|
|
| |
|
| ||
|
|
The right of Sean McKeown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of these documents may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopying, scanning and recording, for any purpose, without the express written consent of Sean McKeown.
|
|
Trent shivered in the cold, damp cave, desperately clinging to his
bedroll and fur-lined cape. He held Gwendolyn close to him, keeping his
stricken mistress warm and protected from the blizzard's snowy blasts.
Two days had passed since he awoke from the battle, Gwendolyn draped
limply over him, at the beginning of the blizzard... two days since he
had found this cave, and hid in shelter from the growing storm.
Gwendolyn seemed to have taken up his shivering, for where her skin met his he could feel a subtle trembling. Once again, Trent curled up
around his mistress, ready to hold her limbs in check until the seizures
passed. He let out a low grunt as she began convulsing, planting an
elbow firmly into his stomach.
The seizures continued for several long minutes, her violent shuddering
restrained only by Trent's stocky arms around her own, his legs
entangled with hers. A sheen of cold sweat ran off Gwendolyn's body, as
her body fought with his... as her mind fought with its specters. Trent
continued to grunt, baring his teeth, at the force of her seizures.
Finally, Gwendolyn's eyes flashed open, and she moaned softly as her
body stopped its shuddering. Awake at last, she began to look around
dazedly, seeing in the darkness only the final specters of her twisted
vision. In the shadows she saw her lover transformed, his sad smiling
eyes twisted with an insane lust for power as he was bonded not only to
the mana of the islands but to the
mana of the swamps as well, embracing for himself the
paths of Illusion and Corruption. The darkness in his eyes grew
outwards, as the death-mana pitched around him in a
planeswalking spell.
With a vacuous sigh inside her mind, Elric half-Elven was claimed by
the powers of Darkness; those same powers were finally eliminated from
her mind, the taint broken by her gift of Purity. Blinking rapidly, she
saw Trent next to her, safeguarding her. Sensation returned at last,
and she felt the wintery air against her naked flesh even through the
thick hides and blankets.
"How... How long?" she stuttered.
"Two days now, since I woke," Trent answered. "Rest now, Gwen, yuir
weak's a newborn right now. And there be a blizzard out."
Gwendolyn's mind raced, flitting from question to question, spinning
rapidly. "Why am I naked?" she asked, suddenly distrusting her guide's
honor with every fiber of her being.
"I found ye covered in blood, Mistress, so's I'd cleaned you up before
you caught something. And you've been ill, with the shakes... I's been
stopping the shakes, but ye've been sweating… I didn't want ye to catch
cold, or worse, from the cold and damp. The cave be bad enough as
is..." Trent answered, meeting his mistress' eyes rather than looking
away, not admitting guilt or guile. He understood exactly the nature of
her distrust, how vulnerable she felt. All wizards hated to lose
control, he learned that well with the Sisters.
And besides, Gwendolyn thought him no more than a simple animal. A
beast. Why else would she need to collar him with
her magics, subtly or no? She thought he didn't know, but the Sisters
had trained him because he had a talent for sensing magics, especially
at finding the land-lines that wizards held so dear.
Gwendolyn tested her control over him, subtly probing to see that the
spells entwined of the magics of Pure and Illusion were as she left
them. Trent smiled wanly as she did so, ignoring the tingle at the back
of his skull, showing his submission instead of acting as a beast might.
He owed her his life, as strange a thing as that might seem between a
troll and human. Satisfied that she was in control, and he was telling
the truth, Gwendolyn settled down and began to dress herself once again.
"It's OK, Trent... Thank you. How long till the storm passes?" she asked of her guide.
"Hard t'say, milady. Shouldnae be long, a day at most 'fore it dies off," he said, returning to his role as guide rather than protector.
Unconsciously, his fingers rubbed the new scar, feeling the coarse skin
with his fingers. "That be plenty of time for us to make up for some
missed eatin', Gwen," he grinned.
"Did you by any chance bring any firewood with you?"
"Nae, milady Gwen, the storm came too swiftly."
Damn, Gwendolyn thought, what do I have to do to get him to address me properly? Gwendolyn shrugged,
accepting her fate and the unchangeable once and for all.
"In the morning, we'll move along then, storm or no. I should be able to keep the spells in place by then if the storm hasn't broken,"
Gwendolyn mused, smiling wanly at the huddled creature beside her, an
admission of some slight dependence upon him. "But for now, I'm
starving! Where's my pack!"
Grinning to himself, Trent scurried in the near-darkness to the back of the cave, digging into their gear and fetching her pack. After a
delightful meal (despite its blandness), Gwendolyn cast simple wards at
the mouth of the cave, and the pair settled into their bedrolls to rest
up for the next day's journeys.
In the calm of her dreams, Gwendolyn dreamed once again, remembering her recent stay with the Sisters of the Order of Leitbur. While the
Sisters were the remnants of a mighty Order from before the fall of
Empire here on Sarpadia, they were a sisterhood of practitioners and
followers of the Pure Way, albeit strange followers indeed. The Quest
brought her to Sarpadia and Terisiare, following the trail of an ancient
necromancer; her contacts in Argive led her to the Sisterhood's doors,
seeking aid.
At first, the Order seemed to be a religious cult, belying what she had been told about them. The first Sisters she met, Sisters Joachim and
Elizabeth, had come to meet her on the road to their Abbey, a fanatical
gleam in their eyes when they spoke of their joy at meeting a Master of
the Pure Ways. As she learned later, these Sisters were typical, a
lower caste of religious zealots worshipping the Sisters able to use the
mana of the plains for healing and benevolent tasks.
After a night's rest at the Abbey she had finally met one of the 'upper' Sisters, then all of them; Sister Rachelle had introduced
herself at the morning meal and devotions, and brought Gwendolyn into
their inner circle. Those days had been pleasant enough, teaching the
Sisters how to increase their ability to cast spells of the Pure by
centering their focus upon their own purity, debating with them the
nature of the Pure Way. But the Sisters, adepts only in healing and
spirituality, failed to truly understand what she meant by "The way of
the Pure is defined by righteousness and goodness, but not necessarily
both at the same time." They had never invoked the Wrath of God, or
summoned a pack of Savannah Lions to attack a foe; they could not know
that the mana, like any other, could be twisted to a duelist's will.
For a month, Gwendolyn spent her days in the libraries of the Abbey, poring over maps and histories of Sarpadia after the fall of the Empires
to the Goblin and Orcish tribes. Her nights were spent in pleasant
conversation and debate with many of the upper Sisters, slowly but
surely pumping them for information about the nameless Necromancer, or
anyone who might be better suited to know about the black Walker.
Towards the end of that month, Gwendolyn grew restless once more, assured that she could learn no more from the Sisters along her Quest.
While the Sisters freely offered provisions, she could not help but ask
them to accept a gift in return, a token of her appreciation. The
Sisters accepted the proposition, as Gwendolyn had expected, and she
spent the night in meditation in their chapel. By morning, the task was
done, drawing the mana lines of the surrounding plains into focus at the
Abbey, to support a spell of glamour that lit the chapel with a surreal,
heavenly light. The ceiling glowed with the sheen of white mana, as had
the Star Chamber, years before.
In return, they provided Gwendolyn not only with food and provisions for the winter journey, but a guide to take her to the Elvish
territories. So she had met Trent, and though she did not yet trust
him, after two weeks on the journey together she was beginning to accept
him despite his birth-nature.
Pleasant dreams continued on in her mind, and for the first time since the battle Gwendolyn slept peacefully.
Trent awoke to the loud crackling of a cooking fire, and turned over in his bedroll to see Gwendolyn roasting a pair of snow hares at the back
of the cave. With a grunt of appreciation, he pulled himself up off the
ground and loped over to his mistress, grinning expectantly at the
prospect of a good meal at last.
Gwendolyn returned the smile warmly, and moved over from where she was sitting to allow her companion to enjoy the fire as well. "Good
morning," she said to her guide. "Ready to face another day's
journeys?"
Trent growled deeply, savoring the smell of the cooking rabbits, and answered, "As ready as need be, milady Gwen, how do you be today?"
Gwendolyn shot him an angry look, then laughed. "Much better, and I'll
be better still once we reach the Elvenhome, Havenwood. I think we can
make it by nightfall, if I use spells to aid our journey."
"Do it not be dangerous anymore to use spells, milady? Mightn't your enemies see us clearly then?"
"Indeed they will," she answered. "But I cast the Wrath of God during the battle, it's as if I've already placed a giant marker here for my
enemies to see. So close to Elvenhome, the necromancer is sure to know
what I intend to do."
Trent reached for a rabbit, pulling the spit from atop the fire at Gwendolyn's nod. "They're done," she said, and she took the other for
herself. Trent dug right into its plump, fleshy side, nearly drooling
as the tasty juices dribbled down his throat and chin. For a winter
hare, it was unusually plump; usually at this time of the deep winter,
they were thin and stringy. Likewise, Gwendolyn ate, consuming an
animal for the first time in several weeks. While she could not enjoy
it as much as her guide did, she did appreciate that it would help her
to rebuild her strength rapidly.
"From this time on, we can expect to be surprised by the Necromancer's minions... we are at war, now that our presence is known," Gwendolyn
said. "If you wish, you may return to the Sisterhood after you take me
to Havenwood, Trent."
"I would choose to stay with you, milady Gwendolyn," he smiled, a ghastly grin of fangs and rabbit-gore. "The Sisters are boring," he
joked, not wishing to admit his life's debt to her. "I'd be much
happier around you, you still need me to bash stuff for you."
"Seriously, Trent, this will very likely be dangerous for all around me. Choose wisely, or I shall be forced to choose for you."
Wolfing down the last of the hare, Trent shrugged and his face grew grim. "Seriously, milady? Surely you canna ask that of me... but I'll
be where you are, until I've saved your life as you saved mine. Such is
the way among trolls."
"I thank you, my friend. We'll head of shortly." Gwendolyn left Trent by the fire, and began to recollect her possessions strewn about the
cave.
At midmorning, Gwendolyn and Trent rested again, stopping their march to the southeast at a prominent hill near King's Road. With a shudder,
she realized that it was the same hill they were attacked upon, although
there were no outward signs. The mana felt... skewered here, a violent
mix of Corruption and Pure twisted with Chaos and Illusion. Sending her
magical senses outward, she tried to guess what had happened since their
battle, and all she sensed was a lingering unease, a light taint of the
Corrupt embracing the land with a curse.
Unexpectedly, while crossing over the lighter snowdrifts, Trent
tripped. Searching where he fell revealed a frozen corpse, the lone
reminder of the deaths three days prior. "Milady," he called out to
Gwendolyn, "ye'd best take a look't this!"
Scooping away the snow with his hands, Trent slowly exposed more of the brutish body, and Gwendolyn came up behind him to see the dead orc he
had discovered.
"He was a captive of the Goblins, Trent... an innocent, or at least as innocent as any Orc can be."
"It be for the best, mayhap... one less Orc is one less problem, methinks."
"His death was still my fault, Trent... and Orc or not, he was a captive, not a foe."
Trent sighed, obviously of a different mind than his mistress. "Dead be dead, Gwen... feeling bad about it don't do any good to nobody."
With a sad twinkle in her eye, Gwendolyn was struck with an idea. "Not... necessarily... true, my friend. Give me a bit of time to see
what I can do?"
Trent stormed off, huffing in the chill air an unvoiced complaint. What is that crazy sorceress up to now? He wondered.
Trent wandered the hillside, hoping perhaps to catch another one of those delicious snow hares for lunch while patiently avoiding Gwendolyn.
He perched himself in a snowy alcove, and contented himself with
fiddling with things in his pack to pass the time. For a time, he
worked on patching his snowshoes, which he had yet to need thanks to the
firmly packed snow of deep winter.
By noon, he had exhausted his imagination, having fixed worn shoes, broken in new shoes, sharpened his hunting-knife, and thoroughly
examined Gwendolyn's map of Sarpadia. Brandishing his knife, he turned
back towards the hillocks where he had left his mistress when a skipping
hare caught his attention.
Trent threw off his pack with wild abandon, and happily chased the rabbit up the hill. Grinning like a fool, he dived for the rabbit as it
scurried for its burrow, but caught nothing but air.
He pulled himself up again, and began the mad chase anew, but the rabbit
had taken to its hole. Trent slid back down the hill, sheathing his
knife unhappily, and took up his pack again, the good humor passing.
Then, he noticed the heavenly glow that had slowly permeated throughout
the hillside...
Whatever she be up to, Trent thought,
methinks I'd best get back 'fore she stirs up
trouble!
He ran off once again, to protect his mistress from her own meddlings.
Orcs! What was she thinking! Or was she even thinking at all?? Even he knew better than to meddle in the affairs of Orcs.
The Orc was just beginning to revive from her spells of Resurrection when Trent came running back to the snowy glen. Gwendolyn shot him a
cold stare, silently ordering him to keep his distance from the Orc
until she had been gained control of the situation. Trent caught her
stare, and promptly ignored it, instead coming to a fighting stance
between the Orc and his mistress.
The Orc groaned, and rolled over in the snow, subconsciously stretching his stiff joints. Gwendolyn whispered angrily at the stocky troll, "Get
behind me, before he can see you!"
"There be more trouble than ye think if he see's ya, Gwen... or I don' know Orcs," he whispered back, his lips pulling back into an animalistic
snarl, his sharp incisors prominent.
"Dammit, Trent, I know what I'm doing! There's nothing he could do to hurt me, in the state that he's in..." she whispered back, grabbing at
his shoulders to pull him behind her.
"You've underestimated th' mountain tribes before, Gwen... don't that be firmly in yuir memory? Let me handle him!"
Rather than argue further, Gwendolyn hurriedly lifted Trent into the air, hefting the angry mountain guide behind her with telekinesis, the
magic of Illusion. She bound him within a minor force void, not forcing
his submission but preventing his action for as long as she was
consciously powering the spell. I may be a
risk-taker, she thought to herself, but I'll not have
it said I'm a stupid risk-taker.
After the orc had come to and settled down, she released Trent from his confinement. Trent stamped angrily towards his mistress, and was quite
surprised to find her sitting (in one piece) with the Orc within a
bubble of warm, soothing mana. He growled with a low, guttural
annoyance that seemed to almost split the air around him with its
forcefulness, and stepped inside of the sphere of haze.
"Trent, say hello to Grish Fa'kach, Orcish veteran," Gwendolyn said, smiling warmly at him for once. "Orcish veteran, and son of Brioche,
King Atop The Mountain."
The stout troll glowered at the Orc, then sat down bowlegged next to his Mistress. "Son of a mountain cur he be, milady," he growled darkly.
His now-icy stare turning to the orc once more, a vicious sneer upon his
face. "So, mountain cur, you owe us your life... whatever that be
worth."
Grish stared down at his feet, resigned to his life's debt. "Unlike your race, sedge troll, the mountain-Orcs honor their life's bond," he
said, his body showing a sudden influx of pride.
Trent hocked with a gruesome, vile motion and spat at the orc's unshod feet.
"That, mountain cur, is how I value your honor."
The orc glared at Trent, then bowed his head towards Gwendolyn. "My life is yours, Mistress," he said.
Gwendolyn placed both hands to his proffered head, and with a glow of mana from her hands placed a bond upon him, the geas
that marked him as her own. Trent stared, genuinely surprised that a
'royal' Orc would actually behave with a shred of dignity and honor, to
a Human no less.
Trent was suddenly struck by a trembling of shame, that an Orc would honor the debt that he had all but thrown from his mind, thinking their
truck equal for having sheltered her in her weakness. Without further
hesitation, he bowed his head as well.
"My life is yours, Gwendolyn," he said. As she did to Grish, she bonded him to herself and set the paths for instilling the
geas in him, marking him as a minion of battle if the
need be great enough.
"I thank you, the both of you. As a sorceress of the plains and isles, it is part of my life's work to save others from the cruelty and violent
nature of those who would seek to hold power over them. And, as a
sorceress, I have a need to use others, for the benefit of not only
myself but for the betterment of all."
"Trent, your life-debt... is not needed to bond you to me, I fought to save your life as you had fought to protect mine. If it is your wish, I
shall release you from your debt. For now, though, I would suggest we
break camp for the afternoon and continue our journey to Havenwood. We
are only a few days' travel, by now."
Trent and Grish both raised their heads, getting to their feet. Trent still glared at the Orc, not letting five minutes disprove a lifetime's
experience.
A shadow struck between them, and the air around Gwendolyn filled with the ringing blast of both an Orcish and Trollish battle-cry.
The wraiths were falling out of the sky, summoned by their master to capture the sorceress and her camp. As the battle silently began, the
wraiths struck ground surrounding the hill atop which the junction had
first been noticed, circling within the surrounding groves of pines and
firs until they all stood by the sphere of Pure mana that had beckoned
them hither.
The first of the shadows struck out at the barrier, jumping through the shimmering haze. It died with a soulshriek that was terrible to behold
but silent to the ear, a scream more known than felt… another rushed the
barrier, and felt it weaken under the impact before it too was killed by
the dissipative pureness. In two's and three's they clambered on, until
finally it burst and allowed them entrance into the tranquilized domain.
Once through, the wraiths pushed onwards to seek the sorceress, the
dozens of wispy shades brought to the realm of the living only by their
Master's dark powers, enslaved souls now seeking only to annihilate the
enemies of the Necromancer.
Grish tensed, as if sensing some illness of the air about him, and struck out instinctively after the first of the shades rushed past him.
With a mighty bellowing scream, he tackled the wraith, and struggled
with it briefly before it faded away into nothingness.
Trent answered the war cry with his own, and twisted to face the oncoming fiends. He struck wildly at the air, swatting at the blurred,
smoky forms with his rocklike fists. Trent was pushed back by their
sheer numbers as they tried to pass him, and he fumbled with the knife
at his waist, seeking a weapon to use against their immaterial forms.
His body seared and went numb as the wraiths fought back at him, their
touch like that of Death itself... still, he fought on sluggishly,
spearing enemy after enemy with his dagger. Their death wails were
pitiful, a low moan that was like the sighing of the wind, chilling him
to the bone.
Grish, by Trent's side, struck out at the wraiths with his great manacled hands, using his brute strength to demolish the spirits one by
one. Despite his best efforts to stop them, as many rushed around him
and after his Mistress as confronted him; though he had yet to let one
that challenged him pass, there were a great many of them that went
onwards uncontested. He drew himself closer to Trent, letting the arc
of their swings cross over, to protect them both. Although bruised and
wracked with pain, still he swung, defending Gwendolyn as best he could.
Both the brawlers had a surprised look on their faces when they were suddenly lifted straight up into the air, cleared from the battle by
Gwendolyn's spells of Illusion. Now onlookers, the pair stared
downwards as the wraiths rushed on below them, only to be met by a trio
of White Knights and a circle of protection. Trent tried to hold them
fast in his vision, but before long the wispy forms blurred as the troll
passed out from the pain of their chilling touch.
Gwendolyn commanded the summoned clerics onwards, striking at the shadowy forms with giant swords polished to an alabaster hue. The trio
spread out, hacking at the shades from all sides now, their armor
seeming to avoid the painful touches of the darkness-creatures. When at
last the mighty forms began to stagger and tire, their steely arms
striking out from the sheer determination brought on by the geas of
summoning, Gwendolyn unleashed a ferocious barrage of light that burned
away the remaining shadows, cleansing the land of their unholy taint.
Only when the unnatural light had subsided did Grish and Trent feel themselves being lowered to the ground, the heavy snows of the blizzard
all but melted from that last great blast. Before their feet had even
touched the floor, the pair had felt new warmth as Gwendolyn threw
healing spells upon them, to recover their strength and purge the chill
left by the shadows' touch. Before Grish's eyes, the knights saluted
Gwendolyn and faded away into nothingness, becoming shadows of light
before disappearing back to their home realms.
Trent came to, and stared at Gwendolyn, amazed. "Ye fight well, Gwen..." he said.
Grish butted in, interrupting Trent in mid-sentence. "Is that the last of them, then?" As an Orc-prince, and an infantry veteran, he knew how
battles could be waged among the sorcerous Humans. As with Trent,
though, there was new respect for her in his eyes. To command
Knights...!
"No, that's not the last of them. With a Necromancer as powerful as this Virgil is said to be, there may never be an end to them. There are
more coming, and they will keep coming until we tire and can fight no
more. We have to fly; the Elves can protect us in Havenwood... it's
protected from his encroachment by the Elves' eternal vigilance.
"Do that be so wise, Mistress?" Trent asked. "Ye've not used magic before so we couldn't be found. Wouldnae this lead your enemy to the
Elves, and that be to us after all?"
"Hard times call for hard decisions, friends. I'd rather deal with the demon I do know than the demon I don't. We fly, and he follows us, or
we don't fly, he follows us, and we may never make it to safety alive.
There is relative safety in the skies, where his armies cannot catch
us."
Grish nodded his approval, agreeing to her assessment. Trent looked on stubbornly then agreed at last, knowing it all but pointless to resist
further, and possibly dangerous. "As me Mistress commands, Gwen. But
let's be off den, neh?"
"So be it, then." Gwendolyn put her hands on each of their arms, and with a shimmer of mana in her eyes they were off, taking the Quest to
the skies and to Havenwood, Elvenhome of Sarpadia.
The darkness followed, undaunted.
Sean McKeown
[email protected]