“It’s a nifty little spell,” D’Kem said, pleased with himself.
“Do you think you could teach me?” Spirk asked with his typical enthusiasm. “I love magic! I’d be a great magician. My ma always said…”
“Magic’s not to be trifled with!” the A’Shea said.
Bash snorted; he didn’t have much respect for those who used magic and even less for those who used it while warning others not to do so.
“I don’t wanna trifle with it,” Spirk complained. “I want to…explode…evil and summon demon kings to do my bidding!”
“Hush, you fool boy!” the A’Shea cried out. “Alheria forgive and protect you!”
“What? Why?” Spirk sputtered. “I’d be a great magician! Better than Pellas, even.”
“Better ‘n Pellas, is it?” Janks echoed. “That’s some tall talk, Nessno. If the stories be true, Pellas was the greatest of ‘em all.”
Long could see where all this was leading from a mile away, but it broke the predictable fireside routine of overblown legends about the Reaper or frightened musings about the End-of-All-Things, so he was content to sit and listen. Besides, unlike the other two men, Pellas was not rumored to have been a heartless, amoral bastard, but was rather a true and noble hero. And the story of his death was one of the most heart-breaking tales ever told. Long hoped Janks wasn’t heading down that road.
“The High Wizard Pellas was the finest example of a man you could hope to find.” Janks began.
Long heard a rustling off to his left, and turned in time to see D’Kem fumbling his flask out of hiding, take a long pull and secure it back within his robes. For an instant, the two men exchanged glances, and then Janks was talking again. It was clear he had the squad’s attention and assent to continue.
“He was born a slave, so they say, in the Southern Kingdoms and was trained from birth to be tutor to the children o’ the wealthy or of royal heritage. But he quickly outstripped his own tutors, so he was sent to study under the Emperor’s own Shapers, the wisest and most knowledgeable men in the land. In the Emperor’s court, though, Pellas was troubled by the difference between the way slaves were treated and the nobility were treated. The more he thought on it, the more…”
The sound of snoring interrupted Janks’ narrative, and everyone turned to see D’Kem leaning against Mardine, fast asleep. One of the twins reached over and gave him a good poke. D’Kem woke, flustered and disoriented.
“We’re talkin’ about the greatest of your order,” Janks scolded. “You’d think you’d have some respect.”
D’Kem stood, inadvertently (perhaps) broke wind and wandered off toward his sleeping kit.
Bash chuckled under his breath.
Janks sighed in exasperation. “Some people just ain’t worthy,” he lamented.
“What happened next?” Spirk asked eagerly.
“Well,” Janks continued, “as I was sayin,’ Pellas was real bothered-like by this unfairness he saw, so he bided his time and he studied. Oh, how he studied. Pellas read books and scrolls and tablets and the like that few if any even knew existed. He learned the locations of magic…things…”
“Artifacts,” Long put in.
“Right, right: artifacts. And he learned spells no one had used or even attempted since the Awakening. Pellas thought and thought and planned and planned. Then, when the day came for his final testing, he cast a spell turned the Emperor, his family and all his Shapers into glass.”
“I heard it was gold!” Spirk protested.
“It was glass,” Janks countered.
“No, no. It was gold, ‘cause Pellas wanted to say if the Emperor was worth so much more than his slaves, he oughta at least look like it.”
“That’s a nice twist, boy, but it was glass. He meant to show ‘em all how fragile life is.” Janks insisted.
“He turned the Emperor’s whole family and all his Shapers into glass?” one of the twins asked.
“So they say.”
“What happened to the Emperor then?” the other twin asked.
“Ah!” Janks laughed, “the soldiers and slaves joined in smashing the Emperor and his family. I heard a story a while back that his daughter still exists in glass in some rich merchant’s bedroom in Cabrede, but it’s prob’ly just that, a story.”
“The soldiers and slaves joined together, did they? Now that’s what I call a fairy story,” Bash interjected.
“You miss the point, Bash. Pellas toppled a tyrant and his closest mates and freed them as couldn’t free themselves. Most o’ the time, when you hear a tale of some great person, he’s out for himself and none other. Just look at Vykers, as a for instance.”
Long was enjoying this break from Vykers, so he quickly cut in to insure the group stayed on Pellas. “I remember a tale of Pellas,” he announced rather loudly. Because Long didn’t tell many tales, the chattering stopped and everyone looked his way. “Understand, the tales of great ones are all inevitably filled with loss and betrayal. There’s nary a legendary man or woman who didn’t lose the love of his life in some cruel way or another. Pellas, though, Pellas was forced to murder his own true love.” Long glanced around the circle, the faces of his companions barely visible in the non-glow of the Campaigner’s Fire. “Imagine that,” he challenged the group.
“They say Pellas eventually ended up in the service of the Virgin Queen’s grandfather, Harduc the Second, working alongside his other Shapers to secure a lasting peace between the various smaller kingdoms, fiefdoms, and city-states throughout the middle lands. And it was in this service that he met and fell in love with fellow Shaper, Maille. Now, on the surface, Pellas and Maille had little in common; he’d been born into slavery and she was the daughter of a wealthy noble. In fact, story is, they hated each other at first. You know how it goes: he thinks she’s an over-privileged princess and she thinks he’s an arrogant prick, that sort of thing. Anyway, over the years, of course, they fall for each other, and Pellas is happier than he’s ever been. They go through a lot together – wars, natural disasters, political shit. Then, one day, his Highness asks them to go battle some sort of demon in one of the outlying provinces. The King tells them this demon has defeated every other attempt to destroy it and is now ravaging the countryside, threatening to cause mass panic in the King’s subjects. So, Pellas, Maille and a large force of stout knights head off to kill the demon, who turns out to be the biggest, ugliest, nastiest fucker anybody’s ever seen or even heard of. The battle lasts for days and days. Some say a fortnight, some say a month. Point is, it went on and on, taking a terrible toll on Pellas and Maille, to say nothing of their knights. Finally, Pellas had the thing on its knees, its life-forces rapidly ebbing away, when it unexpectedly took possession of Maille.”
“What’s that mean?” Spirk asked.
“It means he abandoned his own body and got inside her somehow. Pellas was devastated. He couldn’t stand to lose Maille – or even the image of her – but he couldn’t afford to let the demon go on living inside Maille, with access to all her additional knowledge, abilities and memories. They say Pellas incinerated her, and they say you could see the pillar of fire over half a world away. The demon inside her screamed horribly, but they say Pellas’ cry of despair was heard the whole world over.”
Long finished and the squad lapsed into silence, some thinking on how they’d loved and lost, others regretting the fact they’d never known love in the first place. The sergeant was unable to meet Mardine’s eye, but he could feel it on him nonetheless. He was no Pellas, to be sure, and she was certainly no Maille. And yet…he stood, walked over to the giantess, and took her hand. Nobody smirked or raised so much as an eyebrow.
*****
From all appearances, D’Kem had returned to his old ways, army-be-damned. Although everyone else was already packed and ready to resume the chase, D’Kem hadn’t emerged from his tent. Long figured he was either dead at last or sleeping off more of his drink. When the sergeant finally poked his head into the Shaper’s t
ent, he found the latter was true: D’Kem lay in a heap, snoring loudly and drooling continuously. Fed up, he grabbed the older man’s feet and dragged him out into the morning air. D’Kem scarcely stirred, but Long did spy the man’s treasured flask lying just inside the tent, half-covered by a ratty old blanket. How could such a limited quantity of liquor consistently leave the Shaper so smashed? Long unstopped the flask and took a tentative sniff. Whatever it was smelled bitter and vaguely metallic, but nothing like liquor. Bemused, he held the flask to his lips and began tilting it back.
“Don’t…” D’Kem groaned, eyeing the sergeant with one bloodshot eye.
Which only made Long more certain than ever that he absolutely should, in order to get to the bottom of the Shaper’s behavior. Without another thought, he upended the flask and took in a mouthful of the stuff. Before he could get a proper sense of its taste, his mouth went numb and he swallowed – or thought he did. He felt an odd, overpowering weightlessness overtake him moments before he collapsed. Am I dying? He wondered. And then he thought no more.
*****
There was something massive on his forehead – Mardine’s hand. Slowly, details of his surroundings and situation became clearer to him. He took a deep breath and smiled, sheepishly, up at the giantess, who frowned most mightily back at him.
“What kind of idiot drinks from an unfamiliar bottle?” she rumbled.
“I reckon I’m the answer to that one,” Long answered. He’d expected to feel hung over. Instead, he simply felt as if he were “filling in,” as he thought of it. Mardine tried to hold him down, but he gently if firmly brushed her hand away and sat up. “Well?” he asked Mardine. “Obviously, I scotched our chance to continue our pursuit…”
“No,” Mardine replied. “Janks took his half, plus the other twin in my stead.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!” Long complained. “How are we supposed to find them?”
“We’ll find them,” said a voice behind the sergeant. So, D’Kem was alive.
Long turned to him. “So, you’re not a drunk, after all. You’re just some kind of addict.”
“And you are lucky to be alive,” the man replied. “How much did you ingest?”
“You mean swallow? I don’t know. A mouthful, maybe.”
“A mouthful,” D’Kem repeated. “Beggin’ your pardon, Sergeant, but that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“So I’ve been told,” Long answered, glancing over at Mardine. “Anyway,” he continued, looking back at the Shaper, “what are you doing with the stuff if it’s so dangerous?”
“Trust me in this one thing, Sergeant,” D’Kem intoned, “you wouldn’t want to know me without it.”
“I’m not sure I want to know you now.”
D’Kem regarded him with a stare a thousand years old, devoid of emotion but fraught with mysteries Long could never hope to decipher.
“So,” he said aloud to no one in particular, “who have we got here in camp?”
Predictably, it was Spirk who answered. “You got me, Mardine, D’Kem and yourself, sergeant, sir.”
Long looked at Mardine. “You know you’re in Janks’ half,” he scolded as gently as possible.
“And I wanted to stay with you, in case…” Her eyes finished the sentence: in case he died.
“Well, we’ve lost the day, then,” Long said.
“Three,” Mardine corrected.
Long was poleaxed. “Three? I’ve been out for three days?” And then he was hit by an even more disturbing realization. “And Janks hasn’t been back?” Long sank back onto the ground. “Damn me,” he said.
And then the war party showed up.
*****
Aoife, In the Forest
The abandoned little farmhouse in which Aoife had given birth had, itself, given birth to a burgeoning forest. Enormous trees sprouted from its foundations and fantastic waterfalls from its windows. Aoife scarcely recognized the place and found it even more difficult to recognize her children. Some, it was true, had stayed minuscule; most, though, had become gigantic in stature. The forest trolls were all but as tall as trees themselves. She loved them all – or wanted to believe she did – but she felt most comfortable with those closest her size and shape. It was these she sought out when it was time to go.
“You leave?” the satyr looked up as she approached.
“I do. I feel…I must, now.”
“Yes, yes. More to do. More to be done,” the satyr chortled. “Mother-Sister must go…create.”
“Er…yes,” Aoife replied, uncertain how to continue. “I’m just not sure…”
The satyr winked. “Your brother is now west of us. Find him. Surround him. This,” the satyr said, “is the easternmost oasis. Now, go make the others.”
“More?” Aoife ventured.
“Indeed.”
The A’Shea was stupefied. She could not imagine going through this experience, however magical, an untold number of times. And her feelings must have shown on her face, because the next thing the satyr told her was “You must.” Aoife bowed her head in resignation; then, a new idea occurred to her. “You believe Anders can wait, then?”
“He will have challenges of his own,” the satyr assured her.
Aoife regarded him, quizzically.
“The forest has been and would be forever. The old gods tell me what is like to be, and I tell you. If you listen, you will hear them without my help.”
Aoife closed her eyes, concentrated, heard nothing.
“Then I will accompany you,” the satyr said.
“Is that…wise? You can hardly be mistaken for…” But even as Aoife spoke, the satyr’s appearance changed, until he looked credibly manlike. “I should have guessed,” the A’Shea said.
The satyr-man smiled. “Your forest and children will supply you with a few things for the journey, and then we set out.”
Always traveling, Aoife thought, never staying.
*****
By mid-afternoon, Aoife and her companion had walked an impossibly long way, during which time she learned a great many things, including her escort’s name, Too-Mai-Ten-La, or Toomt’-La for short. The A’Shea discovered, as well, that if she sat anywhere – a stone, say – for more than few moments, moss began to sprout and grass to take root.
“You are seeding the Great Forest anew,” Toomt’-La told her.
“Yes, but…on a stone?”
“A stone, a fallen log, a sandpit. The Great Forest cares not.”
The one advantage to this situation was that even if Aoife was not comfortable when she sat or lay down, she was invariably made comfortable by the growth beneath and around her.
“This won’t happen indoors, will it?” she asked Toomt’-La.
“Indoors?” he laughed. “Now you’re being silly.”
Oh, okay. Now, she was being silly. It was good to know this greening magic had boundaries and limitations. She hated to think she might be holding a sick person someday, only to see him sprout leaves and blossoms. Something else had been on her mind, as well, and so Aoife said, “What does magic mean to you? How do you…perceive it?”
“Magic?” Toomt’-La repeated, thoughtfully. “That is a good question, Mother-Sister. You humans encounter it much differently than we fey folk, that is true.”
“For instance?” Aoife prompted.
“Your Shapers – ah, poorly named! – consume it in order to channel it. You A’Shea do, too, but to a much lesser degree. Your Shapers burn the wood of the tree to fuel their efforts. You A’Shea burn the leaves. We fey consume the energies given off by the tree and its leaves. Do you see? Humans destroy the thing they most desire; we live off its beauty.”
“But Shapers are so powerful!” Aoife observed.
“You call it power? They cannot heal,” Toomt’-La paused. “They can only destroy.”
“But they shape! They build!”
“Only by first destroying. And this is all-the-more reason to eliminate your brother.”
/>
Aoife jumped at the mention of her brother. “And this is yet another thing I do not understand: how was Anders able to raze the Forest of Nar in the first place? Can his power truly be so great?”
Toomt’-La grimaced. “Yes, his power is great. Perhaps unparalleled amongst your kind – but no, that is not accurate, either, since he is not truly of your kind anymore.”
“Not of my kind?”
Toomt’-La exhaled deeply. “One question, then the next.” He leaned back against the bole of a massive oak. “Your brother is strong, but we were…half-asleep, over-confident, complacent? All of these. By the time we realized the threat he presented, we had sustained too much damage. Ironically, his actions may result in the regreening of the world.”
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 21