He shook his head.
The savant frowned. She pressed her palm against his chest. “Breathe deep for me, Bannor. Suck in as much as you can and hold it.”
He drew in air. It was hard to do, and long before he’d filled his lungs it felt as if claws tore at his insides. Bannor coughed, sending a painful tingles shooting all the way down to his toes. He groaned.
“It’s okay,” Wren gripped his shoulder. “Breathe shallow now.” She looked at Sarai. “Its probably not magic. He’s too resistant. These symptoms look like snake bite.”
“But there’s no swelling.”
“Some kinds of venom aren’t destructive. They don’t cause obvious swelling. The avatars don’t want him dead. Virulent toxins destroy tissue. He wouldn’t be much good to them permanently damaged.”
Sarai stiffened and her jaw muscles tightened. “Can you do anything for it?”
Wren shook her head. “Not without the proper herbs and such. Leeching the blood wouldn’t help. He needs a venom curative.”
Bannor swallowed. He might be this way for days, maybe forever. He clamped his eyes shut and focused on the favorable outcome.
“What now, find Laramis?” Sarai asked.
“We’d best,” Wren said. “He’s probably out there someplace paralyzed like Bannor. I’ll backtrack and see if I can pick up his trail. No telling if there’s more of that breed of demon running around. We’re too close to hooking up with your father’s army to get stopped now.”
“Be careful,” Sarai said.
Bannor opened his eyes and glanced toward Wren.
“I will.” The savant nodded and started down the trail. After a few paces she stopped suddenly and turned back. “Did I hear you right? Did you say ‘be careful’?”
“Get out of here!” Sarai snarled.
“That’s what I thought.” Wren jogged off and disappeared in the foliage.
Bannor looked up at Sarai. “Be careful?” he slurred.
“You’re too injured to poke, just hush.” Sarai let out a breath and sat beside him. She unshouldered her roll of spare clothes and put it under his head. She took one of his hands in hers. “Wren is still a witch. I’ve become accustomed to her that’s all.”
He tried to smile, but didn’t it work right. “I understand.”
Sarai raised an eyebrow. “You’re not too ill to be sarcastic I see, so I guess I shouldn’t worry.” She pulled the Laramis’ bodo bag off her belt. “Want some water?”
He nodded. His throat did feel parched. It took several tries to swallow, but he finally managed a few mouthfuls.
The trembling returned. “Scared,” he said.
“I know.” Sarai kissed him on the forehead. “Wren will be back soon and we’ll head for the pass. Father will have some excellent healers with the Unicorn Elite guard. There’s little they cannot fix.”
She stroked his brow, face turned toward the fang of Jhared peak poking up through the clouds.
“Will they heal me?”
Sarai seemed surprised by the question. “Of course.” She picked up a thumb-sized stone and massaged it between her fingers. The rock flattened and melted. “They’d better or I’ll bring the whole pass down on their heads. Father had better have reconsidered his position—especially now. I refuse to be married off to some pig of a human for the sake of Father’s games. I’ve been dutiful for four centuries. I’ve earned my freedom. If Father thinks he can change that, he’ll find he’s mistaken.” She formed the softened rock into a ball that slowly became transparent. Sarai held the crystal sphere between her thumb and forefinger and looked through it at the pass. “Sadly mistaken.”
Sarai cradled his head into her lap and sang quietly to him while they waited for Wren to return. Bannor had lost track of time as it grew steadily more difficult for him to focus. Moments of wakefulness were interrupted by sudden drowsiness then bursts of riveting panic where his heart hammered and he found it difficult to breathe. One moment he felt hot, the next cold. So confusing.
A word tugged at him for the longest time; chasing him through moments of lucidity, drowsiness, and excitement. He knew what it all meant. When it came to him, he stared up into to Sarai’s concerned face.
“Delirious,” he mumbled.
She hushed him and dabbed his brow. “Damn, where is she?”
Sarai said other things, but he lost it in the sound of rushing blood. His face felt hot and his skin prickly. He wanted to rub at the itchiness, but couldn’t.
A fog shrouded the world and Bannor felt himself tugged down into a vast silence. Stars winked in the distance and towering funnels of writhing color danced at the edges of visibility. Drums rapped out a cadence that alternately grew and diminished in volume. The odor of flowers and sulfur clung to him, and with them the reeking of trench dirt and rotting flesh. He couldn’t escape it. The smells of death and decay.
A voice, harsh a sibilant echoed in the darkness. If you do not come to us, Garmtur. We shall come to you.
No. He wanted to scream at them but didn’t have a voice to utter it with. All comes tumbling down. No more games. No more fun in the sun. Nobody laughs or cries. It’s over… It’s over… over.
“He okay?”
“In and out. You’re right, it must be poison. He needs a healer. No Laramis?”
“I covered everything. His tracks end at a tree. It’s like he vanished.”
“We have to move, now. His fever is getting worse.”
“I’ll chop some saplings for a litter. We’ll use the hair rope for webbing.”
Bannor faded. He woke twice when things moved around him. At one point, he felt himself lifted. The next he heard a peculiar grinding noise and a jostling. After rousing a little he realized the ground was moving, or he was. He tried to ask what was going on but failed. A hand touched his cheek.
“I’m here.” He caught a glimpse of blue eyes.
He lost track again until he felt himself lurch to a stop.
He heard Wren say something, then Sarai. Something about Laramis. Bannor struggled to understand what was happening. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the blurry images of several figures.
Focusing his concentration he made out some of the words. “Arminwen?”
Sarai’s voice responded, penetrating and clear. “We are.”
“By order of the Armidar se Malan you are under arrest for traitorism to the state.”
* * *
Pain is both relative and abstract, as is tolerance to it.
That is why torture is an art. If the victim is subjected to constant pain they grow used to it. Many creatures can live with pain right up to the point it kills them. If information or concession is the desire, the last thing you want to do is let them die. They must fear the torturer’s caress more than the submitting. So, the best torture involves no physical pain at all, the agony should live only in mind of victim. The strokes inflicted on oneself often hurt magnitudes more than the strike of any lash…
—From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’
Chapter Forty-Three
« ^ »
Interlude.
Journal Entry 37: Spring, 1102 New Ivaneth Calendar.
Steeped in the heat of war, threatened by death or enslavement, yet I can still stand in awe of the majesty of creation. The jagged silhouette of Jhared peak rises high into the sky above us, topped with a crown of snow and clouds. The breeze is an icy nibbling at my cheeks and I can feel my heart stirred by the cries of the talonhunter rising on the morning wind.
As I look back over what I have written, I am amazed at the poetry of my own words. I would have thought by now that such lyricism would have long since been burned from my soul. The spark remains, and I find it heartening as I stand in the shadow of a colossus that plans to annihilate me and everything I have ever worked for. Poetry. I wonder if it is because the pantheon lords have lost the poetry in their souls, so all they know is ravaging. A mindless pursuit of a goal that they can only accomplish
by stealing the dreams of less fortunate creatures. They will not compromise.
How I would love to be able to bring the power of Starholme Prime on them. Gaea made me swear never to do that. How I wish she hadn’t forced me make that promise. By now, I would have learned enough control to turn Hecate into a bad memory. Assuming I can get out of this mess, I think Bannor will be all I need to convince the Felspar family to commit to my cause. I can hope anyway.
The elves are taking Ishtar’s own time in getting us back to their camp. They are extremely cautious and fear leading the enemy back to their bivouac. These delays and Bannor’s continued illness disturb Sarai greatly.
It’s been all that I can do to keep her calm and prevent her from doing the leading Praelor some serious harm. Apparently, these elves have been directed to disregard any orders she gives them. I see in their eyes that they hate this duty and even the most steely of them trembles when she raises her voice. Royal blood aside, Sarai is a formidable force among her kind. These veterans know and respect her. Apparently, at some point in her life Sarai put aside her titles and joined the army as common recruit. She apparently earned her way up to rank of commanding Praelor. Some of the troops here still call her by that title.
Bannor is in a bad way, and the poison continues to eat at him. It would not be a fatal toxin if I could get him adequate care in a timely manner. Unfortunately, the elves have been uncooperative and will not hasten us to their healers.
Irodee remains in my thoughts. Does she think I am dead? No doubt she thinks Laramis gone. How barren and angry she must feel. I wish I could reach out across the battlefield to comfort her. We have been each other’s only family for so long. Even the Myrmigyne treated her as something of a freak and an outcast. She has always been there for me and I for her when I could. I feel as though I have let her down. She needs me now. I know that she is frightened. I hope to be back with her soon.
No word about Laramis. The elves have disavowed knowing anything about him. However, I overheard two of the Midachs talking. From what I could understand, Laramis may have been taken by a patrol of elves that were in the area ahead of the group that found us. His presence may have been the very reason they knew to come look for Sarai. I will strive to learn more, if there is more to know.
In light of all the bad news there are some good tidings. Sarai and I have hit something of an accord. Although she is still far from trusting me, we have come to terms with one another. That, in itself, is a major victory. Bannor’s condition worries her, and my consolations have brought us closer.
His condition worries me, too, for other reasons beyond the romantic. The Garmtur could be manipulated in horrific ways by a delirious mind. Each hour that passes increases the chance that some kernel of restraint that Bannor is maintaining might slip. I don’t want to contemplate what will happen then… Sarai senses it too and her patience with the delay and these soldiers is waning. I fear she may do something rash that may jeopardize our chances of getting her father’s assistance. I hope we reach the pass soon.
End of Interlude.
Even in his transient state between sleep and wakefulness, Bannor felt the anger seething in Sarai. The part of him that was bonded to her knew the frustration. The desire to lash out, but knowing that the act would accomplish nothing. The bodies that moved around the travois he lay on marched stiffly, boots clacking heel-to-toe on the broken rock. Wren also walked nearby. She stood with something gold in her hand; the journal. He wondered what secrets lurked within those pages, what chimeras Wren concealed in those words.
He guessed that at least a night and part of a day had passed. Wren asked questions that got minimal or no response. He heard Laramis’ name mentioned a few times. Between the grind of the wooden runners on rock and the chilly moaning of the wind Bannor was too fuzzy to grasp from the elf’s response whether they knew of the Paladin or had simply told Wren to shut up.
After a time, he realized that Sarai hiked along next to him. She caressed his brow. The tension in her was evident in her hands; smooth skin cool against his, the flesh vibrating with suppressed energy. Trying to make out her face rendered only two violet blurs set in a lighter colored circle. A dark outline thrust up into the sky beyond her. The pass. Its name escaped him now.
He wanted to say something but knew it wouldn’t come out right. His stomach burned and an acid taste crept up his throat and coated the roof of his mouth. A painful tingling pulsated in his arms and legs, but he still couldn’t move them. His tongue didn’t work right as he tried to wet his dry lips.
“Want a drink?” Sarai asked.
He managed a nod.
Sarai doled out a few mouthfuls of water that he gratefully swallowed, getting rid of the sour taste in his mouth. He tried to say ‘thank you’ but it came out garbled. Sarai dabbed his brow with a damp cloth.
“How’s he doing?” Wren asked. Bannor didn’t hear a response, but Wren acted as though she’d gotten one. “That good, eh?”
Sarai’s voice sounded low and menacing. “If Praelor Kharvok does not turn us to the pass at noon, I will march us to the pass without an escort.”
“Do you think that’s wise? Isn’t your father already mad enough?”
“Carellion take Father’s game playing.” She let out a breath and Bannor felt it hot on his cheek. “We’re in the middle of a war, and he sends this contingent to harass me. He’s baiting me. Testing my resolve. I’m not in the mood.”
“Sarai, bear up. I don’t like it either. Risking Bannor like this makes me nervous too, but we need your father’s help. It’s bad enough that you’re coming back in—” She paused. “In less than his good graces.”
“I know very well where I stand with him. He also knows that he forced to me choose. He’s just unhappy with my decision.”
“Just the same, give it a little a longer. These soldiers know you’re serious. They won’t push you much further.”
Bannor felt Sarai’s hand on his arm. She gripped it possessively. “They’d best not.”
He felt Sarai’s lips press against his forehead.
The sun grew warm against his face and became a blur in the sky. He focused on Sarai trying to get a clearer image of her, but the clarity didn’t come. As he struggled, darkness slowly swallowed his vision. A single black eye burned in the steel gray sky, casting a dark radiance across the blasted plain. A network of glowing rivulets of lava bubbled and hissed through cracks in crusty reddish soil that looked like parboiled flesh. Charred trees leaned askew in the decimated ground like skeletal hands. A bluish fog that smelled of sulphur and burning vegetation tumbled along the uneven surface.
Bannor blinked.
The image remained unchanged.
He felt the heat working through his boots and the churning begin in his stomach from the vile smells that issued from the fissures around him.
This seemed too real to be a dream. The ill sensation in his stomach made him want it to be no more than imaginary. He noticed that all the scrapes and bruises from his many encounters of the week still dotted his skin but the paralysis inflicted on him by the demon was gone. He felt a vague tugging at the base of his spine.
Wrong, all of this. This was nothing like anything he or Wren would ever imagine. Why did this vision come to him? An ache started in his chest, like his heart was trying to pound but couldn’t move.
The pulling sensation from his back came again. Probing with his fingers revealed nothing. He started to turn and look more carefully when a movement caught his attention. A single figure moving languidly across the smoking terrain.
A tremor of unease crept upon him as he watched the shape approach. He made no attempt to close the distance. Nothing from this forbidden place would be anything he’d be eager to meet. Likely whatever or whoever that was, pulled him to this god-forsaken piece of Hades. If this place turned out to actually be Hades, it wouldn’t surprise him.
The thought made his stomach twist a notch tighter.
He looked a
round, finding no places to run or hide in the vast openness. He saw no areas where something might conceal itself. Nothing but leagues of blackened expanse and the lone figure now only a stone’s throw away.
Bannor steeled himself. How would he get out of this place? Last he remembered, he lay on the travois being pulled along by one of the elven soldiers. Sarai had been making threatening noises. Now, he stood here in the middle of this devastated land. Why?
He focused on the figure. His answers lay there.
The black radiance made the details of the entity blend together. It looked slender, perhaps a little taller than himself. Something milky white, either hair or a cloak trailed behind it in the gusts of air.
The creature appeared in no more hurry than himself. Picking a winding path across the coarse terrain but definitely heading toward him.
Bannor found himself holding his breath. Though the being moved gingerly around this place’s hazards, it appeared at home, long legs stepping with precision and confidence. What kind of horror would he be faced with?
When it came within twenty paces Bannor saw that it looked to be a female. It brought to mind stories of underworld temptresses such as the erinyes and succubi: demonic females who ate the souls of men and took control of their minds. Hecate had tried to force submission from him without success, perhaps now she was trying a different tack.
The female drew closer, her alluring appearance more apparent with each step. Bannor had never seen anything like her, layers and shades of white on white, waist-length snowy hair, a diaphanous pearl-colored gown, and albescent skin. Her face and body were the feminine ideals great sculptures aspired to capture. The only contrasts to the paleness were the flash of a woven gold necklace, the carmine of her lips and the onyx black of her eyes and lashes.
Feeling his manhood respond of its own accord, Bannor forced himself to look away. Chest aching, he clenched his hands at his sides. He felt cold. Nothing had any right to be so breathtaking. It made his eyes ache.
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