Opened: September 9, 2010 03:25:54 A.M. Pacific Time
Ready for Editing.
CHAPTER 8
Ranchut slammed the volume shut with a cry of frustration. "I can't read even half of these languages, how am I ever supposed to find that bloody prophecy if I can't read the book?" He reached across the desk he was working at and pulled the other book close. Opening it to a random page he glared at the tiny script. "What possessed the man to write like this? What purpose does it serve?" He was about to toss the second volume across the room when his eye caught on one of the passages. "When the wall is broached and darkness flies over the land, when the dragons are gathered and the moon cries over her children, then shall one rise who will be the Child of Prophesy. And he will...." Ranchut cursed as the script continued on in some unknown and long dead language.
A laugh like the chime of a silver bell rang out, pulling Ranchut from his reverie.
"Noshi, what are you doing here. I though you wanted nothing to do with this?"
The shapely general smiled as Ranchut turned to face her, "It would seem that I was not as tired as I thought. My curiosity got the better of me."
Ranchut's eyes narrowed. "I see." He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me, dear general, how it is that these books came into your posession."
She smiled, "Come now, Ranchut, surely you must have heard of my father, Benedict?"
Ranchut arched an eyebrow, "The great wizard, and sage to kings? I had no idea you were related to him."
"Yes, I inherited his library, if not his aptitude for the dark arts."
******************
They'd trusted Trevor to get them across the border; now they trusted Pether to lead them to safety.
The dreadlands were affecting everyone, except for F'loro, but Melinda somehow thought that she had it the worst. The others
only saw the death around them; they couldn't feel it inside them. A darkness loomed at the edge of her vision, threatening to close in on her the minute she dropped her guard. But the worst was the silence, so loud she could feel it pounding in here ears; the absence of sound had become a tangible thing, and if she didn't hear something soon she swore she would go mad.
Almost as if he knew her thoughts , F'loro began whistling. The bonelord seemed happier than she'd ever seen him. Perhaps it
was the passage through the border, but it seemed more than that. He was almost skipping, his tune cheerful and light... and
then she recognized it. He was whistling a dirge, as merrily as a boy off to school. He'd twisted the notes, put a feeling of joy behind them, but she recognized the death beneath.
Still, F'loro had gotten them this far, as much as Trevor had. She owed him that much.
Ahead, Trevor was beginning to falter again. She'd begged him to leave his greatsword behind, but a Trychtari who was too
weak to carry his sword fell upon it, it seemed, and so Trevor pushed his way slowly uphill, leaning on his halberd for support. Ordinarily, he'd let her support him, but he didn't seem to want to show any weakness in front of Pether.
And so they marched, F'loro merrily, Deal skipping from the front of the ranks to the back, Pether leading with grim
determination, and the rest exhausted, mentally if not physically. They began stopping more and more often to let Trevor catch his breath, though each time he came up with a different excuse; send someone for water, he'd say, or let Jorgran see what's above that hill before we pass it. But all of them, even Pether, she supposed, knew the truth. The promise of the border was the only thing that had kept Trevor alive for this long. Without it, he was lost.
And without Trevor... who could lead? Pether was a newcomer, not yet tested. F'loro was still a dark, twisted man, in spite of
all the good he had done for them. The others could not. It left her. Only her.
Ahead, Trevor faltered, tripping over a rock in the path.
She would have to lead them. She would have to make arrangements for Trevor's remains, remembering the complex Trychtari
rituals, and she would have to watch over F'loro as he performed the ceremony that would keep Trevor's body safe from the
demons.
Her love doubled over as pain wracked his body, coughing violently, spitting blood across his lips.
There would be no time for her to grieve, no one to soften her loss. She would need to be strong for all of them, keep them
focused. If she gave in, and let her feelings guide her, then they would be lost, and the dark ones would claim their souls.
F'loro had stopped whistling, and Deal was watching Trevor with a cocked head. Pether seemed taken aback; Gan turned his
head and vomited. Renu looked sick as well, but did not move. Only Trevor, there was only Trevor, shaking in the center of
them, trying to muster the strength to breath, and they were all watching him like he was some sort of performer, putting on a show for them.
And when he was finished, they would all look to her, and expect her to perform as well.
With one final spasm, Trevor fell to the ground. Melinda screamed.
"You bastard! Not now! We need you!" She was hysterical; it didn't matter. "I need you! Trevor!"
His eyes were glass. There was blood everywhere on him. He tried to spit some out, failed, and tried to swallow it instead. This
seemed to take the last of his strength, and without a word, his eyes rolled back in his head.
Her wailing echoed from distant hills. This could not be. She wasn't strong enough. She needed Trevor; they all needed Trevor.
They were all looking at her, just as she'd known they would. It didn't matter. If Trevor were here, he'd tell them all what to do. None of this would matter if Trevor were here.
She blinked tears from her eyes, and found herself suddenly calm. Of course. Trevor needed to come back.
She rose, and crossed the distance to where F'loro stood.
"Bring him back."
"I don't think..."
"Bring him BACK!"
F'loro remained calm. "Even if I hadn't sworn an oath..."
"I relieve you of it."
"... Trevor still wouldn't want it."
"You can't know that."
"He and I discussed it."
That made her pause. She hadn't know Trevor to speak with the bonelord unless forced. "It doesn't matter. We need him."
F'loro sighed. "Melinda, I understand your pain. But..."
"NO!" She wanted so badly to kill the man; she'd never felt this way. "You do not understand. You don't know what he was to
me. None of you know." Things were all rushing together, she needed to keep focus. "You will return him to me."
F'loro calmly shook his head.
She dropped her eyes, hoping he took it as a sign of defeat. Her gaze rested on his belt.
"If you say no..."
"I do."
Her had darted of its own will and pressed the necromancer's own dagger to his throat. "Then I will kill you. Either return my
love to me, or escort him to the next life."
F'loro's gaze was steady. "Mehelianda Menradandia of Felendor. Believe me when I swear to you that were this in my power I
would do it in an instant. But Trevor will not return as you remember him. All things have their price, and Death's is steeper than most."
In response, she sawed the dagger just enough to draw a thin red line across his neck.
F'loro sighed. "Consider yourself warned. Put me down, then. This is hard enough work as it is; no use you complicating it. Gan, fetch me some firewood. Shera, I'll need water. Pether, if you want no part of this I'll understand, but you'd best stay the hell out of my way while I'm working."
******************
It was after dark by the time he'd finished preparations. A fire burned slowly in front of the Trychtari's body, and his makeshift alter stood back to the side. Above it, F'loro ran his dagger through the final purifying kata, sealing it to its task.
He stood before them. "Take this dagger, and draw a drop of blood from your weapon hand. Smear it across this coin, and with
your mind's voice call out to Trevor with his Truename; whatever you called him in your heart. Pass the coin once through the
fire, then hand coin and knife to the next in line." He glanced at Pether. "Last chance to back out, lad. You didn't know him very well."
Pether shook his head. "Well enough to save him."
F'loro nodded. "Well. Then. Melinda, begin." He handed her the knife and the coin.
She stared into the fire as she drew the blade across her hand. Trevor, my love, my leader. Return to me. Return to us all.
Shera thought a coin had never felt so heavy. Trychtari, noble leader. You brought us this far, come the rest of the way with us.
Jorgran wanted to dash the coin into the fire, but he didn't. You greasy bastard. You had her when I should have. I'll hate you for that, I'll hate you forever. He sighed. But you've saved my skin once or twice, so I'll let you have her until she realizes what she's missing in me.
Trog, Deal thought. Silly old trog, that's all I wanted to say, but no one would let me. You want me to fetch your breakfast?
You think you'll let me come with you? I am At'nari. Let me show you what I can do to you, if you'll come and see it.
The coin was red-hot by the time Gan held it. Trevor. I'm so sorry, Trevor. We... I didn't want to. She made us. I knew you'd
want to stay... where you are... but... Trevor. We do need you.
Renu looked into the fire for a long time. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I suppose... I don't know. Trevor. There, that's all you are. Just Trevor. Dead now. But... if you do come back, don't hold this against me.
Pether closed his hand around the coin, slick now with blood. You're a true warrior, Trychtari. I should have seen that. I was almost too late for you to teach me. Come. Teach me now.
Knife and coin made a full circuit to F'loro. He bloodied the coin and held it aloft, his eyes blazing as brightly as the fire. You son of a bitch, Trevor. You noble bastard. You brought them all this way... was it you? You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me, none of you would. And you're the one they love. Let them love you, Trevor. Let them love you all they want. But don't lord over me. They elected you high god, not I. Give me an order again, and I'll kill you myself. And see if I'm this nice a second time.
He looked up. "Leave us now. This is not a sight for untrained eyes."
And then, alone, grinning, he set to work.
******************
It was an hour before he stumbled back into the clearing, groggy, leaning on the halberd for support. Melinda jumped when she
saw him, tears streaming down her face. He stumbled to a fallen tree, and crashed rather than sat down. He couldn't speak yet; ironic, that.
Melinda hugged him fiercely. "You're back! I knew you'd be back! He said it couldn't be done, but I knew he was lying. He
always lied to us, but not anymore, because you're back."
He shifted his tusks, still getting used to their weight, and F'loro grinned. They were beyond the border now, with no soul
mirrors to show the truth of his deceptions. He'd bound Trevor's mind, so the Trychtari... sorry, the human, would never speak
of it to another soul. He'd gleaned enough of Trevor's information to cover for any gaps that Melinda might notice, and if he
missed something, so what? He'd been dead, after all, as far as she knew. It's bound to change a person. Give him all sorts of new insight into life. Starting, perhaps, with acquiring a new appreciation for the art of thievery.
Melinda was still sobbing, so he hugged her to his massive chest. I never lied, he thought. I said he wouldn't come back the
same way. I told you not to do this, but you begged me. It's your own fault now, sidhe.
He was feeling better and better. This was turning out to be a capital day.
As Trevor, shaking in his new form, emerged from the woods, F'loro began to whistle.
******************
Ranchut and Noshi sat within the library, staring fixedly at a single page of text that had fallen from one of the tomes.
"It's certainly my father's handwriting," Noshi handed the page to Ranchut. "But I don't recognize the language."
The hunter frowned at the paper. "I'm no linguist but the alphabet resembles the Carpacian one. I would guess an an ancient version of one of the border dialects. But why would a mage of your father's abilities concern himself with the ramblings of a mad prophet?"
Noshi shrugged. "Who knows? My father did enjoy the odd bit of mischief; perhaps the page says nothing more than 'ha, made you look.' Or it could be a bit of scrap that he was using as a bookmark."
"Or it could be relevant and insightful."
The general gave a grudging nod. "Yes."
"You spoke earlier of a fringe group; followers of this prophet. They would have to be linguists in order to translate his works, perphaps one of them would -"
"No." Ranchut looked up, surprised at the hardness of the general's rejection.
"Why ever not?"
"Speak with them all you wish. And you are correct, every single one of them is a masterful linguist, but they'd sooner die than translate one word of Arapi's words."
"It sounds as though you speak from experience, General."
"I sought them out once, hoping to learn something of my father by reading the books that he had read. They view it as part of their sacred duty to never translate anything. The believe that if you can't understand the language in which something is written, then you aren't yet ready to know what it means."
Ranchut smiled, a venomous look. "Somehow I doubt they would 'sooner die' then translate this for me."
It was Noshi's turn to smile, "Then you'd be wrong. Believe me when I say that I have thoroughly tested that hypothesis."
Ranchut raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Why my dear general - you surprise me." He sighed. "But this does pose a bit of a problem." Ranchut tapped one of his long fingeres against the table in thought. "Isn't there a royal linguist or two running around here somewhere?"
"Not that would know the ancient languages. They're trained as diplomatic aids not scholars of lore."
"This is foolishness. I will hunt out this cabal and they will tell me what I wish or I will kill the lot of them." The master hunter swept up his great cloak. "Care to join me for a little late night entertainment?"
The general smiled.
***************
"F'loro, it worked!" Melinda rushed to the necromancer's side and gave him a quick hug. "I'm sorry I doubted you." When F'loro's form reached out for her she took a step back in surprise.
"My love?"
F'loro stopped whistling. Oh dear. He jumped unsteadily to his new feet and grabbed hold of his old body. "Do not ever call her that again. Bonelord. Her emotions are not yours to play with." The necromancer reveled in the power of his new body.
The rest of the group looked on, astonished, as the necromancer, rather than snap back with one of his usual quips, sank to his knees. "My hands. So small. So white. And so very weak."
Melinda's eyes narrowed for a moment, and glanced between mortal and Trychtari.
"F'loro," she addressed the human, "what's wrong with you?"
The human simply stared at his hands turning them over.
The trychtari stepped in, "Melinda, while he was restoring my life, I felt... I felt our souls touch, I think perhaps the aftereffects of that still linger on within his mind." He knelt near the human, "I'm sorry I yelled at you, I didn't realize how much of yourself you'd given to restore me."
The human looked from its hands to the massive arm that rested beside it. They traced the arm to the trychtari's face. The human's eyes grew wide, and a small gasp of air escaped past his lips. "My face!"
The trychtari gave the human a small smile and patted his hand. "A very handsome one it is, too, for a human's." He looked back up at the staring group. "Well? Don't we have somewhere to be before nightfall?"
Pether shook himself and tried to dismiss the feeling that something was horribly wrong. What madness of fate had landed him with this strange bunch? Nevertheless, the trychtari was correct. He glanced at the set of the sun and his eyes widened in alarm.
"We must get to the settlement before true night fall." With that, he set off at a quick march, trusting that they would keep up with him.
***************
Night. The sun vanished beneath the horizon, and the long shadows stretched past the waiting carapacians, to touch the barrier.
Where the shadows touched it, liquid darkness boiled out of the once impermeable wall. Liquid followed by claws cut from the heart of night. Claws followed by eyeless faces, eyeless faces with mouths that hungered.
***************
Pether led them towards the small settlement, now apparent in the already darkened bowl of gentle valley into which they descended. The young warrior kept his focus steady on the settlement and didn't let them waver towards the shadows sliding closer on every side. Pether began to hear a faint, whispered chattering start behind him and he broke into a run. The sound of feet pounding against the earth told him that the rest of the group was still close behind.
As he finally began nearing the village boundaries, he could see a group of guards decked out and waiting for Pether and his companions to reach them. The guards didn't appear to be either threatened or threatening but Pether could see their alertness in the tension of their stance.
And then Pether noticed something that was threatening; something that chilled him to his very bones. "Hold fast, everyone," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't move, don't even breathe, if you hope to live. I smell... muffins."
Renu shook his head. "Not muffins - pasta," he breathed in deeply, "fresh with cream." The gnome took a half step forward and raised his hands palms out in a general gesture of frienship. "Excuse me -"
All of the guard's heads immediately swung around and ten pairs of eyes snapped their focus onto Renu.
Pether held perfectly motionless and breathed out quietly, "Renu, don't move, don't talk."
But of course it was too late. A swarm of dozens of carniverous... things swooped in towards the unsuspecting gnome and began lashing him about, rending his pasty flesh. Renu screamed in pain as his leg was torn at the kneecap, and with a final struggle the three-legged winged things wrenched it free and flew away with their bounty, satisfied to savor it later at their leisure.
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