Voyage of the Fox Rider

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Aravan stepped before Aylis, sword in hand, standing between her and the downed creature, the Elf’s face to the threat. Jatu took up station at her side.

  “It just fell out of mid air and crashed to the floor,” rumbled the black Man. “Kelek and a squad were passing through,” he added.

  “Châkka-shok! Châkka-cor!” Bokar’s war cry crested above the rage, the Dwarf slamming his axe—Chnk!—down into the unmoving creature’s flank.

  “Hold!” shouted Kelek, his voice lost in the uproar, the Dwarven warrior among those hewing and smashing upon the felled monster. “Hold, by Elwydd, hold! It is dead!”

  At last he was heard in the tumult, and the shouts and cries and fury diminished, dwindled, stopped altogether. And as quiet returned, slowly, suspiciously, the warriors backed away, and by the light of the Dwarven lanterns scattered across the floor, they peered at the creature, an evil parody of a huge, reptilian Man eight feet tall, ponderous, with taloned hands and feet and glittering rows of fangs in a lizard-snouted face, the Dwarves ready to leap forward again should the monster give even the slightest twitch.

  And in the ensuing stillness—“I say, what’s all the ruckus about” came a piping voice from behind.

  Jinnarin, Aylis, Alamar, Aravan, and Jatu all whirled about, to see Farrix standing, the black-haired Pysk yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  CHAPTER 32

  Links

  Spring, 1E9575

  [The Present]

  With a cry of joy, Jinnarin leapt from Rux’s back and hurled herself at Farrix, staggering him hindwards with her fierce onslaught. She clasped him to herself and wept with gladness, showering him with kisses.

  He held her in a tight embrace and kissed her in return. And just as he opened his mouth to speak, boiling inward through the doorway came charging a warband of Dwarves, weapons hefted, shields at the ready, flinty gazes sweeping the chamber, Châkka seeking the battle they had heard, responding to Bokar’s war cry.

  Startled, Farrix shoved Jinnarin behind him, leaping between her and potential danger, his empty hands reaching for his bow, finding naught, and all the while his glance darted about, seeing Humans and Dwarves, Elves and Mages, Rux the fox…and one very dead Gargon.

  Farrix whirled to Jinnarin. “We’ve got to hide before they see us,” he hissed, gathering shadow.

  She shook her head. “No, love, these are Friends.”

  “Friends? Friends! So many?”

  At her nod and grin, he dispensed the darkness and turned back to the confusion in the chamber.

  Holding up his hands, Bokar was shouting in Châkur above the milling chaos, calling for quiet, saying that the fight was over, the Ghath slain. And when a semblance of order returned, once again Alamar, Aravan, Aylis, and Jatu faced the dais and the Pysks thereon, and wide smiles wreathed their faces.

  Over his shoulder Farrix asked, “Hoy now, love, this is not another dream is it?” Before she could answer, he pinched himself—“Ow!”—then muttered, “Oh wait, that didn’t work before.”

  Jinnarin laughed and stepped before him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Oh no, Farrix, this is not a dream. You’ve broken the spell and are truly awake at last.”

  He tore his gaze from the stir above and looked into her eyes. “Then you can’t fly?”

  “No, love. I can’t fly.”

  “Oh,” said Farrix. “Too bad. I would imagine it’s rather a nice talent to have.” He was smiling as he said it. He pulled her to him and kissed her soundly, then gestured outward. “I say, Humans, Dwarves, Mages, and an Elf—just who are all these strangers?”

  “Strangers to you; Friends to me.” Jinnarin disengaged, adding, “That is, all but two are strangers to you. Regardless, these are Friends who helped me to find you and aided in breaking the spell.” Turning, she motioned the others to her, saying, “Farrix, you’ve met Lady Aylis—”

  “Wha—?” Farrix looked up at the seeress. “I thought you were a Pysk!”

  Aylis smiled. “We met in a dream, Farrix, where you and Jinnarin and I were all of a size—strange as that may seem.”

  “Oh,” said Farrix, then bowed to Aylis. “In any event, Lady Aylis, I am most glad to meet you in the real flesh, and I thank you for helping Jinnarin break the spell.”

  As Aylis smiled, Jinnarin said, “And this is Jatu.”

  The black Man stepped forward and rumbled, “Ah, Master Farrix, she described you well, did your Lady Jinnarin.”

  As he looked up at the huge Man, Farrix’s eyes widened. “From the southern lands, I take it. I always wished to go there.”

  “Someday, perhaps, we will go together,” replied Jatu, a grin splitting his face.

  “And this is Aravan.” Jinnarin gestured at the Elf.

  “A Friend!” Farrix smiled, then explained, “I sense a token you bear.”

  Aravan’s hand strayed to his throat. “It came from Tarquin.”

  Alamar jerked his head toward Aravan. “The amulet, Elf, what does it sense?”

  “‘Tis warm…no longer chill, the peril gone.”

  “Ha! As I thought!” The elder jerked a thumb toward the slain Gargon. “There, Daughter, there was Durlok’s trap! Linked to Farrix! Whoever tried to break the spell, ha, they would have a Gargon to deal with.”

  Slowly Jatu shook his head. “Gargon, yes, and we would have all been slain. Yet, Mage Alamar, I could swear it was dead when it fell from the air.…”

  Farrix’s eyes flew wide in surprise. “Mage Alamar?”

  Alamar looked down at him. “Eh? Oh, Pysk. Hmph, glad to see you awake.”

  Again Farrix asked, “Mage Alamar? Is it really you?”

  “Of course it’s really me, you young jackanapes!”

  Farrix shook his head as if to clear it from confusion. “Well, I just seem to remember that you were a lot, uh, hmm, darker haired.”

  “I was,” snorted the Mage. “If you’d’ve cast as many spells as I, you’d be a bit grey on the top, too.”

  “Oh,” said Farrix, cocking an eye at Jinnarin as she whispered, “Casting spells drains youth. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “And oh by the way, Pysk,” added Alamar. “Good shot, and thanks.”

  Puzzlement washed across Farrix’s face, and Alamar barked, “The bloody pig, Pysk—the boar!”

  Enlightened, Farrix simply nodded, but Jinnarin spoke up: “A thousand years late, Alamar, but thanks accepted.”

  Alamar grunted sourly then muttered, “Visus,” and looked sharply at Farrix. “Aha, Daughter, he’s no longer enspelled. And the link is gone, too. Tell me, just what did you do?”

  “Well, Father, in the first dream we—”

  “First dream?”

  “Yes, Father. There were two: a dream within a dream.”

  Jinnarin shook her head. “No, Aylis. I think there must have been at least three. Remember, Farrix was asleep and dreaming in the second dream, too.”

  Aylis nodded. “As Farrix told us within one of the dreams, Father, it was like one of those puzzles—boxes within boxes, rings within rings, or the like.”

  “Aha,” murmured the elder, raising his chin, then gesturing impatiently. “Well, go on, go on.”

  “In the first dream we found Farrix asleep in a garden—lying on a crystal altar like this one.” Aylis tapped the crystal block. “He was dreaming in that dream, and so we walked within that dreamed dream as well.”

  Alamar raised an eyebrow. “That might have been dangerous, you know.”

  “It was!” blurted Jinnarin. “That’s where we found the demon!”

  “Demon?”

  Jinnarin’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes. Demon. And it was dreadful. But Jatu saved us, and you as well.”

  Alamar threw up his hands, snapping, “Hold on, hold on! You aren’t making any sense, Pysk.”

  Aylis looked at Jinnarin. “Oh but she is, Father, or at least I think she is”—Jinnarin nodded vigorously—“but let me tell it as it happened, at least as much as I know, a
nd then Jinnarin will tell the parts I know not.”

  “In the first dream—in the garden—we discovered Farrix asleep on a crystal altar. In the second dream, we stepped into the crystal castle of the sending. But a hideous creature of some sort lunged toward us, a writhing blackness with great talons and evil eyes and a fang-filled mouth. This I think is what your amulet detected, Aravan. I think as well it was the creature that slew White Owl—Ontah. An evil spirit, he named it; a demon by Jinnarin’s words; yet by any name it was terrible, and nearly proved our end.”

  Aylis’s eyes were wide in remembered dread, and Aravan put an arm about her. Fleetingly she smiled at him and then continued. “We escaped the crystal castle, fled, bridged out to the garden, but the monster pursued—not just one, but many, a dozen or so. Before we could bridge out of that dream, the monster froze Jinnarin simply by looking at her.”

  Jinnarin gasped and reached out to take Farrix’s hand. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t flee. I thought my heart would burst with dread.”

  Aylis nodded, “Me, too, Jinnarin. I thought my heart would burst as well.” She gave the Pysk a tiny smile and then continued:

  “I cast a lightning bolt at it—”

  “A lightning bolt? A lightning bolt, Daughter? But you don’t know how.”

  “You are right, Father—I do not know how. Yet recall, it was a dream, and as I discovered in the dream where we escaped the spider, in the dream where I made the flaming sword, all I needed to do was say the right word to cast a spell. And in spite of my dread I managed to utter one of your words, ‘Fulmen,’ and out leapt the bolt from my hand. But it had no effect, passing right through one of the creatures. Yet loosing the bolt did accomplish one thing: the monster now mistakenly thought I was the greater threat, for in that moment the dread creature abandoned Jinnarin and turned all of its vile power on me, and my mind was seized and I only knew terror from then on…until Jinnarin set me free.”

  Alamar turned to Jinnarin, the Mage waving his hands in small, impatient circles. “Well, Pysk, what then?” he demanded.

  “Then you saved us, Alamar, you and Jatu.”

  Jatu cocked his head in puzzlement, but Alamar snapped in agitation, “Get on with it, Pysk! Just how did Jatu and I come galloping to the rescue.”

  “Well, after a couple of my arrows”—Jinnarin gestured at one of the wee shafts—“did nothing to stop two of the creatures, I recalled that you said you could make one fireball seem to be ten. And I thought that there were ten or so demons there, and decided that all but one had to be illusions, false images like the illusory stone over the entrance to these caverns. Then I remembered Jatu’s story about all demons but one having no shadows, and that’s the one I shot next—the demon with no shadow. My arrow flew through it though, having no effect. And it was now about to kill Aylis.…”

  “Cor, love,” breathed Farrix, “what did you do?”

  “Stop interrupting, Pysk,” snapped Alamar, glaring at Farrix. Then he looked to Jinnarin. “What did you do?”

  “I killed it, that’s what,” replied Jinnarin.

  “How?” barked Alamar, nearly shrieking with frustration.

  “Well, you might say I did him in the eye.”

  “Did him in the eye?”

  Jinnarin raised her bow. “Yes. I did him in the eye…and then the mouth.”

  “And that killed it? Killed the demon, the evil spirit?”

  Here. Aylis spoke up. “Yes, Father, that killed it and set me free. And after a moment the slain monster turned into a vile, black vapor that vanished in the wind.”

  “Hmm,” mused Alamar, then sharply said, “but the spell was not yet broken, right?”

  “It was not yet broken,” replied Aylis, nodding. “We went back into the dream within the dream, back to the crystal castle, and there we discovered Farrix on another crystal altar.”

  Alamar’s eyes widened. “Another crystal altar? Well, well. That must be the icon which links the dreams together, links them to here as well.”

  “Exactly my thought, too, Father.”

  At that moment Bokar strode down from the slain Gargon, joining the circle. Jinnarin turned to Farrix. “This is Armsmaster Bokar, Farrix. He, too, is a Friend, as are all you will meet in the coming days.”

  Bokar bowed stiffly to Farrix, the Pysk grinning but bowing likewise. The Dwarf glanced over his shoulder at the doorway to the caverns and then said, “I would ask you a question, Master Farrix—”

  “Ask him later,” snapped Alamar, “we’re in the middle of something here”—Bokar’s beard quivered in fury, but he held his tongue—“Go on, Daughter. You discovered Farrix on a crystal altar in the crystal castle of the sending—what happened next?”

  “He was dreaming, Father, but when Jinnarin called out, he moved. We wakened him, and suddenly the castle disappeared and the chamber became the duplicate of this one. I believe that it was at that moment the linkage to something evil was broken.”

  “Aha!” barked Alamar. “That’s when the Gargon appeared here! So it was dead when it crashed into the chamber! Damn good thing, too, else as Jatu said, we’d have all been killed by such a monster.”

  “But, Alamar,” protested Jinnarin, “I do not understand.”

  “Look, Pysk, the Gargon was, hmm, somewhere on the island, I would imagine, but linked to Farrix, and whoever tried to break the spell would summon it.”

  “But wait,” rumbled Jatu. “If there was a Gargon somewhere on the island, Captain Aravan’s amulet would have detected it, would have run chill.”

  “It did detect it, you big lummox,” snapped Alamar. “Right here in this chamber. Y’see, the Gargon’s essence was trapped in Farrix’s dream…hence, wherever its body was hidden, it did not trigger Aravan’s stone. The stone did detect, however, that the Gargon’s essence was linked to Farrix, shackled to his dream. —Oh what a clever trap Durlok set, damn his eyes!”

  Jatu nodded, then turned to look at the slain Gargon. “And the moment the link was broken—”

  “Was the moment the Gargon came from and crashed to the floor dead.”

  “Already slain by my Jinnarin!” crowed Farrix, picking her up and whirling around.

  When he set her down, he kissed her and released her and she turned to Alamar, her eyes wide. “You mean the demon of the dream was really the spirit, the essence of the Gargon?” At Alamar’s nod, she gasped, “Oh my, then the fact that I chose a particular image to shoot was even a greater gamble than I thought.”

  “Why so. Pysk?”

  “Well, Alamar, I did not think that Gargons were demons, and had I known…”

  Aravan shook his head. “Nay, Jinnarin, it was a wise choice thou made to slay the one with no shadow, for long have my Folk believed that the Gargoni are of Demonkind.”

  “Most likely, Elf. Most likely,” said Alamar. Then the Mage turned again to Aylis. “Then what, Daughter.”

  “Well, Father, after that it was rather simple. We merely had to convince Farrix that it was a dream and to wake up—after we left, of course, for we did not want to be trapped.”

  “It was so real,” added Farrix. “I mean, if Jinnarin hadn’t flown, I believe that I would have thought that she had lost her mind, and had convinced another Pysk—Aylis—to go mad with her. And when I awoke from the dream within the dream, well, I had to be convinced all over again. And, of course, when I awoke from the last dream, well, here I was in a madhouse itself, what with yelling warriors beating upon a giant dead lizard, or the like. Then I wasn’t at all certain that I hadn’t gone ‘round the bend myself.”

  Jinnarin began giggling and Jatu roaring and Aylis laughing as well. Aravan joined in the mirth along with Farrix. Even Alamar cackled. All laughed but Bokar, his visage grim. When the laughter died, the armsmaster stepped forward. “Master Farrix, I need ask a vital question.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and toward the passageway leading toward the quay, saying, “Where be the Trolls?”

  Farrix looked u
p at him and replied, “Why, with Durlok, Armsmaster Bokar, rowing his black ship.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Façade

  Spring, 1E9575

  [The Present]

  Bokar turned to Aravan. “Captain, now that we have Farrix, I suggest we leave, and quickly. Before Durlok and his twenty-eight Trolls return.”

  “Still afraid of the Trolls, eh, Dwarf?” snorted Alamar. “As I said before, I can deal with them.”

  “Father!” Aylis rounded on her sire. “We have already had this argument. Twenty-eight Trolls are too many for us to face.”

  “Bah!” replied Alamar.

  Farrix looked up at Aylis. “How did you know there were twenty-eight?”

  Bokar answered the question. “We counted the beds, Master Farrix.”

  “Oh my”—Farrix turned his hands palms up—“of course. How thick of me.”

  “There are twenty-eight, aren’t there?” asked Jatu.

  The Pysk nodded. “Yes. And fifteen Rucha and four Loka, too.”

  “Fifteen Rucha!” exclaimed Jinnarin. “But we counted sixteen beds.”

  “One is dead,” replied Farrix. “Killed by—”

  “Argh!” snarled Bokar. “Ukhs and Hroks are of little threat, but the Trolls are a different matter.”

  “Captain,” rumbled Jatu, “Bokar is right. We should go, and now.”

  “No!” barked Alamar. “If we go now, Durlok will know that we’ve been here, what with the Pysk gone and a dead Gargon hacked and splattered all over his floor. He’ll run and find a new place to hide, and we’ll be millennia tracking him down again. And all the while, he’ll be performing hideous rituals—slaughtering the innocent, gaining in power—all to some evil end.”

  Farrix’s face had gone flat, the blood drained from it. “Alamar is right, you know—about the rituals, I mean. Durlok is a monster.”

  The elder nodded vigorously, then turned and gestured at a trail of scattered papers leading from the crystal chamber back into the laboratory. “I have been in his sanctum, examining his tomes, his scrolls—I was there when the Gargon fell and Jatu called, and I came running.” Alamar stalked to one of the papers and scooped it up and held it on high before him. “These are the horrors of a Black Mage; they are vile, terrible things, filled with dreadful rites and depraved sacraments—wicked, malevolent abominations. And all are dedicated to the gathering of power over others, to utter dominion and the destruction of free will, and to the glorification and ascendancy of Gyphon.”