Defenders of The Sacred Land: Book One of The Sacred Land Saga

by Tyson, Mark

  Kimala let the Shadow Lurker slither past her, not knowing whether it believed her lie or not, but she expected it did not.

  Chapter 18: Vetell Fex

  In all directions lay ruin and lifelessness; the Sacred Land had not known life for one thousand seasons. Vast forests of dead trees and wide patches of lifeless grass on either side of the path made Dorenn feel uncomfortable and, to some degree, sad knowing the land was once vibrant and alive. No birds sang, no crickets chirped, not a creature stirred. Dicarion led the party on until nightfall and then stopped to make camp at the edge of a dead forest. The light of the full moon cast ominous shadows, and Dorenn was glad when Gondrial started a warm fire at the center of camp.

  After a quick supper of dried beef and biscuits, Dorenn watched Ianthill pack his pipe with tabac and light it with a burning twig. Thick puffs of sweet-smelling smoke filled the air around him, and he sat back against a fallen log, relaxing for the first time in a long while.

  “Ah, I wonder if I might borrow some of that fine tabac, Ianthill,” Dicarion asked.

  “Certainly,” Ianthill replied, handing his tabac pouch to the old man.

  “It has been far too long since I enjoyed a good smoke. Not many sailors bring good tabac to the docks of Old Symbor,” Dicarion said as he packed his long curved pipe.

  Vesperin retreated to his prayers, and Rennon stayed near Gondrial.

  “Come, Rennon, we will scout around a bit,” Gondrial said. Rennon nodded, and the two disappeared into the dead woods.

  Being alone with the two old wizards made Dorenn uncomfortable at first until he realized it was what they had intended. He moved to join the two elders, and Ianthill produced an extra pipe from his robes. He packed it and handed it to Dorenn, who sat next to another fallen log closest to Ianthill.

  “I know of your wishes, Dorenn, and of your sacrifice. Your friends will not understand at first, but if they are true friends, they will come around.”

  “I hope what you say is true, Ianthill,” Dorenn answered.

  Dicarion let out a great puff of smoke. “The way of the wielder is often lonely. Make sure you know what your full intent is before you take on that responsibility.”

  “I do understand it. I feel a pull to it within my soul.”

  “Morgoran has foreseen this; he spoke of you over one hundred seasons ago. He said you were the blood of the ancient kings,” Ianthill said amusingly between puffs of smoke.

  “Me? How is that possible?”

  “How is anything possible? It just is,” Ianthill stated bluntly.

  Dicarion eyed the young apprentice apprehensively. “Do you know what you are getting yourself into, boy?”

  “No, not really,” Dorenn replied stoically. Dorenn was not about to give the two wielders an opening.

  “Are there any questions you wish to ask us while you have the chance?” Ianthill asked.

  Dorenn decided to ask the obvious. “Who is the more powerful, you or Dicarion?”

  Ianthill laughed at the question, which surprised Dorenn. “Power is in the eyes of the beholder, each to his own gifts. Dicarion is a different kind of wielder than I.”

  “Who can cast the most powerful spells then?”

  Ianthill began to get irritated. “Surely you can think of better questions to ask than these.”

  “No, not really, I want to know.”

  Dicarion puffed out a bellow of white smoke. “I will answer the boy, Ianthill. The most powerful spell is blackfire. It is not only the most powerful and the most destructive but also the most costly to cast.”

  Dorenn was confused. “The most costly? How does it cost you?”

  Dicarion grinned. “Essence, my boy, all magic uses essence, and blackfire draws more than the land can withstand. You see, not only does it drain all the essence around you to cast, but if it doesn’t find enough essence in its surroundings, it will use the essence of the caster and his nearest companions. Friend or foe, it doesn’t distinguish between the two.”

  “What happens if it uses the life essence of the caster?”

  “If the caster is skilled enough in its use, it will only drain him, and then he is vulnerable. If he is not skilled, it will put him in a deep sleep, a sleep of the dead. Sometimes the caster will awaken and sometimes he dies. If the caster has no skill, the blackfire will kill him as soon as he tries to use it. I would suggest that you never try to use it at all.”

  “What does blackfire do exactly?” Dorenn pondered.

  “Some things are best left to the imagination,” Dicarion answered. “Just don’t take it lightly and do not try it.”

  Ianthill nodded in agreement. “Enough about the blackfire. What is on your mind, Dorenn?” Ianthill asked sharply.

  “I just wanted to know…” A strange noise behind him interrupted his train of thought. “Did you hear that?”

  Dicarion sat up alert. “It came from behind Dorenn, in the tent.”

  Ianthill sat back, puffing on his pipe. “It’s probably just Parlane and the Defenders returning from patrol, or Gondrial playing tricks again.”

  Dorenn stood up from the fire and slowly stalked around his tent.

  “Be careful, boy, it could be a wild animal,” Ianthill cautioned.

  Dicarion scoffed. “In the Sacred Land? I don’t think so.”

  Ianthill did not reply, instead he puffed his pipe again.

  As Dorenn reached the rear of his tent, he realized the dead forest beyond had become quite ominous as the cloak of night descended upon the land. The leafless branches reached into the dimly lit sky like twisted arms pleading to a silent god for redemption. The moon was still low and orange in the sky as low clouds began to roll in above the trees. A feeling of dread welled up in him as Dorenn searched for the source of the noise behind his tent. The sound occurred again, and Dorenn reached out with his mind to it. Immediately, Dorenn reeled his mind back. He had touched the core of evil. His senses burned, and his nose began to run red with blood. Dizzily he stumbled back to the fire where Ianthill and Dicarion jumped to his aid.

  “Something is out there, something bad,” Dorenn said, still feeling dizzy.

  Ianthill looked to the direction Dorenn had indicated and then turned back to Dicarion. “Do you feel that, Dicarion?” he asked.

  Dicarion handed Dorenn a white cloth for his bleeding nose. “I do now. Something is indeed wrong, and I think the Defenders have been ambushed.”

  “I feel it as well. Get rid of that fire before we are next,” Ianthill said.

  “What is it?” Dorenn asked.

  Dicarion flinched. “I cannot say. Something stirs in the dark of the forest though.”

  Dorenn shook his head to clear it. “What of Rennon and Gondrial?”

  Ianthill extinguished the fire by kicking dirt over it. “Gondrial can take care of himself.”

  Dicarion hunched down low beside Dorenn’s tent and pointed into the forest. “There, I see movement.”

  Dorenn squinted in the darkness and saw something white fluoresce between the trees. It glided along as a boat on a clear pond, trailing white mist behind it. “What is it?”

  “An abomination,” Dicarion said. “Creations of a twisted mind bent on destruction. Toborne used them as generals for his cursed army. Clerics of the War of the Oracle defeated them at great cost of life, and the mindwielders were completely decimated by them. They are called Shades.”

  Ianthill hissed a curse under his breath. “I thought their kind had been exterminated along with the mindwielders.”

  “Mindwielders?” Dorenn asked. “What is a mindwielder?”

  Ianthill looked as if he had eaten something sour, and Dorenn realized he had not intended to bring them up in the first place. Ianthill shook his head and pursed his lips irritably. “They were the forbearers of what you call wild magic. Their art was lost when the last one died on the battlefield. No one knows how their art works now.”

  A sudden revelation struck Dorenn. “So that is what Morgoran mean
t when he told Rennon to remember it. He was talking of the wild magic.”

  “Most likely,” Dicarion agreed.

  “But how did the Shades kill them?” Dorenn asked perplexed.

  “They are immune to mindwielders. There is some kind of feedback that cripples the mind.”

  Ianthill put his hand up. “That’s enough talk of Shades. There has not been a Shade since the War of the Oracle. You must be mistaken, Dicarion.” He gave Dicarion a grave look.

  Dicarion nodded reluctantly. “We have underestimated Naneden and his plans since the beginning. He has outsmarted us, and he has remained one step ahead of us on every turn.”

  Ianthill sighed. “We need to find Gondrial and Rennon and head for the monastery. We cannot afford rest now.”

  “Where did Vesperin go?” Dorenn asked urgently.

  Dicarion glanced around in the darkness. “He was praying just outside the camp to the west last time I saw him.”

  “Go and get him, Dicarion. If there are Shades out there they will sense him first of all of us and come for him,” Ianthill commanded.

  “Why Vesperin first?” Dorenn questioned.

  “Because he is a cleric of the Goddess of Life, and Shades are creatures of death. They would sense and hate him the most of all of us.” Dicarion headed out of the camp to the west. A few moments later, he returned with Vesperin, and Dorenn sighed in relief.

  “What’s the matter?” Vesperin asked.

  Dorenn beamed at his friend in spite of the grave news he had to tell him. “There are Shades lurking about in the dead forest.”

  “Shades? I thought they were all destroyed a thousand seasons ago.”

  “They were,” Ianthill said matter of fact, “but Dicarion believes they may have reappeared.”

  “Could they be holdovers from the War of the Oracle?” Vesperin asked.

  Ianthill nodded. “I could believe that. The land is slowly reawakening; it is possible some of its more colorful remnants may be resurging also.”

  Vesperin looked around the dark camp. “Where are Gondrial and Rennon?”

  Ianthill took a puff on his pipe. “I am hopeful they will return to camp soon. I think the Defenders have fought off something, but I am unsure if they prevailed or not. Parlane has shown me the way to Vetell Fex, so I believe I can lead us there.” Ianthill put away his half-smoked pipe. “As soon as Gondrial and Rennon return, we will go.”

  “What if Parlane and his men are still out there and need my attention?” Vesperin asked concerned.

  “Parlane is used to the Sacred Land and its dangers. He will be fine without us; besides, it is likely he will track us and join us later anyway.” Ianthill motioned toward the campsite. “Let’s pack up this camp and make ready to travel.”

  Dorenn gathered up his tent and sleeping pallet and packed them away. As soon as he was able, Dorenn found Ianthill. He still had unresolved questions to ask the old wielder. “I don’t understand,” Dorenn said to Ianthill, who was packing his sleeping pallet onto his horse. “Why are you so upset?”

  Ianthill pulled a strap on his saddle to secure the pallet and then turned his head to Dorenn, looking at him as if he were a foolish child. “I am upset, Dorenn, because I have failed.”

  “Excuse me?” Dorenn said confused.

  Ianthill took a deep breath. “I failed. I underestimated Naneden. That sorcerer is stronger than he seems.” He tied off the strap. “You see, Dorenn, I was too arrogant, too sure of myself. I waited too long to send for you and your friends, and now time has caught up with me and I am unprepared. I have not trained you or your friends, and I let you live among non-believers far too long. All the while, Naneden’s army prepares to march on the Sacred Land. I have failed.”

  “It’s not over yet, Ianthill, I am eager to learn. I gave up a friendship to learn the way of wielders!”

  “My dear Dorenn, I have looked into your heart and do you know what I have seen?”

  “No.”

  “I waited so long to find you, and now I see that you are trying to take the easy path, the path of least resistance. You want to learn wielding now because you believe it will make your life easier, and that way of thinking often comes from youth. What you fail to see is it is actually the more difficult path. I fear your decision was influenced.”

  Dorenn remembered the three stones and how they had made him feel. The shopkeeper had said they would aid him in decisions, and they did. Dorenn wanted to tell Ianthill of the stones, but he could not find the words. “I don’t understand. I am not taking the easy way out. I know it will be tough,” Dorenn said in defense.

  “I know you truly believe that, Dorenn, even if your heart tells me different.”

  Dorenn was about to reply when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see Rennon and Gondrial entering camp. Rennon was as pale as the full moon, and Gondrial was wide-eyed and visibly shaken.

  “What is it?” Ianthill said worriedly.

  Gondrial leaned against a nearby tree and breathed in deep as if he might collapse. “In the dead forest,” Gondrial began, “there are horrible creatures, and the worst part of it is I recognize one of them.”

  Ianthill looked puzzled. “Oh,” he said inquisitively.

  Gondrial stared into Dorenn’s eyes for a moment and then turned to Ianthill. “Naneden has been up to something even grimmer than warmongering. He has unleashed a form of Shade I have never seen before. The creatures have assembled not far from here, and the leader of the horrific group appears to be Lady Shey’s captain of the guard, Rodraq.”

  “Rodraq? Are you certain it was he?” Ianthill asked.

  “I am certain,” Gondrial said. “He is white with a black cloak and has thin, gaunt features, but it is Rodraq. We all saw him dead; Naneden must have done something unnatural to him.”

  “Did you see where they were going, Gondrial?”

  “Aye, they were heading east.”

  “Toward the monastery?” Ianthill asked concerned.

  Gondrial nodded. “As far as I can tell they are.”

  Dicarion had wandered up to the men talking and had listened to Gondrial’s tale intently. “That is what he is doing! Naneden plans to sack Vetell Fex and is sending the Shades to his army. Why has the Western army not routed them? Is it possible Naneden’s army has defeated them already?”

  Ianthill coughed. “Not likely, the armies of the West are strong. This news makes no sense.” He eyed Gondrial with a flash of inspiration in his eye. “Are they moving fast?”

  “Nay, they are gathered and milling about in the woods.”

  “We may still have a chance to beat them to the monastery then. If we can convince the monks an invasion is eminent, I may be able to incite them to fight before the Shades can take up positions with the dark army.” He rounded his horse and put a foot in the stirrup. “Mount up,” he commanded.

  “But how can you defend the monastery if you cannot draw essence in this dead land, Ianthill?” Dorenn asked.

  “Simple, the monastery is not in the Sacred Land. It is just on the other side of the border; plenty of essence there. I don’t expect I will be wielding much around the monks anyhow; it makes them nervous,” Ianthill said.

  An early winter wind blew bitter cold across Dorenn’s face as he trailed behind Ianthill, who led the party hastily onward to Vetell Fex. Just as Dorenn thought the situation could not get any worse, he felt the cold sting of giant snowflakes on his cheek. He reached behind him and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and clasped it tight around his face. Ianthill only quickened the pace when the snow began to fall. The snow covered the ground and the dead trees, making the Sacred Land appear more peaceful, as if it were a vibrant land simply cloaked in winter snow. Dorenn could make out his surroundings as long as the wind kept down and the snow fell strait down in large flakes. To his right he could just make out a huge lake, serene and silent in the cold night, its vastness making it impossible to see the other side. Ahead and elevate
d above the lake, there appeared to be a huge ravine in the hills and mountains with a river running down into the lake. On the closest edge of the ravine, embedded in the canyon side, was a monstrous structure.

  “That is Vetell Fex in the cliffside there,” Ianthill shouted to his companions, pointing to the structure Dorenn was looking at. “We have arrived.”

  Dorenn was in awe of the monastery, and he noticed Rennon’s jaw had dropped as well. As soon as Rennon saw Dorenn looking his way, he closed his mouth and tried to appear aloof at the sight of the monastery.

  Vetell Fex was built directly into the side of Ashonda’s canyon above the mouth of the mighty Tikaronda River. Its giant columns were as white as the snow falling around them. Dorenn wondered why anyone would attempt to attack such a structure; it seemed completely defendable. Oversized braziers burned all along its expanse, which made the monastery appear to actually be on fire.

  “Monks live here?” Vesperin asked, surprised by the ominous appearance of the monastery.

  “Absolutely,” Dicarion answered. “A special kind of monk, the monks of Fawlsbane Vex himself.”

  Ianthill led them to the opposite side of the monastery where there appeared to be no bridge to cross, and then he rode off the cliff edge, floating in midair. He reined in his horse. “Ride on. It’s an illusion; the bridge is here.” He reached for his staff and drew it from his saddle. He tapped once on the bridge, and it began to slowly vibrate, glowing with reddish-orange light illuminating the way. “Quickly now, the light will fade.”

  On the other side of the bridge, two monks dressed in plain brown robes stopped Ianthill and took his reins. Ianthill dismounted and embraced the first monk’s hand.

  “Welcome, Lord of the Isle,” he said to Ianthill.

  “Praise be to Fawlsbane Vex, Lord of the Gods, Gragar,” he responded.

  “What brings you to Vetell Fex, Ianthill?”

  “You and your monastery are in grave danger, Lord Gragar. Naneden, Lord of Scarovia, comes with his dark army.”

  The stout, tall man laughed a hearty laugh. “Then we shall have him, and the Tikaronda will run red with the blood of Scarovia.”