He allowed himself to think of the dark-haired woman for a moment, losing himself in the memory of the smell of her hair… the soft brush of her skin… the smiling curve of her lips…
A whinny of pain from Sultana brought him back to the present with a jerk, and he shook his head to clear the bittersweet memories away.
“I’m sorry, girl,” he said, reaching out to lay a healing hand on the worst of her cuts. “Just got lost in a dream again. Twelve years, and her touch hasn’t faded from my… ugh!”
His breath left his body in a rush as Sultana knocked him to the ground with a sweep of her white head. A sick, rending sound split his ears as Sultana screamed in pain. He looked up and saw a childris spear buried in her flank. Eyes wild, he leapt to his feet and grabbed his shield from where it stood impaled in the dry ground even as he grappled for his sword.
Four of them, closing fast. He knew he wouldn’t have time to heal Sultana, and he worried she might not make it through the fight for him to heal later. The spear had gone all the way through her body – three inches of the black blade dripped blood from her left flank even as the other two feet of metal stood out from the right side. He turned away from the sight and focused instead on his enemies.
“I’m sorry, Sultana,” he said desperately. “Hold on just a little while and I’ll take care of you.
“I promise…”
Birch struggled in his sleep, and tiny claws needled into his back as Selti jerked awake in surprise.
He hung from his wrists by a thick leather thong, his knees less than a foot above the floor. His wrists burned with the strain of holding his weight, and for a moment he brought his feet beneath him and rested his weight on them. His arms cried out in piteous relief even as his legs screamed in torment, and after only a moment’s rest he collapsed back to his former hanging position.
Soon, he told himself. Soon I will have the strength to heal myself again.
He rolled his head forward to gaze on the shattered bones protruding from his lower legs, and he bit back a noise of pain. His arms felt as though they were being slowly torn from their sockets, and for all he knew they may already have been wrenched free. Now his shoulders were numb, and he prayed for a return of the pain. At least in pain he knew he still lived… that he was still a whole man.
His movement started him in a slow spin, giving him an unwanted view of the room he now viewed as his own personal Hell. Two walls dripped flame in a constant flow of liquid fire. The other two walls oozed a bone-numbing slush of black ice and water. The ice rasped against itself in a maddening whisper of noise that made his skull tremble. Sometimes he thought he heard voices in those whispers, voices that eagerly discussed how they would rend his body and tear at his soul.
The walls were only a few feet away in any direction, and where fire and ice met in pools on the floor, bursts of scalding steam or frozen mist erupted into the air, burning and freezing his flesh in turn. He was used to the pain, and at times, he was able to block out the mind-twisting sounds. The alternating burns and freezing, however, prevented him from attaining the one thing he needed most: sleep.
He was now on his eighth day without rest, and his mind was slowly becoming numb to the world around him. For whatever reason, they had left his day-counter in the room, alongside his sword and torn armor on a narrow table that was, and would always be, just out of reach no matter how he stretched and contorted his body. It was there to taunt him, but the day-counter was once more a source of comfort to his mind, which teetered daily on the brink of madness.
Almost he wished they would simply blood his heart and end his torment. As they took delight in reminding him daily, all he had to do was ask them, beg them to kill him, and release would be his. Or he could curse God, swear to the King of Hell.
Almost, he asked. Almost, he cursed God, though he would never swear loyalty to Mephistopheles. Birch was a loyal soldier for God – why was He letting His servant suffer so? Hadn’t Birch always tried to follow His path? He’d given up his life and his love to follow God’s calling. Was that not enough? The words were on his lips, and he almost said them.
Almost…
Unbidden, an image of Moreen sprang into his mind. She was seated at their table in the Dragoenix Inn, staring sadly into the nearby flames. On the table rested two glasses and a bottle of wine, half empty. She was waiting there for him. She had waited, and she would be waiting tomorrow, and the day after, and the month after. She would wait at that table until she died… or he returned to her.
And return to her he would! His body was broken and beyond his control, but his heart, mind, and soul were forever his and would remain untouched no matter the tortures they touched him with or the lies they told him. He would remain faithful.
He would get back to her.
“Moreen,” he murmured, and he even smiled as sleep at last overtook him.
Birch relaxed. The lines of remembered agony disappeared from his face, and Selti crooned softly in sympathy. Images and feelings too complex for the dakkan to understand flashed through his bond with the paladin, confusing the dakkan even as it terrified him. He rested his head gently on his paladin’s ear and warbled soothingly.
Just as it seemed he might awaken from his nightmares, a frown creased his face and turned swiftly into an expression of mindless fear. Sweat poured freely down his face, running down to pool with that which already soaked the blanket beneath his head.
“Is it agreed?” the Voice asked.
He probed the darkness only he could see. For the third time in a month, they had cut his eyes with their demonic claws, blood seeping from each socket after an agonizing descent into darkness. Twice before he had stubbornly prayed and received healing for his destroyed eyes, and twice again they had blinded him.
He took comfort in the darkness for a time until he summoned the strength to heal himself again. That comfort had disappeared with the sudden presence of the Voice and the promises it made him. The Voice was somehow familiar, and he had the wild idea they might have spoken before, if he could just place it…
“You promise to free me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You will heal me?”
“Completely.”
“You will help me to escape?”
“No one will know of your disappearance until it is too late to stop you, and I will look after you every step of the way,” the Voice replied. “The path out will still be arduous and long, but I promise you will survive. You’re of no use to me dead.” The words were liquid and velvety in his ears, with promises hidden between promises and words within words. His head spun, but he fought to maintain an even mind amidst the smooth words.
“Why are you helping me? Who are you?”
“There is a balance to be maintained, mortal, and you will help bring about that balance,” the Voice replied after a moment’s pause. “You will serve me. You are being given a special trust, which you will not remember or understand until it is time. When that time comes, when life itself lies in the balance and a choice must be made, then perhaps you will understand.”
The Voice stopped, and he wondered for a moment if he was alone. He twisted awkwardly on the hard surface on which he lay, suddenly terrified of being alone. He nearly sighed in relief when the Voice continued.
“As for who I am, you will know in due time. Now, will you do as I have asked? Do we have a deal?”
Though still blind, his eyes closed in concentration as he fought to hold on to the words being spoken to him, to hold their meaning and stop the spinning they created in his head. Whatever else was true here, this was a denizen of Hell he was speaking with.
“You know I will not break my oaths,” he said.
“You cannot,” the Voice corrected him.
“I will not go against God,” he continued, ignoring the interruption lest it break his concentration. “I will not violate my conscience. I will not serve you at another’s expense.”
“Mortal, if you
were willing to do any of these things, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” the Voice replied.
He hung in a void of indecision, fear battling with a spark of hope that he might escape and win free of his torment. In the end, it was an image that was burned into his mind in perfect detail that made the decision for him.
“Moreen,” he murmured softly.
“Say again?” the Voice asked. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” he replied, his voice regaining strength from some hidden reserve. “I will take with me the one you ask and escape. Where is he?”
“One thing at a time, mortal,” the Voice replied in a satisfied purr, “and don’t worry about him. He’ll be with you every step of the way.”
Before he could speak, fire erupted in his head, and it felt as though a raging inferno was being forcibly sent down his throat. He screamed, the agony too much for his body; the body that had grown so used to rending torture that the lack of it brought pain. And then it was over, and he breathed the sweet relief of cool air.
“Open your eyes, paladin,” the Voice said softly.
Only then did he realize his eyes were closed. He opened them slowly and found his face buried in his hands, his fingers clutching his cheeks. He looked up and saw for the first time his savior.
Dressed in a black robe and cowl, there was nothing to give identity to the figure that stood before him. Whatever hands or claws the apparition possessed were folded carefully in the sleeves of the robe. A black mist seemed to emanate from the hood of the cloak, obscuring the face within.
Without thinking, he reached a hand forward to push back the cowl. As his fingers brushed the black cloth, the Voice within whispered, “Now forget, paladin. Forget.”
“Forget.”
His eyes drooped, but still he stretched forward and lifted the hood, and finally he saw the face within.
“My God,” he whispered, and then darkness overtook him.
- 3 -
Birch woke with a jerk, tumbling Selti from his back with a soft squawk of protest. Sweat drenched his body and the bedding beneath him, and he shivered in the cool night air. He twisted about in his blankets so he was facing upright, leaning on his hands thrust to each side. The vestiges of his nightmare clung to him like cobwebs of a dream, too strong to ignore but too ephemeral to grasp and see.
After a moment, Birch was left only with a remembered feeling of terror and overwhelming horror.
He stood and threw a dry blanket over his shoulders, then joined his nephew by the fire. Danner was lost in thought and barely noticed the paladin’s arrival. Garet was dimly visible outside the light of the fire as the mountainous paladin took his turn at the watch. He nodded at Birch to acknowledge his presence, then turned his gaze back to the woods beyond.
As Birch settled next to Danner, the young thief finally turned to him.
“Can’t sleep either, huh, uncle?” he asked softly.
“Not tired anymore,” Birch replied evenly. “I’ve slept enough.”
They passed the rest of the night in relative silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Birch turned over the only thing he clearly remembered from his dream. A whispered voice, from where he couldn’t seem to remember, but the sound of the single word filled him with a nameless terror and caused him to shiver in spite of his nearness to the fire.
In his mind, over and over again, he heard the voice responding to something he’d said.
“Yes…”
Chapter 20
A gnome only truly dies when the last of his inventions is destroyed. Something of his soul goes into everything his hands make, until only the shell of his body remains. After all, what good is a soul to a dead husk?
- Tarrowillish Haberbush,
“What’s Next?” (709 AL)
- 1 -
Their journey to Nocka was blessedly uneventful, if hurried. Birch drove their party with an almost frantic need to get to the city and warn the Prismatic Council. His fervor caught the other paladins as well, and when they reached Lokana later in the day, no one suggested they stop for the night in the local chapterhouse. Instead, they followed the road west until sundown.
During their ride, there was little talking, and it was a subdued group that sat around the campfire at night. Still, Danner came to know something of the men with whom they were traveling.
James was a charismatic and engaging man, and his charm and personality came across with a natural grace that put all who met him at ease. He was the leader and moderator of the jintaal, smoothing through matters that might otherwise have led to tension. No group action went without his subtle influence, not even the simple matters of organizing their camp. Such as the cooking.
“Wein, you’re our cook tonight,” James said their second night after Lokana. The Violet paladin nodded, then scowled and turned to Danner.
“Boy, get the firestand and the pan from my saddlebag and bring them to the fire,” Wein ordered. Danner opened his mouth to protest, then caught James’s eyes on him. With a curt nod, Danner retrieved the requisite items from the paladin’s horse and brought them to the fire.
Without asking, Danner set up the firestand, careful to set the wire frame properly in the steel tripod. The night before, Vander hadn’t set it correctly, and their dinner was nearly ruined when it collapsed into the fire. With the firestand set, he placed it over the fire and turned away.
“Set in the meat, and we’ll need water, too,” Wein said. Danner turned and saw the paladin was rummaging through a sack, but accomplishing little of purpose. Before he could tell the Violet to set in the bloody meat himself, James stepped in and rested a light hand on Wein’s shoulder.
“Now, Wein, when you’re the cook, you do the cooking,” James said easily.
“I’m busy,” Wein said shortly, then flicked a quick glare toward Danner, “and since when is it not a peasant’s job to cook for his betters?” This last was muttered beneath Wein’s breath, but not quietly enough. Danner saw James’s eyes flash, although his smile stayed in place.
“Be reasonable, Wein,” James said, his voice betraying none of the steel Danner saw buried in his eyes. “If you have young Danner cook for you, that’s not fair to the rest of us, now is it? No, surely not,” James said as though Wein’s half-second of silence was an assent.
“Danner,” James continued smoothly, “why don’t you go hunt us up some more wood; the fire won’t last all night, and better to do it now than when the fire’s all but dead.”
Danner nodded and headed off into the woods, ignoring the disgruntled look Wein threw at his back.
The Violet paladin was apparently from a wealthy family, and Danner knew class distinctions were almost as difficult to break through as racial ones. As far as Danner had seen, the only time Wein let class drop was during the prayer he said before every meal.
Fortunately, none of the other paladins seemed to share the Violet’s prejudices.
To say Perklet was quiet and shy was like saying dwarves and gnomes only kind of didn’t get along. At times, it was easy to forget the Green paladin was there, even though he was quick to offer his help whenever one of them complained of saddle-soreness or the dozen other nameless aches and injuries that afflict men on the road. The Green paladin had a gentle healing touch, and with a soft prayer he soothed away the worst of their pains. Danner decided Perky was quite probably one of the most deferential and quietly accommodating men in the world.
Nuse and Garet were similar in temperament, if opposites in appearance. Both men had a wry sense of humor, the Blue’s noticeably sharper than the Red’s. They were easygoing and apparently had been friends for some time – when the party settled down, they could usually be found sharing a meal and telling stories neither one believed. Garet’s booming laughter startled them on more than one occasion, shaking the trees as it shattered the stillness of the night. Still, there was often a seriousness about Garet that Nuse didn’t wear on his shoulders.
Vander, though…
Danner frowned as he picked up a dry log for the fire. There was something about the Orange paladin that set Danner’s teeth on edge, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly what. When he was around the whole group, Vander was a match for Perklet in being taciturn, though there was nothing sullen in his attitude. He simply didn’t seem to like being in groups. On the rare times Danner had spoken one-on-one with the Orange, Danner had found him too impressed with his own cleverness and apparently oblivious to the world outside his own limited experience.
That in itself shouldn’t have been enough to make Danner edgy around him, but still, the young thief now avoided being alone with the Orange paladin whenever possible. It wasn’t just what Vander said, or even how he said it – when Danner really thought back, it seemed the Orange paladin rarely said anything, even amidst a crowd of two. The only person he seemed to converse openly with was James. Still, there was just a feeling Danner got around the paladin that rubbed him the wrong way.
With a heavy load of wood in his arms, Danner turned back to the camp.
Early the next morning, after only a few hours sleep, Birch roused them all, and they resumed their journey toward Nocka. They crossed the mountains in two days of hard riding, pausing only briefly in Salka to rest their mounts. They reached the west side of the mountains nearly two full days ahead of Birch’s original estimation. After less than a week on the road, they saw their destination in sight.
Nocka. The Barrier. And beyond…
Hell.
- 2 -
Danner reigned in his horse, cursing as the beast pranced nervously. After several days of travel, the stupid animal still hadn’t grown entirely accustomed to the dakkans ridden by four of the paladins, including Birch. Danner’s uncle hadn’t wanted to reveal Selti’s third-shape ability – no doubt reluctant to face the inevitable and unanswerable questions it would raise – and instead had his mount change to his runner form. Selti was now wingless and only slightly larger than a horse, his gray scales a dull counterpart to the bright colors of the other dakkans.
Hunting The Three (The Barrier War) Page 22