“Because it is the fate that he has chosen,” said Vaknorbond. “When he decided to put his weapons away and walk from the battlefield of the Urden’Dagg, he decided that it would be him who would carry them out of the doom that is to come upon the world. He is their protector, their guardian in the dark times to come.”
Dril looked back at Neth’tek. “What might I do to help him, then?” he asked. “What is my purpose in being here?”
Vaknorbond came and stood beside him, looking at the child of the basilisk grieve. “It will be hard for you, but it will be better for him... for all of them,” he said. “Do you think you will have the strength and courage to fulfill your destiny?”
“I will do whatever I must for him,” Dril’ead said.
“Good,” said Vaknorbond, “He will need the push.”
*****
The very next day, snowflakes littered the burrow where they laid Skifel’s body just outside of Evenstar. The priest of the Beloved spoke a few words of farewell over the tomb, and so did Guldar. All the while those who had come to say their own goodbyes to the old man’s body stood still in the ankle deep snow, huddled together to keep warm, tears freezing on their pink faces. Neth’tek and Dril’ead stood together with Helen, listening to the Priest finish his sermon. And then when he stepped back, Guldar dismissed them, and one by one the townsfolk of Evenstar laid their white roses over the tomb before returning to their labors as they would any other day. This was, in fact, like any other day in Evenstar. Save this time Neth’tek knew the diseased very well, had even began to think of him as a father.
Now he was gone, though, just like his own father; leaving him alone in the bitter world.
Dril’ead stepped up to the barrow and knelt down, setting the white flower with the others scattered over it. “Great warrior,” he said softly, “Better friend.”
He stood and gave Helen a quick embrace, and then turning he began walking slowly back to town through the sludge and snow.
Next was Neth’tek. But as soon as he knelt and held his rose over the tomb, he seemed to freeze. Flakes of snow collected on his shoulders and head, but he did not move. He spoke softly, though, his words hardly discernable above the rustle of the trees around them. “I knew this day would come. But now that it has come to it, I do not want to say goodbye.” He looked at the flower in his hand, as if debating whether he would to put it down with the others or not.
He took it back, but untying the band of Muari that was round his left forearm he wrapped it round the brass pole that indicated the occupant of the tombs name. “Take your beliefs with you, friend,” he said. “After all, it is all you can take.”
He stood and moved back to where Helen was standing, her face pale and pink, though her blue eyes were as bright as ever. He held the white flower out to her. “I want you to have this,” he said.
She looked at him and then the flower, a sad expression on her face. But she took it and nodded her thanks.
Neth’tek turned and took a few steps through the snow, going back toward the town walls. He stopped, however, and half turned back. “I’m sorry,” he said loud enough for her to hear. She looked at him with that same solemn, sad expression. “If it makes any difference, know that I am sorry for you.”
And then he walked away, going through the sludge in the road, hugging his arms round the thick wool coat over his chest. A bag bounced at his side, swinging from a strap over one shoulder. He could barely feel the weight of its contents. Magical, powdery ashes.
He did not know it, but Helen looked after him as he went. She did not blink her eyes even once before he finally passed the gateway and was out of sight, but they were ever firm. Neither of them heard the strange voice on the wind cry out to the world that midwinter morning.
“This place is Oblivion!”
4
The Woodlanders Choice
Eladrid threw the leather strap down on the tabletop in the middle of the two brothers as they sat eating their morning breakfast. Potatoes and eggs, bought from the farmers outside of town. They both looked down at it, the leather dark with dried blood, but could still make out the M imprinted in the strap.
“Did you know,” Eladrid demanded, his tone even but firm, “a decade a ago, my family was murdered by a clan of Horgs led by one Mazoroth of Mazar. He slaughtered my kinsmen, leaving me alone in the halls of my parents, with only a bloodstained bow in my hands. That bow is now Starsplitter, and Starsplitter has served as the doom of all horgs passing through this land until the one responsible, even Mazoroth, dies. I took his blood to the Noramy Euxa, offering penitence for the murder of the woodland people, and was rejected by my grandfather Euxa. And now here I stand, seeing again the symbol of the horg clan Mazar led by Mazoroth, and am left to wonder... Is my deed unfinished?”
Dril’ead and Neth’tek looked at one another, understanding in their eyes. “Mazoroth has hurt us all in one way or another, Eladrid,” said Neth’tek, looking up at the woodlander. “Don’t waste your life away seeking that which will never be yours. Now is the time to rest from grief, and protect the people if we can.”
“The death of Mazoroth would mean the salvation of everyone,” said Eladrid, “especially my immortal soul. The wretched monster took from me something that can never be replaced!”
“You turned from that road long ago,” said Neth’tek, “Don’t go back to where you had been lost. Don’t you remember? Back to back.”
When Neth’tek looked into Eladrid’s eyes, he saw only heartache and anger. They were red, bloodshot from lack of sleep. He hadn’t come to Skifel’s funeral that morning, but had undoubtedly been brooding on his discovery in the horgs lair.
Dril’ead set his fork in his plate and looked up at Eladrid, saying, “Mazoroth will pay for his crimes, of that do not doubt. But what you should be wondering is if you are in any position to be the one to punish the chieftain for the crimes he has committed.”
“He will be punished, of that I do not doubt, whether by my hand or Doomstriker,” said Eladrid, “Nevertheless, my soul is weary from travel and grief. I yearn for the woodlands of the northern country, and whether I return their for my own good or to finish a deed I am not certain, but return to Stonewood I will. Farewell!”
He turned around, then, and walked out of the room. The door closed behind him with a quiet click, and the two brothers were left alone.
“What do you suspect he will do?” asked Neth’tek, still looking at the door.
Dril shrugged, continuing his breakfast. “That is the woodlanders choice,” he said. “When he is ready, perhaps he will come back to this valley.”
“I do hope he will,” said Neth’tek.
The leather strip lay there in front of them, the M taunting them where they sat.
5
A Stranger in Black
Men and women were constantly coming and going from Evenstar, and the houses that they left empty were either used for storage or sold to the newcomers. Many were travelers hoping to see as much of the world as they could within the limits of their lifespan, so there was lots of stories to be shared with those who would put forth an ear to listen round a table beside the roaring hearth in the tavern of Evenstar. Dril’ead was one who enjoyed listening, though he never once gave way to giving his own story when they would come around to asking him.
“To boast of the deeds of those of the Shadow Realms would be an insult to those of this world,” he would say, “Too dark and fearsome for your spirits to comprehend.”
They would then laugh him to scorn, though he’d only sit back and listen to their tales. Some of these men would depart to continue their exploration of Aldabaar, and seek the hidden places that Dril had made mention of. It wasn’t known whether they found the Shadow Realms; for Dril never saw them again.
“At least tell us something of the cities that your peopled used for dwelling,” Hakal, a hunter with a red beard asked one night.
Dril’ead drained the last of the wine from his glass before sittin
g forward, placing his palms on the tabletop. “Cities that no mortal man can ever describe. I fear that if I give even one description of their majesty, you’d turn the course of your adventure and seek them out. But alas they are all destroyed! And any soul who does not know the secret ways of those tunnels and wanders beneath, I fear that he shall never find his way out before the elements catch him. But tell me of the far reaches of this world,” Dril said to the man. “What beauties and perils await the wanderers of your station beyond these walls and mountaintops?”
The man grinned, putting down his mug of beer. “They say there are hordes of treasures hidden within the vast caverns of the Bolgin Mountains to the west,” he said, “and I intend to go there.”
“For treasure?” Dril asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Aye,” he said.
“I think it a shame that men go searching this vast world for treasure,” said Dril’ead, “You cannot hope to take such things with you into the next world. But I believe that the treasures that our eyes may behold and our memories keep are beyond the weight of even the largest chest of gold, and that we take with us.”
The man frowned. “But you can’t buy anything with memories,” he said.
“Save only wisdom,” Dril pointed out.
“Wisdom is for scholars and learned men!” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “I get the gold and the girls. Take me to a dragons roost and I’ll show you what a real prize is!”
Dril’ead sighed and looked away as the man continued to finish his beer. He saw Helen wiping the spilled ale and wine on an empty table in the corner of the room, and his thoughts were caught away in other matters for a moment. He was thinking of mountains of treasures hidden beneath mountains themselves, and how many times adventurers such as his red haired friend had failed to obtain it, even losing their lives in the process.
It is a trap set by the evil powers to ensnare the courageous, he thought.
A sudden commotion from across the room caught his attention. A drunkard had spilled his beer all over his friend, and Dril’ead could now see Helen offering her rag to wipe him off. His eyes narrowed, seeing the greed in the eyes of those drunken men. He could hear them speaking from where he sat, though their words were slurred and hard to understand.
“Say, who’s keeping you now that your father is gone?” said the clumsy one who had spilled his beer.
She ignored him and moved to turn away, but the man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back, beginning to rise from his chair. “I asked you a question!” he barked.
Dril’ead was on his feet and moving in their direction when he saw him grab her, and he pushed a man pointing and laughing out of his way when his hand rose to strike her. The drunkard grinned cruelly through yellow teeth when he saw her duck her head instinctively, but he was suddenly grabbed from behind. One hand taking his upraised hand and another seizing the back of his shirt, Dril hoisted him up and turned him over, slamming him down over the table.
Cruel pleasure was gone from the man’s face as he looked into the fire burning in Dril’ead’s eyes above him. “We do not tolerate the fools who treat ladies with such disrespect where I come from,” he growled threateningly.
The man with beer spilled all over his shirt looked up at Dril’ead, smiling foolishly. “Will you finally enlighten us with the traditions of your people, stranger?” he asked wryly.
Dril looked at him coldly. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said.
He picked the man up off the table and put him against the wall, the toes of his boots barely tangling from the floor as Dril held him up by the scruff of his shirt. He slipped a dagger out from under his belt and held it at the man’s neck, cold steal touching his throat, and his eyes went wide with terror.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” he bellowed into his face, his voice booming as the fire in his eyes exploded into pure rage.
But before he could do anything to the man, Neth’tek grabbed Dril’ead by the arm and forced his eyes on him. “Brother, please don’t make a mess of this,” he said. “The man got what he deserved.”
The fire in Dril’s eyes almost immediately simmered as he looked into his young face. He let the man fall in a heap to the ground, completely drained of energy as he began to sober and realize what had nearly happened to him, and Dril looked shamefully at the blade he held in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“For protecting Helen?” Neth’tek asked, shaking his head. “No need to feel sorry, brother. All is as it should be.”
Looking up, Dril realized that nearly the entire room was staring at them. But as he made eye contact with some of them they immediately looked away, bringing up conversations as if nothing had even happened. The door to the tavern opened and in stepped a man clad all in black, and he threw back his cowl to reveal a narrow face with jet-black hair, a thin scar on his cheek.
This newcomer walked up to the bar and spoke softly with the innkeeper, who promptly pointed out the table in the corner that Helen had been cleaning. The man nodded and moved off, walking toward Neth’tek and Dril’ead. He made direct eye contact with Dril as he passed them by, and he thought that he felt a cold chill on the back of his neck as he did so.
“Neth’tek, do you know that man,” Dril asked, nodding toward the man in black as he pulled out a chair and sat with his back to the wall, facing them.
Neth’tek made a sweeping glance of the area before shaking his head, frowning. “No,” he said, “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Well, he has a fiendish look about him,” said Dril.
“Let’s talk to him,” Neth’tek replied, “Maybe we can find something out about him.”
“Fine,” Dril said, and they both walked over and sat across from him.
The stranger seemed to pay no attention to them, almost as if they weren’t there.
“Excuse me,” Neth’tek said, breaking the awkward silence that had settled over the table, “but I haven’t seen you before.”
“Few have,” he said looking up at them, his face void of all expressions, “and them have I chosen.”
“Do you mind telling us your name?” asked Neth’tek, trying to ignore the emptiness of the man’s tone and the eyes that he turned sharply upon him.
“I’m called Minarch,” he replied, “the black bow.”
“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Minarch,” Neth’tek said, “I am…”
“I know perfectly well who you are Neth’tek Vulzdagg, as well as your brother Dril’ead here,” said Minarch. “You come from a ragged house long bereft of lordship, have wandered these wastelands in search of friends, and have found only empty hearts in which yours might finally be placed. And here, at the eve of this midwinter day, I have come on behalf of my mistress to deliver a missive. And if you value the security that you have set up for this people, you will do what she says.”
Neth’tek glanced at Dril, but he saw that his brother’s face was hard set and angry. So he turned back to Minarch and asked, “Who is your mistress?”
“I have entered a pact not to disclose the identity of my handlers or informants,” he replied evenly, “But I will tell you this much... She will meet at Black Water when the blood moon rises.”
“Black Water,” Neth’tek repeated thoughtfully, “We don’t know where that even is.”
“I have said all I have been instructed to say,” said Minarch, and he rose from his chair. “We will look for your coming. Come no sooner than advised.”
Neth’tek watched him depart across the room and out the door, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I don’t like the way that man looked about,” he said, turning to Dril. He still sat motionless, staring at the wall with that angry expression. “What is it?”
Dril breathed heavily, as if releasing a long held breath. “I think I know who this mistress of his is,” he said, and he turned and looked Neth’tek square in the eyes. “Alastra Swildagg.”
6
Figure from the Past
The dark ranger returned to her in the valley of Black Water, sitting upon a throne of stone with glyphs and strange patterns carved into it, set above the water so that she could look and behold the blackness that the mist and thick clouds formed this part of the land into. Every now and again a new creature would pull itself out of the glossy surface of the black water below, whether a werewolf or horg, or even a darkling from the Lesser Realm, and would roam about in search of lands to wreak havoc upon. Some houses were raised on the far side of the waters, once belonging to men of Narthanger before the darkness consumed them, but now only dark rangers dwelled inside their rooms.
She looked after his coming, and as he ascended the steps she sat upright, her scarlet dress folding over the edges of the seat and spreading well before the throne like a fountain of blood. However, the seams in the sleek fabric made the pattern of a spider’s web, as was appropriate for the dressing of a priestess of the Shadow Queen. The ranger stood just off of her dress, and bowed on one knee before her.
“I have returned from my errand, my mistress,” said Minarch black bow, the dark ranger.
“So the champion of the Beloved has been found,” she mused from her seat, sitting back and looking up into the sky. “This is well for the Shadow Queen. With the champion found we may now begin the contest, at the sign of the blood moon. When our power shall be at its fullest we shall prove victorious!”
“The Shadow Queen has chosen a champion, then?” Minarch asked, looking up.
From the shadows beside her throne the demon materialized, his hairs wet with condensation. His wolfish snout curled into a smile, eyes shining yellow in the darkness. It was Gorroth, the demon of fulfillment, the champion of the Shadow Queen.
“She has indeed provided a champion,” she said with a wicked grin, “One that no mortal man can kill.”
Oblivion: Part Five of the Redemption Cycle Page 3