by Sean Rodden
“Come.”
Ev lin Dar ducked past the hide flap into the Halflord’s tent. When she saw her Prince, her fine brows bunched darkly, giving her tigress tattoo an angry aspect. But there was no anger in her. Not, at least, for the Halflord. No, not for him. Never that.
“You summoned me, Prince Kor.”
The Halflord sat on the edge of his cot, shoulders hunched, forearms resting upon his thighs. He held the intricate mechanisms of his hair-wings in his large strong hands, absently working the hinges with his fingers. His magnificently muscled body was bare from the waist up, and bore a sheen of sweat. His head was bowed, his hard handsome face hidden behind curtains of black hair.
“Yes.”
Ev lin Dar waited, but the Halflord said no more. He did not move, nor did he seem inclined to do so any time soon. The Black Shield’s pearly eyes swept the austere interior of the tent. Armour. Weaponry. Some clothing. A platter of untouched food. Little else.
“Do you dream, Shield?”
Ev lin Dar swung her gaze back to Kor ben Dor. Two white eyes peered up at her past strands of hanging hair. There was a shining in the depths of those pale lights that the Black Shield found disconcerting, disturbing.
“Do I…?” she began, then shook her head. “I don’t understand, Prince Kor.”
The lights behind the draped hair disappeared. The Halflord had closed his eyes.
“We do not sleep, we Bloodspawn, not in the way that others do. But we rest. And when we rest, we dream.” The Halflord’s voice was disarmingly soft, silken, and seemed somewhat sad. “The mind wanders. Thoughts scatter, images rise, patterns emerge, themes develop, culminating in complex visions over which we have no conscious control. In the dark, it happens. It happens in the dark.”
Ev lin Dar blinked slowly, bit her lip.
“Are you unwell, Prince Kor? Shall I summon…”
The two white lights reappeared, brighter than they had been.
“You do not dream, Shield?”
Ev lin Dar shook her head slowly.
“I do not believe so, Prince Kor.” She frowned, then added, “Though sometimes my thoughts do drift, and I…remember things.”
The white lights narrowed.
“What things do you remember?”
Ev lin Dar’s frown darkened. The tigress snarled. She brushed a shock of midnight hair from her beautiful face.
“I remember…I remember being young. At least I think I do. I cannot be sure.”
The Halflord stared at her.
“You remember things from the time before the pain.”
The Black Shield nodded.
“I was a child. A little girl. There were others. Not like us. Smaller, paler. Stern. But kind. They cared for me. I felt…I…it is very vague, Prince Kor.”
“And then the pain came.”
Ev lin Dar winced, nodded.
“And then the pain, Prince Kor. That I remember all too well.”
“As do we all, Shield.”
Kor ben Dor rose slowly, his muscles rippling like rivers of rock beneath his tight skin.
Ev lin Dar felt a warmth take her, realized she was staring, quickly averted her eyes, looked down upon her hands.
“We have lost much, Shield,” mused the Halflord as he languidly stretched subtle aches away. “We cannot know the extent of our loss. However, I believe my dreams may be the ambiguous beginnings of memories from the time before the pain.”
The Black Shield’s gaze remained fixed on her hands. Strong hands. Strong and hard. Not soft like a human woman’s. Not hands made for gentle touches and sweet caresses. No, not the hands of a lover.
“Tell me, do you feel close to me, Ev lin Dar?”
Her head snapped up, her mouth dropped open. Beneath her breastplate, Ev lin Dar’s heart fluttered fitfully against her ribs.
“Do I…do…Prince Kor?”
The Halflord rolled soreness from his shoulders, eased an ache in his neck.
“Sometimes when I drift, when I dream, I think I see you. Not as you are now, but as you were then. As a child. Smiling, laughing. Happy.”
Ev lin Dar blinked, tried to swallow her nervousness.
“Before the pain, Prince Kor.”
“Yes. Before the pain.”
The Prince of the Bloodspawn shrugged into his thin grey gambe-son. Adjusted the straps and fastenings. He sighed. The sound was more like a growl.
Ev lin Dar watched quietly, apprehensively mindful of the warmth in her cheeks.
“Dawn comes, and with it another day’s march. Day upon day. Miles on miles. It numbs the mind, Shield. But it does not soothe.”
Somewhere outside, a mar render huffed.
“Tell me, when you remember the things that you remember, Shield, do you recall anything about me?”
Ev lin Dar’s heart stopped. Her sight went dark.
“I…yes. I do, Prince Kor.”
She had closed her eyes, squeezed the lids tightly shut, but she could feel the white heat of the Halflord’s gaze on her. She could see his eyes.
“Speak.”
Ev lin Dar swallowed. Hard.
“Before the pain, Prince Kor. Before the…loss. You and I. We were…friends.”
Nothing had changed.
The walls were of canvas, rounded, curving toward a low curtained aperture at the back. The dark air was cool and calm. To the left was an ornate armour stand and a clothing rack, both bearing their appropriate burdens. Upon the right was a tidily made bed, at the foot of which a splendidly scabbarded katana rested on an elaborately etched wooden chest. There was a stillness to the place, a certain tranquility, the soothing sensation of seamless serenity, or the deceptive allure of a siren’s silence before the song.
The three guardsmen stood bunched in the open doorway of the Doctor’s bedchamber in the officer’s wing of the White Manor, staring, stupefied, bewildered by the fantastic fixity of the space. Canvas walls? What the hell? Then something bumped them heavily from behind and they cried out in alarm, falling inward in a tangled tumble of bodies and bedclothes and accompanying curses.
“Glad you could make it, Maddy,” Rooboong snarled sarcastically, fighting free of the human heap, the first to regain his feet.
Echoed Riffalo, “How very good of you, Maddy.”
“Dumbass,” said Regorius, straightening.
Maddus simply groaned.
The Decan unceremoniously dragged the hapless guardsman up.
“Teller’s Tongue, you look awful, Maddy.”
“I feel worse, mate.”
Regorius wrinkled his nose, made a choking sound “Gods, you smell even worse!”
“Thanks, Whitey, you don’t stink too good yourself.”
Reflexively, Regorius sniffed himself, but before he could rifle a retort, a fifth voice joined the scintillatingly witty repartee:
“Ah, my friends,” greeted the Doctor, smiling congenially, his thin brown eyes twinkling despite the dark. “Welcome, welcome. I must apologize for the early rousing from your warm beds, but I found it unavoidably necessary. You will forgive me, yes?”
The four guardsmen nodded woodenly.
Teji Nashi grinned, perfect white teeth gleaming. He was barefooted, dressed comfortably in a yukata of magenta-coloured cotton, a golden dragon stenciled on the fine fabric, coiling about his small frame, flattened head perched upon one shoulder, watching. The Diceman’s hands were folded before him and hidden in the ample sleeves of the garment. As ever, at his waist was strapped his curved wakizashi.
“Most gracious of you. Most gracious, indeed. I am sorely pressed, you see. Time is precious. We must prepare. So much to do in such a short time. Very constrained, frightfully so – but manageable, yes? Mayhap time itself can be made malleable. Come, come. We have a little while before the day’s drills, and we must utilize every hour left available to us.”
The Doctor turned and ducked through the opening to the back chamber. He moved with silent grace, almost gliding, padding like a pa
nther, quick and quiet.
The four who followed him were decidedly…otherwise.
Like the forechamber, the rear room remained unchanged, or little enough altered as to be unremarkable. The light was a warm white, soft and soothing, with no perceivable source. The air held a tepid moistness, a succulence made sweet by floral perfumes. The pair of wooden tables endured, one near the entrance and heaped with all manner of written things, the other at the back and bearing its baffling farrago of vessels and apparatuses. Varicoloured tendrils of smoke and steam swirled slowly toward the herbarium hovering over the middle section of the room. Beneath this hanging jungle stood the Diceman’s tall slender stool. Four more stools awaited the guardsmen.
The Doctor lithely perched himself atop his stool, smiling blithely, the smooth burnished skin of his cheeks and pate radiating health and humour.
“Sit, my friends. Make yourselves comfortable. Rest and relax, yes? Good, very good. I must say, your haggardness ill becomes men so young and so hale. I need neither preach nor teach the of benefits of moderation. A nice carafe of Hellevintan hippocras now and perhaps again on occasion, but drunkenness and loutishness accomplish nothing and less. Indeed, habitual indulgence imperils what we intend to do here, you see. Not good, not good at all. There will be no repetition of the past three nights’ revelries, yes?”
The four guardsmen nodded as one.
Teji Nashi clasped his hands, then rubbed them together almost gleefully.
“Excellent. Most excellent. Admittedly, our clandestine council should have been better preconcerted, and I better prepared. Here I must solicit your understanding, my friends, for the fault is mine. I have been very active of late, and my attention to much has been necessarily delayed. I will make recompense. Should a thing need doing, and the doing done well, then give it to a busy man to do, yes?”
The guardsmen nodded.
The Diceman smiled. His hands disappeared once more beneath his billowed sleeves.
“Now, where to begin an allocution to such a select and secret consistory? No need to extend this exordium, and less for couthie circumlocution and attending circumambages. None lament the loss of logorrhea, you see. Dispense with peremptory punctilios and press to the point, yes? Good, good. We will start in the middle.”
The Doctor’s smile slipped away. His slitted eyes glittered, gleamed.
“You see, my friends, war descends upon us, and very soon the Ghost Brigade must rise and ride once again.”
The four guardsmen gawked at the little Diceman. Eyes wide, brows raised, mouths agape. Effectively gorgonized.
“Yes, my friends, a vast and terrible army marches upon Lindannan, upon Eryn Ruil and Doomfall, upon the Fiannar and those allies they may gather to them. Upon us all, yes? The Fiannar will stand and fight, as is their wont, and they are a most fearsome foe. But they are so few, you see. And they are sorely outnumbered. Dreadfully so. Forty to one, in fact. Odds most frightful and made worse by the nature of the enemy they will face: Hordes of Unmen, Wulfings of Var, Norian mercenaries, ogres, stone giants, monsters of myth and legend marching beneath the banner of the Blood King returned. Nevertheless, the Fiannar will stand. The Fiannar will fight. And the Fiannar will fall. Unless we help them, yes?”
Giants? Monsters? The Blood King?
Regorius blinked. Found his voice. Cracked and croaking, but he found it.
“Help them? How can we help them? What can we do?”
“What can we do, indeed,” echoed the Doctor, his white smile returning. “There’s the spirit, my good Decan! Of course, there can be little doubt that the March Fox and the Iron Captain will solicit our one hundred and send for the rest, yes? Every sword counts, indeed it does, but swords and spears will not win this war alone. No, indeed. Our friends the Fiannar will be facing ancient sorceries, you see, foul crafts born of blood and decay and corruption. Regrettably, they have sent away their greatest protection against these things. Whether this was done in wisdom or in folly, it matters not; necessity knows and bows to both, yes? Either way, Grimroth is gone. Thus is their shield against sorcery much weakened. It cannot long withstand the combined powers of blood magic, the earthblight and the horror of the Leeches.”
Stark white eyebrows arched. “Leeches? Like physicians?”
“Oh, terrors, no! I despise the name – leech, that is, not physician. You will recall the two little bones that fell outside the circle cast by Guardsman Maddus, yes? Not a random roll, that. Not at all. I have discovered that the Blood King’s army is marshaled and commanded by two terrible entities, baneful beings long called ‘Leech’ by many peoples in many languages. These Leeches are beyond ancient, for they existed before Time, and as such they are not constrained by its binding influence. Much like gods. Disturbing, yes? Not good, not good. Thus what we must do becomes most obvious, you see.”
The four guardsmen shook their heads in slow deliberate unison.
“Ah, well, such ambiguity can present itself when starting at the middle, yes? Clarity will come, my friends. Admittedly, I could be more succinct. I lose myself sometimes, you see. Now where was I?”
“You were about to tell us how we can help the Fiannar, Doc,” suggested Regorius. “At least I think you were.”
Teji Nashi smiled. The eyes of the dragon on his shoulder glittered.
“Yes, of course. Well, that is simple enough, my friends. We will provide a shield against the blood magic, the earthblight and whatever foul puissance might be wielded by the Leeches. We will be the wall against which all the Blood King’s sundry sordid sorceries crash, break and burn away. An easy thing, yes?”
Crash? Break?? Burn???
The foursome’s communal gulp was distinctly audible.
“As you have certainly deduced, my friends, I possess a scattering of sorcerous talents. In point of fact, at risk of appearing immodest, I am rather accomplished in the arcane arts. A lifetime of practice, you see. I do believe I possess the skills sufficient to oppose and negate the dark powers arrayed against us. However, for reasons that would surely bore you to the brink of insensibility and beyond, I can neither be seen nor perceived to be doing so. Thus our newfound friendship becomes most fortuitous, yes?”
The four guardsmen exchanged blank, blanched looks.
“I will need conduits, of sorts. Channels through which to exercise the elemental energies essential for the effective defense of Eryn Ruil. There are many modes of magic, some easier to understand and employ than others. I must insist that the elemental arts are far from elementary, especially when utilizing conduits, yes? Each channel must be specific to the power that seeks to negotiate and navigate it. Earth cannot traverse a Water conduit, nor might Air pass through Fire. Such is nature, you see. There are rules, yes?”
“You…you want us to be…conduits?”
“What I want is immaterial, good Decan. You either are a conduit or you are not. One chooses to be a conduit no more than one chooses one’s parents. You are born to it, you see. The ability is inherent. But like a man born with a mole on his back, you may be completely oblivious of its existence for the entirety of your own – unless, of course, you are made aware by another. You are familiar with the term ‘serendipity’, yes?”
Four heads nodded, then shook.
“A fortunate development of events, occurring strictly by chance, yes? Though there are those who believe said chance is itself orchestrated by the Teller or some other illumined ubiquitous but otherwise anonymous omnipotence.”
Four heads bobbled.
“Oh.”
“Aye.”
“Of course.”
“I actually knew that.”
The Doctor looked from one guardsman to another, and with great effort refrained from sighing and giving his own weary head a shake. He recalled the old Daradun phrase, If you’re looking for a diamond, you gotta dig deep. The Diceman’s smile persisted. Then he remembered that the Daradur were also wont to say, Whether digging for gold or cleaning up shit, you still us
e the same shovel. The Doctor’s smile faded somewhat, but did not falter.
Not fully.
“Our meeting, my friends, was the very definition of serendipity. I did not seek to find you, but find you I did – or rather you found me. We found one another, yes? Good, very good. For I perceive in all men certain potentialities, you see. Some great, some not so. And in a few – a very few – I perceive some latent ability, some innate but inactive acumen for arts eldritch and arcane.”
Regorius’ pink eyes blinked rapidly.
“You see that in us, Doc?”
Light seemed to seep from Teji Nashi’s slitted eyes.
“I do.”
“In us? You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“Oh...shit.”
Regorius seemed totally unaware that he had said the last little bit, that which each of the four guardsmen was certainly thinking, aloud.
Nor did the Doctor appear to hear him.
“In you, good Decan, I perceive a channel for the elemental energy of Air. In Guardsman Riffalo, I detect a canal for Water – you will pardon the particularly poor pun, yes? Guardsman Maddus is a conduit for the powers of Earth. And in Rooboong, a path for Fire.”
Oh…shit.
Unspoken this time, but almost as audible.
And then there was Maddus –
“Shite! Bloody shite and rubbish!” Somewhere in the haze of alcoholic aftereffects, Maddus had found some courage along with his voice, and both flooded from him in a tumbling torrent. “I’m a bloody carpenter’s son from the streets of Scarshire, for shite’s sake! I’m an illiterate oaf, dumb as a stump. I drink, I gamble, I fight. I’m a pain in both bollocks. Everyone will tell you that I’m a royal arse. I’m a lot of things, none of them any bloody good. ’Cept maybe on the battlefield, aye, I’ll give me that. But I’m certainly no bleedin’ conduit for no bloody earth power!”
Silence, but for the soft hissing of steam from an apparatus or two behind Teji Nashi – or was the sound sourced somewhere at his shoulder? The light in the Diceman’s eyes took a golden hue, glittering, glowing.
“You sell yourself disconcertingly short, my friend, and in doing so you cheat the world. That you are a conduit for Earth’s energies is inarguable, for did the Earthmaster himself not hail you at Doomfall? True, you can never wield the vast powers of Maiden Earth, but the elemental energies of the Mother are yours to channel, and one day command, if you so choose. Why do you not believe? The world is a much larger place than you, and much exists beyond the limits of your narrow experience. That you do not believe says more of you than it does the world, you see. Many truths in this world can seem unreal. Open your mind. Receive the world, yes?”