by Ed Greenwood
Rising pain distracted him. Looking down, he saw blood dripping from between his fingers. He'd tightened his fists so hard that he'd driven his fingernails into his palms.
And for nothing. It hadn't worked. He was still here in Malraun's tower. Alone.
Or so he hoped.
Letting out his biggest sigh yet, he flung himself down on the heap of clothes, and tried again to get to sleep.
So he could dream of destroying Malragard and striding across Falconfar like a mighty colossus, smashing castles and Dooms of Falconfar with snarling blows of his fists, and reaching down to pluck up Taeauna, the wingless yet beautiful Aumrarr of Falconfar.
Hoping, as he did, that she'd not spit at him with rage and disgust, and spurn him on the spot.
Silence, and a pale white glow.
All around him, yet far away as he floated, screaming but silent, agonized but numb, staring but blind…
Narmarkoun. He was Narmarkoun, wizard… Doom of Falconfar. And he was in Yintaerghast, chill and empty… yet somehow watchful, all around him…
Yes, he was… he was floating in tangled and torn spells, drifting in midair, their pearly glows the radiance he'd been seeing.
Shieldings, by the looks of their ruination, all bound up around him against one wall of the small, hidden chamber where…
Yes, where spells that must have been cast by Lorontar himself, long, long ago, were still at work on a distant living mind.
He remembered shrieking rage, and being blasted and hurled away by a furious mind that wanted him dead yet barely perceived him, and knew him not.
Yet now he felt… splendid. Not cold or bruised or hungry, not tired, and not hurt in any way. The shieldings-and where had they come from? Magics of Lorontar, left waiting for just such a moment of calamity? — seemed to have spent themselves not only keeping him from the slightest harm, but in healing and renewing him!
He felt marvellous. Narmarkoun swung his feet down, flexing one scaly blue arm and marveling at its fresh, gleaming, new appearance. The moment his boots touched the floor, he was upright and standing calmly amid the shieldings-which were fading away now, and growing dim as they settled toward the floor and vanished before they reached it…
He made no move toward the bright floating image of the brain. It was as alive as ever, magic surging around it and pounding through it in a soundless tumult of power. He shook his head in admiration, and more than a little fear. This could only be the work of Lorontar, and as such it must be older than the oldest Galathan noble lineage, yet it was as powerful, as vibrant, as if it had been cast mere moments ago.
The mind it was keeping conquered was alive and aware and seething at being enslaved, and in the instant he'd tasted its regard it had seemed somehow female… and human but strangely, subtly different than human-or most humans.
A mind that was in Falconfar, and active-not sleeping in some tomb or in the spell-frozen guise of a statue. Active somewhere distant from here, and-he somehow knew, as he gazed on those rushing, humming flows of magic-long under the control of this spell.
It was a mind of power, too. Not necessarily a wizard, but someone who had known and wielded magic enough not to be awed by the very thought of it.
Perhaps, if he-no. He'd been blasted once before, smashed down helplessly in a moment of passing thought. He might well not survive a second contact, if he probed with any determination and gave that captive brain more of a mind-moot to lash out at him through, and longer to do it in.
Best to just withdraw, healed and hale. It was enough to know that Lorontar had left magics behind to control and compel, spells that worked yet, and that held entrapped the mind of some female creature-it could well be a beast rather than human, perhaps a dragon Lorontar had desired as a steed-somewhere in Falconfar. Flight… yes, it was a mind that had known flight. And a mind that had influenced others of its kind, so that by working through it, Lorontar had held a measure of influence over them, too.
Yet he'd best stop thinking about that captive mind, right now, lest he draw its attention again, and taste another, harder, lashing-forth.
Turning his gaze from the glowing image of the brain at the heart of its eternally rushing whirl, Narmarkoun made his way quietly along the wall and out of the little hidden chamber not nearly as cautiously as he'd come in.
Up into a Yintaerghast as quiet and deserted as before, yet seemingly now familiar and welcoming. It seemed now to be his castle, not Lorontar's.
It wasn't that he suddenly knew its every chamber and passage, but rather as if they were forgotten parts of his home, not unfamiliar menacing corners of the most forbidding fortress known to Falconfar.
Hmm. The shieldings must have done this to him. Not just the healing; they'd left something behind in his mind that he was noticing only now that he was away from those rushing flows of magic.
A new spell was emblazoned in his mind. Shining new and unfamiliar among his deepest, oldest memories. A magic he knew had not been there before, one he'd never mastered or cast.
A spell for overcoming and compelling a mind. Like the mind whose control spell was humming and swirling down in the hidden chamber. Or perhaps not. As Narmarkoun peered at it more closely, letting his thoughts follow its workings to see what it was designed to enact rather than just marveling at its unexpected presence and its shining entirety, he perceived that it was a spell for controlling the minds of creatures of Earth, from here in Falconfar.
Though this arm of incantation, here, coupled to the larger spell with yon binding, made it also, when cast thus, into a means of conquering the minds of creatures of Falconfar while they were in the world called Earth.
So it was not a means of walking down a Stormar port street and compelling merchants to thrust all their coins into his hands, or forcing a Galathan noble to surrendering his daughter to a smiling Narmarkoun upon sight. It would work on lorn or Dark Helms he sent to Earth-or the man called Rod Everlar, here in Falconfar.
Yet even with these limitations, it was a wonder.
And best of all, it was his now, burned into his mind so deeply and securely he'd never need a scroll or to read the glyphs set down in a spellbook to cast it. Just thinking it through, letting his mind follow its intricate paths, would be enough. So long as he was conscious, and unharmed enough to remain strong of will from end to end of its casting.
Right now he felt stronger than he'd ever felt before. Brimming with vigor, on the verge of prancing through these empty rooms out of sheer joy at feeling so… alive.
No longer despairing, or longing to get out of this place and back to Closecandle before Malraun caught him here.
Now, somehow, half a dozen Malrauns alarmed him not in the slightest.
Not that this grim and empty castle around him was in any wise better than his Closecandle.
Nay, Closecandle was his, its every cavern and tunnel, chute and stair hollowed out of the heart of a great mountain by his magic. His work alone, every casting. His was the hand that had measured every handspan of rock melted away, and so tamed the greatest peak of the Howlhorns.
Just as his spells tamed and gentled every greatfangs he'd captured, and in time guided them as patiently as any greatfangs elder into breeding, one with another.
Beasts as large as villages and as deadly as armies, and they were his. His to ride, to goad them into hunting and making war at his command.
Six of them, though only the aging parents and the oldest of their hatchlings were full-grown brutes who could smash into a turret and live, toppling the castle's stone fang in their wake. The next-hatched was big enough to ride but still fighting his training, and the two younglings were little better than greedy fledglings, more interested in devouring and play-brawling with each other than obeying anyone.
Them, he missed. Not the younglings, but the elder three. Just as he ached for the caresses of his playpretties, no matter how swiftly Narmarkoun their Doom tired of them when he was nigh-buried in them.
Oh, th
e longings were there. Yet somehow, as he exulted in feeling stronger than ever before, they paled before the sheer joy of being here. Here, in Lorontar's ancient lair of secrets. Here, in the hidden heart of elder magic. Here where he could quite well abide for now, and spy on anyone he desired to from afar. Rod Everlar, for one.
Oh, he now knew half a dozen Shapers he could call on, to alter Falconfar with their dreams and writings; Everlar was no longer the prize.
Yet still, Everlar was the Shaper most familiar with Falconfar-and the lone Shaper in Falconfar. So he'd bear watching, if only to make sure Malraun didn't sidle up and cast a net of spells to control the Earth man utterly.
Perhaps it was time to alter some of his playpretties into false Everlars, so Malraun would have a merry dance to lay hands on the real one…
Narmarkoun found his face aching from the wide and unaccustomed grin splitting it. He laughed aloud, clapped his hands together, and strode to the very center of a great empty chamber. It was time to work magic. Lots of magic. Swiftly conjure up another spying globe of magic to watch what's happening to Everlar, then cast spells to link again with the minds of his lorn and Dark Helms on Earth, to spy on their doings through their eyes.
Nor would that be all his spying and prying. It was high time to look in on the Tesmers back in Ironthorn-and time to awaken Deldragon, too. Even a Doom of Falconfar, after all, would need at least one army to invade and conquer Earth.
Let Malraun think he'd won Falconfar for now.
Fewer places ruled by Narmarkoun meant fewer places to defend. Even Closecandle could be sacrificed as a Malraun-trap now that the greatfangs were all grown enough to fly, and the elder three wise and mighty enough to defend themselves against even the spells of the Matchless.
Aye, let Malraun gloat, and turn to conquering Galath. A Galath without Deldragon and his knights.
Then, when the time was just right, appear unlooked-for in his very lap and smash him utterly. Letting him know, as he died, who was destroying him.
Far away across Falconfar in the dim and silent chambers and passages of Closecandle, dead faces started to smile, not knowing why.
Nareyera Tesmer spat out a curse, and then a flood of stranger words. The rings on her slender fingers obediently blazed and winked in wild fury.
An instant later, the night exploded in fire.
Great rolling balls of flame, erupting out of nowhere to light up the night as they thundered away from Nareyera in all directions. The tree that held her caught alight with a great roar, hurling her down into the hollow as it blazed up angrily, warming her back.
Everywhere she looked, as she crashed down and left her breath behind, fire was racing along black, writhing branches. Through many leaping, hungry amber tongues, as she rolled over and up to her knees, gasping, Nareyera saw her brother spring at Cauldreth Jaklar. Mindful of blazing branches stabbing at him, Belard bounded aside at the last moment to thrust with his sword at the priest's side rather than sinking into a face-to-face lunge.
The priest ducked away and ran, fleeing across the hollow as the tree boughs moved by his magic dipped at his back to form a flaming wall-and flail at Belard. He staggered back from their rushing flames, but behind him Talyss was momentarily free of reaching limbs and branches. She glared at Jaklar through the flames and hurled her knife, hard.
It bit home deeply, striking to the hilt in the priest's shoulder. Nareyera saw him falter, arch over backwards in pain for a frozen moment-and then stagger forward with a great sob and run on, up out of the hollow into the night-dark forest. He was bleeding freely; there'd be a trail of blood to mark where he fled.
Yet the Lord Leaf was still very much alive, for the tree-limbs governed by his spell were reaching even more wildly for Belard and Talyss, thrusting in from all directions despite quickening flames dancing along them, seeking to throttle and entwine.
In the space of a breath her brother and sister were back to back in the heart of closing claws of living wood, hacking desperately at the burning branches that jabbed at them, fighting to stay free and alive.
They were doomed.
Nareyera triggered the ring that quelled magic. If she called on all of its power at once…
It exploded, taking her finger with it and leaving her shrieking in pain, startled and in agony-amid a sudden great hissing, that heralded the return of the night-gloom.
All around the hollow, the fires she'd caused were sinking down into smoke, leaving behind only the hissing of their dying. The smoke-wreathed tree limbs were falling limp, no longer growing or moving purposefully anywhere. They started to creak and groan as they cooled. Amidst the cacophony, the ward-spells of all three Tesmers flickered-and failed.
The pain! Falcon Above, it hurt! Nareyera could not seem to stop weeping. On her knees, she wrung her hand wildly, trying to quell the pain, trying not to look at the twisted and blackened ruin of where her finger had been. The rings on her slender, unmarked neighboring fingers winked and gleamed almost mockingly.
Out of the sagging boughs strode Belard and Talyss, swords glittering and faces grim.
Two swordpoints menaced Nareyera, who stared up at them in teary disbelief. "What're you-fools! I just saved your lives!"
"So you could use us as your little spell-driven dupes," Belard sneered. "Well, behold my gratitude, sister!"
His sword swung back-and then down.
Still weeping, Nareyera spat out a word that took her far away.
Her brother and sister saw a ring wink, and their sister vanish, the winking ring becoming a fading spark in midair. Belard's blade swept through empty air.
He turned to look at Talyss. She was turning slowly on one boot heel to peer at the forest all around. Seeking any sign of Nareyera-or Jaklar-standing nearby in the night, looking murderously back at her.
Belard lowered his sword and waited in silence as she looked, slowly and thoroughly, going around twice.
"Alone," she breathed at last, turning to look at him.
Belard set his teeth in a snarl and sliced away the nearest smoldering branch.
"Good," he spat. Jabbing his blade into the soil, he opened his arms.
Talyss smiled, planted her own sword, and sprang into his embrace.
Their cloaks, still draped over the boughs that now thrust aggressively out into the hollow, were giving off plumes of smoke. He bore her down onto them regardless, almost clawing at her.
She did claw at him, thrusting her loins up to meet him.
"We should get away from here," she panted. "Nareyera knows where we are; she could hurl spells! Our wards are down; that priest could turn the trees against us again, or the beasts of the Raurklor come a-sniffing, to see what meals the fire served them up…"
"Let them," Belard growled. "The danger makes me all the hungrier!" He bent his head and bit at her breasts.
Talyss moaned. Cupping them in her hands, she offered them to him, to bite all the harder.
"Yes! It does!" she hissed. "Take me-and may the Falcon take Nareyera!"
"Oh, it will," Belard snarled, sweat running down his face as he rammed into her. "The way she's going, it undoubtedly will!"
Chapter Thirty
Amteira came awake shivering. Small wonder; she was lying curled up on her side on the great mossy boulder, still wearing nothing at all. Falcon, how long had she been here?
She didn't remember falling asleep, didn't remember anything at all after starting into her prayer…
Knuckling her eyes awake, she sat up-only to have her arm fail her, so she almost fell back to greet the rock with her face.
Wincing, she rolled over on her back, rubbing one arm with the other, flexing both of them, and wiggling her fingers. They were stiff-all of her was stiff-and she found herself shivering. Stars were glimmering overhead through the dark cloak of leaves, and the night air was damp as well as cold. As she rolled over again, Amteira could see her breath for the most fleeting of moments, as a fading, drifting mist caught in the moonlight
.
The moon was low, and around her the Raurklor was alive with rustlings and faint, distant hootings and calls. It was full night.
She sat up. Well, so much for her blood and prayer and all. Either there was no Forestmother and Jaklar was a hedge-wizard lying about his holy beliefs and deeds, or the goddess of the Raurklor wasn't disposed to listen to the entreaties of Amteira Hammerhand.
Most likely Jaklar was lying. "Lord Leaf," indeed. He wasn't a priest at all, but a clever fox who knew who to taint with his berries and ground roots, and when and how to sway or slay folk that way, with a few spells to back up his claims of serving a mighty goddess. Leaving Amteira Hammerhand as just one more fool who'd believed him.
There was her war-harness, just where she'd dropped it. She'd best get dressed before something with fangs came along and decided-hold!
What was that?
Where she'd shifted herself off the great mossy boulder, there was a faint glow.
It was coming from a spot smaller than the palm of her hand, amid the old fissures in the stone. It was the moss she'd wet with her blood, fallen from her skin to the rock, shining in moon-silver silence. A small radiance, but a steady one.
She reached out to touch it but drew back before her fingers reached it, and couldn't stop herself from turning about to shoot swift glances out into the dark forest all around her. Glances that saw no skulking men or beasts, nothing but trees and their leaves.
She looked back at the glow, half expecting it to rear up and lash out at her.
So was this some trick of Jaklar's, or is there a Forestmother after all?
The moss hadn't moved or changed. Staring down at it, Amteira decided she should pray again to the Forestmother. Just a few words this time, no more moss and blood. Just to ward off the disfavor of the goddess, if there was a Forestmother.