by Robert Ryan
Brand was not going to press him on his home city. There was some darkness there, that much was obvious, but that the man had travelled was interesting.
“What have you seen?” he asked. “What passes in Alithoras?”
“Many things,” Bragga Mor replied tiredly. “The enemy is now in the northlands. There are raging bands about, but, at least as I hear it, most are concentrated around Cardoroth. A vast army besieges that city.” He gave Brand a questioning look, and Brand nodded without speaking. Bragga Mor seemed to need little else by way of confirmation. He was clever, and had already guessed where Brand had come from, and no doubt many more things besides.
The stranger continued. “There’s rumor of dark deeds in the west. The eastern realms are nervous, knowing that trial of war may soon come to them, though as yet I have not heard that anywhere is attacked save Cardoroth. At least, that was the last I heard, but my news is old, for the wild lands call me now, and the works of men that do not last only haunt me. I avoid them.”
Brand felt again that some darkness lay behind this man, and he was making his own guesses. But a sharp hiss from Kareste distracted him.
“Something comes!” she said.
Brand drew his sword and remained quiet, but into the silence Bragga Mor spoke.
“Of course,” he said, turning to Kareste, “as you knew it must.” He faced Brand again. “The very air sings with unease, and the beautiful girl knows why.”
5. It Calls to the Dark
The two men looked at Kareste; one with apparent knowledge, and the other in surprise.
Kareste merely shrugged. “I did not know – I only guessed.”
“But now you know that your guess is right,” Bragga Mor said.
“They usually are,” she answered. “But more to the point, how do you know?”
“Oh, I’ve seen a thing or two. Yes I have. More than I would like. Things to burn a man’s vision and haunt his dreams. I know power when I see it – lòhrengai, elùgai and even ùhrengai, the force that forms and substances the world and from which both light and shadow spring.”
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Brand asked.
Kareste nudged her mount toward him. “Shurilgar’s staff is a powerful thing. It calls. It calls to the Shadow, and the Shadow hears. I don’t just mean the enemies that have hunted us, nor just Khamdar, if he still lives. I mean the dark things that dwell in Alithoras – the evil that lives in deep valleys, or lurks in the marshes, or haunts the forests and roams the lonely hills. The evil that hides; in short, all the shadowy creatures that have hated people since people first learned to kindle fire and keep the dark at bay.”
“What does all that mean?” Brand asked.
“It means,” replied Bragga Mor, “that you’re in trouble. As the girl says, something comes. I have seen it. Or rather, I have seen her. A witch she is. I spotted her walking the starlit grasslands last night. To be sure, she is not one of the great ones, but she is still mighty powerful. And,” he pointed at the broken half of Shurilgar’s staff, “she would have more – more of what that can give to her.”
Kareste did not seem disturbed. “How do you know that she isn’t one of the great ones?”
“I’ve seen one of them,” he said. His voice trailed away and his gaze became distant.
Brand had heard enough. “It’s time to go,” he said, “And quickly.”
Bragga Mor looked at him sharply. The past obviously troubled him, but he could give his attention to the present swiftly enough if he chose to.
“No. You cannot flee her. You must stay and fight, if it comes to that. Better to face her now than at some point in the future when you may be less able.”
Brand thought quickly. There was something to what Bragga Mor said. Who knew what the future held? And if the witch joined forces with Khamdar, then the situation would become much worse.
“Will you fight with us?” Brand asked. He knew nothing of this stranger, and the man had no reason to help. But there was something about him…
“Or,” Kareste cut in, “Will you fight with the witch?”
Brand had not thought of that as a possibility, but immediately on her words he wondered if his own instincts were wrong.
Bragga Mor looked at her and smiled. “That, we shall see.”
Brand cocked his head and listened. A change had come over the wood. He could not quite name what it was, but it seemed as though even the leaves at the tops of the trees were hushed, and the trunks were still like an army of wary men that silently watched an approaching messenger, unafraid of him, but fearing the import of his tidings.
The witch came. One moment she was not there, though her presence filled the wood, and then she was among them, seeming to coalesce from the shadows at the fringe of the clearing into flesh and blood that stepped upon the grass.
Brand was ready. He maneuvered his mount to face her, but he did not put his back to Bragga Mor.
She that had come was light-footed, for her steps quickly took her to the middle of the glade, but she moved without haste or sign of threat. And it was a strange thing to see how she elegantly walked, for judging by her appearance, it seemed to Brand that she should have hobbled.
The witch was old. Her skin hung on her in wrinkled folds that swung as she moved. Her hair, a mess of long gray strands and wisps of white, fell over her narrow shoulders and down her hunched back. Her nose, long and hooked, jutted forward like a bird’s beak. Above it, glaring like a hawk’s, her eyes held each of their own in turn. There was no sign of frailty there, despite her decrepit body and her ancient, ugly face.
She raised an arm. The tattered remnants of robes fell back, revealing more withered skin. A crooked finger, dirty-nailed and swollen at the joints, pointed at Kareste.
“I know what it is that you carry,” she said.
Her voice confused Brand. It was smooth and clear and beautiful: the voice of a woman in the flower of her youth.
Though the voice surprised him, he perceived instinctively that her power resided in it. It was a voice to command, to persuade, to inspire trust. Most of all, it was a voice that could carry and enhance spells. And spells he would be wary of, for she had come to take Shurilgar’s staff, and she would not be idle in pursuing that goal.
Her words to Kareste were not loud, but they seemed to fill the clearing and to echo strangely up and down the shadowy aisles of tree trunks.
Kareste quivered with emotion. “Stay back, hag. Or die.”
Brand looked on silently. Bragga Mor did not move. Surprisingly, the witch showed no anger. She gazed at Kareste calmly, her hawk-like eyes gleaming with humor.
“By that,” she replied, “you mean ‘don’t try to take the staff, or I’ll fight to the death to keep it.’ Has it already got such a strong hold on you?”
Kareste stiffened, but the witch went on speaking. “You are young in your power. I am old. Old as the hills and wily as the ancient beasts that roam them, seldom seen by man. I have many names. Hag is one. Slithrest, Netherwall and Angrod are others. Those names were old before even the Halathrin strode ashore to this land.”
The witch straightened, and a hard edge of threat came into her voice. “But they named me Durletha – enduring as stone. And that should be a warning to you, for I have seen frost break mountains into plains and flat plains themselves raised into high mountains. I have seen the great sea, black and terrible beyond the reach of your thought, climb the shore and sweep all before it. I will be here when it comes again. I have seen the bright Halathrin, proud and stern and aloof. I watched unmoved as they came, and I looked on uncaring as they dwindled. I saw the Letharn rise before them, whose lands you are passing through, whose lands you would still be passing through though you rode for weeks, and I saw them fall. And before them were the Kirsch, whom men have forgotten. So, foolish girl, will you contend with me?”
It was Brand who answered. “She is not alone.”
Durletha turned her fierce ey
es upon him. “Ah. You speak at last. You are younger than she, but perhaps wiser.” The witch frowned for a moment, assessing him. “Yes, I see it now. There is no give in you. You will fight for her. But will you die for her?”
“No one needs to die today,” he said.
She paused, continuing to look at him intently. “But death follows you, does it not?” she said after a moment. “Everywhere you go. Even in Red Cardoroth, that will fall in blood and flame. And who protects you? You think you protect the king, but the king is protecting you, else you would be dying with him even as we speak.”
Brand showed nothing of what he felt at those words. Durletha seemed to know far too much about what was happening. That she had some measure of Sight was evident, but that did not meaning she was not lying.
Her gaze did not leave him, but her haggard face broke into a grin and she clapped her hands.
“Yes, you’re wiser than your companion. She shall surely fall at the end, but you, you might yet stand tall. Yes, even without me you could command armies, wear a crown and conquer wide realms. But with me at your side, we could rule all of Alithoras. The petty lòhrens and the shadow in the south would fight each other for the crumbs under our table. Yes, it could be so.”
Brand raised his eyebrows but did not speak. He had heard this kind of thing before from those with the Sight, but not from one so old and decrepit – not from one who would make him her paramour.
“And you are polite, too. But I have more pleasing forms than this!”
The forest remained still, but birds now sang in the dappled sunlight. A sweet breeze blew, carrying the scent of earth, leaf and flower, and some exotic perfume that he could not name.
“I am not of the Light,” she said softly. “But neither am I of the Shadow.”
“Are you not?”
“No. But I can be anything between them!”
The sun now seemed dazzling bright in the clearing. Bright beams shot amid the trees and Brand raised a hand to shield his eyes.
As quick as the stabbing light came it disappeared. When it was gone, the witch stood just where she had been, but she was transformed.
Durletha was now young, and it seemed to Brand that it was no spell but her true form. Her hair was long, flowing in golden locks that shimmered like burnished metal. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, seeming to glow with health and beauty. Nor did she stand bent and hump-backed, but tall and proud. She gazed at him with a cool look, a look of utter confidence, but yet from the same hawk-like eyes as before.
And with a shimmer she changed again. This time she appeared as Kareste, but it was a Kareste that he had never seen before. In form, the likeness was identical, but there was a sweet smile on her lips, and a grace in the way she stood that spoke of gentleness and care, not of a strong sword arm and a sharp tongue. This time also her eyes had changed: they were green-gold, and they laughed at him with a carefree joy.
“I can be anything you want,” the witch said. “Anything.” And her voice was Kareste’s, but it contained a promise of intimacy that he had never heard in it before.
“I can be anything you want, and the world will be ruled by your sword, and by your will.”
Brand hesitated, and then he grinned back at her boyishly. She had made a mistake. She spoke of realms and armies and swords. She spoke of war and conquest and rule, but she made no mention of the staff he bore or of the power that was in him, and that told him what she most feared and least wished him to consider.
He gripped Aranloth’s staff tightly. It was warm to his hand. He felt the residue of lòhrengai within it. That force called to him, and he felt it all around him also.
The forces that formed and substanced the world were everywhere, and he was becoming more sensitive to them. He knew now that he could summon them, transform them, use them. That ability was in him, but in bringing those forces into himself they would change him even as he changed them.
And each time he used such power he would become more adept. He would sense the call more strongly. Each step he took down that road was a step that he could never retrace. Once followed, there was no turning back from the path ahead. And in following it, it would alter him forever, and perhaps not for the best.
Dare he try to use such power one last time? And what of his vow? Could he so easily break it, even if need drove him? They were hard questions, and he had no answers. But at the same time he sensed that the choice was before him. The witch had made it so, and she had no fear of his sword. That much was clear.
There was little time left. That Durletha would try to claim the staff was obvious. It was equally obvious that she must not have it. To that end, he would fight. But how?
She did not fear his sword. To what extent she feared lòhrengai, he could not tell. But she was far more skilled in such things than he. If he used it, she would defeat him easily. And yet there was Kareste also. She would fight, and between the two of them they might defeat her. But if he joined Kareste in that, he would become what he did not wish, what he least trusted.
Still he stood, undecided, and the brief moments flitted by. Soon the witch would realize that her attempt to persuade him had failed, and then she would attack.
But he was caught in a dilemma that he could not solve. And a new thought struck him as a blow, and disabled him.
Why should he not embrace his new-found power?
6. An Iron-hard Will
The great serpent rose higher, a massive thing that even those in distant parts of Cardoroth could see. People ran into the streets; some screamed, others remained deathly quiet, watching.
Gilhain, atop the battlement, was one who watched in silence. The creature’s coils flowed and undulated, ascending from the vast pit without end.
It towered above the Cardurleth, blotting out the sun. But it did not strike. Gilhain realized that it would not attack that way; it would not rend with its great fangs or use poison. It had some other means to visit destruction upon them.
The creature’s lower portions began to slide along the rampart. It covered hundreds of feet of stonework, grinding and smashing against the merlons, sending them tumbling down in ruin to the earth below.
Though the coils were thicker than the trunk of an ancient oak, the soldiers attacked. Their blades did nothing. Some of them, getting too close, were crushed by a sudden heave of the serpent. The stones ran red with blood.
With its slow haste, the serpent continued, oblivious to the hundreds of men that attacked it like a swarm of ants.
A stench filled the air, and Gilhain and his wife gagged at the putrid smell. Slime dripped down the stone. Aranloth stood close by, unaffected. His head was down, either in acceptance of an opponent beyond his ability to fight, or else in deep thought.
“May fate show us mercy,” whispered Aurellin.
The great loops of the serpent began to constrict. They closed slowly, but surely. Stone popped. Sprays of dust and loose gravel filled the air. Cracks appeared, not just in merlons but lower down. A deep grinding noise thrummed through the air and pulsated up through the stone into Gilhain’s feet.
He took Aurellin’s hand in his own. “It will bring down the Cardurleth,” he said softly.
“And let in the horde,” she answered.
They watched in terrible fascination as a white-robed lòhren, near the head of the beast, made a desperate move. Her black hair spilled out behind her as she ran. Swift she moved, but the creature paid no heed. And then she was upon it, thrusting her staff into its mouth.
Purple-blue lòhrengai flared. Men with axes raced behind her, attacking in unison. They hewed with mighty swings at the neck, as near as they dared approach the flame.
The creature made no sound, but a ripple ran through it. Suddenly, it threw up coils of its long body. They crashed into the men and sent them sprawling, axes clattering from lifeless hands. Some few crawled away, broken bones slowing them, but they escaped.
The lòhren was not so lucky. Bravely she stayed
where she was, lòhrengai flaring from her staff until she dropped to her knees, exhausted. But the great jaws of the beast snapped shut around her.
She screamed. Blood sprayed. Bones snapped with a crack audible even to Gilhain. Her staff fell from her writhing arms. The creature then spat her out, its massive jaws agape, and the ruined body of the lòhren fell, tumbling across the rampart and down the other side into the city streets.
Wider still the jaws opened, and the beast vomited the lòhrengai back out. It seemed unharmed.
The screaming of the city folk was a sound such as Gilhain had never heard before, nor ever wanted to hear again. It was primal fear given voice, unfettered by thought or hope or restraint. Other cities had heard it, other cities that had fallen before the enemy. But they had not fallen without a fight; they had not gone willingly under the shadow, and nor would Gilhain.
Without word or gesture or haste, the king drew his sword. He stepped forward to attack, and men followed him. It was no longer about hope of victory; it was about fighting an enemy, about never surrendering to an opponent. Blades would not work. Lòhrengai would not work. But that did not mean he would not try to the last, and there was a victory in that worth more than life. It was life, for nothing else mattered in the end.
The great sword of the king hacked and slashed. The soldiers near him did the same. Yet for all their effort they were like men hewing at a mighty oak with paper axes: the scales of the serpent were too thick and the blows were as nothing.
The massive coils of the serpent rose above the king. The queen now leaped to his side, stabbing with a knife, and the shadow of the creature fell over them. Whether by accident, the intelligence of the creature, or the design of the elùgroths who had summoned it, the coils crashed down seeking to crush them both.
But the Durlin were there. In a last great effort they flung themselves forward, some to attack the creature with pikes, others to pull back the king and queen to safety. Some died beneath the toppling coils, crushed and broken, but the king and queen were saved, the pikes holding back the weight of the monster for just a moment before they slipped away beneath its vast bulk.