by Keith Strohm
“Look,” he continued, “I know we’re right in the middle of something really big here, but we need to talk.” He had schooled himself against her anger, and he was prepared to defend himself on any number of grounds, all eminently logical and rational.
Instead, she simply nodded her head.
“Yes,” Marissa said with a familiar twinkle in her eye—one that Taen found particularly alluring. “I have much to say to you, Taenaran of Avaelearean, but now is not the time.”
He started to protest, but she cut him off. “Peace, arael’sha,” she said gently. “Let us meet with the othlor, then”—she paused—“we shall see what we shall see.” With that, she turned and walked away.
Taen stood there, stunned, and watched her go.
Arael’sha.
She had called him arael’sha, heart-friend, a term so laden with meaning that in the subtle Elvish tongue it had nearly a hundred uses. Somehow, with just a few words, the druid had managed to confuse him even further.
Taen shook his head and stared into the night-shrouded underbrush a moment before continuing on.
The track wended and twisted its way forward, sometimes wide enough to walk two abreast and sometimes collapsing in upon itself so much that Taen and the others were forced to move slowly, almost creeping forward, in single file. As the moon began its lazy descent, the darkness deepened. By the time they had reached the end of the trail and stepped out on to the road, it was nearly pitch black, save for the faint glow emanating from the Staff of the Red Tree.
They huddled in that darkness, waiting for Selov to scent the trail and lead them forward. When he did, there came a great stirring from the treetops. An explosive beating of wings and the harsh-throated caw of a great raven echoed in the night. Rusella, aloft and flying wildly, circled thrice around the group before alighting on the tip of Marissa’s staff. The creature’s albino-red eyes whirled and glared as it darted its head in all directions, calling madly.
“Something’s wrong,” Marissa said in between snatches of a mumbled song meant to sooth the agitated bird. “I … I can’t understand her. She’s nearly mad with fright.”
That’s when Taen felt it—a tightening of the silence, as if the walls of the world were shrinking in upon themselves and pressing down with an abominable weight. He gasped from the force of it, trying at last to suck air into his lungs. None would come.
A faint mist had begun to form along the ground. Taen screamed silently as it leeched the warmth from his bones. He wanted to run but couldn’t. His legs remained rooted to the ground. If he didn’t escape, the half-elf knew that there would be nothing left of him but the bitter, cold emptiness of the grave.
“Look,” Selov hissed and pointed down the old trade road.
Shadows swirled where the old man pointed, deeper pits of darkness against a landscape of black. Points of red light stabbed out from the darkness like the embers of a long-dead fire. Taen could sense the need behind those baleful eyes, the implacable hunger of death rising up out of the night to swallow the living.
“Wraiths,” Roberc said, though his voice came out as a barely breathed whisper.
As the creatures advanced, Taen could make out the dim outline of black robes flowing with each incorporeal step. There were six of them, floating silently down the road like nightmares. Even in his panic, Taen noted that the last one held a scepter in one hand while a gilded crown wreathed its shrouded head.
Roberc struggled to draw his weapon as Cavan backed away from the oncoming wraiths. The war-dog whined and yelped in a high-pitched tone as his rider fought for control.
“Enough,” Marissa said at last through clenched teeth. Lifting her staff high into the air, she intoned a brief prayer. Immediately the chill disappeared, replaced by warmth and the sweet fragrance of a spring evening. Taen nearly stumbled as the terror drained from his body.
“Quick, everyone form a circle,” Taen shouted. “Don’t let them surround you.”
As they fell into formation, the half-elf grabbed Selov and pulled him into the center of their position. Once the innkeeper was secured, the half-elf raised both hands into the air and uttered the words to a spell. At first, he stumbled over the torturous pronunciation but soon found the rhythm of the arcane formula. Of all the disciplines of magic, none were as distasteful to him as necromancy. Even when the spell worked against the forces of undeath, it still left its mark, like a bruise upon the soul. There were powers in the world, he knew, best left untouched. Still, their need was great, so as he finished the spell, Taen thrust out both arms, as if embracing the oncoming wraiths. A soft, golden radiance emanated out from the space between his arms, enveloping the advancing creatures. As the light struck the wraiths, they recoiled as if struggling against a tremendous wind. When at last the mystical light faded, three wraiths remained frozen, enveloped in a thin cocoon of golden energy.
At that moment, Marissa took a single step forward and shouted a supplication to her god. Immediately, a brilliant column of flame roared into existence, consuming one wraith in a coruscating shower of fire.
With a single command to Cavan, Roberc broke rank and charged at an oncoming wraith. The war-dog danced nimbly to one side as the undead creature thrust out a shadowy hand, allowing Roberc an opening with his sword. His blade gleamed in the dying moonlight before it plunged into the wraith’s form—to little effect. The weapon simply passed through.
Roberc cursed but kept the wraith busy as Borovazk moved into a flanking position. The ranger’s warhammer and sword moved in a deadly dance. Both struck the wraith hard, causing ripples in the creature’s form.
Taen had time to watch his friends’ battle only for an instant. Confident that they could hold their own, he returned his attention to the crown-bearing wraith now looming before Marissa. The druid fell back, barely avoiding the wraith’s attack as the undead creature swung its scepter in a wide arc. It gave a soft moan, like the wind whistling through an empty graveyard, before pressing forward.
Taen loosed a series of magical bolts from his fingertips, hoping that the arcane missiles would distract the creature. The creature shuddered as the energy struck its form, but it continued to advance toward Marissa. Desperately, she swung the length of her staff at the creature. Pure white energy erupted at the point of contact, causing the wraith to fall back in pain. It glared at her from the depths of its red eyes but made no further move to advance.
Borovazk’s cry of pain and anger drew Taen’s attention. He watched in horror as a wraith withdrew its long, black arm from within the ranger’s chest. Roberc beat madly at the undead monster with the edge of his blade, but his opponent remained focused on the wounded Rashemi. Without thought, Taen summoned the words to another spell. When he had finished, a single bolt of blue lightning sped from his outstretched hand to strike the wraith. It shuddered like an unfurling sail in the midst of a gale wind before fading out of existence.
Too late, Taen realized that casting his spell left him vulnerable to attack by the wraith lord. He managed to stumble away from the creature’s first swing, but it quickly followed through with a thrust from its outstretched arm.
Taen gasped as the wraith’s long fingers passed through the skin of his neck and reached deep into his being. Instantly, the world spun away, replaced by a thick haze of gray fog. He stumbled forward, anxious to find his companions, trying to avoid the follow-up blow that would surely fall, but the fog swirled around him, filling his lungs. Taen’s chest burned. His heart had stopped beating, and was replaced by a single ball of white ice that sat in his chest like a lodestone. Choking and retching, he nearly didn’t hear the woman’s voice that called out to him from the depths of the fog.
“Murderer!” it shouted, and again, “Murderer!”
Taen wanted to protest, to deny the accusation, but he knew the truth. He was a murderer. Talaedra’s face formed in the fog swirling around him.
“Murderer.” This time several voices accused him—then several hundred, unt
il the air reverberated with the word—“murderer.”
“Talaedra!” he shouted—then knew no more.
Marissa’s blood froze in her veins when she saw Taenaran fall beneath the wraith’s attack. Fear and anger rose within her at the thought that he might be dead. She gripped the Staff of the Red Tree tightly and swung it with all her strength at the stooped form of the feeding wraith. Power flowed through the staff once again as it struck the undead monster, but this time the impact caused the wood of the staff to ignite with a flaring blast of silver energy. Whatever she had done had awakened life from deep within the wood. She could feel the whispering voice in her mind grow stronger, more urgent, until it nearly shouted ancient wisdom and ancient wrath.
Marissa fought it while she could, but the voice overcame her. For a moment, she knew the terrible power held within the still-living branch of the Red Tree, knew how to tap into it and how to unleash it on the world.
A moment was all she needed.
Raising the staff high into the air, she brought its heel down hard on the earth, singing the words to an ancient song in a voice both her own and not her own. The ground trembled. Light exploded from the artifact, as bright as the searing light of noon at High Summer. It filled the road with its blinding rays, and against its elemental force, the wraiths had no defense. In a flash of darkness, they imploded, leaving only the memory of death behind.
Then, as suddenly as it had flared into existence, the light winked out, and darkness descended like a shroud upon the trade road.
Selov was the first to recover.
“By all the gods and the wisdom of the elders,” he whispered in obvious amazement. “What have you done?”
Marissa was tired, almost too tired to stand.
“I am not sure,” she said wearily, “and right now I don’t care.” She forced her body to move toward the fallen half-elf. “Is he—?”
“He is alive,” Selov said, examining Taen carefully.
“So is Borovazk,” called out Roberc.
Relief flooded through her body, giving a lift to her wearied spirit.
“Then we must hurry to the well,” Marissa said. “I fear that our friends need help that only the wychlaran can provide.”
Or withhold, she thought cynically.
In the distance, a lone wolf sang mournfully to the dying moon.
CHAPTER 13
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
The goblin screamed.
Yulda, wrapped in her hag illusion, smiled at the foul creature’s pain—though her eyes held little humor. She watched it beat ineffectually at the incorporeal form of the snow tiger, like a small child denying its mother’s discipline. Her smile deepened as Fleshrender batted the hapless creature between its paws, purring loudly while its claws sank through the goblin’s skin.
In truth, her mood was fouler than the snowstorms that battered the mountains surrounding her citadel. When word had come to Yulda, through her spy at the Green Chapel, regarding the outsiders and their peculiar journey to Immil Vale, she was incensed. The presence of the Staff of the Red Tree among the outsiders drove her beyond reason. If Durakh had not had the sense to try to calm Yulda down, the witch would have set about destroying the interlopers right at that moment—thereby revealing herself too soon. Instead, she retired to her chamber, cursing the presence of the strangers and her need of Durakh’s wisdom, and began planning her next move.
Circumstances made it clear to Yulda that powerful forces were moving against her. She had spent nearly ten winters planting the seeds of her plan and nurturing its growth. A little whispered gossip here, a quiet expression of dissatisfaction there, and the subtle promise of power to those who craved it the way a dragon craves gold had done much to position her for what she was about to do. There was no way that she would let her plan wither on the vine because of some soft outsiders.
She wrestled for a time with the problem before her. It was clear right from the start that she couldn’t allow the intruders to meet with the wychlaran. If those meddling telthor from the Red Tree had sent the outsiders to speak with the othlor, then it could only be because they had discovered Yulda’s secret and were moving against her. But, she thought bitterly, how could she accomplish the destruction of the outsiders without it being traced back to her? It was then that a plan began to form in her mind.
She had summoned Durakh from her meditations, and immediately they set out for the abandoned crypts lying in the secret places beneath the citadel. There the evil cleric bound several wraiths haunting the forgotten tunnels to her will. Once the strangers had departed the hamlet of Urling, Yulda teleported the undead monsters right in their midst.
It was a sound plan, one that was supposed to rid the witch of the one serious threat to her plans.
And it failed utterly.
Yulda nearly screamed with frustration. Not only had the strangers defeated the undead menace, but they also managed to evade every attempt at locating them through magical scrying. It was as if they had disappeared from the world.
Selov!
She knew that the old fool was somehow behind this. He had ever been a bootlicking lackey of the wychlaran. No doubt he used his knowledge to help the outsiders. Once she ruled Rashemen utterly, Yulda would deal with the doddering idiot herself. Until then, she would just have to try and salve her seething temper and—if she were being honest—her growing fear, in the blood and pain of her servants.
Unfortunately, Fleshrender’s current plaything had stopped screaming and simply lay there like a piece of meat. Yulda’s assembled minions watched with barely concealed terror. Human and goblin servants huddled in clumps, pointing and whispering at the stiffening corpse, no doubt wondering if they would be next.
The stink of their fear rose up in the vaulted room like sweet perfume. Yulda breathed it in deeply, savoring its pungent aroma. Still, it could not ease the clenching of her stomach, and the witch found herself grinding her teeth in frustration.
A curse on Selov, the blasted wychlaran, and their foolish pawns, she thought acidly.
Yulda turned to face her gathered servants. Their whispered mewling irritated her. With a sharp clap of her hands, she captured their attention.
“Leave us,” she shouted at them, “and prepare for your duties!”
At that, they scattered into the shadows of the room, and Yulda drew a small sense of satisfaction from their hasty retreat.
“Not you,” she called out to Durakh as the cleric started to walk down the hall to her private chamber. “We have things to discuss.”
The half-orc checked her movement and turned back to Yulda.
“As you command,” Durakh said in an even tone.
Careful, Yulda thought—though if she meant it as a reminder to herself or as a mental warning to the cleric, she couldn’t be sure. Her world had begun to spin out of control with the revelation of the strangers’ presence in Rashemen. It wouldn’t take much to tear things irrevocably from their moorings, leaving her only with the ruins of a plan and the ire of the wychlaran and vremyonni pursuing her through the darkness. She licked her cracked lips before speaking.
“You know that our plan has failed,” she said, more as a statement than a question.
Durakh nodded.
“Yes,” Durakh replied. “I felt the wraiths’ destruction.” Her gray eyes met Yulda’s. “It was … unexpected.”
Yulda’s temper rose at the cleric’s equanimity.
“Unexpected,” Yulda nearly shouted. “You assured me that your undead servants would destroy them.”
Durakh raised a single eyebrow in response. The scars on her chin and throat gleamed angrily in the light of the chamber.
“They were powerful,” she said after a moment. “More powerful than I expected, and”—she paused, casting another glance directly at the witch—“they had help.”
“Help?” Yulda asked, her voice rising. Not for the first time, she regretted the necessity of her illusion,
for as Chaul the hag, she could not bring her empty eye socket to bear on the impertinent cleric.
“Yes,” Durakh replied. “Could you not feel it—a wave of energy that did not originate from any mortal spellcaster?”
In truth, Yulda had felt the unexpected surge of power. Its passing echoed through the bones of the earth even as far as the citadel. She was surprised, however, that the half-orc had felt is as well. She was forced, once again, to revise her assessment of the cleric.
“It was the power of the staff,” Yulda said, “though how the outsiders discovered how to tap in to the Red Tree’s power remains a mystery to me.”
“Have you been able to locate them?” Durakh asked, fingering the outline of her ebony holy symbol.
Yulda gazed at the half-orc warily before answering.
“I have tried spells of location and detection as well as scrying,” Yulda said. “So far they have eluded my arcane eye.”
Though the cleric’s face remained impassive as she spoke, Yulda could sense the feeling of satisfaction that crested through her thoughts. However hard she might try and disguise it, Durakh clearly enjoyed the witch’s frustration.
“Then we must assume that the strangers have rendezvoused with the othlor,” the half-orc said. “The wychlaran must be protecting them from your spells.”
“Perhaps,” was all that Yulda said in reply.
The cleric’s words galled her, even as she heard the truth in them. Soon they would come after her and try to destroy what she had worked so hard to accomplish. The witch knew that she would be vulnerable in the citadel with her forces heading out into the field.
“Even so,” Durakh said, “I have tripled the outer sentries and prepared a few surprises for anyone trying to use the tunnels to gain entrance to the lower portions of the citadel. It would not do for them to catch us unawares.”
“Good,” Yulda replied, though inwardly she seethed at the liberty taken by her lieutenant. This was her citadel. Clearly the witch would have to take steps in order to reinforce that reality for the half-orc.