EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  “You must come with me,” he said. “There is deep magic in the city tonight.”

  “I know,” answered Mithmid. “I can feel it, even as we stand here.” Then he asked, “Why do you stare at me so? Do you see something I can’t?”

  “Your face,” Jremm said softly. “It...?”

  “It what?”

  “It shines, Mithmid. Though not with light.” His voice lowered. “It frightens me. What’s happened to you?”

  Mithmid shook his head. “Later,” he said, “when the Council is gathered. I will explain then. I am too weak now, and we must deal with this magic.”

  To the north they ran, these two, slowing to a walk only when Mithmid’s legs would no longer carry him faster. At one point Jremm had to carry the wizard, but the older mrem protested so heavily that the other finally let him down. So they made their way slowly through the streets, until at last they stood before an old, unkempt house.

  It shimmered, in pale light-gold and red. Inside were voices, talking in a language Mithmid did not understand. With Jremm he stepped quietly forward, stopping outside an opening. From there he peered inside.

  The scene froze his soul.

  Two nobles of Ar stood along the north wall. In their hands they held cups filled with a red liquid, but they did not drink from them. On the east wall leaned mrem Mithmid recognized instantly from Jremm’s descriptions of the thief from Arbunda’s Rest. And in the middle of the room, enclosed by a red circle in the shape of a mrem’s eye, a sand-colored mrem robed in shimmering black stood tall and absorbed the pulsing of the light.

  When Mithmid saw it, he knew. He knew that pulsing was the bolt that had flown through the night toward Ar, knew it because he still felt it in himself even now. Staring at the sandfur, he knew as well the enormity of the magician’s strength, because the force of the bolt was sweeping right through him, yet he stood and did not waver. But then he saw Jremm looking at him, eyes open wide, and he turned to the younger mrem and motioned him to silence.

  “But your face, Mithmid,” Jremm protested. “It pulses, like the sandfur’s. That light shines through you.”

  Mithmid nodded, but he only turned away.

  Suddenly a face appeared in the room. Red and gold, pulsing terribly in the red and gold of the light, it formed itself slowly and completely. When at last the pulsing reached its peak, the face turned from the wall and looked across the room.

  “Liskash,” Mithmid hissed. His ruff rose and his claws sliced at the side of the building. No one inside seemed to hear.

  Jremm snapped his head toward him. “What did you say?” He did not seem afraid at all.

  “What do you see?” Mithmid whispered to him.

  “I see a strong light.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Jremm shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “A light has appeared in the room, brighter than the red-and-gold light. But that is all. Why?”

  Mithmid did not answer. But he understood. Only he and the magician, of all six mrem there, were able to see the face of the liskash. The bolt, of course. It had something to do with the bolt.

  Then the face pulsed harder, and Mithmid’s head throbbed with the pulse. Relentless and powerful, it seemed to be striking out at the magician, but it could not pass through the red lines that glowed on the floor. Standing his ground, the sandfur cried out, and the pulsing slowed to where it had been before.

  “One of the Lords is with us,” he announced to the other mrem. “He wishes to kill you all, just as he wishes for all mrem of Ar to die.” He sneered as he said this, then he continued. “But I control him, and he will not harm you.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you betray me.”

  Trembling, the thief and the two nobles quickly shook their heads. They were terrified, Mithmid saw, frightened almost beyond their ability to stand up. But they were just as afraid to fall, as if in falling they would lose whatever defenses they had. As if they could possibly defend themselves against the power that pulsed in that room.

  “You know your duties,” the sandfur began again. “Already I have put into motion the fall of the fortress of Cragsclaw. From the west it will be attacked. Even if they fail, it will not matter. In a short time it will also be attacked from the east. It will be so weakened that the castle will easily succumb. When that pass opens, the armies of the east will pour through and march on Ar. Yet no mrem will see them. They will pass through the lands like ghosts in the night, and where they step all mrem will lose their senses in their terror.” He paused, watching the nobles shudder.

  “When they come to Ar, they will not fight. They will not have to. Before they arrive, you will have the city secured. Even now Gerianan prepares his army for the takeover. When the Lords arrive, they will ensure that he will become king.”

  “But....” one of the nobles began. But his voice faded in the shimmering light.

  “But what?” the sandfur demanded.

  The noble gained control. “Killing the king will accomplish the same thing,” he said. “As soon as Andelemarian dies, Gerianan is king automatically.”

  “So I thought once,” said the magician. “Draldren died for that purpose. But I was wrong.” He paused, then said slowly, “The princess of Ar is still alive.”

  The nobles looked at each other. “But the king has mourned her,” one said.

  “Falsely,” came the reply. “She is alive, and I have felt her presence. But she is blocked from me now, blocked by magic from Ar itself. When the Lords arrive, together we will break through that magic, and Sruss will die.”

  Suddenly, the pulsing began anew. His head throbbing mercilessly, Mithmid watched as the sandfur stood tall to combat it. Again it reached the lines on the floor, but again the mrem’s eye held it away.

  Then a light flashed, and the lines on the floor burned away.

  What followed was a scene both horrible and awesome, a battle of light and of power and of majesty and of supreme ugliness. The face of the liskash contorted and roared, its pulsing light sweeping over the sandfur’s body. From the sandfur’s hands came bolts of white and of black, but neither cut hard through the red and the gold that slowly overcame him. Yet another light pierced through both, and Mithmid saw a soft silver beam cross the room.

  It danced, this beam. It leaped and it jumped and it writhed and it whirled, and then it stood still and waited for the reds and the golds. When they came, the silver rolled away calmly, then rose back to the ceiling and rhythmically blanketed the room. Soft and sure, it diffused and then concentrated, as the reds and the golds struggled and the whites and the blacks fought their hopeless battle. For a seeming eternity the light-dance went on, and Mithmid could not divert his eyes from the sight.

  It ended with a scream. The sandfur’s scream. He sank to the floor, the fur on his hands blackened and his arms shaking. Then the golds and the reds closed in on him, reaching for him until they touched his neck. But suddenly a harsh silver bolt struck through them, and they raised themselves to face the source.

  Blinded by the flashes, Mithmid could not see. But he could feel, and what he felt he did not like. Something good was dying, and something evil was dying with it. Music fought against cacophony in his head, as his brain swirled in its pain and its fear.

  Suddenly, instantly, a force of pure white lit the night. Then all was black. Blinking furiously, Mithmid regained his sight, and looking into the room he saw three mrem lying shaking on the floor. The sandfur was gone, and the face of the liskash was gone as well. But along the south wall, collapsed and burning, Eronucu lay unmoving.

  Mithmid leaped through the opening. Touching Eronucu’s hand, he felt the fiery heat that flowed through the old mrem’s body. When he let go, Eronucu opened his eyes and said, “Go to the Council, Mithmid, and tell them what has happened here. Then go back to Cragsclaw immediately. Do what you can while the Council prepares their defense.
”

  “The healers,” Mithmid cried. “I will get the healers.”

  “They can do nothing,” Eronucu gasped. “I have been slain by the power of an Eastern Lord. A liskash, Mithmid, has taken from me that which one needs to live. Even as I took the same from it. Even now my heart does not beat. The healers of Ar can do nothing against that.” He paused, then managed a weak smile. “Now go, young friend. You have much to do, and I finally get to rest.”

  Mithmid obeyed. He did not watch the light that had surrounded Eronucu fade. Instead, he grabbed Jremm’s arm and raced back through the city, the pain and the weariness of his body suddenly forgotten in the fear.

  •

  I am tired, Inla. Tired of fighting, and tired of killing. I have my warriors now, and they are trained, and they are loyal. There are few clansmrem left, fewer than a dozen. Those who follow me are others from the villages, villages that are burned and empty. Talwe prayed as the moon rose in the sky.

  And somehow I know. The time has come, at long last, to march on Cragsclaw and kill one last time.

  Crethok, Inla. It is Crethok I must kill. From the city has come a female. She says she has seen Morian, and that the whitefur and Morian are well. She speaks smoothly, and her eyes are strong. But I do not believe her.

  I cannot.

  If I believe, I will lose the desire to kill. If Morian is well, my hatred of Crethok will lessen. I need hatred, or I cannot overcome my disgust.

  Help me, Inla.

  Help me hate.

  Take me to Cragsclaw. Show me the face of my enemy. And let my claws, not my sword, take his life from his body.

  Then take his soul, and let it burn in hell.

  HIS CLOAK WRAPPED around him against the deepening cold, Arklier sat hugging his knees. He listened to his brother commanding a mrem not to let anyone interrupt them, and as always he became disgusted at the tone of the order. Thinking back briefly to their youth, he wondered how even his brother, who had never been especially kind, could have grown even this entirely disrespectful.

  Since the coming of the magician, Crethok had changed.

  That magician, Cwinyd. Arklier did not trust him, could not even bring himself to deal with him. Cwynid had offered to make him ClanMrem, and more. He had not believed the magic-user, but clearly his brother did. For a time he had considered warning Crethok against meddling with magicians, but in the end he had chosen not to. He had expected that a couple of short encounters would be enough to convince his brother not to trust a magician. Somehow, that never happened.

  Peorlias had told the two of them of the dangers of magic. Their father had said magic had no place in the High Lands. All it did was to give a false sense of power, a notion of self-importance far beyond what was real. All magic, even the magic that actually worked, was only illusory, illusory not in the sense of falseness, but rather because it played falsely on the mind.

  It was not, in a word, real. And to the mrem of the highlands, survival depended on knowing the real.

  Arklier suspected that Peorlias himself had once known how to fight magic. But always he had been afraid to ask, and now, with his father dead, it was too late.

  He hoped that this meeting with Crethok was not too late as well.

  Cwinyd was with them, despite Arklier’s demands that he stay away. Crethok insisted on the magician’s presence, explaining that Cwinyd was his advisor and that he did nothing without his advice. At this Arklier had only been able to shake his head, knowing that his brother’s mind was set and could not be changed. Without Cwinyd, the meeting would not take place.

  But the magician was not as Arklier had expected. He waited for the smiles, the slight mockery, the calmness and mastery of voice, but none of these appeared. In their place was a face that was hardened and bitter, a mrem whose age was suddenly many more years than he had suspected. The mrem Arklier had seen before was young. The magician who sat before him now looked old. His fur and whiskers were suddenly graying, his coat had lost its glow. And from time to time, over his eyes, passed a wave of increasing pain.

  Whatever this meeting would be, Arklier knew it would not be pleasant. He had asked his brother to meet him, to discuss the problem of their rivalry. The winter had come early, and it had promised to be hard, and the clan had suffered far too much already. In the villages the food supply was short, while in the wilds too many mrem were off raiding and the hunting was disastrous. If Crethok and Arklier did not settle their differences, their clan and others might be decimated before the coming of spring.

  Crethok had agreed to meet. But he had promised nothing. Now they sat in Crethok’s tent in Arklier’s camp. Crethok took his place near the tent’s entrance, while Cwinyd sat on the south wall. Still hugging his knees together and shivering in the cold, Arklier waited for his brother to start.

  When he did, his tone was acid.

  “You have come here to surrender,” Crethok announced. “I am pleased you have begun to understand.” Arklier saw the smile, then closed his eyes and let his head fall.

  At last he raised it and replied, “I do not wish to surrender, Crethok. Nor do I wish to argue. We have, I fear, a great deal to discuss.”

  Crethok laughed. “Yes,” he said, “a great deal indeed. First, we must discuss who will become ClanMrem. Then, we must discuss what role you will perform in my service. Finally, we will talk of where you will spend your remaining years.”

  Arklier looked at Cwinyd, but the magician’s face wore no expression. Then he returned his gaze to his brother, who sat with his legs crossed, a mocking smile on his face. Realizing he had to bring this talk under control, he rubbed his hands over his face and slowly began to speak.

  “If we fight, Crethok,” he said tonelessly, “we lose all. The winter is harsh, and the clan is in danger. Neither of us wants to be ClanMrem over a clan that no longer exists.” Knowing that Crethok waited for weakness, his voice allowed no opportunity for dispute. If Crethok would not be reasonable, Arklier would have to be unrelenting.

  “Our villages have been hit hard,” he continued, “and the outposts are surrendering to the winter and to the raiders from outlawed tribes. The scouts tell tales of a dark-furred mrem who strikes against Sleisher’s towers, and they fear he will turn against them. The scouts say that the darkfur is moving southeast against the villages in the foothills, but already the clan is frightened. And if the winter goes on without a break in the cold, we both know we could see some of our villages die.” He paused, then looked at his brother. “That, Crethok, is why I sent for you.”

  Crethok stared at him, then stroked his face. “It is well known,” he said, “that Arklier is a liar. You come bearing news that I do not wish to hear, and you expect me to believe you. The simple fact is, Arklier, that my warriors are doing well, while yours are failing. Who is to say what will happen, if I am to become ClanMrem?”

  Angrily, Arklier spat, “Will you stop worrying about who the ClanMrem will be? Start thinking, for once, about the good of the clan. That, my brother, is the ClanMrem’s only true concern.”

  Pointing his finger, Crethok countered, “My victories are the clan’s concern,” he said. “When I conquer Cragsclaw, the clan will prosper. That, Arklier, is all that matters.”

  A third voice interrupted. “If I may be allowed a suggestion,” Cwinyd said casually, “I believe I could help.” Arklier looked at him and felt the fur on his neck bristle with suspicion, but he could think of no reason to deny him.

  “I allow it,” he said, and Crethok agreed by nodding his head.

  “There is no reason,” the magician said, “not to consider joining forces. Perhaps only for the duration of the winter, because then the clan must choose between you in any event. If you join together, you can save your villages.”

  This, of course, made sense, at least to Arklier. In fact, it was the reason he had summoned his brother in the first
place. He wondered for a moment if Crethok could possibly object to the idea, but then he remembered that his brother’s habit was to reject any plan that did not place him firmly in charge. What must happen next, Arklier knew, was that the responsibility would have to be divided. Here, Crethok would not surrender.

  “We move on Cragsclaw,” Crethok said. “From that plan I will not sway.”

  “Nor need you,” came Cwinyd’s calm voice. “That is a task both of you should undertake. Sleisher will fight hard, and he will fight long if necessary. One of you will not defeat him alone.”

  Crethok whipped his head toward the magician, and as he spoke his eyes flared. “You have changed, Cwinyd,” he said sharply. “Earlier you advised me to take Cragsclaw by myself.”

  “Earlier,” Cwinyd replied, “Cragsclaw was weaker.”

  Arklier interrupted. “How is it stronger now, Cwinyd? What has happened?”

  Cwinyd smiled. “Simply this,” he said. “There are rumors of help for Cragsclaw from the king of Ar. And there are rumors, too, that the dark-furred raider has made a pact with Sleisher and will not attack him any longer. Finally, Cragsclaw has magic.”

  “Magic!” Crethok exclaimed. “From where?”

  “I do not know,” replied the magician. “But I sense that a magician is there even now. If not, then my own magic has failed.”

  No magician, Arklier knew, would admit to that. Not, at least, in front of one he controlled. And Crethok, it was becoming clear, was fully and firmly controlled by this mysterious mrem. How that had come about, Arklier wanted greatly to find out.

  Crethok spat on the ground. “I do not want my brother’s help,” he said to the sandfur. “I have come this far without it. I do not need it now.”

  “You’re wrong,” Arklier announced. “You need my help, Crethok, and I need yours. The only difference between us is that I am willing to admit it.”

  Crethok’s voice grew angry. “The difference is greater than that,” he protested.