standing astride the figure lying, its claw-like fingers raking the chest of the supine figure. The motion of the standing figure caused anger to rise within the kortexi; a new red light, from above, fell on the face of the supine figure, and he saw, to his horror, Rokwolf’s face, twisted in pain. The shadow of the figure standing astride the captured seklesi rippled, making it look like the figure was wearing a cloak that billowed behind her in the wind, except that there was no wind in the room. The standing figure threw her head back and moaned; the red light flashed on her teeth and eyes, causing her shape to become momentarily clear in the kortexi’s mind.
Blakstar felt the scars on his chest and loins burn, and an inexplicable rage filled him. Into his mind burst images of the burned glade next to the Mountain of Vision, images of himself tied to the broken tree, a ponkola straddling him, a look of ecstasy on her face. Will-giver flamed in his hand with an angry hiss; he stepped forward and swung with all his rage at the figures in front of him, seeing only the red-tinge images of himself and the ponkola.
“NO!” Rokwolf screamed up at Blakstar, but the enraged kortexi could not hear him, consumed by the images flashing through his mind.
Will-giver whistled through the air, trailing golden flames, cleaving flesh and bone, and sending the head flying from its shoulders; Blakstar kicked the body off Rokwolf, oblivious to his frightened screams. The body fell onto the floor; the head, however, did not fall as it should have, but it flew in an arc, returning and landing on the floor next to the still shuddering body. Rokwolf screamed another denial that turned into pained sobbing; the lights went out, and a new light grew on the now still form on the floor, a pool of blood beneath the shoulders and severed neck, soaking into the long blonde hair of Sutugno, a look of surprise frozen forever on her face. Will-giver clattered onto the floor in the momentary silence between Rokwolf’s sobs, its flames extinguished, slipping out of Blakstar’s now limp fingers.
Hissing, bubbling laughter followed. “Now,” the voice said, “you will give me the sword and the staff.”
Klare waited as the last group of seklesem slowly approached. Kella came toward her, and Klare saw two maghem sending the final group of wounded back to Holvar.
“All the patrols have returned?” Klare asked, twisting breath-giver in her hands.
Kella nodded once. “This is the last one,” she replied.
“How many?” Klare asked.
At this question, Kella smiled. “Far fewer than we first thought,” she began, “only seven casualties and thirteen wounded, weak from the poison. They’ve been returned to Holvar where they can recover,” she finished.
Klare sighed and nodded. “It could have been worse,” she said, “much worse.” She fell silent, waiting for the final patrol to approach.
Kella moved away. As the last of the squads neared where she and Klare waited, Kella broke the momentary silence that had fallen. “Everyone accounted for?” she asked crisply.
The squad leader saluted and nodded once.
Kella turned to Klare. “We are ready,” she said simply.
Klare did not respond; instead, she drew a circle with the heel of breath-giver on the ground, causing the eye-shaped emerald to flare brightly and opening a gray archway to the place near the west entrance to Morokolu, where Delgart and the rest of the gwenakso were engaged with the morgle’s remaining forces. Kella stepped through once her last squad had all gone through; Klare followed, stepping into the chaos that always prevailed on any battlefield. She closed the door and found herself standing next to Delgart, giving orders to his messengers.
“No, tell them all to pull back from the gate!” Delgart exclaimed. “If my brother is right then they will all come rushing out once the lower levels begin to flood. Tell Marilee to pull her side back to give them enough room to get up and out of the ramp; many of them will probably want to surrender at that point. Go!” He turned to Klare standing at his side. “I saw Kella come through, but I sent her straight to where her company is fighting. What was the final tally?” he asked, although she read the concern on his face.
“Only seven killed and thirteen wounded who had to be sent back to Holvar,” Klare replied and saw his face brighten slightly. “I’m afraid we killed the seven,” Klare added, “with the cold ray.”
“Who knows this?” Delgart asked, frowning again.
“Kella, those who found the bodies, and those who returned the bodies to Holvar,” Klare said, “so only a few, but we made sure that they agreed not to tell the others.”
Delgart shook his head. “They must be told,” he said, “they deserve to know the truth.”
“Perhaps,” Klare replied, “but not at this moment.”
Delgart frowned again, but he nodded after a moment. “That is regrettable, but from what I have been told,” he noted, “there was no alternative.”
Klare sighed, then shook her head. “No alternative that we could think of at the time,” she clarified, “there might have been alternatives. . . ,” she started to say, but he cut her off.
“Now is not the time for that,” Delgart said sharply. “You did the best you could, given what you knew; we can analyze later, without fixing blame,” he added, emphasizing each word and holding her eyes with his.
The sounds of the bat
tle changed suddenly; Delgart looked up and toward the gate and saw the wethem and swamp wedaterem pouring out of the gate and running up the ramp.
“They were right,” Delgart said.
“Who was right? About what?” Klare asked, feeling annoyed.
“Klaybear and the others, inside,” Delgart replied. “They thought something like this might happen, and so warned us that the morgle might flood the lower levels of his fortress when he realized they were inside.” He held his hands around his mouth and shouted, “pull back! Give them room to leave the ramp! But do not allow them to escape!”
Wethem and swamp wedaterem continued to pour out of the gates, and a new sound was added to the shouting and thudding of many booted feet: the rushing and splashing of water. At first, the water was only deep enough, as it flowed out of the gate, to cover the boots of the wethem and the feet of the wedaterem, but moments later, the flow increased and began to sweep the wethem off their feet, knocking them into the swamp creatures, sending the latter sprawling under the water. The wedaterem came up spluttering and angry, punching any of their hapless wethi comrades within their reach; these actions further slowed their escape from the ramp, giving the rapidly rising water more opportunity to drag under and drown those stragglers who had the ill luck to be at the end of the line. Fully one-fourth of the forces remaining drowned because of these fights that erupted between the wethem and wedaterem who were trying to escape the flood.
Delgart shouted and signaled his forces to halt; the seklesem immediately obeyed, stepping back and raising their weapons.
Delgart stepped to the front of his line. “You are surrounded, outnumbered, outmatched, and have no way of escape or retreat,” he spoke loudly so that all could hear. “Lay down your weapons, and we will allow you to leave with your lives.”
The morgle’s remaining forces looked around as if surprised, as if they only now realized their predicament. A few started to move forward, willing to give up their weapons, but they were brutally shoved back into place by their comrades. One of the leaders stepped forward, an ill-looking wethi to Klare’s eyes.
“We will never surrender!” he exclaimed. “It is you who are outmatched and weak! We will kill every last one of you and feast on your flesh!”
Delgart frowned once. “So be it,” he said simply, “out of your own mouth have you sealed your own fate; by your own actions you will be judged.” He turned away to step back into his own lines and order his forces to attack. At the moment he turned, the opposing leader hurled a dagger, concealed in his sleeve, directly at Delgart’s unprotected back, but Delgart, who had spent more than a decade of his life among those who lived by treachery, was waiting for just such an action. As the legion commander turned, he moved his hands toward the handles of his sabers, then gripped both handles, drew both and kept turning in a blur of motion swinging one saber across his body and knocking the dagger harmlessly into the dirt. Continuing forward while swinging the second saber in an arc behind him, then over his head as he jumped forward, he brought it down in a great overhand stroke, cleaving the helm and skull of the treacherous opponent. When the rest of the seklesem realized what had happened, the entire line leaped after Delgart, cutting down the morgle’s wethem before the front ranks had a chance to defend themselves. The kailum and maghem, true to the word their commander had made to the methaghem, put half of the remaining wedaterem asleep before the second rank of wethem hit the ground. Those of the morgle’s wethem at the rear tried to flee by leaping into the water that filled the gate ramp, but the seklesi archers filled them with arrows, changing the water from muddy brown to red-brown. Two minutes of the fury of the gwenakso was enough to convince the others to surrender; the survivors threw down their weapons and fell on their faces, begging for mercy, as if they had been touched by the golden flame of will-giver.
“Hold!” Delgart called. “Take the weapons from any wethem who surrender and allow them to leave!”
The maghem and kailum finished putting the last of the swamp wedaterem to sleep and sending them to the methaghem; the wethem who surrendered cowered as they slouched past Delgart’s seklesem, opening a passage for these few wethem toward the north and the bridge that would lead them out of the Mariskal. Sopikro, the legion quartermaster, with the help of his supply squad, moved to the end of the line and handed survival packs containing five days’ worth of rations to the morgle’s wethem as they passed; this action elicited many surprised looks from the defeated wethem, although there were a few scowls.
Delgart nodded his approval to his Chief Quartermaster and turned to find his second; he hailed her when he saw her, and Marilee jogged over to him.
“Pass the word to send out patrols to sweep the area,” Delgart noted, “and have the captains see to their troops, and bring me reports as soon as they are gathered.”
Marilee nodded, and was about to turn away, when her hand shot up to touch the maimed half of her face; Delgart’s hand went immediately to his own maimed cheek, and both reached out to the other with their free hands, grasping the other’s shoulder for support. Delgart looked straight into Marilee’s eyes, and Klare saw them wearing puzzled expressions.
“What’s happened?” Marilee whispered, barely able to speak.
“I think . . . ,” Delgart began in a voice only slightly stronger than hers, and Klare felt suddenly dizzy and weak, sinking to the ground.
“Commander!” Kella shouted, and her voice was frantic, “Mistress Klare has fallen!”
Delgart and Marilee turned to Klare, bringing the scarred halves of their faces closer together. As they turned, red light blossomed from the maimed sides of their faces, drawing them inexorably together to form the mark of Gar; they collapsed onto the ground near Klare, cheeks stuck together and glowing with an angry red light that pulsed, flashing of the symbol of Gar for all to see.
For a moment, everything stopped, and all eyes turned toward the legion commanders and the flashing, angry-red symbol coming from their maimed cheeks now pressed together, but then the command squad moved to surround Klare and their commanders. Grelsor and Lidelle were there first, followed closely by Luthina, Hrelga, and the two messengers; the two kailum grabbed and wrenched them apart, which caused the pulsing symbol to wink out. Grelsor and Luthina got on either side of Delgart, helping him to his feet; Lidelle and Hrelga did the same for Marilee, and as the four helped their commanders move toward Kella, the kailum both poured energy into Delgart and Marilee, fully knowing they would be weakened by what had happened.
Delgart stood immediately and whispered his thanks; he carefully stepped in front of Marilee as she, too, stood on her own, to make sure that they did not make the same mistake again. The rest of the command squad, except for the messengers, moved away to allow the rest of the legion to see that both commanders were fine.
Delgart stopped and turned to Nofero. “Go and collect the initial casualty report,” he said, “and tell the captains I will expect a full report within thirty minutes.” He put one hand on his shoulder to stop him before he left. “And make sure to respond to any questions or worries.”
Nofero nodded and grinned. “You can count on me, commander,” he replied, saluting as he left.
Delgart watched him jog away. He turned to Marilee and Forsonta; Klare was crumpled on the ground holding on to breath-giver as if it were a lifeline. She looked up as they approached.
“What happened, Klare?” Marilee asked, squatting down beside her. “We felt it, too, whatever it was, and if we had not been standing next to each other, would also have fallen.”
“Something terrible has happened to the others,” Klare replied in a voice barely above a whisper, “I can feel it.”
“I was about to tell Marilee so,” Delgart added, “when Kella called.” He looked from Marilee back to Klare. “I felt a terrible, inconsolable anguish, but who? And why?” He looked toward the dome of Morokolu, then squatted so he faced both Klare and Marilee. The two wetham were looking at each other, staring
at each other, an unspoken dialogue passing between them. Delgart waited until they turned and looked at him. “Now that you have consulted each other,” he grinned, “any ideas?”
Marilee turned to look again at Klare, deferring to her; Klare sighed and shifted her feet and legs and sat down. “All four of them,” Klare replied, “although I think that Sir Blakstar felt it most strongly.”
Delgart considered this before speaking. “That makes sense,” he said, “but the implications of what must have happened then, considering what he has been through, and therefore, what would cause him to react the most strongly,” he hesitated, looking at both wetham before adding, “that frightens me.”
Klare reached out and grasped her brother’s-in-law hand fondly. “You are a gem,” she said with a wan smile. “I wish some of it would rub off on my husband,” she mused, then she leaned closer to Marilee and whispered in her ear, so softly that no one else could hear: “Do not let this one get away.”
Marilee looked at Klare and blushed furiously, a retort forming on her lips, but Klare forestalled her response. “I don’t think we dare do anything with the staff,” she said, “either to help or even just to find out what has happened, especially if they are in the presence of the morgle.”
Delgart nodded, although he wore a curious grin, glancing at Marilee, who still blushed. “I think you are right, Klare,” he sighed, looking again toward Morokolu, his eyes traveling toward the apex of the dome. “We can only wait for them to contact us; in the meantime, I was going to send a message to the Feragwen.”
Klare nodded, recognizing that Delgart was right: they could only wait, and wonder; she stood slowly, using breath-giver to help her rise as well as drawing strength into herself. She leaned on the staff as she drew more energy, her mind occupied with what she had just learned, her face bathed in the green glow of the eye-shaped emerald, pulsing in time to the beating of her heart. There was a dimension to their verghrenum that few of the others had discovered, and she wondered if Melbarth, who created them, had any idea of what he had done, or how well he had done it. She doubted it, since emotion was the key, and the wethem who wore them had little or no understanding of emotion. Marilee knew; she had also felt it, and recognized what had happened, which was why Klare had distracted her from it with that whispered comment, and if Delgart had an inkling of what had happened, he would have insisted she open an archway to the others at once so that he could go through with his entire legion. Klare groaned inside; she bit her tongue and tasted blood, turning her thoughts from that path, which was a path to destruction, as she had seen. She shook her head and looked up; she saw that Delgart was ready to send Forsonta back to Holvar; she prepared her mind, nodded, then opened the archway with breath-giver.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 108