by Eli Steele
“No! Please, hear me out!”
“Your words are numbered,” said Rowan. “Choose them wisely.”
“Ashmor has fallen, my lord. It is no more.”
“What? Lies.”
“Just yestermorn the bird did arrive. An evil abides there now, the same evil that felled the Seven.”
“The Sins of Thim killed the Seven. I saw it. I was there.”
“Hirelings of the agents of Mallum, The Olde One.”
“What?”
“So you know the name. They seek to release him, and if they do, his darkness will spread to the ends of the Four Kingdoms and beyond.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“You are the son of Vos, are you not? It is your destiny, my lord, it is why the sword found you.”
“Rowan,” said Kassina, “I don’t understand, what is he talking about?”
Ignoring her, the thief sheathed Unforged and stepped back. Silently he stood, staring deep into the night, considering the man’s words.
Stretching out a hand, Byard helped the old man to his feet, while keeping a sword trained on him. Dusting off himself, he said, “My message has been delivered. Now, please, join me or let me take my leave.”
“Go,” replied Rowan.
Stumbling forward the old man retrieved his torch and climbed back atop his camel. Whirring around, he said, “Should you change your mind, I shall be at Dreg’s of the Docks until the week is spent. Then, I must return and prepare to make my stand, and likely meet my end.”
“I said go.”
Slapping his camel with his reins, the man in gray galloped back towards Thim Dorul, his torchlight slowly fading into the distance until it was bitter speck.
“What was he speaking of, Ro?” asked Kassina. “Who is Mallum?”
He sighed. Rummaging through his pack, replied, “There’s much we should speak of — of myths and dreams and things of old — but first, let us finish what we’ve started here.” A blue-green glow chased after his fist as he withdrew it from the pack, illuminating the canyon’s tight confines.
“Where’d you get that?” she asked.
He grinned. “Where do you think?”
“Balefire is not permitted beyond the walls of Thim,” said Byard. “It is punishable by death.”
“Then they better not catch me,” Rowan said with a wink.
* * * * *
The canyon opened up at its end into a broad chamber. Overhead, stars peaked in from the midnight sky. Somewhere far away, a dune cat’s shriek — like a woman dying — could be faintly heard.
“What in the nine?” whispered Byard, drawing his blade.
Rowan reined his camel to an abrupt stop. From out of the gloom, by the pale glow of the moonflare, two massive skulls lay before them.
“What manner of creatures could those have belonged to?” Kassina said with a shudder.
Stepping down from the saddle, the thief said, “They’re stone.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been here before.”
“But how?”
He didn’t answer. There would be time enough for that later. Though the gnarled trees and the swampy mire was gone, they were the macabre boulders of his mind’s eye, there was no doubt. They were not of A’anglr as he had assumed — these were the Caswah Skulls — just as Astara had scrawled on the parchment she’d given him. Only then did he understand Iseult’s words. This is where she’d gone to prepare his way.
Passing between them, he let his hand brush along the surface of the one on the right, feeling the rough sandstone. The texture was just as it had been before.
Set in the cliff face beyond was the mouth of a cave. Steps hewn out of solid stone led down into a torchlit tunnel. Rowan pocketed the wraith-shade and retrieved Unforged. Behind him followed Byard and Kassina. At the end of the cavern was a room, a small quarters with a bed and table and hearth where a small fire crackled and popped and yawned silver smoke up through a chimney. At the table sat an old crone studying them as they approached. Her eyes were gray and set deep in a face wrinkled enough for three lifetimes. Long white hair fell past her shoulders. A dark robe swallowed her up. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she asked with a crackled voice. An air of oldness surrounded her.
“Are you the Mul’Sabir?” Rowan asked.
“Who else might I be?” she retorted.
“I’m sorry I made you wait, I hope it wasn’t for long.”
“Time is relative, a riddle of the gods. What is long?”
He snorted. She sounded just like the warwitch. Of course she did.
“Is this the sword?”
He nodded.
“May I?”
“I was warned never to yield this blade to another.”
“Wise words, but I am the only exception. Do you trust me?”
“Not in the least,” he replied, “How can I trust someone I’ve only just met?”
“But we have met,” she replied, “in sorts. For you look just like your father, and he I knew well. So you I know also.” Stretching out a hand, she said, “Let me see what you have brought.”
Stepping forward, he laid Unforged on the table.
Recoiling, the old woman let out an anguished rasp. “Take it away, please.”
“Are you alright?” he asked, sheathing the sword.
“It is a vile thing, forged by Mallum himself, from the blood of legions.”
“Blood?”
“Oh,” she gasped, “I can hear their screams now, begging, pleading to be released. Please, you must find a way to destroy it. But until then, son of Vos, you must keep it from him at all costs. Even if it means your life.”
“What would happen if Mallum or his mages were to find this blade?”
She shivered. “The world would be upended.”
“The Sims of Thim mean to take it and deliver it to them. And they will do it, unless you can convince them otherwise. Will you tell them your story?”
Grabbing a gnarled cane, she struggled to her feet. “I will do as you ask, just as I promised the witch. Let us go at dawn’s first light, for you have a long journey ahead of you, one that will take you all the way back to where you started.”
Chapter 68
Luther Brayden
City of Galaia
Kingdom of Beyorn
The morning’s first cock crowed somewhere to the east, followed in time by another, and another again. Save for that, the city was silent, too early for even the hoarse bawls of the hounds. Waves crashed just past the wall, foaming and spitting sea spray into the air, carried east by the winds. With it, a thick mantle of salty fog rolled into Galaia, damp and heavy and clinging to everything in its reach.
Twilit blue spilled from the east across the sky, though the narrow alley remained in a shroud. Black blurs darted over, likely shags or gulls or kittiwakes heading out to raid baitfish from the surf. Luther trudged along, numb from exhaustion and chilled from the wet morning air, his garth pole echoing off the stones.
It was the edge of the city where the wall rose the highest, though more to protect against surge than siege. At its rocky base, waves hurled themselves forward like martyrs or swords acharge. Meanwhile, strong currents swept around the tip of the long, crooked finger that thrust off the southern coast of Beyorn.
Long storehouses, with slender windows set high, lined the narrow streets and pressed tight against the side lanes and alleys. Lamp posts stood naked, their hooks long since lanternless, and why not? No one would stalk these paths today save for the dock workers and merchants’ hands, who were still hours away with their empty carts to be filled with whatever goods were stowed behind the heavy warehouse doors. Brayden wasn’t sure if Galaia had a bad side of town like Ashmor, but if it did, this was it.
Her home wasn’t a house, not like others. But neither was the priest’s, at least when he had a home, before the fire. And it was the only home in the district that he knew of, save for those of the vagran
ts and feral cats and rubbish-raiding raccoons.
On the far corner of the last storehouse, where the wall turned northwest and chased off towards the jetties, a tower climbed up four stories, maybe five. It was square, with a flat roof and high battlements and looked like part of the wall itself from a distance, but it wasn’t.
It was Iseult’s.
Sidestepping a pothole, the priest chuckled as he lifted up his head and gazed at the structure.
A witch and a tower, how cleverly unoriginal…
Passing along the wall, he rounded the corner and stopped. Turning back, he looked behind him again, then snorted. There was no door.
“Of course,” he muttered. Pressing both hands against the damp stones, he searched them out, first one wall and then the other, until finally, he stumbled forward as his hands disappeared through illusion and fumbled into the door beyond. Arms enveloped by stone that looked as real as any other, he groped about until he found the knob.
Closing his eyes, he envisioned the lock, focusing on the pins snapping into position. As they did, he shouldered into the door and gave the knob a turn. But it held fast. “Right,” he sighed, “magery…” And how exactly was he, a learned mage, to counter a trueborn’s spell? It was likely futile. Rearing back his fist, he slammed it against the wooden planks and shouted, “Iseult!”
But no one answered. Nor did they answer the second time, or the dozenth. With a throbbing fist and a sore throat, he sunk down to the wet pavement and let the salt mist bead on his face. Exhausted, he closed his eyes to rest for but a moment…
…And awoke with the sun high overhead, and still no Iseult. “Damnit, woman,” he groaned. He might have been a learned mage, but he was a well learned one. Perhaps, he thought, closing his eyes again, perhaps I’ll give that mage-forged lock just a peak…
He looked past the mundane, past the mechanism of pot iron and tin, searching for the spell behind it. And then he found it, a ring of olde words around a circle ablur, like a snowstorm set against a clock tower. Stretching out his mind’s hand, he reached for the runehold, brushing it with the tips of his fingers.
Here goes…
Exhaling, he started to spin the dial. A surge of electricity snapped hand like an adder and slithered through his mind, and with it, a biting agony that rended his nerves and ripped at his muscles and sent his body into convulsions. Luther tried to scream, but his numbed tongue just lulled about. His vision tunneled, until finally, darkness engulfed him.
* * * * *
Brayden awoke on a bearskin rug at the edge of a stone hearth with a wool blanket pulled over him. Orange flames licked oak logs, the still-green wood sizzling and popping. His mouth tasted like quicksilver and his head throbbed.
“You are a fool, and nigh a corpse,” a familiar voice snarled.
Rolling over, he saw her blue-mottled silver eyes, slit like a cat’s, studying him. The same brown hair and black tips fell to her shoulders. And a face as beautiful as ever. “Hello, Iseult. It’s good to see you, too.” he muttered.
She huffed. “Locked doors are such for a reason.”
“You wouldn’t answer.”
“I wasn’t here. Wait, fool, until you are invited in.” Leaning forward, she thrust a glass of amber liquid at him.
“No, thanks.”
“Drink it,” she demanded.
Taking it, he eyed her before turning it up. The metal in his mouth receded and the throbbing of his head faded away.
“You pissed yourself, didn’t you?”
“What, no?”
“Luther, no one gets struck by lightning in the mush of their mind and doesn’t piss themselves.”
“…Maybe I did, but only a little.”
She scowled at him for a moment, before rolling her eyes and letting out a snorting laugh. “A little piss is like a little death, both stink and neither are good for my rug. Go upstairs and wash yourself. There’re clothes in the closet.”
“Your clothes?”
“Did you bring a spare cassock? No? Upstairs, now. There’ll be tea when you return.”
He came back wearing a gray robe that was a foot too short, with a touch too much lace for his liking.
“Have a seat,” she said, motioning to a padded chair near the hearth and opposite of her. A steaming cup waited on the stone floor. Iseult reclined on a cushioned bench with a blanket pulled close, sipping from a matching piece with a chipped rim.
The room was Iseult, and she was the room. Strange mounts stared at them unblinkingly with glass eyes. Oak bookshelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls and tomes as old as words. In one corner was her staff, and in another was a cabinet filled with jars and bottles and vials. The smell of sweet cinnamon and charred oak fragranted the air.
“It’s been too long,” she said.
He nodded. “I used to write. You quit responding.”
“Words written and entrusted to others.” She sipped her tea. “Letters are dangerous.”
“You could’ve come to Ashmor.”
“You know how I hate to travel in this world. And what of you, you could’ve come here. Yes?”
He sighed. “I had a flock to shepherd, and the minster to oversee, and a son to raise.”
“How is he?”
“He’s good, I think. I’m… not sure actually. I think he’s in Avendor.”
She chuckled. “Does he look like Rickard?”
“A little more every day.”
She smiled. After a lull, she said, “I’ve missed you, Brady, and the memories you stir up.”
“And I you.”
Quiet crept in for a time. Together, they watched the fire roll over the logs in the hearth. “Galaia,” she said finally, “Why are you here?”
He studied her studying him, before replying, “I needed some answers. I still do.”
“So, it is business. I suspected as much.”
“There’s a black knight, a Raven Knight, burning Ashmor as we speak, and killing good people.” He paused, awaiting her reaction.
She nodded and tilted back her cup, unimpressed.
“Do you know what a Raven Knight is?”
“Of course I do,” she snorted.
Standing, he padded over to his pack and pulled out the black leather book. Handing it to her, he asked, “So these words are true?”
She thumbed through the book for a time with disinterest, before settling on page. Looking up after several moments, she said, “May I keep this?”
He huffed. “Iseult, necromancy? Something dark is rising up. Do you not hear my words and see the text?”
She stared at him blankly.
“There’s a war going on out there,” he snapped, thrusting a finger at her, “in this very moment, and you don’t have anything to say for it?”
Standing, she exhaled before sucking in a deep breath, and with it, all the air in the room. Her eyes flashed black like chips of onyx. Gloom crept in, drowning out the glow of the hearth. “A war? Here?”
“Iseult…” he rasped, clutching his throat.
“The war never ended, Brady. You just turned your back on it. On us.” Emptying her lungs, she reclaimed her seat and let the light back in.
Hitting his knees, Luther wheezed and choked down a breath. “I had to protect Rowan!”
“We needed you! He needed you! On that day he needed you, and you weren’t there!”
“I was there beside you!”
She looked away, her chest heaving. When she returned her gaze to his, tears were streaming down her cheeks. “You were there, but you weren’t, and neither was I. We killed him.”
“No, Izzy, we didn’t.”
“We did... we killed Rickard.”
Luther crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her and sat in silence while she wept. After she was spent, he whispered, “You can’t keep blaming yourself. It was his choice, his life for the world. He chose us; he chose you.”
“…I miss him so much. Every day.”
“I do,
too.”
Silence fell upon them for a time. Brayden sat holding her and waiting. “It is Lothe,” she said, finally. “It must be. There are others, some greater still, but he is the zealous one. He has communed with Mallum, he must have, for the Raven Knight is surely born of death magic.”
“The seal-“
“Is not broken,” she interrupted, “but it has weakened. And we are weak. The Seven are dead, Luther, and there are scarce few able to replace them. The balance has shifted away from us.”
He let out a long breath. “…Then let us shift it back.”
“No.”
Lifting up her chin and turning her face to his, he said, “You are a warwitch. You are the most powerful mage I’ve ever met, save for Rickard. You and I-“
“No! It’s not our war, not anymore, it is another’s.”
“Another? Who? Who else is there? You said it yourself, the Seven are dead. Surely you don’t mean Thatcher?”
She smirked. “You don’t know? He’s so strong, Brady, just like his father.”
“Rowan?”
“He carries Mallum’s sword, one of the five keys. It is fate’s poetry – I know it – for him to end Lothe with the blade. And there is another still, an old one born new. They have not met, but they will, of that I am certain.”
“What? You would send Rowan out there alone? Without you? Without me? Iseult, this is madness. He needs us!”
Her breathing quickened. “I cannot, I can-“
The old priest put his hands on her shoulders. “I know what you fear, but it will not happen. You did not kill Rickard, and you will not kill Rowan, unless you don’t help him.”
“Don’t you dare put that curse on me!” she rasped.
“Truth is not a curse, it is liberty. But if you choose not to go – to be a slave to this tower and your grief – then I will not judge you,” he said, standing. “But I will not sit idly by while my son stands on a cold field alone.” Pulling his pack onto his shoulders, he aimed for the stairs.
“Wait,” she cried, tears streaming down her face again. “I want to come, believe me I do, but I don’t know how.”
“Just come, one foot at a time.”