The Sigil Blade

by Jeff Wilson

  The air felt heavy around him and a strange pressure was building inside his head. Edryd tried to ignore his physical senses. In the darkness there was no need to shut his eyes, and if he remained still there were no sounds, but he could not rid himself of the damp on his skin or the cold smell of stone that saturated the air.

  Edryd failed to fully achieve what he had only once accomplished before, but he did succeed to a degree, and his efforts were not wasted. His awareness was now dominated by the five immense towers, their footings sunk in the earth to a depth that exceeded their height above the ground. The towers and the chamber operated together as a mechanism of sorts, broken and out of balance due to the collapsed tower. They no longer functioned for their original purposes, but the towers continued to be repositories for, and conduits of, immense energies.

  His head aching fiercely now, Edryd made the decision to leave. He stumbled up the stairs, impaired by a clinging thickness to the air that resisted his efforts to climb. The darkness that he felt in this place had nothing to do with an absence of light. Edryd emerged into the open from out of the chamber, feeling as if he were taking his first desperate breaths of air after having been held submerged at the bottom of a pool of water, and realized that he had in fact been holding his breath.

  Moving as quickly as he could manage, Edryd ran and did not stop until he fell, collapsing on the ground well past the borders of the ancient ruins. He crawled to a tree, and resting his back against its base, positioned himself so that the massive tree would shield him from the darkness in the city. For a time in that chamber, he had felt immense. His physical body had felt so frail and feeble that he wondered how it could withstand all that it held within it.

  Had Seoras known? Had he intended for this to happen? Seoras had said only that the ruins were not dangerous in the way people believed. He had not said that there was no danger. Perhaps Seoras had given a warning of sorts, but that warning had been incomplete and despairingly inadequate. It was as though while crossing a stream, Seoras had given assurances to Edryd that he needn’t worry about the depth of the water, while keeping silent about the swift currents that would grab hold and wash him away. Edryd had been caught in that current and plunged into the depths at the bottom of a steep fall. He had not taken physical harm, but Edryd knew that he would never be free of the memory of the place, or the idea of a damp clinging residue that defiled his skin with filth and corruption.

  ***

  It had been a while since Irial had made the trip into town without Edryd beside her, and it felt strange now to walk unprotected in the near darkness of the morning. It was a revelation for Irial to see how strongly she now felt the absence of something that she had so unexpectedly grown accustomed to. Edryd’s company and friendship had given her a sense of security that Irial had, until this moment, never fully appreciated. And with thoughts of what she knew would be in residence at the estate when she arrived, Irial had other reasons for feeling especially nervous and vulnerable today.

  Irial knew of at least two specific variations among the ashen creatures that came to see Seoras, but she had only ever seen the least dangerous of these—dry desiccated personages whose dull grey skin smelled strongly of balsam resin mixed with fragrant spices. The sweet odor came from the application of a preservative mixture that was carefully attended to by their thralls. With limited success, it sealed the scent of disease and decay that would have otherwise been overpowering.

  Irial knew far less about the others, who were of an ethereal nature and entirely devoid of lasting physical form. That she had never seen them was not a sign that Irial had never been near one, it only meant they had never had a reason to reveal to her their presence, for which circumstance she knew that she should consider herself blessed. They gave off a less intense but otherwise identical smell of death and decay, but it lacked the sweet perfumed odor of their counterparts. Irial knew these smells from experience, and she was conditioned as all people naturally are, to fear its source.

  These monsters had come and gone regularly over the past ten years, beginning from when Seoras had first returned to the island. They came to take possession of the men trained by Seoras to serve as their thralls, and they were the original source of all the legends in An Innis about the Ash Men. Logaeir had capitalized on their reputations, creatures mistakenly regarded as plague victims returned from death, by having his men cover their faces with a thick grey pigment made of ashes mixed with animal fat, appropriating the term ‘Ascomanni’ with the same bold and reckless disregard that had led him to impersonate the Blood Prince—having done both for many of the same purposes.

  When she arrived at the property, Irial learned from Tolvanes that there were two new occupants in rooms within the westernmost of the barracks buildings. Two Thralls meant at least one of the creatures, but possibly two, staying in prepared quarters up at the manor.

  “One of them is Thovin,” Tolvanes said. “I didn’t recognize the other, but they change so much it can be hard to tell them apart after a while. He looks as if he travelled to the next realm and returned to this one lacking a certain something that he first departed with.”

  Irial experienced an involuntary shudder, having understood quite perfectly what Tolvanes had meant. She would have known both of these men and attended to them during the time they had spent training under Seoras. After a short time in service to a draugr, if ever she saw them again, these thralls returned as dangerous husks, soulless versions of the men they once were, often unrecognizable and showing no signs that they remembered much of their past lives. That they no longer remembered her, Irial could feel grateful for. Sharing recollections would only have been painful for them and difficult for her. Despite this, Irial was determined to talk with Thovin, believing that a short conversation could yield important information.

  She entered Thovin’s room carrying a pitcher of warm water and some towels. Thovin, without looking up, and showing no more awareness of Irial’s presence than was essential, allowed her a clear path to the basin which rested on a table against the back wall. When, after setting them down, Irial in turn allowed some space in which to make use of the items she had brought, Thovin moved forward and began to wash his face as though she were not there. Either Irial was beneath his notice, or he was deliberately ignoring her. Irial suspected the latter and saw it as confirmation that he remembered who she was.

  “If there is anything else you need, Thovin?” Irial said.

  “No,” he replied, answering the question quickly to discourage further conversation.

  Undaunted, Irial pressed further. “Is it just you and…”

  “Hilek,” Thovin finished for her, sticking to his pattern of minimalist responses.

  Irial remembered Hilek. After completing his training with Seoras he had been taken as a thrall four years ago. Thovin had been gone only six months.

  “And you are both bound to the same…”

  Thovin frowned, carefully considering his response. “You don’t want to be too curious, Irial,” he warned.

  Irial drew back. She was being clumsy and far too obvious.

  Thovin’s serious expression changed, remorseful over having frightened her, and he tried to explain. “Being bound to Herja isn’t just a tether. She has a connection with my mind, and through her I have a connection to Hilek. Trust me—you don’t want the attentions of either one of them. We shouldn’t talk again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Irial apologized. “I’m really sorry,” she said again as she backed out of the room and Thovin closed the door.

  Irial was sorry. She wished that she could somehow help Thovin, but also understood that it was much too late. She could give him no comfort, and had caused him pain instead. In the process, Irial had also frightened herself half to death. However, balanced against the impairment of these regrets, the conversation with Thovin had still been a successful one. Irial could now confirm that there was only one of the creatures here, and more than that, she had discovered
its name. As unprecedented a piece of knowledge as that was, she had been even more surprised to discover that Herja was female. Irial couldn’t recall ever seeing a draugr whose figure showed even a hint of feminine qualities, and if she had ever thought of any of these monsters in terms gender, she had imagined that they were all male.

  Curiosity overwhelmed caution and all good sense. Without stopping to give it the careful thought it deserved, she made her way up to the manor. Irial wanted to know what Herja looked like. She had nearly finished the trip up the hillside before it occurred to her that the entire premise might be flawed. If Herja was of the ethereal variety, there wouldn’t be anything to see. Maybe all the females were of this kind. It would explain why Irial had never seen one.

  Entering the manor through a servant’s entrance, Irial began looking for Seoras, heading towards the small study just off of the library where the Shaper spent most of his time. Irial smelled a distinctive balsam fragrance as she approached, and so she knew to prepare herself for what she would see as she entered the room. Nothing would have ever prepared her. A thin grey-skinned woman turned her head as Irial entered.

  She wasn’t a woman exactly—she wasn’t even human for that matter—but apart from skin color, the differences were subtle. Herja was tall, almost as tall as Seoras, and so slender that she appeared fragile. Her arms were bare but her chest was covered by a loose black tunic that was held in place by dark plates of metal armor at the shoulders and across her waist. Dark pleats of folded crimson cloth encircled her hips. Narrow golden bands circled both of her wrists and she wore a golden pendant around her neck. Herja’s pale clouded eyes were housed in an expressionless face, and dark black hair which fell over her shoulders terminated in a series of loose braids midway down her back.

  Herja had a regal bearing, and if she could have better disguised the fact that she was essentially a skeleton covered in dry cracked pieces of dead flesh, she might have been beautiful. Irial had seen these creatures more than once, but those she had seen had always taken great care to remain completely cloaked and shrouded, and none had ever so completely terrified her before.

  “Now I understand,” Herja said. “You were the one talking with Thovin. He thinks very fondly of you. I suppose maybe you already knew that.”

  Herja’s halting guttural voice had an unsettling quality, and it made her description of Thovin’s affections even more terrifying than the confirmation of how intimately she was linked to her thrall’s mind. Irial was too frightened to do anything but remain where she was, frozen in place.

  “If you have satisfied your curiosity,” said Herja, becoming annoyed with Irial’s frightened stare, “you are not needed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Irial apologized. “I was curious. I wanted to see you because I have never seen a female of your kind.” It was the truth, or at least as much of the truth as Irial could safely disclose. “You are very beautiful,” Irial added. That was a lie, but it was a polite one.

  “You are kind,” Herja said accepting the compliment and reacting with pleasure. “You are a beautiful woman in your own right, for a human. I can see why Thovin admires you.”

  “It is time you excused yourself,” Seoras interrupted, giving Irial a look filled with irritation.

  “Don’t be so inconsiderate, Lord Seoras,” Herja protested. “She can bring some refreshment.”

  Seoras gave Herja a quizzical look which prompted the draugr to respond. “Well of course I won’t be having any, but you could eat, and I might enjoy watching your woman eat too. It would help me remember what it was like.”

  Irial excused herself and tried to walk calmly as she left the room. Once clear, she hurried away as fast as she could go without breaking into a full run. This has to be the dumbest thing I have ever done in all my life she thought as she fled.

  After preparing some tea and a plate of buttered bread, Irial took a moment to calm down so that she could begin building up her courage as she made her way back to the study. Again, her preparations did not suffice. When Irial entered the room for the second time, it was every bit as shocking to see Herja as it had been the first.

  “He is less than a nuisance,” Seoras said, growing irritated with Herja. “I can think of nothing that would make me want to spare the effort.”

  “To you perhaps, he might not matter,” Herja disagreed, “but do you think our master will be pleased if you allow this man to overthrow the rulers of An Innis?”

  “Our master does not care, so long as whoever holds power is under our control,” Seoras countered.

  “But would this Logaeir be amenable to taking orders from us?”

  “No,” Seoras admitted. “But that isn’t the present problem.”

  “The problem is that he claims to be the Blood Prince.”

  “But he isn’t,” Seoras pointed out. “He is an opportunist, taking advantage of Aisen’s disappearance, nothing more.”

  “I believe you,” Herja replied, “but what if he knows something about the Blood Prince? Aisen might be our only hope against Irminsul. We must follow every lead we have. Even if I find that he knows nothing, and can offer nothing, I am not inclined to allow this Logaeir to be left alone.”

  Seoras paused, trying to formulate a new approach. “I am hopeful that we can gain control of the Ascomanni,” he began. “Without Logaeir, the Ascomanni will fragment into a useless band of criminals.”

  “And would that not make Esivh Rhol beholden to you?” Herja pointed out.

  “The only thing that makes Esivh Rhol listen is his fear that the Ascomanni will someday kill him,” Seoras disagreed. “Remove that threat by collapsing the Ascomanni, and the Ard Ri will grow bold once more. This needs more time. I don’t want Logaeir killed, not yet at least.”

  “Esivh Rhol should be made to fear us, not these Ascomanni,” Herja complained. “But I can see your point. If we control these raiders, we also control Esivh Rhol and all of An Innis.”

  Irial set the tray down on the table between the two of them. Herja indicated with a gesture that she should take a seat beside her, and Irial did, almost falling into it as her legs lost their strength and gave out. Irial could not believe what she was hearing. Seoras was trying to save Logaeir’s life. She could understand that Seoras didn’t feel threatened by Logaeir, but that did not explain why he was trying to persuade Herja to spare him. Perhaps Seoras really did want to take control of the Ascomanni.

  Much to Irial’s relief, Herja did not follow through on her threat to vicariously enjoy the food that Irial ate. The grey skinned woman ignored Irial altogether, focusing instead on Seoras, who was discussing a way to arrange a meeting with the man who was posing as the Blood Prince. Irial listened closely to everything, knowing that Logaeir and his Ascomanni allies would need to know as much as possible. A simple mistake here could guarantee that any meeting would end in certain disaster.

  ***

  Logaeir waited in the cabin of his ship, anchored off an inlet south of Ann Innis. The Red sails of the Retribution were raised part of the way, meant as an aid to identification, openly broadcasting the presence of the Blood Prince, but also in preparation to leave in a hurry if need arose. Logaeir’s misgivings about this plan grew as he continued to wait, but he did not dare back out now.

  A second ship had sailed from An Innis a few hours ago and was now anchored less than half a mile away. That ship, Logaeir knew, carried Herja, the draugr woman who sought this audience. The arrangements had been proposed under the pretense of a request for an alliance. It was supposed to be a meeting with an envoy for Kedwyn Saivelle, but he could trust that Irial’s information was surely correct, and so he knew it for the lie that it was. Having spent the past two nights worrying about this dangerous encounter, Logaeir was anxious to get past it.

  Rowing ashore with a small party of four others as night fell, Logaeir hoped that he and his men would live to see the sun rise again in the morning. Together they walked down the rock covered coastline towards two shadow
ed figures from the other ship. The first was tall and completely shrouded in a cloak. The other stood back a few feet with a hand near the sword hung at his side, staring with an unbalanced look in his eyes at something no one else could see out in the sea. This had to be Herja and one of her Thralls.

  The shrouded figure spoke.

  “Lord Seoras demands your obedience.”

  It was a man’s voice. This wasn’t Herja. It was one, or maybe both of her thralls, but she was not present. Logaeir scanned the tree line. She might not be present, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t somewhere close.

  “In what way could I possibly help the great shaper of the dark?” Logaeir asked, feeling confused and lapsing into sarcasm.

  “Lord Seoras means to move against Esivh Rhol and the four harbormasters,” the voice explained.

  “If Lord Seoras wished to, I have no doubt he could kill them on his own,” Logaeir said. His mind was scrambling to try to understand what was happening. This was not what Irial had told him to expect. Plans must have changed, and changed recently.

  “Lord Seoras doesn’t need help removing Esivh Rhol,” the shrouded figure agreed. “He is in need of Lord Aisen to take Esivh Rhol’s place, and he wants the Ascomanni kept under control.”

  “The Ascomanni are under control, and I will be taking down Esivh Rhol soon enough,” Logaeir replied. “If Seoras is smart, he stays out of the way. Tell him the Blood Prince says that if he wants to negotiate his place in things to come that he must come speak with me himself.”

  Logaeir might have been overselling things, but he didn’t mean for it to hold up, and he was performing for an audience that he wasn’t sure had shown up.

  The shrouded figure lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing short dark hair and a carefully trimmed beard. He matched the description Irial had given for Thovin. That meant the man still staring out at the sea would be Herja’s other Thrall, Hilek.