The Seven

by Robert J Power

  Then the support beam above him collapsed, taking half the ceiling with it. A strange thought occurred to Eralorien. Perhaps the room was, in fact, shaking.

  “Wake up, Iaculous!” he shouted. He pulled himself from his bed completely and wrapped his cloak around him.

  All around him, a cloud of dust engulfed the room, covering his eyes, and he coughed heavily through blackened, scarred lungs. The world around him shook as though he were balancing atop a charging mount. He stumbled and fell fiercely against the bedding, knocking whatever senses he still had from himself.

  “Iaculous!” he cried again, but the young weaver made no stir despite a large clump of plaster falling loose and rapping his shoulder. His sleep was unnaturally deep. As though he was enchanting in a trance or more likely enchanted.

  But by who?

  Eralorien felt unnatural energies pulsing all around him. There were dark moves afoot, and he was blind without a candle to light his way to the doorway. He climbed to unsteady feet and cried one last time for his apprentice. The floor at his feet cracked. Against his better judgement, Eralorien stepped into the dark world of the source to discover what evils were weaving so fiercely that the tavern itself shook.

  Ominous shivers ran up his tainted spine, and for a moment, Eralorien no longer felt like the ancient weaver he was. Instead, he felt renewed by the other world being so close. The teasing call of power whispered to him louder than any voice in his mind, and he resisted it as he always did. He would die whenever he was to die. Weaving would have little to do with it.

  He tasted the sensation of a healthy body for a few breaths, and then he rejected it completely and stepped into the shroud of the source. Though his body was still in the real world, his soul travelled through another.

  Eralorien felt out into the darkness for what caused such ructions. He rarely took more than a few steps into this misty darkness. He dared not step another as a terrible presence revealed itself to him, though he did not think it meant to do so. He could feel it, sense it, and he somehow knew it moved. He sensed its desires, for they were terrible.

  Eralorien felt something draw the beast to this world from somewhere below in the building. Perhaps this was, in fact, a dream. He peered into the darkness, where the beast would dwell. All he saw were terrible, demonic shadows creeping towards the world of man, called forth by a cataclysmic event, creeping towards the souls of all who he cared for. He thought he sensed Silvious. He knew he sensed Heygar too.

  Then he heard the wailing bray of the beast, an ancient cry of such torment and hate and evil, like an entire herd of brahmien bulls crying as one. It cut through his mind and soul.

  “Flee, you fool,” the voice in his head hissed.

  Eralorien suddenly drew himself from the world as though surfacing from a fathomless river. He gasped and felt the divine source energy overcome him as he enchanted a shield of protection to cover himself completely. He did it without thinking, and it weakened his body once more. He fruitlessly attempted to pull himself to his feet and discovered, warily, just how warm his skin was.

  “It wouldn’t suit to burn this cloak to ash,” he said aloud to steady his nerves and instil the steel he needed for his nerve.

  Summoning his will, Eralorien climbed to his feet once more. The terrible shaking was subsiding. Whatever evil had occurred was slipping away, but it left devastation in its wake. Outside, he heard some people fleeing the shaking land in panic. Still, Iaculous made no move, and Eralorien left him to his enchantment. With withered, broken fingers gnarled by arthritis and age, he unlocked the door and felt the pure, pulsing wave of energy strike him.

  “Someone has taken a delicious soul tonight,” the voice in his head screamed. Eralorien grabbed his ear, lest he go deaf. How long had a voice been talking to him anyway? Mere moments, he imagined.

  The hallway pulsed with a dozen panicked patrons of the tavern. They stumbled and held the wall for support, but the shaking was fading away to nothing. Most were in a state of undress, and some of them had packs of belongings. Some believed the shaking to be a natural and frequent Venistrian curse of the land and returned to their beds while others dared not stay in this tall building a moment longer.

  Their unease concealed the terrible truth of what had occurred, and as they fled the corridor down the stairs, Eralorien sensed the awfulness of her. Or, more accurately, he sensed the awfulness of her absence. He also felt her destroyer, and it terrified him.

  And then he heard Cherrie’s screams.

  23

  Awkward Introductions

  Eralorien charged out into the hall, his knees popping angrily with the effort. He couldn’t help but follow the agonising wails of lament, for no man would ever wish to hear such sorrow and cower away from it.

  Despite his age and brittleness, he was reckless in his desperate attempt to get to her. There was a crowd running with him as they fled the tavern out of a selfish desire of survival, and he charged through them all with elbows swinging, so he might descend quicker. His body resisted, and his weakening bones cried outrage at the exertion, but he was relentless. Within a few pulses, he was down the first flight. A few aggressive steps after that, he was on the last landing of the stairs, looking down on the killer a few feet below.

  Cherrie stood in the middle of the tavern. Her howling had ceased, and she gasped in anguish. The guests, bruised and panicked, flooded past Eralorien and fled out into the night, lest the building collapse. In their haste, they missed the scene of tragedy, and why wouldn’t they? The horrors were hidden away in the snuggest corner of the tavern, and none of them knew who the girl was anyway.

  Germanus wrapped a robe around his body. His hands glowed an unnatural light in the darkness. Beside him, Eralorien saw the still body of Arielle laying atop the table, legs spread apart as if mid-coitus. Eralorien’s head spun as though a bottle of finest sine was downed in one daring wager. He fell against the bannister, and opposing thoughts of Heygar and Cherrie struck his mind. Finish the mission or tend to Cherrie’s melancholy?

  Something enchanted him. It tore at his mind until a terrible moment of clarity occurred to him like a shattered wall in his exhausted mind. Everything here was wrong. Why were they in Venistra? Now they were three Hounds down, one of whom was their leader. To stay another day in this vile land was lunacy, yet something bound him to finish the mission. Someone lured them like a giant fish to the light.

  Eralorien grabbed his head and groaned; he felt a change in the air as though a great beast of the darkness took a deep breath and stole all of his around him. He knew it was the movement of the source, though he could not understand why it focused upon Germanus, the easy mannered trader he had shared a game of chance with, the man who had been overly eager to speak with their leader. Eralorien had sensed little malice in the man, but the great weavers could make things appear as they chose, could they not? Germanus had taken Arielle’s life, and it was only a pulse before he turned on Cherrie and delivered the same fate.

  “What did you do to her?” cried Cherrie. She struggled to charge upon the vile man, but her body remained statue-still.

  Eralorien sensed the weaving and the invisible hold Germanus had upon Cherrie. He was flustered and held out his hand, and Cherrie fought him but to no avail. She was helpless to his yearnings. Ripe for the plucking. He had taken the child. Now it was time for the main meal.

  He didn’t know why he did it, nor how his body allowed itself to behave so irrationally. Perhaps it was love. Perhaps it was seeing the frozen dagger in Cherrie’s hand a couple feet from her prey. She had almost made it to Arielle’s killer before he held her in place. Perhaps with the correct amount of lunacy and disregard for his own welfare, he might distract Germanus’s hold, so she could reach him.

  With thoughts no longer clear, Eralorien leapt onto the bannister and threw himself from the stairs down to the dark weaver below. A fine leap and a decade earlier (perhaps a few stone heavier) he may have collided with his quarry. As
it was, something caught him mid-leap. An invisible grasp of energy flung him across the room violently. It was enough to distract his vanquisher though, and Cherrie leapt upon the man, stabbing brutally as she did.

  Eralorien collapsed upon the table occupied by a naked dead girl, and both crashed to the ground in a terrible spinning mass of skin, limb, and lifelessness. Her dead body landed on him, and they met eye-to-eye. She still took a breath, and for a moment, he thought she was still alive. Really though, he knew there would be no happy ending for this girl.

  She still lived, but her soul was absent and lost to them. Her chest heaved slightly, and her eyes remained vacant and unblinking, stolen by a cur who took his pleasure and then her essence. He had always believed his master was lying when he suggested such things were possible. Arielle had experienced a fate worse than death.

  He heard Cherrie screaming as she dug her blade into Germanus, but Eralorien could only stroke Arielle’s cheek and slowly drape some of her clothing over her shame. Who would tell Iaculous of his love’s terrible fate? Who would tell him that her soul could be used for dreadful things now? He knew why the demon in the source had been lurking near. The energy in such an act tasted delicious.

  Eralorien spun away from the girl. Renewed by hate, he summoned a shield upon himself and willed himself to return to the fight. His head pulsed with pain, but he ignored its hold as he did with every battle.

  Cherrie had plunged deep into the man a second time when Germanus suddenly struck her fiercely across her brow with a fist. Stunned from his unexpected recovery, she fell back momentarily. She returned with dagger raised again only to meet the weaver’s holding enchantment once more. She tried to block, but the weapon was no Venistrian blade. He threw her across the room, leaving the dagger to fall harmlessly where she stood.

  Before she landed, Germanus caught her with the invisible grip and hoisted her high into the air, like an angler bringing in a burdened line. The power emanating from his hand was incredible. He swayed his fist out as if in water, and Cherrie imitated the movement. He twisted his fist to the side, and Cherrie spun to her side. Her nightdress spun open, and Eralorien caught sight of more skin than ever acceptable. He was ashamed that he held his attack momentarily as he watched her writhe in the weaver’s hold.

  The world slowed to a pulse. Cherrie danced for him in the air, and her magnificence hypnotised him. Her hair moved as though each red strand were alive in fire and held by a thousand obliging fingers, all swaying to her movement. She was graceful and beautiful. Eralorien thought about her moaning like her sister, and he wanted to tear the rest of her clothes free. The terrible spinning in his head returned, and he felt an overwhelming compulsion to beg the weaver to grant him her body. Then they would be away into the night with no further trouble.

  “Is that what you want? There is no loss in asking,” the voice asked nastily.

  Eralorien pulled himself from these dreadful thoughts as though woken from a month-long sleep. “Leave her be, you animal.”

  He threw what little enchantment energy he had upon the dark weaver. It was a clear, faded blue pulse, barely visible in the dim light. It shot out like an arrow and pierced Germanus’s heart, who fell to his knee and released Cherrie. It was the first time in a decade that Eralorien had cast a hostile enchantment, and his knees lost all their strength. He felt he aged a year in that moment.

  Cherrie fell awkwardly and crumbled beneath a wooden table, discarded chairs, and broken goblets, breaking each one with her beautiful face. Eralorien charged again, picking her fallen blade as he did. It was a fine blade, with a carved tendercat’s tusk as its handle, a silver blade of ice-stone so thin that it was near transparent but as sturdy as a bridge’s support beams—and sharper than almost all other metals ever forged.

  Germanus was slow to turn, and he collapsed to the ground as the old weaver fell upon him and continued the assault begun by Cherrie. Eralorien stabbed violently as Germanus’s hands punched, scratched, and blocked his relentless attack. Ten, twenty strikes to his chest, his face, his neck, his groin, and still no final blow stopped the man from fighting back. Eralorien’s fingers burned from his touch, and he sensed the healing occur swifter than they dealt damage. How could anyone take this punishment and still live?

  The amulet chained around the reaver’s neck almost blinded him. Eralorien sensed its dreadful power and what its source was. He stabbed uselessly, knowing this murder would never occur. Blood sprayed into his eyes, and as swiftly as it appeared, the surging spray dissipated to nothing.

  “Enough of this,” Germanus hissed suddenly. He heaved Eralorien from him as though he were little more than a child’s rag doll, sending him across the room to land in a painful heap with a forceful shove.

  “Why did you do this?” screamed Cherrie, climbing through the rubble to get to him. Her shredded face should have caused her to hesitate, but nothing would deny her vengeance.

  Eralorien could only marvel at her strength and draw his own from it. He reached for anything to support him, and with the mantle of the fireplace as his ally, he climbed to his feet. It was scant consolation, but though he knew he would die this day, at least he would die beside her. More importantly, when she died, it would be at his side and not Denan’s. Denan. Where was Denan in all this?

  “Why did you come hunting?” Germanus countered, and Eralorien charged again. Germanus raised his hand and fired a sphere of black energy, which struck him and exploded in a deathly plume of pulsing smoke and fire across his chest. Eralorien collapsed against the tavern’s counter as the flame consumed his body in maddening pain.

  “This is what death is,” the voice in his head added.

  Eralorien endured searing pain like nothing he had ever experienced before. It burned into his body, and he felt his skin blister, bubble, and split open. Though he tried to counter the strike with healing, his breath left him completely.

  “This is what Iaculous felt.”

  Eralorien tugged at his clothes as they smouldered and melted. The smell of his own decaying flesh was awful. He pulled his robes free and watched his skin burn, char, and continue to cook. He screamed and placed his healing hands upon his chest, but he only spread the terrible burning to each hand.

  “Mallum!” Iaculous cried from the stairs, and Eralorien felt a healing wave of energy flow across him and fight the blaze of torment.

  24

  Battle Royale

  Mallum eyed the young weaver standing atop the staircase, looking far more impressive than he ever had in his young life. Deep within the writhing mess of his burning chest, Eralorien felt his healing take hold. Suddenly, he could taste air again as the holes around his lungs sealed up and returned to their original state. The healing was strong and reassured and not of his own hand. Eralorien knew it was his apprentice’s doing.

  Eralorien had always done his best to keep the young man’s ability curtailed and focused upon healing, but the child was becoming a man with potent ability. Eralorien doubted he was prepared for that.

  As if to prove this, Iaculous struck the first blow. A perfect sphere of burning flame erupted from his palm. He threw it as if skimming a rock across a river’s surface, and the room exploded in fire as it struck their quarry upon the head. He followed up with a second and then a third. Each sphere was a perfect circle with just a tail of flame behind it. Though it had only been a day since he had attacked the monsters with wilder fireballs, he threw these as if he had been doing it his entire life. His body did not burn as it did before either. Was Iaculous finally becoming the weaver Eralorien thought he could become?

  As if to defy the younger weaver, Mallum countered with fire of his own. He threw three at a time, and they lit up the room like a deathly sunset. Iaculous met each volley with crossed hands, and the flame dissipated as they struck.

  It was a fine defence but not without cost. Eralorien felt the sudden decline in his body, and he willed his own healing to finish the task.

  Iaculou
s knocked volley after volley aside, but the exertion was too much. Finally, a stray fireball struck him and knocked him over the edge of the staircase to the unforgiving ground below.

  “You dishonourable brutes hunt me down and expect me to give up my life silently. All so you might line your pockets with blooded gold?” The ground shook with Mallum’s words.

  Eralorien’s yearning to kill Mallum brought him to his feet. Though, it was as much the will to save Cherrie, earn her desire, and thurk her until the fifth day.

  “You are our quarry. You must die,” roared Denan, arriving late at the gathering, as was his annoying tendency. Perhaps had he not exhausted himself with his lover he would have woken sooner to such clamours. Perhaps had he not taken the time to don his finest armour, he could have reached them much sooner. As it was, he charged down the stairs with his gleaming green blade held out in front of him looking impossibly heroic, and Eralorien hated him.

  “How could Cherrie not desire such a reckless god?” the little voice in Eralorien’s head hissed, and Eralorien believed the voice to be right.

  Denan took three steps at a time and leapt the last ten, coming to a smooth landing at the bottom of the stairs. He was a nervous leader but a fierce warrior. Some said he matched Heygar in battle. Some said he even bettered the legend. Neither had ever fought, for it was better they never knew the truth.

  “Perhaps if he died, you could take Cherrie as your own,” the voice purred, and it was a fine opinion. Each word pulsed like a dagger in his mind. Blinding his will to persistent agony.

  “Get out of my thoughts.”