Tapestry of Dark Souls

by Elaine Bergstrom

  He wasn’t disappointed. She found him even more quickly than he had expected, padding four-footed through the narrow entrance in the rocks.

  “Woman,” he said, and her form became human. She didn’t try to rise, but sat back on her heels, marveling at the beauty of the cavern, at the light that filled it, a light that seemed to come from the air itself.

  And him.

  He held out his hand and spoke his name. She came forward on her knees and kissed his fingers. “I have done as you asked,” she said. Her voice, as Morgoth expected, was as beautiful as her body.

  “And if I ask more?”

  “I will do whatever you wish.” She kissed his hand again and laid the back of it against her cheek, thankful he didn’t pull it away.

  “Tell me of the powers in this land,” he ordered.

  Though she had come to learn from him, she spoke of the hags, the goblins, the men she had charmed then turned into were to serve her. When she had finished, he smiled. “Sleep here with me through the day,” he said. “Tomorrow night we will find your pack and hunt together.”

  Taking his words as an invitation, she laughed seductively and moved closer, rubbing tapered fingers down his leg. He asked, “You are barren, are you not?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  In the past, those words had proven useful to Maeve. Not now. He pushed her away and lay down, his knees against his chest on the narrow ledge. A word, a gesture and a transparent crystalline cylinder formed around him. As Maeve watched, Morgoth’s body deflated until it was nothing more than a dry, withered husk waiting for the next sunset to animate. Stunned more by his rejection than the change she had just witnessed, Maeve tried to leave the cavern. But she found the passage magically sealed. She faced Morgoth’s form. “May I go and return at sunset?”

  He seemed to smile. The withered hand rustled as it moved. “Go … beautiful fox,” he whispered, his eyes following her as she padded from the room.

  Were. The bites on Mishya’s neck and stomach made the nature of the killer plain enough. The almost-human footprints in the snow made it even plainer. Even so, the body was frozen, like the last, though the wounds were apparently fresh. The beasties hadn’t touched it. Indeed, the beasties were strangely absent from the land. In happier times, Linde would see this as reason to rejoice. Not now.

  After Mishya’s body was found, many townsfolk recalled Jonathan’s violent attack and the rivalry between them and blamed Jon. But, when a third victim was discovered, and a fourth, both with their flesh in ragged strips, their bodies blue with cold, the townsfolk recalled that on those nights Jonathan had been singing at the inn. Their suspicion immediately abandoned Jon, seeking something far more fearful, some twisted creature, darker than any of legend.

  Each night the public rooms of the inn were crowded. Men came to discuss the latest rumors about the killings, but they brought their wives and children as well. To leave them at home seemed too dangerous. The companionship and music of the inn was their only respite from the constant, pervasive fear.

  People often asked Jonathan to sing. His voice was soothing, his songs so beautiful they brought tears to the listeners’ eyes. Even though they paid him well for his talent, Jon would have avoided the crowded rooms had Ivar not told him that it would be unwise to stay away. The boy endured the duty with the same obedient attentiveness he gave to all his tasks, but Andor noted the fear in his eyes as he listened to the rumors, the whimpers of the children, the frightened whispers of the women. Andor hardly blamed him for his reluctance to sing.

  A fifth body. A sixth. Two of the elders were also suddenly missing from the town. Suspicions about their disappearance turned to Maeve; she had often been seen with the pair in the past. Some of the men went to her house to question her, but found the place empty, fresh boot tracks in the snow outside. The next day they returned, but she was still absent. Most expected her body to be the next one found. Others thought her somehow responsible for the killings.

  Andor knew the truth. He had discovered Mishya’s body and had seen the vixen’s tracks in the snow. She had left them deliberately, a sign that only he and Ivar would understand. He had brushed them away before anyone else noticed, less out of loyalty to her than out of sympathy for the curse that united them. Besides, he knew there were other were in Linde. Like him, they controlled their curse. He wouldn’t see them hunted down and destroyed by Linde’s fear.

  Though Andor had never known Maeve to kill a man before, he knew she often hunted for food in fox form. Andor didn’t blame her for such forays any more than he blamed her for trying to end her loneliness by taking Leith for a companion. He understood loneliness, especially now that Dirca was so petulantly jealous.

  Since he and Ivar had banished Maeve from the inn, she never spoke to them in public. Yet, on the infrequent occasions when Andor had encountered her alone, she had been as friendly toward him as before. After the inn had emptied and the rest of the household had gone to sleep, he visited her cottage, bearing loaves of fresh-baked bread, and many questions.

  She wasn’t home, but her door was open. He went inside and sat among her treasures. Would she tell the truth or lie? Worse yet, his amulet diminished his power. While he wore it, she could charm him with a look, with the sound of her voice. Betraying the promise he had made to himself years before, he unhooked the silver wolf’s head and dropped it in his pocket. Immediately, the lycanthropic strength filled him, bringing with it the lust for the hunt. Once he had controlled the curse without Ivar’s trinket. He thought he could control it now, despite the desire, which was so much stronger than he remembered.

  At last, she entered the house in human form. After laying a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of kinship, she lit the lamp. Her dark blue cape and fur-lined boots were loose, easily discarded. He had worn such clothes once. The sight of them, and her, brought back memories with an astonishing stab of regret.

  “So many people have died,” he said.

  She sat in a chair facing him, her long fingers tracing the carvings on its arms, her gaze fixed on the open door as if she waited for someone else to arrive.

  “I saw your tracks beside Mishya’s body,” he added.

  “It took you a long time to come,” she replied.

  “Why did you want me to come at all?”

  “There are so few of us in this land, and we are isolated from one another. It isn’t right, Andor.”

  “Since when does a vixen crave the company of a wolf?” he asked. Though they shared similar powers, their natures were utterly different. Wolves ran in packs; foxes were solitary, utterly self-absorbed.

  “I inherited the form of a wolf from my father,” she reminded him. “In that way, we are kin.”

  “After so many years of restraint, why do you kill?”

  He sensed the desperation in her eyes, the lie behind her reply.

  “You’ve felt the change in the air, the urge to surrender to desire. You wouldn’t have removed the amulet otherwise. You want to be tempted. You want to yield to your power, don’t you?”

  “Why do you think you are immune to danger?”

  She still looked at the door instead of him. “I’m protected, even from the hags. I’m free to use my power. No one can stop me any longer.”

  “The winter festival isn’t so far away, Maeve. The goblins seem to have abandoned this land. The town will need a sacrifice for the winter festival. Indeed, they already seek one.”

  “I am protected,” she repeated then added, “wolf.”

  The word called to the beast within him. His skin tingled with the desire to respond, but he fought it down. Struggling, he reached for the amulet in his pocket. As he did, a mist rolled into the room through the open door. Maeve’s hand gripped his wrist, pulling his fingers away from the wolf pendant. Fur-covered now, her hand had all the strength of her vixen form. Her claws cut into him.

  The smell of his own blood aroused him. The pain of her attack aroused him. His anger broke
what was left of his will. He tore at his clothes as the pressing agony coursed through him, the change reforming his limbs and features.

  She fled through the open door. He followed, but once outside, his anger dissipated in the wind that brushed the fur on his back, the crystalline snow that glowed in the moonlight, the score of inviting scents laughing in the air.

  Andor stifled a howl and padded after Maeve.

  On nights when the moon wasn’t full, the cloth sometimes had exuded a brooding presence that hung over the fortress itself. It had seemed to watch the Guardians, test them, seek the means to drain each of his will. The presence had never been seen, only occasionally felt. In the fortnight after Jon left, the Guardians began to suspect the presence had left them. Mattas was the first to voice his suspicion. He did so reluctantly, surprised when the others quickly agreed. Each had noted a lightening of the burden.

  “It was the boy,” Mattas said. “Someone taught him some trick to use to drain the power from the cloth.” The words were heavy with reproach, directed primarily at Leo though he spoke to the others as well.

  “The power cannot be stolen so easily,” Leo countered as gently as he could.

  “But everyone believes that something has changed,” Dominic said. “We must discover what it is.” His hand circled his amulet, and the others looked fearfully at him, already guessing what had to be done.

  That night, while the others stood outside, Hektor and Dominic entered the shrine alone. Hektor carried the torch. Dominic clutched his amulet in one hand. The other Guardians barred the doors after them and began a quiet prayer for strength, for success, for the life of the pair. Dominic intended to call out to the souls on the cloth. This rite was recorded in their history. Though it had been done often when the order was large and powerful, it had never been attempted by any of the remaining Guardians.

  The pattern of the cloth always shifted, yet the features of each trapped soul remained the same. Some were more noticeable than others. The Guardians often saw Vhar, the one they began to call “the red man” after reading Leith’s legacy, or Leith herself with her flowing chestnut hair. The pack of were that had invaded the town where the cloth had once been always clung together, as inseparable in their prison as they had been in life. The stronger powers hid more carefully. The Silverlord, who had brought so much sorrow to their order, appeared in corners, behind others, or spread out across the length and breadth of the tapestry with features so pale they could hardly be seen. He hid best of all. But every name was recorded, and Dominic had memorized them all.

  He gripped one lower corner of the hanging cloth, Hektor the other. They spread the folds so Dominic could study each part of the pattern. With a steadying breath that revealed little of the fear Hektor was certain the priest must feel, Dominic began the call.

  As each name was spoken, Dominic paused and waited for some effect. The cloth would shift in their hands as the soul named struggled to respond.

  Dominic recited the names slowly, receiving a faint response after each until he came to the name of their most fearsome adversary, a name that hadn’t been spoken aloud since the destruction of their temple so many years before.

  “Morgoth.”

  No response. The cloth might have been any cloth, the shrine a pile of stones.

  “I command you to show yourself, Morgoth.”

  Command, Hektor thought fearfully. He expected a rain of fire, a lightning bolt directed from the cloth to the amulet Dominic wore. That would be like Morgoth. Instead the Silverlord did nothing.

  Dominic wondered if the sorcerer’s name had been recorded correctly. He tried variations of it with no better result, then went on with his list. At the end, he spoke the saddest name of all, “Leith.” He said it gently, as if afraid there might be pain in the waking.

  A breeze brushed Hektor’s cheek. The torch flame danced. As he turned to find the source of the draft, his foot dislodged the loose stone slab behind him.

  He dropped the cloth, handed the torch to Dominic, and lifted the section of floor.

  “Open the doors!” Dominic cried to the others waiting anxiously outside. “Come and see what Hektor has discovered!”

  Peto, the smallest of the Guardians, followed the tunnel to its source. Leo went into the library and discovered the unsealed box containing Leith’s legacy to her son. Though it was difficult to be certain, he believed that the seal had been broken for some time.

  “You should’ve shown him his mother’s scroll years ago,” Mattas said. “The boy never had the calling.”

  “Was your life full-formed at his age?” Dominic asked him.

  Mattas frowned. The fire that took his eyes had destroyed parts of his memory as well. “I can’t remember,” he admitted.

  “I remember,” Hektor said. “I thought if I escaped my master, I’d marry and raise a dozen children. Instead, I came here and raised only one. Whatever Jonathan did, he did out of ignorance.”

  “Or out of the cloth’s influence,” Mattas added.

  “Out of ignorance!” Hektor repeated, trying to control his fury.

  Hektor had raised the boy, and he wouldn’t let him be unjustly condemned. “If I’m correct, it’s not too late to set things right.”

  “There’s a greater reason to find him than that,” Leo said. “The shrine is protected on all sides. If Jonathan was able to enter it, even through the floor, he must have the calling. There’s no other explanation.”

  “Impossible!” Mattas snorted.

  “Leo’s right,” Dominic said. “One of us must find Jon and tell him. Who will it be?”

  Dominic wielded the spells that kept the souls entrapped. Mattas couldn’t travel. Peto was far too small. Hektor’s bias toward the boy disallowed him. Leo was the only one suited to the journey, and his spells would protect him if Jon were truly dangerous. The mountain trails were icy, the wind harsh and bitter. Hektor accompanied Leo halfway through the passage to Tepest. “Don’t condemn Jon too harshly when you find him,” he said as he took his leave.

  “I must reach Andor and Ivar and tell them what’s happened. As for Jonathan …” Leo sighed. “I’ll do my best to bring him back with me.”

  Though the tunnel that led to Tepest offered a welcome respite from the frigid G’Henna wind, it had a putrid scent, as if some huge beast had crawled inside to die. As Leo traveled the winding path through it, he heard rustling that wasn’t from the bats clinging to the ceiling above or the spiders in their thick, sticky webs.

  The smell became more distinct. The rustling grew louder. Leo recognized the signs for what they were.

  Goblins.

  Having lived in Tepest before joining the order, Leo knew to respect goblin cunning. But in all the years he had lived in the fortress, goblins had never been seen in these passages or in Markovia, for they feared Markov’s beast-men.

  Only one passage led outside. They would undoubtedly be in it and would have heard him by now. Leo lit the second torch before the first was fully extinguished. The blade of the short sword he carried pressed coldly against his side, giving him as much comfort as his spells as he went on.

  As he advanced, the goblins retreated. He could hear them moving ahead of him, speaking their crude tongue in the passage just beyond the torchlight. Though he couldn’t determine their numbers, he knew there were more than enough to take him down. He couldn’t retreat—fear would bring the attack. He pulled his cloak tightly around him, quickened his pace, and mumbled the beginning of a fire spell.

  The end of the cavern lay directly ahead. The goblins were clustered in the shadows just inside the cave’s mouth, gibbering with fear and indecision. Leo judged their number at well over thirty. The creatures loathed the sun, yet they seemed more interested in running from him than in attacking.

  Leo moved closer, so close the stench of their bodies made his eyes water. As the torchlight fell on them, he noted that most of the goblins were young, or females clutching infants. Their expressions were as frig
htened and uncertain as that of any human mother’s. Even the few males held their crude weapons at their sides, not wanting to break this strange truce.

  “Let me pass and I won’t harm you,” Leo said. Though he doubted that the goblins understood his words, they parted as he raised his torches high. He passed between them into the sunlight. As he began the descent to the river crossing, he could hear them fleeing deeper into the tunnel.

  Something had terrified the goblins with such awesome force that they didn’t care that Leo was alone and, to all appearances, barely armed. They had lost all will to fight him. He suspected that, even if Peto had come in his place, they would have feared him. Whatever spooked the goblins was out here. He paused long enough to sense a change in the valley—a disquiet similar to the one the presence aroused in the fortress, a disquiet that the warm sunlight melting the winter snow could do nothing to dispel.

  The path curved near a stand of trees on the Tepest border, where a black-hooded person sat by the path. As Leo approached, the person stood and pulled back the cowl. Familiar silver eyes, pale skin. “Jon!” Leo called, the joy in his voice sincere, but the wariness in his stance equally so.

  “I thought they’d send you,” Jonathan said, then added a warning. “Go back to the fortress.”

  “I must speak with you and Ivar. There’s troubling news. I believe you already know of it.”

  “You cannot pass. If you value your life, turn back.”

  “My life?” Leo smiled bitterly. “I taught you, remember? Your powers may have grown, Jonathan, but I doubt you are stronger than I.” He reached into his pocket, fingering the fine sand he had brought for just this moment. As he did, he whispered the simple spell that would put the boy to sleep.