The Faerion

by Jim Greenfield

  "Come back and fight!" yelled Treteste. He tried to regain his footing, but his leg was broken. A man rushed forward from the crowd and slit Treteste's throat and vanished back into the crowd. No one tried to stop him or even get a good look at the assassin. The king lay dying in the street as his people stood and cheered. Estes rode back to the street where Deenie waited.

  "He has grown," said Tagera.

  "Yes, I am pleasantly surprised," said Kirkes. "They may be some potential there yet."

  Chapter 20

  The feast following the coronation of King Estes was open to all, regardless of their rank. Many nobles thought it foolish to allow the common population of Nantitet to mix with the lords of Calendia but Estes could not be convinced otherwise and he shared the absurd notion with Lord Tagera and Sir Kirkes who insisted the King's wishes be enforced. The nobles shook their heads and whispered amongst themselves. That they should have lived to see such times was a tragedy.

  There had been little opposition to Estes' claim to the crown. Nobles lined up to gain an audience with the newly crowned king but Tagera stood at his side to advise Estes as he met each noble. No advantages were gained this day.

  "May your reign be long and glorious, sire," said Lord Daass.

  "Thank you, Lord Daass. I am glad you could join us this evening."

  "I do Cothos's bidding, and here I shall join with all the people of Nantitet. It is a rare treat to mingle all the classes in one gathering. I do not believe it has been done before. Unfortunately, there are a great many people who do not appreciate your vision. I do appreciate it, I assure you. I offer my services to you, sire. I shall be delighted to advise you on spiritual matters when you so desire it."

  "Thank you, Lord Daass," said Estes. "I shall look forward to it."

  Daass bowed and moved away. Tagera watched him until he was out of sight.

  "Watch him closely, sire. He is as devious as they come."

  "More devious than you?" Estes grinned.

  "Yes, more devious than me. He is a viper."

  "I shall remember your words," said Estes.

  Daass prepared to leave the great hall, but a large shadow blocked his path.

  "Ah, Lord Daass. May I have a word?"

  "Sir Kirkes. What a pleasure."

  "I'm sure. I wanted to mention that Treteste told me who set in motion the imprisonment of Richela and myself."

  "I see." Daass stood still, but his eyes darted everywhere.

  "I just wanted you to know that I shall always keep your welfare in the forefront of my thoughts."

  "I appreciate that, Sir Kirkes. And I shall do the same for you."

  "As long as we understand the situation," said Kirkes.

  "Oh, I understand perfectly. Good day, Sir Knight."

  "Good day, Moderator Daass."

  Pennants adorned the great hall. People in their best clothes crowded inside to catch a glimpse of the king. Many activities kept the guests entertained. There were games of skill; eating contests, dancing, minstrels and a bard from far the East telling tales not heard in the land. Even the nobles most offended by King Estes bent their ears to hear the bard. Besides, the food proved excellent. The king's table included his closest friends, old and new, who stood by him and prodded him during his brief exile. He quite forgave every perceived slight toward him by Tagera and Kirkes during his exile. He began to see what they had meant by their words. He hoped he could measure up to their expectations.

  "I have an announcement," said Tagera. He paused, grinning foolishly.

  "What is it?"

  "Did you find an unattended keg?"

  "No, no." He pulled Melana up next to him. "I have always been a thorn in the side of those who honor tradition. While in exile I met this delightful young lady." He grinned at her and she blushed.

  "Good for you," someone shouted. "Can we return to the feast?"

  "Not, yet. I want to go against tradition once more. Melana is not of noble blood, yet I wish to make her my wife."

  "What does she think?" asked Richela, shouting down the comments from the men.

  "It is my wish, too," said Melana.

  "To the devil with tradition!" called out King Estes. He raised his tankard. A great shout rose to the rafters. Tagera kissed Melana and was showered with ale. Kirkes stood and clasped his friend's hand.

  "I am happy for you, my friend."

  "Thank you. And I rejoice for you that all barriers are gone."

  Kirkes held Richela's hand and grinned like a little boy. "I am very happy."

  "As it should be!" cried Tagera.

  Singers and jugglers entertained the company. Soon everyone sang with the minstrels. More food was served. Another cask of wine soon spilled into their cups. The tumultuous sound rose from the laughter and song.

  Suddenly, Tagera stood up, clapping his hands.

  "I wish to speak once more."

  "Go easier on the ale, Tagera."

  "No, no. I wish to introduce my daughter."

  "She's just a little thing, isn't she," asked Kirkes. "She should be with her nurse."

  "My friend, it has been many years since you came to the estate. She is quite grown up and journeyed as a member of the troupe."

  "I don't believe it," said Kirkes.

  "Denora, come forward." The young girl stood up, blushing. Estes choked on his bread. He stood up coughing. Several hands pounded his back. He threw back some ale to clear his throat.

  "Deenie!" cried Estes.

  "Yes, you have met, haven't you," said Tagera. "I'd forgotten." He winked at Kirkes who shook his head.

  "Deenie's your daughter?"

  "I thought I spoke clearly. My dear, did I speak clearly?"

  "Yes, you did," said Melana.

  "Sir Kirkes, did you understand my words?"

  "Clearly."

  "Your highness, I fail to see how you did not hear my words."

  Estes did not respond. He stood grinning at Deenie and her back at him.

  "Sire, are you well?" asked Richela.

  "Perhaps you should lie down," said Kirkes.

  "I think he has a fever," said Richela.

  "You are right," said Melana. "He is burning up."

  "Lord Tagera, I have a request."

  "Yes, your highness," said Tagera, smiling at his daughter.

  "I wish to court your daughter."

  "Indeed, I am shocked, shocked."

  "Oh, father, please shut up." Deenie hugged Estes.

  "What?"

  The room exploded in laughter. Melana pulled Tagera away, shaking her head.

  Deenie sat in a courtyard alone. The flower smelled sweet and the sounds of the castle seemed muffled. She enjoyed her solitude. She made plans for the wedding and the feast. The sun seemed warm and her eyelids grew heavy. A large shape passed by the door to the courtyard, and then returned twice more. Deenie dozed on the bench. The shape moved closer to her, and then paused. Voices came toward them. The shape concealed itself behind a bush against the wall.

  Presently, Tagera and Kirkes walked into the courtyard.

  "Sh. Look, she's asleep."

  "No doubt dreaming of the wedding," said Tagera. "She's been so cheerful. She kept to herself after her mother died. Only spoke to me or anyone for that matter, when she absolutely had no choice. I hope Estes can keep her happy."

  "He seems fairly smitten himself."

  "Yes, but it may fade. It often does."

  "That is the truth of it," agreed Kirkes. "I do not envy you as a father. So many worries."

  "You have to look past it, my friend. Otherwise, you cannot survive."

  They left the courtyard. Their voices continued to fade and Deenie remained sleeping. The shape moved from its hiding place. Mortic looked around to be sure no one could see him. He pulled out a long dagger and approached the sleeping girl. Even as he began his killing blow, he heard a gasp, and then felt a searing pain in his shoulder. He turned to see Sir Kirkes, eye ablaze, bearing down on him. Just before t
he huge fist of the knight rendered him unconscious, Mortic wondered at the knife-throwing prowess of Kirkes. Kirkes's blow sent Mortic back into the bushes he had used for concealment. Deenie woke with a start to find the smiling face of Sir Kirkes shadowing her.

  "Nothing to worry about," said Tagera, standing behind Kirkes. "It was just an uninvited guest who needs to be shown his own quarters."

  Tagera called for guards to remove the assassin. Shortly, thereafter King Estes arrived.

  "Are you hurt?" asked Estes.

  "No. I didn't even know I was in danger. I slept through the whole thing."

  "How fortunate," said Estes. "That you did not suffer the fear of such an attack."

  "Let's leave them," said Tagera. "His speech is about to become flowery and that I cannot abide."

  "A hazard of parenting?"

  "Exactly. Exactly."

  With Mortic in the dungeon, the Mordyn invasion stalled. No instructions from Mortic could reach the Mordyn commander and they pulled back, fearing the combined Calendia and Wierland forces would be prepared for them. They relied solely on Mortic for intelligence information and now they were blind.

  Chapter 21

  Wynne fought back the nausea. Her eyes could not look away from the shifting image of what she thought to be a woman, Lady Natale Galamog. She resisted her stomach's urge to retch, steeling herself to the horror to come. The Man form shook and danced as if on a string, then sudden bulges stretched it out of shape. Galamog's blackness grew larger and larger while her control of her Man shape weakened. Blackness exploded through her features and her eyes grew and grew, spreading like broken egg yolks. The creature before them sucked all light from the area and became blacker than the darkest night. A bird flying overhead became absorbed into the blackness and vanished.

  "How do we fight it?" screamed Wynne.

  "I do not know," said Blackthorne. He was shaking his head. "I have never seen her like this. Her strength is terrifying."

  "She's trying to absorb everything," said Navir. "As if she were a sponge."

  "A sponge for life-force," said Blackthorne. "A vampire of sorts."

  "Quaint," said Wynne. Blackthorne glanced at her.

  Wynne began to hear a voice in her mind. It was a fuzzy sound, both comforting and irritating. At first she thought it Galamog, but it did not threaten, nor did it feel evil. There was strangeness to it and she could not make out the words. It seemed to be urging her to do something. The voice did not grow in volume yet it seemed to start a throb in her head.

  Blackthorne moved to the left and Navir to the right to flank Galamog. The dark queen laughed at them, but her voice did not sound Man anymore. She was slipping back to her original form. It proved difficult to do anything but watch. Even Navir felt the tingle of fear in his flesh.

  They each ran to different areas as bolts of blackness shot out from Galamog singeing anything it touched. Navir dove and spun to escape death. Blackthorne threw spell after spell at the creature with no noticeable effect. Wynne held her head, the voice blasting inside her, quenching her thoughts.

  The squat black shape with flailing appendages filled the ravine. Galamog appeared part spider, part octopus. The stench assailed them, invading their lungs, clinging to their clothing. Wynne covered her face, running to find a place to hide. The inner voice grew louder, urging her to fly. She shook her head, trying to displace the words. The Faerion held tight to her bosom also seemed to murmur. For several minutes she worried that Galamog bewitched the book but then the voice began to speak of her mother. She heard things Navir did not tell her, yet there was truth in what she heard. This she knew in her heart. As a Wierlun she could truth-say and no one could speak falsely to her without her knowledge. The words she heard came from the Wierluns who had created the Faerion and given their lives so Galamog could be ultimately destroyed. The inner voice was the voice of the Faerion. Wynne opened her mind to the voice and knew what she had to do.

  Navir hid behind a boulder and watched Wynne as the feathers began to sprout during her transformation. For a moment he feared for the Faerion, then he saw it clutched in the hawk's talons, shimmering with a faint blue light. The boulder rocked as Galamog assailed him again. Rocks fell upon him and he scrambled to escape the punishment. Blackthorne's voice rose time and again, only to be submerged by the hideous laughter of Galamog. Her voice shook small rocks off the sides of the hills. Navir tried to support Blackthorne's spells with his own. Galamog sensed the increased attack and blasted the overhang where Navir stood. He fell down the ravine, striking his head as he settled at the bottom. The blackness of Galamog washed toward him.

  The hawk cried overhead, swooping low with the Faerion clutched tightly. The blackness paused, and then rose to meet her. The hawk dropped the Faerion into the center of the darkness and peeled away. Blackthorne made his way to Navir and dragged him away.

  Suddenly, a burst of color erupted from the blackness and two creatures could be seen. It appeared the black-armed spider form of Galamog struggled against a huge tree shape. Its green branches wavered and struck Galamog. A flash of green and blue preceded a cry of pain from Galamog.

  "The Faerion!" cried Blackthorne. "It turned into a living creature."

  "The accumulative power of the Wierluns that made it," gasped Navir. His breathing still labored after his fall.

  "How did Wynne know?"

  "I do not know," said Navir. "I wasn't certain how it was supposed to work myself."

  They watched the supernatural creatures' battle. No one spoke.

  Berimar had sensed the coming of Galamog. He felt the vibration through the stone of the mountain. Her rage was terrible. At this moment, when deciding to thwart her designs, Berimar felt fear. True fear. Despite the generations of servitude she forced upon him he never realized what true fear could be. He would risk the end of his lengthy life to save the Tuors? Perhaps it was his own freedom he craved. It mattered not.

  He watched the Tuors. They knew fear. He had their lives in his hands. So far he had been able to resist Galamog's directives. It tired him and soon he would have to submit. If he moved quickly, the Tuors could escape. He watched Culver wash Elise's face. She would die, regardless of what he did. However, he might spare Culver and Tomen. Was it worth the risk?

  "There is a chance to save your lives," Berimar whispered to Tomen. "But it may not work and we all shall perish."

  "It is better than waiting here for you to kill us."

  "There is no hope for Elise."

  "I know it, but do not speak of it to Culver. His heart is already breaking. We must keep his hope alive."

  "Even falsely?" He arched an eyebrow.

  "Even falsely." Tomen sighed. There were no good answers.

  "Come," he said to Tomen. "Bring the other two. Galamog battles your friends. If we are lucky, I might be able to help them and yourselves."

  He handed Tomen and Culver long knives that served for swords for Tuors. The hilts were inlaid with pearl and the blades gleamed red.

  "These are enchanted. They will bring injury to any supernatural being you encounter. I doubt we will see Men in this battle except for those on our side. Right now, Galamog is engaged with Blackthorne, Wynne and Navir. I plan to add whatever assistance I can. You three are to escape. Run as fast as you can and never look back. Run all the way to Paglo. I will try to keep you safe. Let us go."

  "Berimar," said Tomen. "Thank you."

  The sorcerer grinned a sad grin and patted Tomen on the head.

  Even as they left Berimar's sanctuary the seekers waited for them. Berimar filled the cavern with power, searing everything in its path.

  They dashed over the smooth stone path, Tomen bringing up the rear. Seekers appeared from nowhere. Berimar blasted them with bolts of power and Tomen's sword killed those that drew near. Culver, holding the increasingly weak form of Elise, kept pace with Berimar.

  The path to the surface seemed shorter than their decent.

  They stepped out of t
he cave into a surreal scene. The Faerion creature and Galamog battled below them. Tomen rubbed his eyes. It could not be real. Berimar pushed them out.

  "Run! Run!" His voice boomed through the mountains. Even Galamog paused and turned toward him.

  Galamog hissed in rage as she saw the Tuors escaping. With a scream she unleashed a stream of power at the Tuors. Berimar moved instinctively, throwing up a shield to protect the Tuors. The blast ricocheted off the shield and struck Berimar fully. Galamog roared even as the Faerion creature attacked again, drawing her full attention.

  The creature of forest green resisted the enfolding of the black shadows of Galamog. Streaks of green shot out of the darkness like light through a cracked door in the night.

  Wynne regained her Man form and staggered to Navir who held her tightly. It was over for them. Whatever happened, win or lose, they could do no more. Blackthorne stood off to one side away from the glare of Tomen. Berimar sat as if senile. His bloody mouth hung open and he patted the cold forehead of Elise. Culver did not notice the battle of the Faerion and Galamog. He sat on his knees, holding Elise's hand, thinking of all that they would never do, how brave she was, how pretty she was, why did she choose him and why did she come on the journey. His thoughts ran wild through his mind, a kaleidoscope of images numbing him.

  The air was full of thunder. Galamog screamed in rage, tearing at the creature the Wierluns made when they became aware of her coming to their land. Galamog tore the greenness into bits, battering the creature until it was no more. Her red eyes turned to the watchers on the bluff. She laughed, shaking the very earth. The blackness reached for them.

  Behind her the color of the trees grew together with a sucking sound and the creature of the Wierluns leapt upon the blackness that was Galamog. The thunderous concussion knocked Wynne and Navir to the ground. Galamog screamed and raged, struggling to free herself of the Faerion.

  A strange thing happened. The green began to blend into the blackness, darkening as they mingled. Darker and darker it became until it was almost black. Yet, it was not. Slowly the green began to grow, spreading throughout the area until the darkness was gone. Then the greenness pulled itself back, compressing into a small shape.