There were not many words said that day, a sharp contrast between the usual habits of the boys when they were alone. Back in Krendon, there was many a joke shared by the two at another’s expense, and there was never a dull moment, never a time when neither of them had anything to say. This day, however, was different. The boys were beginning to grow up, to know that there are times when words are not the best way to communicate feelings.
As the shadows were starting to lengthen and the early winter chill was beginning to come into the air, they finally caught sight of a small village. This village was at the first outward appearance much like Krendon, only a little larger. Judging from the lights that were already lit in the windows, this town consisted of about fifteen or twenty houses. Both were glad for the size of the town, they knew small town people and how they acted.
As they approached the center of the town, they saw that there was a huge bonfire, and around it several townspeople were laughing and joking merrily. Tarthur and Derlin were happy for the apparent disposition of the revelers, for they seemed hospitable enough. Oddly conscious of how torn and bedraggled they must look after their ordeal in the mountains, Tarthur approached the group.
“Excuse me,” he began as the startled townspeople looked up, “but my friend and I are travelers, and we were wondering if you have a barn or somewhere we could sleep, and perhaps some food. I’m sorry, we have no money to pay you.”
“There will be nothing of the sort,” A tall and heavily muscled man stood up from his drumstick. “Imagine that! Of all of the…”
“I’m sorry we offended you,” Derlin hastily cut in. “Let’s go,” he whispered to Tarthur.
“Guests sleeping in a barn! And on the King’s Birthday, nonetheless. You, sirs, will have the finest house in the village! We don’t get many visitors here, you know. So when we do, we must take every chance we get to show our hospitality. But, I forget myself. You two look hungry. Have some food first.” He finished his magnanimous words by offering Tarthur his own drumstick.
An extremely startled Tarthur and Derlin turned, looked at each other to make sure they had heard the man right, and then began to dig into the feast with a vengeance. The townspeople always gave the boys anything they wanted, even if the townspeople themselves happened to be eating it at that moment. The experience of being treated as one privileged was new to Tarthur and Derlin. As Tarthur reflected later, they probably had taken advantage of the townspeople’s hospitality. Back then, Tarthur was not one to take the feelings of others into account very often. The generous hosts never complained, and soon they had put Tarthur and Derlin into a room in what was truly the finest house—although there was not much competition—in the vicinity. That night, the last thought Tarthur had as he gently slipped into oblivion, was how he wished more towns were like this one.
* * *
“I say we kill it now.” The voice was coming from one figure, as he hunched over the sleeping body. “We have revealed ourselves to it. When he awakes, it will be too late.”
“You are crazy, Og!” The hushed whisper came from a misshapen form in the other side of the room. “You are assuming we could even kill him. We must let him awake and treat him respectfully.”
“Og is right,” said a third form, conversing with the other two. “And if there ever was a time, it is now.”
These three had been planning what to do with the slumbering figure that had so abruptly come into their care. There were two in favor of killing him right off, to obtain the sword that he wore at his side and thus obtain some of his power.
The sword that he was wearing was a banner to many races, whoever carried it would have the support of vast armies in the war that they sensed was coming. Yet, something about the slumbering one kept them at bay, making it seem as if he would awake and crush them before the deed was done. After discussing the matter a short while longer, they finally agreed that since they had come this far, they might as well finish what they had began. There were no moral questions clouding the decision. Ones such as these would kill in the thought of a moment, barely even remembering who they had killed a second later. Sometimes they even killed for fun. After receiving a nod from his companions, Og raised his knife…and plunged it into the heart of the sleeping figure.
The figure’s eyes opened. Og dropped his killing blade, paralyzed in fear. The Death Lord Darhyn, now fully awake and regaining power, stared into Og’s eyes. Neither figure moved a muscle; the Death Lord out of relaxation, Og out of pure, terrorizing fear. Darhyn entered Og’s mind, destroying rational thought; calm, joyous memories of Og’s boyhood, and wonderful, happy memories of his wife, and systematically replacing them with cold, black terror. The terror was by its very nature indescribable, anyone who has experienced but the smallest portion of it will be utterly lost; plagued forever by nightmares so real he can feel them, taste them, and smell them, even when he is awake. As Og ran screaming out of the room, Darhyn added a piece of his life-force to the poor creature, making him endure this sentence until his death, which would not occur for many, many, years.
Turning to face the other cowering goblins that had tried to defeat him and take his power, Darhyn decided to be lenient in his punishment. He had been watching all of the discussions with his mind, and he knew that these two had been mainly prodded on by Og. Using this generosity, he calmly drew the black Sword of Darkness that hung at his side. Darhyn could feel the sword come to life, eager to taste blood once again. The Sword of Darkness had been made by Frehu, and it still had much of his power. Darhyn had destroyed Frehu’s intellect that had been in the blade, leaving only a desire to kill present in the talisman.
The first monster, upon seeing the black blade gleam red where there was no light, immediately fell on his knees and began to beg the Dark One to spare his life. Without listening, the Death Lord sliced through his body. The goblin screamed as the blade touched his skin. A unnatural chill coursed through his body, a thousand times colder than the chill of the worst winter night. The edges of his severed in half body were tipped with red frost made from freezing blood.
Turning to face the last conspirator, now frozen not from the icy blade, but rather from pure terror, Darhyn decided to be merciful. Since this one had been against the futile attempt on his life, Darhyn simply spoke one word in his raspy, unemotional voice. “Die.”
The unfortunate soul burst into flames, which quickly consumed him. Annoyed, Darhyn pulled the knife from his breast and cast it down at the flaming goblin. His screams were still faintly echoing in the corridor when Darhyn felt the sword speak to him. It was questioning. It felt the pain of the last goblin to die, yet it wondered why it had not done the killing. It knew that the pain of the last was significantly less than that of the other two. The Sword of Darkness wanted more killing, more pain. Darhyn understood. Putting it back into its sheath, he promised it that soon there would be a great slaughter, and they would all be drunk with blood.
AND IT ALL CAME FROM A HUG
Girn was frustrated. After a long trip to see his friends, they had already come to the shoals and left again. He didn’t have the means to go to Breshen or King Garkin’s castle. Why, he had gotten lost and nearly killed himself from lack of food just trying to get to the merfolk, and the king’s castle was certainly many times farther away than the short distance between Krendon and the shoals. Plus, stealing those supplies had pretty much cut off any hope of returning to Krendon. It was stupid, he realized, looking through the unclouded lens of retrospect, to have cut off his retreat, but he had not been thinking then. And the mermen, while hospitable and generous, were rather worried about him living with them, both out of genuine concern for the people he had left in Krendon who should know he was safe, and out of a sort of incompatibility between their lifestyles.
“Well, I really can’t go back,” a dejected Girn was telling Truin, a stern merman whom he was getting to know rather well. “I had a most unfortunate misunderstanding with a person there. He is a snooty son o
f Baron Ercrilla, who is the leader of our town, and he has a large deal of influence.” This was more than Girn usually said, but upon arriving in the shoals, Girn had decided that at least for the beginning of what he hoped to be a long stay here, he must speak up, even though forming the words was still difficult for him.
“Ah, yes,” Truin said with a smile. “He must be the one for whom Tarthur wanted the kokhor.”
Talking of his old friends made Girn sad, and he wished for the good old times again. Actually, he mused, there really hadn’t been that many good times. Girn was younger than both of the boys, and even though Tarthur and Derlin accepted him the way he was, Girn often felt awkward with his stammer. So it was that many times Girn had declined invitations to participate in the boys’ schemes, on grounds of some real or imagined task for Zelin. Zelin thought, and he was probably right, that the way to keep young boys out of trouble was to keep them busy. Even though Zelin personally disliked cleanliness and professed that if his things were strewn about the floor it was much easier to find them, he purposefully ordered Girn to keep the outside clean, mainly to give him something to do. Girn had always lived in Tarthur and Derlin’s shadows, looking up to them but never quite equaling them. With the great things that were happening lately, Girn had felt that he would finally have a chance to be with Tarthur and Derlin, and now everything was ruined. All he could do was stay and wait, since Truin had already told him that the mermen would play a great role in the struggle that he said was fast approaching.
Girn looked up from his position on the comfortable seat, one of the three in the whole shoals, to see a person who he had never seen before, yet knew from just one glance to be Tustor, the merwizard. Tustor nodded politely, and began with a simple greeting. “Hello, I understand that you are a friend of Tarthur and Derlin. I owe much to them.”
Girn wasn’t sure how to proceed, or even if it was his turn to talk. Too late, he thought of offering the Merwizard his chair, and then of the stupidity of thinking that. What could Tustor do with a chair? When Girn became nervous, his stammer came back.
“Y…Yes. Th…Thank you. I w…w…was also Zelin’s a…a…a…pren…” Girn collapsed on the difficult word. Tustor rescued him with a hand on his shoulder and a warm smile of reassurance.
“Yes, I see that you are. You have no power yourself, but you bear the mark of one who has been around someone with great power for a long while. There are traces of magergy intertwined with your soul. I am very glad of this fact, because it makes what I am about to do easier. You, see, Girn, the Death Lord is, or rather was, a human. As you may or may not know, a very long time ago, his master, who also used to be human, took something that belonged to us. He came to us one day, professing to want to know more about the wonder of Water. We believed him, and showed him our secrets. To repay our kindness, he cast a powerful spell, containing the wonder of Water in a single Orb. My people were closely tied to this thing, and when he took it, many perished over the sheer sadness of living without our most precious treasure. That was a very long time ago, but still my people are loath to let humans into our deepest secrets. Oh, we are friends with humans and are much interested in their welfare. On the status of nation to nation, we are allies and very friendly. But as individuals, our hospitality dictates that we should let them visit for a few days, and then we must send them on their way. But just recently, something has happened to change all this. Your friend Tarthur arrived.”
“Before he came, the Water Orb, which is still in the Death Lord’s possession, was kept out of the world. This means,” he continued, simplifying the complex magical terminology so Girn could understand it, “that it was kind of like something that does not exist because you cannot see it or touch it. Yet, it still exists. There was also a spell that can call the Water Orb to the aid of the person that has it. A few weeks ago, the Death Lord began to bring the Water Orb back into the world. He sent his mind out of his body, and attacked Tarthur in a dream. We are not sure how, but Tarthur managed to defeat him and steal the spell that controls the Water Orb. Zelin sent him here to learn more about it from us. That is when we sent Tarthur and Derlin and another named Dalin to talk to the king to tell him to be ready for war. My people have a great hope that we can attack the Death Lord before he can awake and gather his powers. If we can do this, while gaining back the Water Orb, the balance will be thrown onto the king’s side and my people will have a joy and feeling of fulfillment like we have not felt since our beloved treasure was stolen from us.”
“There is one thing the revered one of the sea has forgotten to mention,” interrupted Truin, just as Girn was beginning to digest all that he was being told. “He has humbly left out that when the Orb first came back into his consciousness, Tustor, out of love for the sea, died of pure joy upon learning that the Water Orb was back in the world. Using his spell, Tarthur was able to resurrect him, and now Tarthur and his friend Derlin are owed in these shoals.”
* * *
A brief shadow, imperceptible to the others, passed over Tustor’s face. He wished it was out of humility that he had omitted this last part, but it was because he had, at least for the day, forgotten. He had been trying to forget it, trying to throw it from the depths of his soul, erase it from his memory as completely as if it had never been. Yet each time he found himself thinking of the wonder, the indescribable feeling of power and grace and belonging that he had felt there. At times, he even got mad at himself, for the merwizard was one who had a superbly strong mind. He was used to bending all things to his iron will, but still he could not forget. He constantly reminded himself of Tivu, and of the inescapable sorrow that always stalks those who have seen It, and yet always It comes, like a wolf in the night, to attack It’s victim and tear his mind to pieces. He had thought many times of sharing his secret with the rest of the mermen, but he knew at the same time it would be futile. No one could understand.
* * *
Girn was feeling more awe and awkwardness at being Tarthur’s friend. Tarthur and Derlin, before set up to be heroes in the impressionable mind of young Girn, were now made to be giants. Imagine, defeating the Death Lord and raising a figure of power from the dead! Girn was impressed when the boys played a trick on Morty or stole something under heavy guard. But now, Girn was sure that they would be included in some great tale, passed down from generation to generation, read by the firesides of countless old men and young boys who would one day say to their mothers, “Look at me, mommy! I’m Derlin, the hero. I’m gonna kill this dragon,” as he viciously attacked a cow with a stick. Girn sighed wistfully, sad that he would never be in this tale. (He was, of course wrong. No mother who had ever paid any attention whatsoever to the dubious characters of Tarthur and Derlin would want her son exposed to the scandalous morals of the boys. Oh, yes. He was also wrong about the other thing. This is that story, if you have been wondering.)
“There is a certain feeling that I have,” Tustor started, hastily regaining his composure, “that since our treasure was lost through a man, it must be regained through a man also. As you have said, you cannot return home, and you certainly cannot travel abroad in the world. You are young and you are still marked with a twinge of magic. There are some who would seek to use you for their own ends, which would not be pleasant for you.”
Girn felt calmed, and reassured by the soothing voice of the merwizard. It seemed to say the way things are, and the way they will be. There was no doubt or room for questioning. Still, Girn wondered why the merfolk had let Tarthur and Derlin go, while they kept him there. The two boys were certainly nothing close to responsible. What was the big difference? He haltingly inquired his questions to the two mermen.
“I have already given a few reasons. You are marked as the apprentice of a great one. I don’t honestly think Tarthur and Derlin could make it by themselves in the outside world, but fortunately for us they are not alone. An excellent guide named Dalin is accompanying them. He will take them to Breshen and King Garkin and then we will hopef
ully be able to transfer the spell to someone more powerful, and Tarthur and Derlin will stay in the capital or return home. It really won’t be that momentous a trip for them,” the aged merwizard said, trying to pacify both Girn and himself. “Besides,” he added, using sound reason and logic, but unfortunately his remark was to be an ever constant thorn in Girn’s heart. “You are just too young and small.”
Girn nodded forlornly and left the room, holding back the tear that was beginning to form in his eye. He was completely alone and could do nothing about it.
* * *
Tarthur stretched and yawned, rubbing the last bits of sleep from his eyes. He was stiff from resting in a comfortable bed for the first time in a long while, but the soreness was disappearing rapidly as he put on his clothes. He noticed that the townspeople had given him a new set, which was freshly pressed and while not elegant, was of decent quality. Tarthur was glad for the change; the cloak that Yrean had woven him was ripped to shreds. Tarthur was surprised that it didn’t simply fall off. Tarthur glanced at Derlin who was busy polishing the sword he had taken from the goblin.
Noticing the close scrutiny of his friend, Derlin glanced up. The Rune Sword was also polished, lying upright on the table. “When I woke up before you, I felt bad. These townsfolk have really been helpful to us, so I decided to get up and see if I could help them with their chores.”
Lands of Daranor: Book 01 - DreamQuest Page 11