by A. Evermore
He stepped back staring at the statues with wide eyes. They were so lifelike they filled him with fear. They may as well have been real people turned to stone where they stood. Whoever crafted them was a master in stonework. Not even moss, lichen or ivy dared to cover them and the dark grey stone was not weathered and stood as if freshly chiselled, and yet they had to be incredibly old.
Marakon moved faster amongst the statues feverishly staring up into their faces, willing them to release their secrets but they did not, their silence was eternal. Sweat trickled down his forehead and he heard voices he recognised and those he did not chattering in his head. Half-remembered conversations of a time long ago. They talked over the top of each other so as he could not make any single word out. He was sure the voices, the memories, were driven by the statues.
He came to one that was of three people this time. A man in armour, his feet askance and a great broadsword held aloft just beginning its downward stroke. Under that sword a young woman cowered, unarmoured, unarmed, and terrified; her arms held above her in futile protection and submission. A baby lay face down by her knees in an unnatural twisted position. The man’s face was a mask of rage.
Marakon choked back a sob and tore himself away, who would make these awful statues? Why?
Lest anyone forget…
He had to stop at every one; they drew him to them as if they all wanted to be seen and he could not deny them. A female soldier, long braids hung from under her helmet, her face was full of sorrow and tears were running down her cheeks. She held her sword against her chest, point turned inwards ready to end her own life.
Marakon rushed on but the statues were many; men, women, children, elves, dwarves, humans… all races of Maioria, fighting, dying, and all with terrible sorrow or rage vivid in their faces. There were no statues of glory or chivalry, none were victorious and none were honourable. Marakon wiped the sweat from his face, his mind spinning, panic rising. He had to get away from them, from the voices.
He whirled around them his face a contorted mirror of theirs. Tears of sorrow and horror blurred his vision. Where was he? What was this awful place? Why did he recognise those faces in the statues? They spoke of something terrible, something awful and the memory was within him but he did not want to remember, he could not, he must not!
Who am I?
His breath came in ragged gasps as the hundreds of battles in which he had fought flickered through his mind like pictures in a book. He felt his head would explode with the rage and the sorrow that ravaged him. He clutched his temples, shut his eyes as if he could shut it all out. He fell to his knees screaming.
Suddenly there was silence. He knelt there gulping for air as the images and voices receded. Slowly he opened his eyes. Back by the first statue he saw Shufen. He rested with his back against a tree, his attention absorbed with something in his hand, his angular face forlorn and sorrowful. Marakon got up unsteadily and staggered towards him. He firmly grasped the man’s wiry arms. Shufen looked up surprised and unrecognising for a moment. Slowly he came to his senses and they embraced briefly, roughly. Shufen spoke first.
‘Brother, I can go no further. When I last stepped where you did I wandered for days in the madness. The Elders say this place is for you; this is where it all changes; where peace and memory or fear and death will come. Either way there is release. Take this,’ he passed to Marakon his small pack containing water and food.
Marakon nodded his thanks and slipped the pack over his head. He pulled away, swallowing loudly. The pang of urgency overwhelmed his fear. The sands of time are trickling through the hourglass.
‘You are right, they are right. I don’t know what I will find but here is where I must go. The answers are… all here. Go back to the others, to your home. I hope to see you there.’
‘Time moves differently in this place. Faster or slower but never the same. If we do not see you again within three days, we shall bless your spirit and pray for safe passage into the light of the One Source,’ Shufen said, his face pale and drawn. They grasped each other’s arm firmly, met each other’s eyes for a long moment and then Shufen turned away.
Marakon watched him walk back the way they had come until the mist and the jungle engulfed him. Turning back to the row of statues he felt the jaws of loneliness open up to swallow him once more. He took Jarlain’s stone out of its pouch and gripped it tightly in his hand. He had never been superstitious before yet he needed something to link him to the normal world as he stepped back down the line of statues. The din of voices began to grow again and he started to talk to himself to keep them at bay.
‘I am Marakon. I am not afraid. Here I will find answers. I am Marakon.’
A seasoned soldier afraid of statues, pah, what an embarrassment! But still the fear gnawed at him. He tried not to look at them as he passed but he could feel their eyes heavy upon him as if they judged him and found him guilty.
Swiftly, unnaturally swiftly, the jungle gave way to a rocky mountainside stretching up and away into the sky. The sun was high in the sky but its light was weak and the air hazy, like morning fog, only it was not damp. The plants and trees ended abruptly, as if he had stepped between an invisible veil that separated the jungle environment from a barren desert. When the plants stopped the statues stopped, much to his relief, and yet that oppressive feeling only deepened.
Onwards he walked.
He walked until the jungle was far behind and lost to the desert. A gentle wind lifted dust from the arid land making it swirl in eddies before settling back on the ground once more. The voices in his head were gone but there were whispers in the wind now, half-heard and never understood. He was certain a female voice spoke right beside him but there was no one there. Sorrow and hopelessness hung on him like a leaden cloak, heavy and blocking out joy. He steeled his mind and soul against the oppression, feeling it all around him but trying to deny it entry.
A gust of wind spewed around him. It blew the sand off a mound of rocks before him, uncovering not stones but worn bones and a skull. He stopped beside it wondering who had fallen here. Then he noticed the other mounds; they were everywhere littering the ground in all directions as if he walked through some ancient graveyard.
Why am I surprised? There is nothing but death in this hellish place. Not even demons would wander these barren plains. He bent down and laid a finger upon the skull as if bidding a welcome or final farewell he wasn’t sure. Desolation, cold and absolute, exuded from the skull like a solid thing and he watched in horror as the skeleton disintegrated to dust.
‘Very old,’ he said to himself standing back up abruptly. He swallowed wiping his hand on his tunic, ‘let’s not touch anything again.’
He carried on through a deep ravine, a rocky valley where once a river might have flowed, though it was now long gone. His feet carried him forward seeming to know the way though his mind did not. Skulls and bones were scattered here and there, some complete skeletons, others mere fragments and all of different shapes and sizes, male, female, child, dwarf, elf. Even animals were not spared death for amongst them lay horses and dogs, birds and huge beasts he did not know and small ones he did.
Suddenly the hairs rose on the back of his neck. He was being watched. But how could that be when there was nothing and no-one for miles in any direction. The whisperings began again and with every step they grew louder and clearer. A woman sang softly, a sorrowful song that drifted on the wind coming to him from all around so he could not tell from where it came.
I should not listen to it, whatever, whoever, it is. But the voice was beautiful, the song was a light in this cursed place. He began to drift along with it, his feet wandering left and right depending on where the song came from. He could not resist the voice and he no longer walked purposefully.
Weariness, terribly heavy, eye-drooping, bone-aching weariness descended upon him. I have to rest, I have to sleep. I have been walking for hours. He stopped and squatted upon a large round rock rising out of the sandy earth.
He loosened his sword belt with a yawn and rested his forehead on his hand as he drifted. He needed to rest, just for a little while, no harm in that. He fell asleep listening to that beautiful voice. The further the words carried him to sleep the clearer they became.
Where do we go when the darkness surrounds us?
Who will love us when we are damned?
When will our penance be served?
Why does the sun never rise for us?
What is the name of the one who will guide us?
From far away in the distance it seemed another voice whispered.
She is the light in the darkness.
Hers is the love for the damned.
Our penance is served when she comes for us.
Now it is the dark moon that rises.
She is coming to guide us.
Chapter 35
Spear Of Light
ISSA stepped out of Triest’anth’s house. Clean and dressed in clothes given to her by Lys’ynth; a pair of soft blue trousers and a simple linen sleeveless top that reached almost to her knees, tied at the waist with a cord. The night of the Feast of Ax’anth was very warm with little breeze.
In the distance filtering through the mix of oak and pine trees came the warm glow of a bonfire and the sound of many voices laughing and chatting. Above her the small pale orange moon of Woetala shimmered brightly in a clear night sky. She stood there for a moment soaking up the night, feeling wonderful to be alone just for a little bit, not to think or dream, just to be.
We had summer bonfires on Little Kammy, the long summer evenings were always my favourite.
She didn’t feel quite ready to face everyone yet, not while she had these moments alone to enjoy her favourite time of year. Quietly she slipped into the forest and made it back to the pool she had washed in earlier. An owl hooted in the distance and was replied by another further away. The only other sound was the tinkling splash of the small waterfall that drowned out the distant voices of karalanths. The reflection of Woetala’s moon danced merrily upon the waters.
She sat down upon the smooth rock that was still warm from the sun. Subconsciously she rubbed the mark on her chest and it tingled. She pulled down her top a little. The small raven, barely visible in daylight, now shone silver in the moonlight. Was it there forever? She doubted she would ever use the spell, who wants to return to the Shadowlands or any place like it? But a spell like that could save your life, I only hope I never feel like I have to!
She closed her eyes and stilled her mind. She focused on the Flow, and in her mind’s eye could see and feel it all around her, flowing gently in all directions, seemingly purposelessly to the untrained mind. She stepped into it so that it flowed all around her and through her, dark pastels of mainly purple and blue lights. She opened her eyes and could see the Flow as she had seen it in her mind.
She looked down into the pool. It was no longer rippling black water but swirling with magical energy, the magical lifeforce within and between all things. She focused on creating a lighter circle of energy, about the size of an apple, and the Flow moved to her bidding. Soon she looked down into a pale flat silvery circle floating upon the surface of the pool.
Freydel, Freydel, Freydel, she said in her mind, holding a clear vision of the wizard. Freydel had told her roughly how to scry and it was done using a mirror or, better since water was a life force of its own, a pool of water. A clear night with a full moon, any moon, was best and though she had not done this before tonight was a good time to try. She had thought about using the Orb of Water but without knowing anything about it thought it wise not to try.
Coronos is an Orb Keeper too, maybe he could show me some things, she pondered.
“Speak three times with the mind, the mental plane of intention, and three times aloud, the physical plane of intention,” Freydel had said. You were also supposed to have a physical object that had belonged to the person or was a gift from them, but she did not have anything of his. It might not work but there was no harm in trying. She had to let the wizard know she was all right and he could tell Ely and Maeve.
‘Freydel, Freydel, Freydel,’ she said aloud but quietly.
The circle of energy shimmered and shifted, trying to form the connection. After only a few moments she began to realise how hard it was to focus on just one thing, her mind wanted to jump all over the place. She frowned in concentration, willing Freydel to appear in the circle of light. For a moment she thought she saw a figure, possibly robed and carrying a staff, but the image was so hazy, as if surrounded in clouds, and it went as quickly as it had come.
She blinked and tried again, willing the image to appear once more. The energy swirled faster but nothing became distinct. She thought she heard sounds, people speaking but too distorted to know what was being said. She huffed in frustration, he didn’t say it would be this difficult! But perhaps it wasn’t difficult, maybe he couldn’t be reached right now?
The tuning sound of instruments and then the sound of laughter broke her attention. She sighed and let go of the Flow, blinked and focused on the black waters of the pool. Her head hurt from the effort and the magic had drained her unusually quickly. I am still suffering from that awful battle, from the power of the full blue moon flowing through me. Ely’s bracelet may help heal her body but her magic reserves needed lots of time to rest and heal alone. “Always draining for the novice,” Freydel had said, but it will get easier. I’ll try again tomorrow.
‘Maion’artheria,’ whispered on the wind.
The purity of the soft voice immediately stilled Issa’s world to silence and complete calm and clarity descended upon her. All other thoughts faded away and lost their importance as the eternal voice called to her. The raven mark on her chest grew warm and she could see it now glowing indigo blue above her cleavage. She touched it gently and closed her eyes.
As she closed her physical eyes it seemed as if she opened her inner eyes. So clearly before her stood the sacred mound with its mirror-like entrance and the giant stones standing as ancient protectors. In her mind Issa stood and walked to the liquid mirror surface. Without hesitation she passed through and felt all weariness and worries, all aches and pains, cleansed away.
When she emerged on the other side she stepped not into a dark stone room but into an endless desert under a starlit night sky. Beside the beautiful twinkling trilithon the tall robed woman stood waiting for her. Hot wind blew through Issa’s hair and she breathed deeply. It is so real, she noted looking around her and grinding her toes into the warm sand, that she wondered if she were there fully or only in her mind. She looked down and was dressed as she had been when sitting at the karalanth pool.
The figure beckoned her closer with a luminous pale hand and Issa forgot all else. She walked towards the hooded form of Zanufey and a sense of infinity flooded through her being. All questions Issa wanted to ask died on her lips for they seemed so small and unimportant in this being’s presence. Instead awe and humbleness were a tangible thing for Issa and she found herself half staring up at the shining perfect chin and lips and nose and half looking down at her feet. Zanufey spoke without moving her lips and her pure voice held an angelic harmony as of many beautiful voices singing.
‘Remember Edarna.’
Immediately Issa remembered the old witch sitting at her kitchen table. Those green eyes and red round cheeks smiling back at her.
‘Yes,’ Issa said, looking into the material of Zanufey’s robes where stars and galaxies swirled. She half hoped the black hole sucking everything into it would not be there on her chest but still it was. Entire galaxies falling into it and their light extinguished forever.
Zanufey raised a hand. Issa stared as a hazy figure appeared to Zanufey’s left and then many more. The hazy figures became more distinct and a tall man with dark hair and a beard stood there. His right eye was covered with an eye patch and he was dressed in armour and a tabard with a star upon it. His head was hung in sorrow and his face a mask of grief. Behind him stood m
any others dressed the same and their faces drawn and sad.
‘ “…The raven searches for the Cursed King…”,’ Issa said, suddenly remembering Edarna’s words, ‘ “and his Banished Legion”,’ she breathed, staring at the other knights. ‘Is that where the raven has gone?’
Zanufey inclined her head in agreement.
‘But why? Who is this “Cursed King”? What is it that I am supposed to do or even can do?’ Issa asked, confusion tinged her voice.
Zanufey held her hand out palm down and a burst of brilliant white light formed. The light began to grow and lengthen into a two inch thick rod. Still the light grew more until it was a straight ten foot long glowing shard. Then the light-shard dimmed a little and became a spear in Zanufey’s hand. Its blade was white metal shaped like a leaf. The rest of the spear was completely plain.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Issa breathed as Zanufey held it upright. It glimmered like the shimmering aura of a star and the faces of the knights all turned to stare at the spear in awe. The image of the knights changed and next Issa saw them all mounted upon galloping white horses, armour shining in the light. Behind them followed thousands of soldiers bearing the Feylint Halanoi tabard and in front of them she saw herself in black armour atop a huge dark horse. Duskar.
‘Edarna said this king is good but he also brings disaster,’ Issa breathed, focusing on the man with the dark hair and eye patch that followed closely behind her. Zanufey inclined her head but said nothing.
‘Where is this spear? Why is it important to them?’ Issa asked.
The image changed and she saw upright grey and brown figures form. They were all sizes, some as small as cats and others over twelve feet tall. All were hairless and all were ugly. Their eyes were red or brown or yellow and some had wings and some had tails. Their faces were permanently scowled or grimaced. Then she saw the same spear Zanufey held shining in the darkness and bound in chains.