Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  He led them all up a long flight of stairs that took them to the top of the tower. They emerged upon the roof, amid strange devices of confounding configuration. Arutha looked about and said, “It is well you understand this, father, for I do not.”

  “Like me,” said the Abbot, “the stars and planets have both physical and spiritual properties. We know other worlds spin their orbits about other stars. We know this for fact, since”—he pointed to Laurie—“one who has lived for a time on an alien world stands with us at this moment.” When Laurie looked astonished, the Abbot said, “We are not so cut off from the rest of the world that something as important as our adventures on Kelewan would not be heard here, Laurie of Tyr-Sog.” Returning to his original topic, he said, “But that is the physical side of the stars. They also reveal secrets to those who watch by their arrangement, their pattern, and their movement. Whatever the reason for this phenomenon, this we know: at times a clear message comes to us from the night sky, and we who are bent on gaining knowledge will not refuse to heed such a message; we will remain open to every source of knowledge, including those often held in disrepute.

  “The mysteries of these devices, as well as reading the stars, are only a matter of taking the time to master the subject. Any man of sufficient wit can learn. These devices,” he said with a sweep of his hand, “are all quite clear in use and purpose once they’ve been demonstrated. Now, if you’ll please look through this device here.” Arutha looked through a strange sphere, constructed from a complex lattice work of metals. “This is used to chart the relative motion of stars and visible planets.”

  “You mean there’re invisible ones?” asked Jimmy without thinking.

  “Correct,” said the Abbot, overlooking the interruption. “Or at least there are those we can’t see, though if we were close enough they would be visible.”

  “Part and parcel of the arts of divination is the science of knowing when the auguries are in fruition, at best a chancy business. There is a famous prophecy made by the mad monk Ferdinand de la Rodez. By common account, it has come to pass on three different occasions. Not one can agree which event was the one he predicted.”

  Arutha studied the sky through the device, only half listening to the Abbot. Through the eyehole he saw a sky ablaze with stars, overlaid with a faint network of lines and notations, which he assumed were somehow inscribed on the inside of the sphere. In the center was a configuration of five stars, reddish in color, one in the center, with lines connecting them in a bright red X. “What am I seeing?” he asked. He relinquished his place to Martin, and the former hunter looked through the device.

  The Abbot said, “Those five stars are called the Bloodstones.”

  Martin said, “I know them, but I’ve never seen that pattern before.”

  “Nor shall you again for another eleven thousand years—though that is a guess, and we shall have to wait until it occurs again to be sure.” He seemed unperturbed by the duration, in fact he seemed quite willing to wait. “What you see is a pattern called the Fiery Cross or Cross of Fire. There is an ancient prophecy concerning it.”

  “What is this prophecy, and what has it to do with me?” said Arutha.

  “The prophecy is ancient, perhaps from the time of the Chaos Wars. It says, ‘When the Cross of Fire lights the night and the Lord of the West dead is, shall then return the Power.’ It’s quite well constructed poetically in the original, though it loses in translation. What we take it to mean is that some agency seeks your death to cause this prophecy’s fulfillment, or at least seeks to convince others the prophecy’s near fruition. Another germane fact is that the prophecy is one of the few things we have that were created by the Pantathian serpent people. We know little about these creatures. We know that on those rare occasions when they appear they herald troubles, for they are clearly agents of evil working toward ends only they understand. We also know that the prophecy says the Lord of the West is also called Bane of Darkness.”

  “So someone wants Arutha dead because he is fated to defeat them if he lives?” asked Martin.

  “Or so they believe,” answered the Abbot.

  “But who or what?” said Arutha. “That someone wishes me dead comes as no revelation. What more can you tell me?”

  “Little, I’m afraid.”

  Laurie said, “Still, it gives some small reason behind the Nighthawks’ attacks upon you.”

  “Religious fanatics,” said Jimmy, shaking his head, then he looked at the Abbot. “Sorry, father.”

  The Abbot ignored the remark. “What is important to understand is that they will try again and again and again. You will not be done with them until you root out the ultimate author of the order to kill you.”

  “Well,” said Martin, “we also know that the Brotherhood of the Dark Path is involved.”

  “North,” said Brother Micah. Arutha and the others looked at him questioningly. “Your answers lie northward, Arutha. Look there,” he said, his voice still containing a note of command. “To the north lie the High Ranges, all barriers against the denizens of the Northlands. In the west above Elvandar perch the Great Northern Mountains; in the east, the Northern Guardians, the High Fastness, and the Dreaming Mountains. And across the center lies the greatest range of all, the Teeth of the World, thirteen hundred miles of nearly impassable crags. Who knows what lies beyond? What man, save renegade or weapons runner, has ventured there and returned to tell of the Northlands?

  “Our ancestors created the Border Baronies ages ago, to bottle up the passes at Highcastle, Northwarden, and Ironpass. The Duke of Yabon’s garrisons block the only other major pass to the west of the Thunderhell Steppes. And no goblin or Dark Brother treads upon the Thunderhell and lives, for the nomads do our guarding for us. In short, we know nothing of the Northlands. But that is where the moredhel live and that is where you’ll find your answers.”

  “Or I’ll find nothing,” said Arutha. “You may be concerned about prophecy and portents, but I care only for finding the answer to the riddle of Silverthorn. Until Anita is again safe, I shall put my efforts to nothing else.” The Abbot appeared disturbed by this. Arutha said, “That there is a prophecy I have no doubt, and that some madman with arcane powers is seeking my death is also not in doubt. But that this spells some great danger to the Kingdom is a long reach. Too long for me. I’ll need more proof.”

  The Abbot was about to answer when Jimmy said, “What is that?”

  All eyes turned to look where he pointed. Glowing low on the horizon was a blue light, brightening as if a star were growing before their eyes. Martin said, “It looks like a falling star.”

  Then they could see it was no star. A faint sound in the distance accompanied the approaching object. Brighter it grew, as the sound grew louder, more angry. Racing across the sky toward them was a blue fire. Suddenly it was speeding directly over the tower with a sizzling sound, like a hot iron passing through water.

  Then Brother Dominic shouted, “Off the tower, quickly!”

  ELEVEN

  CLASH

  They hesitated for a moment.

  Dominic’s warning was followed by a shout from Micah, and the others hurried down the stair. Halfway to the ground floor, Dominic faltered, swaying a little on his feet. “Something approaches.”

  Reaching the main floor, Arutha and the others hurried to the door and looked out. In the sky above, more of the glowing objects streaked overhead with unbelievable speed. First from one quarter of the sky, then another, they sped, their strange, ominous droning filling the night. Faster and faster they shot through the air, streaks of blue, green, yellow, and red, angry flashes of brilliance ripping through the dark.

  “What are they?” shouted Jimmy.

  “Magic sentinels of some kind,” answered the Abbot. “I can sense they are searching the area they pass over.”

  Slowly the pattern changed; instead of passing directly overhead, they began to curve and fly off at a tangent to their original course. Those below could see
that the objects were slowing in their flight. The curving course tightened, until the glowing objects sped through the night in great arcs overhead. Then they slowed even more, gaining definition. They were large spheres, pulsing with a bright inner light, and inside could be seen strange dark shapes, somehow disturbing in appearance. They continued to slow until they hovered and spiraled, forming a circle above the abbey courtyard. Once the circle was formed, twelve glowing spheres could be seen hanging silently and motionless over the courtyard. Then, with a deep snapping, buzzing sound painful to the ears, lines of energy shot across the gap between each pair and six lines joined the sphere. Then a line formed around the periphery so that now the spheres formed a dodecagon.

  “What are these things?” Gardan wondered aloud.

  “The Twelve Eyes,” the Abbot said in awe, “an ancient and evil spell of legend. No one living is said to have the power to form this thing. It is both a vehicle for seeing and a weapon.”

  Then the spheres slowly began to move. Gaining speed, they began weaving an intricate pattern, the lines twisting maddeningly, beyond the ability of the eye to follow. Faster they spun, until they became a blurring solid of light. A shaft of energy shot down from the center, striking some invisible barrier above the roofs of the buildings.

  Dominic screamed in pain and had to be caught by Martin. The monk’s hands pressed hard against his temples and he said, “So powerful. I can scarcely believe…” He opened eyes running with tears and said, “The barriers are holding.”

  Father John said, “Brother Dominic’s mind is the keystone to the mystic defenses of the abbey. He is being sorely tested.”

  Again angry energies shot downward, to be scattered across the invisible barrier, like a multicolored shower above their heads. Shards of mystic rainbow light streaked down the sides of the magic barrier, defining the dome above the abbey for the eye to see. But again the barrier held. Then another, and another, and soon Arutha and the others could see that the barrier was being pushed lower each time. With each assault, Dominic would cry out in pain. Then, with explosive fury, a single shaft of blinding white light struck the barrier and broke through, searing the ground with an angry hiss and acrid odor.

  With the attack, Brother Dominic stiffened in Martin’s arms and groaned. “It is entering,” he whispered before he passed into unconsciousness.

  As Martin lowered the monk to the floor, Father John said, “I must go to my vestry. Brother Micah, you must hold it.”

  Micah told them, “Whatever is out there has breached a mystic defense second only to that at our father temple. Now I must face it. I am armed and shielded by Ishap,” the old monk said in ritual, as he unlimbered the war hammer at his belt.

  A roar of impossible volume, like a thousand lions voicing rage at once, shook the abbey. It began as a teeth-jarring shriek and ran down the scale until it seemed to grind at the very stones of the building. Bolts of energy lashed out, seemingly in random directions, and where they struck, destruction ensued. Stones seemed to crumble under the onslaught, whatever was flammable was set afire, and any water touched by the bolts exploded into clouds of steam.

  They watched as Micah left the building, striding out to stand below the spinning disk. As if anticipating, he raised his hammer above his head as another bolt of energy lashed downward, blinding those who watched from the door. When the initial blaze of white died down, they could see Micah standing upright, hammer held overhead as the crackling energies cascaded around him, scattering in broken spectrum, so that all the colors of the rainbow danced within the inferno. The very ground at his feet smoked and burned, but he was unharmed. Then the flow of energy halted, and in an instant Micah had pulled back his hammer and made his throw. Almost too quick for the eye to follow, the hammer left his hand and became a blur of blue-white energy as bright and blinding as its target. Higher than was possible for a man to throw, the bolt of flame sped, striking the blazing disk dead center. It seemed to bounce off the disk, and the blue bolt returned to Micah’s hand. The thing lashed out at Micah again, but once more he was protected by the hammer’s mystic powers. Again he cast his hammer as soon as the rain of light ceased, striking it at the heart. As the hammer returned, those inside the abbey could see that the thing was beginning to wobble slightly as it spun. A third time he cast his hammer and it struck. Suddenly there was a rending sound, a tearing so loud that Arutha and the others were forced to cover their ears. The circling spheres shattered, and from the center of each plunged small alien shapes. With a wet, plopping noise they struck the ground, wiggled grotesquely, and began to smoke. A high keening shriek filled the night as they erupted into brilliant flame. No one could discern the true forms of the creatures from the spheres, but Arutha was filled with a sense it was something best left undiscovered, for in the instant they ignited, the shapes resembled nothing so much as horribly disfigured babies. Then the night was silent, as a rain of sparkling colors, like fine motes of glass star stuff, began to fall on the abbey. One by one the motes flared and winked out, until the old monk stood silently in the court, his war hammer held before him.

  Those who stood in the shelter of the abbey looked at one another, astonishment on their faces. For a long moment they said nothing, then they began to relax. “That was…incredible,” said Laurie. “I don’t know if I could find the words to describe it.”

  Arutha was about to speak, but something in the way Jimmy and Martin both cocked their heads to one side made him stop. Jimmy said, “I hear something.” They all stood silent for a moment, then could hear a distant sound, as if some great bird or bat flapped giant wings in the night.

  Jimmy ran from the building before anyone could stop him, nearly spinning as he scanned every quarter of the night sky. Looking back over the roof of the abbey, toward the north, he saw something that made his eyes widen. “Banath!” he exclaimed and dashed to where the old monk still stood, unmoving and silent. Micah seemed in some sort of trance, eyes closed. Jimmy gripped his arm and shook him. “Look!” he shouted as the monk opened his eyes.

  Micah looked to where the boy pointed. Blotting out the large moon in the night sky was something that flew toward the abbey, propelled on giant, powerful wings. Instantly the monk shoved the boy away. “Run!”

  The push sent Jimmy away from the abbey, so he raced across the courtyard to where a lone wagon sat, filled with fodder for the stables, and dove under it. With a roll and a turn, he lay still, watching.

  A thing of despair fashioned in a shape of utter horror descended from the sky. Wings a full fifty feet in width flapped lazily as it dropped down to where the old monk stood. It was a twenty-foot-tall composite of everything loathsome to sane beings. Black talons extended from grotesque parodies of bird claws, atop which rose legs reminiscent of a goat’s. But where haunches should have been, only great wattles of fat, huge rings of blubber, shook and quivered, hanging impossibly down from below a manlike chest. Over the body a thick wet-looking substance oozed downward in rivulets. In the center of the thing’s chest, a blue-colored but otherwise normal-looking human face stared out in wide-eyed horror, constantly twitching and screaming in gibbering couterpoint to the thing’s own loud bellows. Each arm was powerfully fashioned, long and apelike. It shimmered in faint light, rapidly changing, first red, then orange, yellow, and onward through the spectrum until it was again red. And from it emitted a mixture of foul odors, as if the vile smell of every decaying and festering thing in the world had been distilled down and infused into the creature’s being.

  Most horrid of all was the head, for in supreme cruelty, whatever or whoever had fashioned the misshapen monster had adorned it with a woman’s head, large to fit the body, but otherwise normal. And the ultimate jest was in the features of that face, for, in precise imitation, the thing bore the likeness of Princess Anita. Wild tresses seemed to blow in all directions, framing her features in a cloud of red hair. But its expression was one of a street whore, lewd and wanton, as the thing salaciously licked i
ts lips and rolled its eyes toward Arutha. Blood-red lips split into a wide grin, showing long fangs in place of human eyeteeth.

  Arutha looked on the thing with a disgust and loathing that rose up to banish any thought save to destroy this obscenity. “No!” he shouted as he began to pull his sword.

  Gardan was instantly upon him, driving him to the floor of the building, bringing his strength to bear to hold him down, yelling, “That’s what they want!”

  Martin lent his strength to stop Arutha, and he and Gardan pulled the Prince away from the door. The creature turned to look at those within the door, absently flexing its claws. Pouting like a little girl, it suddenly leered at Arutha, then stuck out its tongue, wiggling it suggestively. Then with a bellowing laugh, it rose up to its full height and roared at the stars, arms stretched high overhead. With a single step, it moved toward the doorway where the Prince waited. Then suddenly it rocked forward, shrieked in pain, and turned around.

  Arutha and his companions looked past it to see a blue-white bolt of energy returning to Brother Micah’s hand. He had struck the first blow while the thing had been distracted. Again he cast his hammer. In a blur it flashed to strike the thing in its huge stomach, bringing another bellow of pain and rage, as a trickle of steaming black blood began to flow.

  “My, my!” came a voice from behind Arutha.

  Laurie saw that Brother Anthony had come up from some deep vault beneath the abbey and was peering intently at the creature. Laurie said, “What is that thing?”

  Showing no emotion except curiosity, the archivist said, “I believe it to be a conjured creature, something fashioned by magic means, brewed up in a vat. I can show you some references in a dozen different works on how to create them. Of course, it could be some rare natural occurring beast, but that seems highly improbable.”