Once more Durlok raised his hand, this time pointing at Aravan—“Parálusis!”—and the Elf staggered and fell to the floor, sensing all but unable to move. And he watched as Durlok cast the mutilated corpse from the altar and then turned and strode up to where he lay.
Durlok grasped Aravan by the collar of his jerkin and then began dragging him down toward the altar. “You think to defeat me? Pah! I am the one who conquers. Don’t you yet realize, fool, I am the one who caused the Pysk to dream the dreams that would draw you and your allies into my trap. And although that imbecile Alamar slew my Negus of Terror, he paid for that deed and now lies dead below the waters of Rwn. And thinking of revenge, you were drawn again, and now I have you!”
Durlok laid his staff aside and, grunting, lifted Aravan to the crystal block. As he did so, through the dark barrier at the entrance Aravan could see shadowy figures moving beyond, and he could dimly hear a muffled shouting. Durlok looked up and laughed. “Do you think they will rescue you? Pah! Again you are a fool. They cannot get in, and I will deal with them after I have dealt with you. In fact”—Durlok squatted at the altar side, then stood, and in his hands he held a long, sharp, dark crystal—“I will draw out your
A groan escaped Aravan.
“Oh. What’s that? You would speak? Well then, fool, speak.” And Durlok muttered, “Elattótheti!”
A degree of the paralysis lifted from Aravan, and he managed to turn his head toward Durlok and whisper, “Why?”
Durlok’s eyes widened in amazement. “You are even a bigger fool than I thought, for when I grant you speech, instead of begging for your life, you stupidly ask a question instead. —Why what?”
“Why dost thou do these evil things? Why didst thou destroy Rwn?”
Again Durlok’s eyes widened. “Evil? Evil! The destruction of Rwn was not an act of evil. Nay, not at all! Instead it serves the purposes of my Lord Gyphon. He has plans. Yes, He has plans. —Damn Adon for opposing Him!”
Beyond Durlok, Aravan saw shadow fluctuate about Jinnarin.
“And thou, hast thou no plans?” whispered Aravan.
“Oh my yes, fool. My plans are many. I will rule upon Mithgar.”
More shadow gathered about Jinnarin, her form obscure yet unmoving.
Aravan opened his mouth to speak, but Durlok hissed, “Enough, fool!” He took up his long, black staff in his left hand and raised up the crystal in his right and paused as if admiring the smoky gemstone. Muffled shouting came through the dark barrier at the entrance, and there sounded picks on stone. Durlok laughed and looked down at Aravan, then held the crystal before his eyes. “This crystal is now without power,” whispered Durlok, “but I will Truename it and draw out your astral fire.”
In that moment, Aravan remembered Aylis’s prophecy, and her instructions in magewords, and the circled word in the lexicon of the Black Mage. And he struggled to move, to grasp the stone—all in vain for he was yet held by Durlok’s spell. And Durlok laughed at Aravan’s feeble efforts and raised the crystal on high and opened his mouth to speak—
—And shrieked and clutched the back of his neck, his staff clattering away on the chamber floor and the crystal falling to the altar.
And his face turned grey and he staggered, and he turned to see Jinnarin standing behind, the Pysk stringing another minuscule arrow to her tiny bow.
“Iè húdor genoú!” he managed to gasp, and the grey fled from his features.
And he raised his hand to blast Jinnarin from existence, shrieking, “You are dead!” but the paralysis had lifted from Aravan the moment Durlok had turned away. And the Elf took up the dark gemstone, and with all his might he stabbed it into Durlok’s back, while at the same time crying out, “Krystallopýr!”
Aravan had Truenamed the stone.
And it flared hotly and drew astral fire unto itself.
And Durlok’s eyes flew wide in horror, and shrieking he clawed at his back, trying to reach the stone but failing. And shrilling, he turned and lurched toward his staff, but the burning dark gem piercing him sucked away his
—Aravan squatted down and stayed the Black Mage’s hand, the Elf whispering, “For Aylis and Alamar and all the others.”
—And Durlok’s mouth hinged wide in terror, in the gaping silent scream of the dead, and then he collapsed, his brittle bones shattering, his flesh turning to dust.
—And amid the stirring ashes, a gleaming dark gemstone lay.
CHAPTER 42
Scatterings
Autumn, 1E9575–Spring, 2E1
[The Present]
Suddenly the crystal chamber plunged into darkness, the faint glow of Krystallopŷr providing but feeble light. But moments later, from the doorway came the glow of Dwarven lanterns piercing the dark. Dwarves and Pysks came boiling into the crystalline room, Jatu as well, for with Durlok’s death the barrier had vanished, just as had the magelight within. And Bokar shouted, “Captain Aravan, are you all right?”
Aravan stood holding onto his ribs. “’Ware, Bokar, Yrm may lie in Durlok’s rooms. Too, be there a healer with thee? Farrix lies you—stunned or slain, I know not.”
Bokar barked out orders to the Châkka, and as Burak moved forward to tend Farrix, a contingent of warriors hefted their axes and stepped across the chamber to cautiously enter the doorway to Durlok’s quarters, several enshadowed Pysks going before them. Some Châkka and Pysks stayed behind and stood guard.
Jinnarin knelt at Farrix’s side, along with Burak. Moments later she called out, “He is coming ‘round now.”
Jatu trod down into the temple and squatted by Durlok’s remains, now nought but a pile of char. And Aravan hissed, “Touch not the crystal, Jatu. It is deadly.”
Jatu glanced over at the black staff then up at Aravan. “We could see, Captain, though darkly. Durlok seemed desperate to reach this length of wood. I wonder why?”
The Elf shrugged, then turned and glanced up at Burak and Jinnarin and Farrix. Farrix was now sitting up.
Gingerly, Jatu touched the staff with a finger, quickly jerking it away. Then he touched it again, and once more, finally taking the staff in hand. He stood and measured its length: it was as long as the big black Man was tall. “Strange wood,” murmured Jatu. “Like ebony, but not.”
Accompanied by Anthera and Fia, Bokar came down to the altar, and Aravan asked. “The Trolls, Armsmaster, be they slain?”
Bokar nodded, but his eyes harbored pain. “Aye, Captain, they are all dead. But thirteen Châkka are slain, and two Men. Too, we have fourteen wounded—eleven Châkka and three Men—most with broken bones.”
“My ribs among them,” said Aravan, “cracked by the Troll I slew.”
“Aha!” barked Bokar, as he turned and summoned Burak. “So that was you, Captain. How done?”
“Poniard in the ear,” answered Aravan.
“We wondered how it was done and by whom.”
Burak aided Aravan to remove his jerkin, then the healer began binding the Elf’s rib cage.
“What of the Yrm?” asked Aravan.
Anthera raised her bow and said, “Lest there be any Rucha or Loka hiding under Durlok’s bed, we deem all are slain.”
Aravan glanced at the mutilated corpse lying on the far side of the altar. “Had Durlok any capti
ves?”
Fia shook her head. “There was a Man in chains in the prison, but someone had just cut his throat, we think to keep him from calling out for aid. Most likely he was slain by the Ruch we slew in turn.”
Farrix now stood and with Jinnarin came down to Aravan. Pointing at the ashes, he muttered, “That’s Durlok?”
Aravan nodded.
“Well, there lies the crystal he used to draw down the plumes.”
“Touch it not, Farrix, for I spoke its Truename and it is hazardous.”
Jinnarin glanced up at Aravan. “We can’t just leave it here.”
“I know, Jinnarin.” Favoring his freshly bound ribs, Aravan squatted. Reaching out, he held his hand above the bladelike gemstone and whispered, “Krystallopýr,” and the hot gleam vanished from the smoky crystal. Aravan then cautiously touched the stone, ready to draw back at the first sign of danger; sensing none, he took it up. He considered for long moments, then handed it to Jatu, saying, “Keep this safe until we find a way either to use it or to destroy it.”
Pysks and Dwarves came back from Durlok’s quarters and into the chamber. “All clear, Armsmaster,” called down Lork, second in command to Bokar now that Kelek was dead, “no Grg within.”
After retrieving the ballistas, they sank the black galley in the deep waters of the understone lagoon, the sinister ship hissing in protest as it went under, great bubbles rising long after it had vanished down into the dark, unplumbed depths.
At Aravan’s command, splinted and bandaged, the wounded were sailed ‘round to the temporary camp on the northern bluffs. Then they laded the dinghies with their slain comrades, and sailed them ‘round as well. The remains of the Men were buried at sea, Aravan entrusting their souls to Adon, but the bodies of the Dwarves were carried up to a great pyre atop the bluffs and gently placed thereon, along with Troll warbars and clubs and war mattocks—the weapons of their slain foe.
As twilight fell, all gathered ‘round—Men and Dwarves and Pysks on foxes—while Bokar spoke the service for the Châkka, calling upon Elwydd to watch over the spirits of these slain heroes as they roamed among the stars awaiting the time of their rebirth. And as the great pyre was ignited, the scrub and brush flaring up, Bokar stepped back to Aravan’s side. They solemnly watched the smoke rise into the darkening sky, and Bokar said, “They died in honor, Captain, which is the best death a Châkka warrior can hope for. Ah me, but were we not sworn to secrecy concerning this mission, the battle to bring down Durlok would be a feat of which the bards would ever sing. Twenty-eight Trolls did we altogether slay in this battle. One by you, Captain Aravan—by poniard in his ear. Two by Tink and Tivir: one by drowning; one by ballista bolt. The rest by Châkka hand, or as good as. Never before has such been done by so few. And as for our own dead, no warrior could ask for a better fate, even though it will go unsung.” Bokar turned and glanced out to the sea, as if seeking solace on the distant horizon, the sky now pink and violet and indigo in the dying light.
Aravan stood silent for long moments, and only the murmur of the wind and the crackling of the fire and the rolling boom of surf below disturbed the quiet. But at last he said, “Forget not the Pyska, Bokar, for without them, it could not have been done. And as for these deeds going unnoted, ‘tis not so. I will record the measure of this battle in the logbooks of the Eroean. Too, I deem there will come a time in the far future when the veil of secrecy can be lifted—when, I cannot say, but surely the day will come, and then shall the songs be sung. This I swear, my friend…my valiant warrior friend.”
Bokar did not turn his face from the sea, but he nodded sharply, once, unable to speak for his tears.
The next day, Aravan called Jatu to him and said, “There is much wereguild to pay for the slain, Jatu, for the care of the families they left behind. Too, the Men and Dwarves and Pyska deserve reward for a task well-done. Take Bokar and a Pysk or two and select a crew and go to Durlok’s treasury. Choose among the things of value for us to take back.”
Jatu nodded. “Aye, Captain. How much?”
Aravan considered. “We could safely lade three dinghies, neh?”
Jatu smiled grimly. “If we run into weather on the way back, we can always cut them free and come again another day.”
A bleak look swept over Aravan’s face, and he shook his head. “I doubt that we will ever come here again.”
In a trice Jatu had selected those who would go with him, Anthera and Jinnarin among these, though the Pysks had merely shrugged at the thought of taking any of the treasure for themselves.
The next day, the second of November, they set sail from the isle, this time running down the prevailing wind, heading easterly to find the Eroean—eight dinghies with people and foxes in them, and three more dinghies laded with treasure and being towed. They moved slowly through the grasping weed, for there were but thirty-one healthy rowers spread among the eight crewed boats, the eleven wounded dwarves and three wounded Men and the rib-cracked Elf distributed among the craft. Yet the wind helped, for it blew directly astern as among the weed-clutched hulks they fared. And still Aravan swung wide of these when the stone at his neck grew chill.
Easterly they ran, coursing with the wind, at times running swiftly, at other times sluggishly, as day became night and vice versa. They were heading for the waters along the eastern rim of the Great Swirl, for patrolling up and down along that marge ran the Eroean.
Two days after setting sail, chill rain fell upon them in torrents, and great swells ran under the weed. The storm lasted for two more days, yet in the end the skies cleared, and the Sun shone brightly down. And still they towed the treasure after, for the blow had not been fierce.
The next day the wind died entirely, and slowly across the pale green sea they fared, rowers alternating, conserving their strength.
But the following day the air returned, blowing slightly south of east. And onward sailed the crews, though both Tink and Tivir came down with a case of the chills.
Easterly they fared in the flat-bottomed dinghies, cruising just above the weed, until on the ninth of November just after dawn Aravan glanced at the Sun then brought them all to a halt. They lowered sails and drifted, there among the slow-turning weed. At last, late in the day, they sighted the Eroean running north. Within the hour they were taken aboard.
The Eroean headed for the Silver Straits, for it would be the dead of winter when she reached there, the mildest time of the year in the South Polar Sea. And as the days grew longer and the nights shorter, southeasterly fared the Elvenship, down through the Sindhu Sea. During these same days and nights, Captain Aravan could often be seen standing alone at the railing, staring out at the horizon, mourning for his lost Lady, or so said the crew. There came a night in the salon when the captain and Jinnarin sat talking.…
Jinnarin sipped from her acorn cup. “What do you suppose Durlok meant when he said that his Lord Gyphon has plans?”
“Thou heard him say that?”
Jinnarin nodded. “I heard nearly all of what he said, Aravan. I was conscious for the most part.”
Aravan looked intently at Jinnarin, his gaze piercing, as if to penetrate a secret. “How is it that thou didst not succumb wholly unto Durlok’s spell as did Farrix?”
Jinnarin shrugged. “I don’t know, Aravan. But there is this: between the time he cast his spell on Farrix and then turned to me, I remembered a word that Aylis had said during Alamar’s battle with Durlok—when the Black Mage hurled a lightning bolt at us—and so I said it just as he pointed his hand at me. ‘Averte!’ That was the word I said. ‘Averte!’ And I tried to envision his spell going astray. —Why this might have worked for me, I do not know, for I am certainly no Mage.”
Aravan looked at her speculatively, then stood and refilled his cup from the teapot on the stove. “And then…?”
“And then, well, it seemed as if I’d been hit a glancing blow by something invisible, something that stunned me a bit, though what it was…” Jinnarin shrugged. She looked up at Ara
van. “I could hear him talking to you, crowing like, bragging. That’s when he spoke of Gyphon and His plans, though he did not say what they were. Then, of course, that’s when I managed to get to my feet and shoot him.”
“‘Twas well-done, too, Jinnarin, for hadst thou not shot him, we would not be here speaking now.”
“But the poison didn’t work, Aravan. He somehow threw it off.”
“What he did, Jinnarin, was cast a spell, for he said in the Black Mage tongue, ‘Poison, become thou water.’”
“Oh,” murmured Jinnarin. “Magic. I knew it had to be somesuch. —He was getting ready to do me in, too, regardless as to whether or no I called out ‘Averte!’ But of course that’s when you stabbed him with the crystal, Truenaming it. —Tell me, how did you know that it would work?”
Aravan swirled his tea and then drank it all. Setting the cup down, he said, “Dost thou not remember, Jinnarin? It was here at this very table that Aylis spoke her prophecy to me about the cards: ‘Introrsum trahe supernum ignem—pyrà—in obscuram gemmam!’: ‘Draw the heavenly fire—pyrà—into the dark gem.’”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jinnarin. “Of course!”
Aravan sighed. “As we studied the lexicon of the Black Mage, I learned many words, Krystallopýr among them, Alamar saying that it was a Truename.”
“The circled word,” breathed Jinnarin.
Aravan nodded but remained silent.
“Oh my, but what a long string of happenstance to come to that end,” added Jinnarin.
Aravan made a negating gesture, saying, “Nay, I think it was no happenstance that brought us there. Thou must remember, my beloved Aylis saw.”
“But I thought she was blocked by Durlok.”
Aravan sat back down. “Aye, she was. Even so, still she managed to gain truth in some matters from the cards, even when they seemed but randomly scattered and without purpose. She saw danger. She saw the Dark Mage blocking. Too, she used her seer’s powers in other ways: she touched Durlok’s victim and saw his death. She touched wood and saw the ram of the black galley. She followed the Black Mage across half the world.” Aravan paused, then with grief in his voice said, “And once when dealing the cards, she turned up the image of the Drowning Man, a harbinger of disaster. She knew not what it meant at the time, thinking that perhaps it signalled peril for the crew of the Eroean. Too, she said that it could perhaps signal catastrophe for others. I knew not what it might have portended, but, oh, I do now know, much to my sorrow, for it signalled the drowning of Rwn and the loss of all thereon.”
Voyage of the Fox Rider Page 59