The Seven

by Robert J Power

  “He means to kill her,” the voice in Eralorien’s head cried.

  Eralorien did not hesitate. He was no great weaver of the source, and he was an adequate master, but there was one ability he was better at than anything else. With the last of his might, he threw up an enchanted blue sphere all around himself and his unconscious companions. Immediately, he felt the release of a dark hold upon him, and with it, his head settled. However, the fatigue struck him immediately, and he almost fainted.

  “Protect her!” the voice screamed, and he did.

  The thin veneer of blue was translucent and unimpressive, but its strength was demonic. Mallum cursed in rage as the glistening blue wall of light lit up the room and separated him and his acolytes from the defenceless mercenaries. It hummed slightly, and Eralorien held it in place as he backed away to Cherrie’s body. He whispered his wishes in his mind that it stayed true until his comrades recovered their senses.

  Mallum held his fingers over the surface as a child would over a glass-contained candle. Careful and careless. It said much of Eralorien’s measure that his most impressive talent was cowering behind a wall of source energy. The dark weaver suddenly struck the surface fiercely, and Eralorien shuddered under the assault. He struck again and then again. Each strike imbued with the force of a dozen acolytes, but a lifetime of mastering such a skill served him well, and the shield held.

  Mallum was not all-powerful. Perhaps with Eralorien’s skill with shielding, Iaculous’s aggression, and Denan’s impressive sword, there was hope.

  If he were to fight.

  “You fool!” Mallum cried and turned from the healer. The acolytes followed, and Eralorien was alone with the beaten Hounds, having somehow survived their first encounter with the monster of Venistra.

  He watched them take to their horses. He watched them lead a cart filled with a soulless treasure. He watched them until they disappeared into the night. Only when he no longer sensed Mallum or the dark forces did he turn around and cradle the unconscious Cherrie in his arms.

  “There, there, my love. All will be well now. It is time to leave,” he whispered and stroked her ruined chin.

  26

  Mad About The Girl

  “You know what you have to do,” the voice said.

  Eralorien felt a wave of exhaustion overcome him. Not enough sleep, he thought warily.

  “You need not sleep,” the voice insisted, and the pain was immense.

  “Maybe not,” he said aloud to the sleeping room.

  Carried by weary limbs, he hobbled through the thin protective barrier, shivering from the tingles on his skin as he passed through. He looked out the front door, into the quiet night. The path was clear. No half-dressed guests of the inn; no hooded acolytes; no deranged king. His eyes fell upon the flurry of footsteps and horse clefts left in the muddy ground, and he worried how easy they would be to track. His head spun, and he considered returning to bed and rethinking matters after dawn.

  “Whisht, fool, that’ll be too late. You need not sleep,” the little voice insisted again, and he nodded in agreement.

  Eralorien journeyed around the stable and found what he needed. Despite his exhaustion, he was quick to strap up the horse to the wooden cart and left it to wait by the front doorway. Slipping through the shield once more and into the abandoned kitchen, he sifted through the cupboards and found a freshly baked loaf of honey bread, a large wedge of apricot cheese, two jars of dried meats, and a crate of Venistrian Velvet. In the pantry, he found a milliard of different fruits, but he left them all for a sweet cake with glazed icing sitting atop a shelf at the back. Among the fruit, he found one solitary cherry and placed it atop the dark icing. Now it was perfect. He left the treasures in the cart and continued with his task as though a tired man possessed.

  “Is all of this necessary, my old friend?” he asked the voice in his head, and it gently insisted it was.

  With knees popping and crunching with every step, he finally reached the top floor. Food was only half of the requirements. She would have other needs. He slipped into their bedroom, and the sweaty air struck his nostrils immediately.

  “He is not good enough to have that goddess.”

  Eralorien nodded.

  “With Heygar gone, she has reverted to her old ways, and Denan has taken advantage,” the voice added.

  “Poor Cherrie,” Eralorien said.

  “Poor Cherrie,” the voice he had kept in his head for many years agreed.

  He rummaged through her belongings. Certain he could neither discover nor deduce what she needed most, he shoved everything into a bag. His bag was lighter, and he placed all into the cart with the pilfered supplies. His body was haggard and slow from maintaining the shield, but if nothing else, he would keep them protected. The voice disagreed, but it was fine to have arguments with those you loved most. He had always desired Cherrie, but until tonight, he had never taken his chance. Finally, he stood over her and embraced his doubts.

  “I should not be doing this,” he whispered and moved a few bloody matted strands from her ruined face. Even asleep, he thought her most beautiful, despite the wet rasp she made from blood and mucus blocking her breathing.

  “You should do this,” the voice said irritably, and why wouldn’t it be? It spent much of its time repeating the same affirmations.

  Eralorien conceded. He took her hands in his and pulled her along the floor. Her head flopped weakly and struck the floor every few steps. He could have taken more care, but the hour was late. Anyway, a few extra bumps wouldn’t matter. With some blankets, he made a kingly bed for her in the cart's back. As the sun rose, he kissed her once upon her torn lips and felt stirrings like before. It was only then he noticed that her sleeping gown had come undone completely, and her breasts spilled out into the morning air. He wondered how such a thing had happened without his knowledge.

  “What matters is they are yours to enjoy,” the voice said.

  By the seven demons of the source, he wanted to cup them in his withered old hands and enjoy them.

  “Denan enjoyed them with payments of gold. You do it for love.”

  Eralorien reached for her and pulled her gown closed. His vision blurred, and fierce pain ripped through his head. It felt as though a hoofed beast stamped upon his every thought, but he pulled away from her and focused himself with the last task. Finding as many unlit lanterns as he could, he drained their oil along the floor of the tavern. Everywhere but around the shield. He stepped through and knelt beside the boy.

  He grasped the boy’s hand. “I tried my best with you, Iaculous. May we never meet again.” Suddenly, an ocean of energy consumed him, and he felt wholly reinvigorated. Eralorien had not known for certain until that moment that somehow, the child had awoken his full potential. A lesser man may have been jealous. As it was, Eralorien felt only compassion for the boy. Perhaps he would be better without an old weaver halting his hand. Perhaps a little freedom might be the makings of a good man. Perhaps it might even save his soul entirely.

  “The guild was right to take you in. I’m sorry I wasn’t a shrewd enough master to lead you towards a better life.”

  Eralorien released the boy from his grip, but as he did, an image of Cherrie took his sight. She was in a dress of white, gold, and crystal-blue. There were red and black flowers in her hair. He saw himself younger, in a grey hooded cloak, and a priest blessing them to wed.

  “Steal but a mouthful of the child’s soul, so you may take her from this place,” the voice whispered. Eralorien’s hands shook. “Delicious soul, it’s just going to waste in a vessel unsure of what to do with itself.”

  For a decade, he had cared deeply for the orphan Iaculous, and at first, he had swayed his young heart. Such a thing was easy enough, for his soul was depthless and consumed by love. But all children grow older, and as they do, the world digs her thurken claws deep into them and embitters them ever so. What could an old weaver do with an acolyte of such prodigious talent anyway? Iaculous had power hi
dden away so deep and so fierce that he might someday control the world.

  The guild had feared the child, as had he, but they had let the orphan baby live, which was a kindness on their part. Eralorien taking his first and only apprentice to keep the child in the way of lighter things was a kindness on his part. Perhaps he should have trusted the child a little more, but hindsight was as cruel as the Dellerin streets after midnight. He had controlled the child as a reckless general would with a thousand surplus warriors facing a battle of hundreds. He gave him enough to chew on without giving him a taste. He had browbeaten and crushed the child into submission. The child had grown to become a capable healer and never known his true talents.

  “But this place woke the furnace in him, didn’t it, Eralorien?”

  “It did.”

  Like a dry wretch without an ale in a month, he drank from the child. A fist of energy drove through his mind, his soul, his every cancerous part. It was incredible. He stole life as the silent voice showed him, and he could taste rebirth and immortality. Pain diminished to pleasure, and lethargy became vigour. He stole and continued to steal, and the voice in his mind was silent as it gorged deeply upon the energy.

  It felt like hours, though it may have been a pulse and then gone. It was as though an invisible hand pulled him from the boy’s soul, and he cried out and almost woke both sleeping comrades.

  “More,” the silent voice hissed, drunk from delirium.

  “I want more,” Eralorien wailed, but he rolled away from the unconscious weaver to avoid further temptation, his head hurt no more.

  He leapt to his feet without effort and glimpsed himself in the mirror behind the tavern counter. He almost expected to see a young man looking back for how great he felt, but instead, he saw the same old withered man with bright silver hair.

  “I am no younger.”

  “No, but you have opened a delicious door into that world,” the voice of silence said.

  “Bereziel lost himself searching for youth,” he muttered.

  Curses on that man.

  Eralorien swept away from the shield. He willed it with a renewed energy to keep them safe, even as the surrounding building turned to ruin. He willed them all sleep a little longer. He willed it to deny them escape. It was a fine enough enchantment, sturdy enough that Mallum himself could not crack it. At least for a time.

  Then he pictured a flame in his mind, and the voice insisted he do so. He thought on the touch of burning and the energies involved, and he felt his heart beat rapidly. He tasted burning charcoal in his mouth and imagined a spark leaping from his finger. Nothing happened, but he felt something afoot.

  The voice of silence whispered he try again, and so he did. Sweat trickled down his back, and he licked his lips. A stunning spark appeared from his finger and died. He invoked it again, and it stayed alight atop his index as though a candle in the darkness. It bubbled his skin, and he took the pain, for destruction born from will was beautiful.

  He released the fire, so it would do its task. The spark fell to the ground, caught the oil, and set it alight. It grew and caught swiftly with each stream of spilled oil, and Eralorien turned away.

  He locked his eyes upon Cherrie’s sleeping form in the cart. Alone at last.

  27

  The Two Lovers

  With the warmth at his back and the source throbbing through his blood, Eralorien climbed nimbly into the wagon and set his gaze upon his treasure. She was perfect despite the blood spilling from the ruin of her face. He spread her arms wide and wrapped a rope around each wrist carefully.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said and held his hand for a moment.

  “It will keep her safe as you ride.”

  Eralorien thought on it. The road would be uneven, and she was a delicate flower that could crack apart like porcelain. Behind him, something within exploded loudly. He felt the energy shift and drain him a little as the shield stood firm against the flame. How strange the last two Hounds might feel if they awoke with a wall of fire all around them.

  “Strange and vengeful.”

  “They will know why I did it. They will know I no longer wished to be part of their doomed quest.” He wrapped her first wrist tightly against the wooden handrail of the cart, then undid the knot and left it a little looser. He took the second wrist and did the same on the other side. “You can sleep in safety as we flee, my love.” He ran his finger lovingly down her cheek, down her neck, and at the turn of her chest, he held himself.

  “Keep going.”

  Eralorien shook his head and climbed to the front seat. With gentle persuasion, he eased the beast and cart forward to carry them from their troubles. The air was cool despite the season, and he watched his breath in the rising dawn light. A fine day ahead, no doubt.

  The cart moved swiftly enough as the beast was healthy and young, and he thought about giving it a name. Perhaps Arielle? Cherrie would care for that, he imagined.

  He met no hidden acolyte out on the road in the early morning. Perhaps they realised Eralorien was no longer a threat to Mallum, and they would be right. As if someone had taken a veneer from his sight, like a bride removed a veil, he saw everything clearer now. Yes, his head spun at deserting his comrades, but the deed was done, and the reward was priceless.

  “A small price to pay,” the voice named Silencio whispered in agreement, and Eralorien recognised that demonic name. He could have been alarmed, but Silencio was no enemy. It whispered as much.

  Eralorien passed the last building of desolate grey and the last thatched cottage after that, and soon enough, the path led them away from the town of Vahr. For a few hours more, she slept, and the sun rose enough that he did not need to squint his eyes against the gloom. He thought of wonderful things, yet he could not think beyond the relief of his mission ending and the realisation of his love for Cherrie.

  In his mind, the voice whispered little things, and Eralorien listened and learned like a young apprentice. He wondered if this was how Bereziel had become so fierce in the weaving of energies. It did not matter now, for he was twice the man. Soon enough, he would not need to weave from the source, except perhaps to prolong his life. That was worth dipping into the souls of others.

  He set to healing Cherrie as she slept. As he started, a tear streamed down his face, and he wiped it away. The action confused him; it felt as though another controlled his limb, but he quickly shook the thought away and continued to heal his love.

  The energy searched like a hound along her body, knitting her skin back together and easing the tenderness in her bruising. He did not believe her teeth would recover, but sure enough, a few little stumps appeared upon her gums immediately, and after an hour, they had grown completely. Her smile would be something he could happily gaze upon every waking morn, he decided.

  As it was, it was midday, and they had travelled far enough south that were she to wake, any amount of screaming on her part was unlikely to alert their pursuers, so he released her from her sleeping enchantment. Another tear rolled down his cheek, but his phantom limb did not wipe it free this time.

  Something distracted his thoughts for the mildest of moments as he sensed a quiver. It was a delicate sensation in the back of his mind, and it amused him somewhat. Far back, countless miles behind, the shield he had held with a sliver of his will had suddenly shattered.

  Had the wall succumbed to the reaching fire, or had the building collapsed upon itself? Were his comrades dying in that same breath—charred alive, with no chance of healing themselves? Would they become one with the ash, little more than a pair of overcooked mounds among the bricks and debris? Had Denan cut through with the sword of green, or had Iaculous recovered from his slumberous mugging and shattered their imprisoning shield into a mist? Were they already searching? Would they even be able to pick up his scent? Did any of it really matter?

  Eralorien sighed and thought little more of them as Cherrie shot up awake. Her body jolted from the fright.

  �
��You are fine, my dear,” he said and allowed her a few moments to compose herself. To wake up in such a way would unnerve anyone, even a goddess. He turned back and faced the road ahead. He moved the beast to a canter with a gentle rapping of the whip upon its rear. He had never felt as tired as this.

  “What is this treachery?” she screamed, and he heard her struggle in the ropes.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have given her that much room,” Silencio said, and he hissed it quiet.

  Above them, dreary, miserable clouds were already forming, and he thought having her soaked through would do no good at all. Not that she wasn’t in need of a bath though. Denan’s smell would still be upon her skin, her hands, her mouth, her everything. Eralorien ground his teeth irritably.

  Curses on that fool Denan. Curses on his heavy pockets of gold to have his way.

  “You have gold too. Just in case.”

  “Where is Arielle?”

  “My love, we are fleeing terrible things. All is well,” Eralorien said because the voice named Silencio suggested those words and other things he was not ready to embrace. At least not yet.

  “What is happening, Eralorien? Where are the others? Where is my … sister?” she cried, knowing well the truth, he imagined.

  “She will come around,” Silencio insisted.

  “Are you hungry, my love?” Food was always best for what ailed the sickness of misery.

  “Release me now.” Cherrie wrenched her left arm free.

  She screamed as she did, and as though possessed by a demon’s touch, he leapt back and pinned her down. She kicked and fought, for she was a champion, and that was one of the many things he had loved about her. He lay across her and held her fighting arm, and she could not struggle anymore. He desired her so.

  “What are you doing this for, Eralorien?” she hissed.