The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars)

by Tom Bielawski

  Finally Carym returned to his position at the front of the patrol. Suddenly he felt very, very, tired. The prospect of a hot meal prepared by someone else and a warm bed to sleep in was so joyous that he had difficulty concentrating on his surroundings.

  Abruptly everything went quiet and Carym looked around in that odd sort of twilight left behind when the moon has sunk below the horizon but still manages to cause shadows to dance where they ought not to. The light layer of snow on the ground and in the trees gave off a ghostly gray glow but illuminated nothing. It was so quiet now, he could hear the others of the group breathing and shifting in their places, trying to sense what was beyond their small formation.

  A sensation of sudden and intense fear and despair overcame Carym then and he almost gasped for breath. He fought wildly to control himself in the eerie quiet of the woods lest he give away their position to any lurking bandits. Were there bandits approaching? Were there more of Umber’s minions hunting them? He had studied the new book that Mathonry had given him, but felt little confidence in using any of the spells there without having had the time to practice casting them. It would be very dangerous to go into a fight with untested skills even for a swordsman, which is why swordsman practice constantly.

  He let out a very slow breath, forcing reason to return. There was nothing there. Nothing. No sounds, no movement. Nothing. The others didn’t seem to feel as apprehensive as he did, although he could sense their tension. Carym closed his eyes and concentrated on visualizing the world through his sight. Slowly, the world shifted into view in a wild pattern of colors and hues that had nothing to do with its true appearance to the naked eye. Everything around him vibrated with varying intensity and colors and he tried to observe the patterns moving about the ground and in the air around him. Some flows came and went, like clouds of dust, while others meandered like a stream, eddying and swirling around trees and rocks.

  Then he saw and felt, it. Like a tide of shadows; rising, inexorably forcing its way toward the companions. Deepening shadows of dread overcame the wilderness as trickles of the Shadow Tide swirled around his feet, cold as ice. But at the same time the Shadow Tide was soothing, tempting. Although Mathonry never offered any instruction in its use, the immortal had suggested that it could be used for good. But that thought was too disturbing for Carym to think about.

  The shifting sensations struck his awareness with shocking force, stunning him briefly. He struggled to see his companions through his sight, but they appeared as abstract figures of muted colors, unrecognizable. He was suddenly aware of the black stone in his coat pocket. What if the Shadowfyr’s minions could track it? They could be hunting the group even now. Thoughts of hiding in Fyrendi’s home entered his mind, but he knew that would be futile against the Shadowfyr’s minions; they would find it with him and his companions trapped inside.

  He turned his sight to the front again, searching for the impression that would be Kharrihan. He hadn’t been gone long and Carym had no reason to expect him back so soon. His nerves made him feel as though he had to do something. Then he heard it, a distinct crack like the sound of a large creature breaking a limb. It was far enough away that the group had a good chance to make it to the safety of the village if they hurried.

  Carym signaled to Yag that it was time to move and the two sailors took positions facing the rear with their crossbows aimed behind. Nothing needed to be said, they trusted Carym’s senses enough to know that if they were leaving before Kharrihan had returned, something had likely gone wrong. Gennevera went first with Zach close behind, followed by Carym and the two Roughnecks. As it happened, the relative safety of the village was only a few hundred yards away, yet it seemed like miles to the companions. Each of them now sensed the dread that hunted the woods behind them. Quickly enough, however, they began to see buildings and people moving about and knew there would be relative safety in the village, by virtue of numbers alone if nothing else.

  Could it be Hessan?

  If it was he, then Carym just led the vile predator of the Shadows into a village full of victims. But he couldn’t know for sure what was back there and there were no spells that he was strong enough to use that would enable him to view what was happening so far behind. As the group methodically made their way down the path to the end of the tree line, Carym found his pace hurrying; they were nearly running by the time they exited the woods onto the crossroads. Kharrihan was coming out of the building which by its size and the sound of music drifting lazily in the cool night air Carym knew must be the inn.

  “What happened?” he asked, glancing at the tree line.

  “Something comes,” said Carym. Kharrihan nodded then hurried the group back to the relative safety of the inn. He hoped desperately that whatever was out there did not follow.

  “Do you think it knows we are here?” the elf asked as they approached the door to the inn. The group stood there breathing heavily and clouding the air like restless horses sometimes do. Music and the noises of a healthy crowd emanated from behind partially cracked shutters and Carym could feel the warmth drifting out with the music. Carym shook his head; the presence of the inn had done much to calm his nerves and grant him rational thought.

  “Something dark was coming this way along the path on which we had been traveling. I don’t know what, but I could see how it caused a rise in the Shadow Tides around us.”

  “Into the inn, then. We hide among the crowds and watch.” The entrance to the inn was a wide double door. A great wooden beam that would block it tightly against unwanted visitors was propped near the door inside. The inn was U-shaped, decidedly unlike that of the Hybrandese inns. The exterior walls were white with wooden frames around each window and the roof was made of grassy thatch.

  The Crossroads inn was warm and welcoming, even if unoriginal. A bard played a merry tune on his flute while a juggler juggled and a kilted maiden danced a very difficult style on the tips of her toes to a foot stomping beat. The men and women alike were of sturdy stock, rugged but their features were very much Cklathish; pale skin, hair of red and brown and blond, and eyes of green or blue. Many of the men wore great, long handled axes strapped to their backs, presumably for fighting as much for felling trees.

  Kharrihan guided the group to a long table in the corner of the inn where they all sat down and removed their coats. Carym was still nervous about what may come from the woods, but he was able to see the door and they would not be caught by surprise.

  “I’ve made arrangements for rooms on the second floor, here are the keys.” The elf placed the keys to three rooms on the table and handed one to Gennevera. “Carym, Zach can take one room while I will room with Yag and Gefar. Gennevera will have her own.” The group appeared satisfied and Carym was glad that the elf had offered to stay with the Roughnecks to avoid provoking Zach.

  Soon, the group was served bowls of steaming beef stew loaded with meat and potatoes and good fresh baked bread. They ate their fill and while the Roughnecks downed a few mugs of beer, Carym and Zach took in only sips of the alcohol of something the locals called “Brew of Birch.” It was a sweetened drink made from alcohol, sugar, fruit juice, and birch tree syrup. Carym had no desire to be too drunk to wield weapon or spell should trouble find them.

  An hour into their meal, the doors to the inn opened roughly and a draft of bitter night air wafted in, causing candles and lamps to flicker angrily. The crowd silenced in a moment of palpable fear and Carym and his companions were quick to see what was happening. A group of rough looking, but very normal, men filed in. There were five in all, three of them appeared to be human but the remaining two were taller and heavier built with slick black hair and pointed ears. They were all heavily armed, each bearing a blade along with a hand crossbow and a club. They stood near the door a moment, leaving it open, daring anyone to challenge them. Then they made their way over to another corner of the common room and sat down. Kharrihan looked questioningly at Carym, wondering if this was the threat which Carym had sensed.
He shook his head in silent response, it had to be something more dire than a band of hardened men.

  The door was closed, the music played on, and the hubbub of the crowd filled everyone’s ears again. With no threat presenting itself, Carym began to relax and enjoy himself. The room was full of people, and though at first he didn’t understand their particular tongue, he could tell the language was rich and warm; he was beginning to feel at home here. A sense of purpose claimed him. A purpose becoming all too clear as time wore on.

  Carym began to mingle some with nearby patrons, as did Kharrihan, and was surprised to find that these folk could speak to him in what they called Isle Cklathish, a common tongue among the Isles which was very much the same as Hybrandese Cklathish with only a few twists. It didn’t take him long to pick up the nuances of the tongue and he was conversing happily with many of the people. Mostly they talked of things like the weather and the fishing industry of the isle, and how the farmers were doing. Of course, the subject of the brigands who roamed the woods came up, but Carym got the sense that they weren’t as much a problem as he had thought they were. Seemed like the locals in this Shire had formed a militia of sorts and patrolled their own lands as the Sheriff should have been doing. There was talk, too, of the encroachments of the various Earls owning allegiance to the Arch Duke of Sargan. And of the suspicious absence of the Vaard who were always fond of raiding the smaller island settlements.

  Carym took it all in, but had hoped to hear some rumors of the Tomb. It was foolish, really. Why would anyone be openly discussing a tomb hidden away and lost for centuries in the common room of this inn, simply because he had hoped to hear of it? He knew he could not ask and risk tipping off anyone else who may be seeking it. The last thing he wanted was a band of adventurers looking for gold to muscle their way into the tomb before he got there.

  Soon the others retired to their rooms and Carym found himself alone among the Ckaymrish people in the inn, wondering if the earlier fear-filled flight from the woods had been in his head. He moved to a smaller table to avoid attention and listened to scraps of conversations. Mostly what he heard made him a bit homesick. Good folks discussing their plans for spring harvest, work that needed doing on a leaky roof, someone was going to be new father, and someone else was getting married. He took a long pull from his mug and forced away the thoughts. He was in a foreign land, a dangerous one, and he needed information.

  Finally the bards stopped playing. One of them walked through the common room performing sleight of hand tricks, asking for tips. While the second sat down at a large table nearby. He strained to listen, hearing only scraps of the conversation. More talk of the doings of this man Yerkses, calling himself the Steel Emperor. He wondered of the significance of it all. Carym took another pull from his mug and was surprised to find a decidedly Cklathish looking man suddenly sitting across from him. He eyed the man questioningly, expecting him to introduce himself.

  “And who might you be, sir?” asked the man in his distinct, sing-song, accent. He wore a big smile and Carym saw that the man had a wooden staff which he promptly disassembled into three separate pieces; one of which happened to be a flute while the others hid rapier-sized blades! “Oh, don’t mind me, just a bit ’o cleaning to do, I have!” Indeed the man went about busily wiping the blades down with a rag and then began to lovingly polish his flute with some resin he kept in a bag.

  “Carym, of Hyrum. But, who are you?”

  “Bart O’Donnel, I am!” he said, extending his hand enthusiastically. “Ayresman from Ringsy! Pleased to meet you!”

  “You’re from Ayre?” he wondered what the place was truly like, having heard so much from travelers.

  “Aye. Ringsy is a wee town, so it is. Doubt you’ve heard of it. Where’d you say you came from?”

  Carym was enjoying the man’s mannerisms and accent, it reminded him of what little he knew of his mother. He had not known her well, as she died when he was very young. But the man’s personality triggered fond memories, warmth, and his mother’s love tugging at his soul.

  “From Hyrum,” he said thickly. “A small village in Hybrand.”

  “Great Heavens!! Hybrand!” the man exclaimed, a bit too loudly. He must have realized it, though, as he lowered his voice and nodded to Carym. “I am a bard, good sir. And there are two things a bard is good for, singing and telling tales. Glad I would be, if you would share some of the news from Hybrand.”

  “Ah. Well, sad news from there I’m afraid. The Arnathians have Hybrand under their heel and have gone to great lengths to persecute locals for failing to assimilate into Arnathian culture. Some good men have been arrested and others have become outlaws, simply because they do not acknowledge Qra’z as their god. As for that you probably already knew. There is much tension there, now. The people seem on the verge of rebellion.” He paused, wishing he was there to help. But he knew his presence had already caused them undue harm. “A band of outlaws is fomenting resistance against the Arnathians, and war could be very real there. The bastards razed my village to the ground.” The bard nodded, saying nothing, seeing Carym’s pained expression.

  “Truly sorry to hear that, I am. Much I’ve heard of them bastard Arnathians. ’Tis a sad way. Where are you headed? Might be I’ve some news for you.”

  Carym was silent a moment. Unsure whether to trust the man, he had been too free with his tongue in Dockyard City and now he was being hunted because of it. “Away from here, possibly Myrnwell,” he replied, feeling that was a general enough answer. And it was the truth, as the group must get as far as Myrnwell before trying to go on to the Tomb.

  “Myrnwell is a right enough place, it is. Ruled by a goodly Rhi. Alas, war is coming and the Mrynwellians prepare their defenses.”

  “From what?”

  “Why, the Nashians, do not doubt! A great host from a far off land called Ilian Nah, named after their oddball god, invaded the lands of the Vaard. Brought the Vaard under their control and now the Vaard fight for them, if you believe that! Who ever heard of the Vaard fighting for anyone other than themselves?” The man was positively scandalized. Carym shook his head. It confirmed the mumblings of others in the common room.

  “What else do you know of them? Why do they come to this part of Llars?”

  “Power, glory, riches? Who knows? But the man who leads them, a dark fellow is he. Claims to be a holy man, Prophet-General they call him. Very powerful magic he wields.”

  Carym looked glum. “Do you think they aim to take the Ogrewall Mountains?”

  “With the help of their Vaardic savages, these Nashians have spread west and south across the independent city-states, swallowing them up with their hordes of troops before deep winter.”

  Carym nodded, not sure what to make of this. “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do, lad. I don’t think you do,” said the bard, sadly. Carym looked at him quizzical.

  “You see, Ilian Nah is the name of their motherland. But it’s the name of their god, too. Ilian Nah is known as a god of justice and war to these Nashians. But to us, we know him as the Shadowfyr, Umber himself!” As Bart told Carym of the deeds of the Nashians as they pushed across the broken and weak city-states, an image of a black tide rolling across these beautiful lands formed in his mind. Inexorably, it was making its way toward the ancient homeland of the Cklath, killing, razing, and enslaving towns and cities as it went, all in the guise of righteousness. Because as they conquered, they restored order and law to the lawless lands of the city-states. They built roads and fortified towns. They put people to work and paid them well for their labor. But they were intolerant; nothing less than total disruption of local culture, total assimilation to the Nashian way, total fealty and allegiance to the Prophet-General by the new subjects. Even the Vaard.

  Pride and power fueled this juggernaut and Carym wondered how it would be stopped. Carym was certain that if the Prophet-General was seeking the Tomb of the Dark Paladin, then the answer to stopping him must lay hidden there. Cary
m knew they could not stand in the path of such an army. A foe capable of instilling such a compelling sense of righteousness in those who were performing acts of great evil must be a powerful foe indeed. They could expect little help from the weak and divided local city-states, and the lands of the Cklath were too far for immediate assistance.

  “You look pensive, friend.”

  Despite Carym’s misgivings about trusting the man, he did seem oddly endearing despite his shaggy hair and scraggly beard. The door to the inn opened and a tall man in a dark cloak stepped in. The wind had picked up outside and snow was falling, flakes drifting slowly into the inn.

  “What of Caelambra? I’ve heard there is some unrest there.”

  “Unrest?” the man was shocked. “They’ve been taken over, they have. Nashians invaded the city and took over all of the islands and estates.”

  “Empire,” Carym said dully; he’d had his fill of those.

  Carym and Zach hadn’t really discussed the next part of their quest since discovering the fate of Caelambra, having been absorbed with the task of escaping from the Underllars. And now that they had succeeded in doing that, they had come to find their way blocked, again. How long had they been underground? Time passed very oddly in the Underllars and Carym was not familiar with the seasons of this continent to know from the weather. How would they find the Tomb now? Was winter closing in? If so, moving through the mountains in the dangerous winter could be a fatal mistake. How were they supposed to find their guide now? Zach expressed doubts that there ever was a guide and suggested moving on to the Tomb anyway.

  “Aye, Yerkses fancies himself the Steel Emperor now, so he does. It’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?” A waitress brought another round of brew for the men upon seeing the bard. Bart took a long drink and set his mug down. “I wouldn’t recommend traveling there now, friend. Sargan has that placed locked down for his looting, to be sure.”