Marked (32 page)

“Well, that confirms we’re on Haradin’s trail. At least this is the right cave—the temple must be farther into the bowels of this mountain,” suggested Gerart.

“There is one thing more we haven’t considered,” said Aliana. “If Haradin was right, and it looks like he was, that being, that spirit, could be part of the Lost Civilization—the Ilenians.”

Everyone looked at her in silence, contemplating the significance of what Aliana had just said.

“But that’s not possible; the Lost Civilization disappeared a long, long time ago. Some scholars from the Temple of Light estimate it was more than three millennia ago,” the Prince reasoned.

“I know, but what other explanation is there?” said Aliana.

“A descendent with the mission of protecting the place from strangers?” submitted Kendas.

“In Rilentor it is common knowledge that the Ilenians had great mages who built monoliths of incredible power,” commented Lomar. “My uncle always told me that, even though their disappearance is a mystery, somewhere in Tremia there must have been some hidden traces. We might very well be in the midst of one of them. And Kendas could be right—maybe he is a descendent with the sacred duty to protect this place.”

“Mage or not, Ilenian or not, descendent or not, I will not permit this fool in a white tunic to play us again,” declared the Sergeant, raising his right hand to the hilt of his sword. “Kendas, Lomar, light the torches and lead the way. Keep your eyes peeled; I don’t want any more surprises.”

When the group came to the end of the cave, Kendas tossed some of the dirt he was carrying with him onto the rectangular slab that sealed the opening. Again they witnessed the odd Ilenian magic and were completely captivated by the reaction between the earth and the arcane stone. Without a sound, the slab slid away, giving way to a grotto even deeper and more tenebrous than the previous one.

The adventurers peered mistrustingly into the cavern, fearful they were walking into yet another trap.

On the walls of shining black stone, two parallel lines of strange, golden symbols seemed to tell an interminable story. By the light of the torches they could see that the golden characters in the two lines covered the walls of the entire cave with their strange, unintelligible message. Everyone in the group silently stared at the symbols, trying to decipher their meaning. But no one could.

The floor of the grotto was covered with dirt instead of stone.

“Strange,” said Kendas as he crouched down and scooped up a handful of the dark earth that covered the floor.

“Earth...” said Aliana, remembering the spirit’s cryptic words.

Sergeant Mortuc walked toward the center of the cave accompanied by Kendas and Lomar. When they got close to the middle they could make out two enormous formations of solid rock that shone with an intense reddish color. Scattered forebodingly around them in a large circle were the remains of what had to have been nearly fifty corpses. The flesh of the dried-out skeletons lying there had long since been devoured by the lengthy passage of time... skeletons of warriors in the armor from different origins. The doleful scene that the faint light of the torches revealed stopped them in their tracks.

“What the hell happened here?” asked the Sergeant as he gazed upon the fallen soldiers.

“I don’t know, but these warriors have been dead a long time,” replied Lomar, holding out the torch to shed more light on the ominous sight.

“Yes, and judging by the different types of armor and swords, I’d say they belonged to different expeditions, and it goes without saying they all met their end here,” observed Kendas.

“It’s clear we are not the first visitors to this temple and—you’re right—these visitors died here. We’d best be prepared for an ambush,” warned the Prince as he unsheathed his sword. “They may not have made it out of here alive, but we most definitely will. Everyone, on the alert!”

The rest of the group pulled out their swords and Aliana took the bow from her back and armed it with an arrow. All were on guard, expectant.

But nothing happened. Everything in that cave, with the exception of the group of adventurers, was lifeless.

Aliana’s attention was drawn to something sparkling on the floor. She took a few steps toward it to have a look. Her fellow travelers immediately followed. The long object next to one of the skeletons seemed vaguely familiar to her. She cautiously stepped a bit closer to get a better look, trying not to step on any of the cadavers. Where had she seen that wooden hilt with all those extravagant silver symbols inlaid in it? It was so familiar to her; she recognized it but could not place it. She set her bow down and picked up the hilt. It was then that she realized it was not the hilt of a sword as she’d initially thought; it was a staff.

Aliana had indeed seen that staff before.

It was Haradin the Mage’s staff of power.

The tracks were recent; no more than six hours old, Lasgol deduced. Crouching down, he carefully inspected each of the footprints and miniscule traces around the fire the fugitives had made to keep warm during the night.

It had been two people, a man and a woman. Both agile, nimble. Not terribly tall; no armor. They had been accompanied by two powerful horses with Rogdonian horseshoes and light saddlebags filled with enough provisions to survive for approximately one week.

Interesting... very interesting...
It always surprised the Norghanian Ranger and Royal Tracker how much information could be gleaned from the clues people inadvertently left behind—especially for the well-trained eye of an expert explorer and tracker like himself.

Lasgol had been pursuing the two fugitives for a week, since the day after the startling assassination of Grand Duke Orten. He still could not believe the Grand Duke had been murdered; it seemed completely unreal. The second-most powerful man in the kingdom, a veritable bulwark for the nation, assassinated in his own bedroom—in his own impregnable fortress. Lasgol still hadn’t been able to shake off the impact of the news.

He recalled how, six days ago, with no idea why, he had been urgently summoned to Grand Duke Orten’s royal fortress. Much to his surprise, he’d met with Captain Tonarson, who’d been accompanied by the powerful Count Volgren. The Count’s presence in the fortress had initially disconcerted Lasgol. A man of great influence and power in the King’s court, the Count had traveled far from his dominion to be there. His earldom, one of the largest of the kingdom and located in northwest Norghana, competed with the dukedom of the deceased Grand Duke Orten, brother of the King and First General of the kingdom’s armies.

The mission that would be entrusted to him during that meeting would have grave repercussions for the young ranger. What Lasgol did not know at the moment when he’d arrived at the fortress was that he was about to embark on the single greatest adventure of his life—an adventure so unusual and with such profound implications that it would change him forever.

Lasgol had known the Grand Duke’s efficient administrator for quite some time, and he knew him well. He was a veteran soldier with an alert mind and an unrivaled capacity to manage administrative and logistical matters. That man was the hub through which every aspect of the operations of both the fortress and the dukedom’s dominions passed. He was Grand Duke Orten’s most trusted man and his word was law in these lands. Lasgol had carried out several missions for the Grand Duke as Royal Ranger so he was used to dealing with Tonarson. He liked the Captain—a good soldier and a great manager who thrived on order and efficiency.

He greeted Captain Tonarson with a warm hug, then respectfully lowered his head and bowed before Count Volgren.

“I see you’re still as straight as an arrow, Lasgol! It’s good to have you with us,” Captain Tonarson exclaimed amiably.

“Always at the King’s service. It is my duty, after all,” replied Lasgol with a smile.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll get right to the point,” said Tonarson.

“Of course, please proceed.”

“I have called you here for a matter of grave importance to the kingdom. Grand Duke Orten, brother of King Thoran of Norghana has been... has been... assassinated by a Rogdonian agent. I need you to find that agent and capture him alive so that he can be interrogated and brought to justice. He already has more than a day’s head start,” the Captain explained, his tone serious and full of regret.

It took Lasgol a few moments to process the alarming news. He was completely shocked; he was speechless. It was as if someone had just poured a pitcher of ice water on his head.

“A... very sad day for the nation of Norghana... The Grand Duke is gone,” said the blond explorer after a few moments of silence, his voice as grief-stricken as his spirit. “My most sincere condolences to the royal family. His Majesty King Thoran must be distraught over this loss.”

“His sorrow is inconsolable,” the Captain said softly, almost whispering as he looked down. “His Majesty has ordered Count Volgren to assume command of the fortress and to act as First General of the Army in this hour of great mourning for all of Norghana.”

“A privilege and an honor,” said the Count, taking a step forward.

Lasgol observed him: a tall, middle-aged man, dressed in an exquisite suit of full Norghanian armor: polished scales embossed with rich ornamentation in gold and silver that covered his chest and shoulders. A long, deep red, elegant cape fell from his powerful shoulders down to the floor. This imposing man’s luxurious attire demonstrated his fine lineage and high social position in the court. His long blond hair—sprinkled with a few silver strands—cascaded over his shoulders. Tucked under his arm was a winged helmet of the Norghanian infantry, also silver and gold. All that armor must have cost a fortune. His piercing blue eyes examined Lasgol in return, not missing a single detail.

“We have orders from His Majesty to capture the Assassin alive. He must be interrogated. There are confirmed reports that point to Rogdon as those behind the vile assassination, but the King has ordered that we corroborate that before he takes action on seeking out the necessary and just retribution,” explained the Captain who was seated in a wooden chair behind the ample desk from which he took care of running the fortress.

“What proof have you found of that? Is it conclusive?” asked the young tracker, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“We found a ring with the seal of Rogdon next to the Grand Duke’s body. In addition, beneath the tree where they’d left Rogdonian horses used for their escape, we discovered a pair of gauntlets belonging to the Royal Lancers of Rogdon. Finally, the most irrefutable piece of evidence: a leather satchel with five thousand Rogdonian gold pieces. Part of the payment for the assassination, no doubt,” said Count Volgren.

“This ‘proof’ could very well have been planted there to direct the blame toward the southwest kingdom,” suggested Lasgol as he took his host’s invitation to sit down and have a glass of water.

“Precisely, Lasgol. I see your young age does not impede your judgment. That is exactly why the King insists the Assassin be taken alive and interrogated. He wants to be sure that this is not the work of someone hiding in the shadows who wants to incite a war. He has ordered me to direct the manhunt to capture the Assassin from here and has instructed me to put our best men on it,” explained the Count.

“That means you must have called Kyjor and Gurkog; they are the best and most experienced trackers in the kingdom.”

“Quite right, Lasgol. They both set out this afternoon. They have several hours head start on you since they were closer to the fortress when we summoned them.”

“If they’ve already gone out I don’t see any need for my intervention. It’s practically impossible for anyone to fool those two old bloodhounds. They’ll find that Assassin for sure. I don’t believe I remember anyone ever escaping Gurkog’s grasp, and Kyjor is almost as good as Gurkog is. Their success is guaranteed.”

“Under any other circumstances I would agree... but there is one detail you don’t know about. The Assassin is not an ordinary man. The way he was able to eliminate the Elite Guard at the walls indicates that he might possess some sort of dark talent—or he could be some kind of mage,” suggested the Captain, his reticence making it clear that there was something abnormal—and arcane—about this Assassin.

“I understand. It is not at all common to find Assassins with the Talent. Are you sure that’s what it is? My father told me that, some thirty years ago when he was the first Royal Ranger, he once hunted one of them—and there’s never been another one in the kingdom since that time—at least, none I’ve heard of.”

“Did he catch him?” the Count inquired, his interest piqued.

“Yes, he did. But he almost lost his life doing it. It turned out he was a Sorcerer from the East coast with certain ‘abilities’ he used to carry out the assassination contracts entrusted to him.”

“There is no confirmation that this is the case now; it’s just a suspicion. But because of that, the decision was made to send the best manhunters out after him in addition to five mounted hunting companies that are crossing the Utla at this very moment in light assault ships. They’ll soon be disembarking on the steppes to continue their pursuit. That is the reason why I called you here, Lasgol. For your special... abilities... your power... You are a man with qualities others do not have. You are better suited for facing off with an Assassin who has dark powers or an enemy agent who makes use of magical arts. Ultimately, Gurkog and Kyjor—though they are extraordinary manhunters—are just normal men,” explained the Captain, looking uncomfortably at the Count.

Hearing that, Volgen’s eyes bored into Lasgol like two daggers, unable to mask his astonishment. “I was not informed that we had a Chosen One among our Royal Rangers. How is it that I was not advised of something so important?”

“As you surely understand, Sir, it is not customary to reveal this kind of information. I try to keep my condition private. Only certain people I trust know about my Gift,” explained Lasgol.

“You have nothing to fear with me, my young Ranger,” said the Count, moving in closer to Lasgol. “I’m not some ignorant peasant or uneducated woodcutter who was raised in the mountains—I’m not afraid of what I don’t understand, nor do I want to cause any harm to those who are different than I am. I understand your distrust, Lasgol, but do not be frightened; those with the Gift benefit our kingdom and I therefore value and appreciate them. I am, in fact, one of the principal advocates of the Chosen Ones here in the King’s court, and the court’s Ice Mages consider me their benefactor and friend.”

“Thank you, Count, for your kind words. They have definitely allayed my fears and given me hope that I can indeed trust you. There are people all over from all classes in our society who fear the Chosen Ones and recoil from the handful of us from north of the Utla who possess the Gift. My past experience has not been at all positive when I have revealed my condition, so whenever I can I try to keep it hidden from anyone outside my circle of trust.”

“In that case, I assure you that you can count on me to be inside that circle. And if you wouldn’t mind, could you tell me what kind of power you possess? You don’t look like a Mage or a Healer. Is it perhaps a dark power?”

“I see you are familiar with the existence of different types of power. Well, you are right; I am not a Mage with the power to control the elements, or a Sorcerer with the power to control minds, or a Healer with the power to cure afflictions and wounds. And no, it is not a dark or evil power, though in my opinion none of them are, per se. It is the man who makes them so according to their intentions and, above all, their actions. ‘It is not the sword that kills, but rather the man that wields it.’ So it goes with the Gift; you can use it for good or for evil. How to develop or use his power rests in the hands of each Elect. Of course, there has always been much debate on the topic and many different opinions with respect to it. My Gift is related to nature, to animals, and to my bow; I am an excellent explorer and tracker. My abilities with a bow, which I have patiently developed over time, are superior to those of any Elite Marksman.”

“I see...” said the Count, mulling over what he had just heard.

“I still think my intervention will not be necessary, but I will go after the Assassin if the King so wishes.”

“One more thing; the Assassin is not alone. He is with... He fled the fortress with a young Masig,” said Captain Tonarson, nearly mumbling.

“With a Masig? How is that possible?” Lasgol was completely confused. “He freed her from the fortress’ prison? I don’t understand.”

“The young girl was... in the Grand Duke’s bedchamber... when the Assassin killed him. For some reason he took her with him when he fled. Perhaps she was part of the plan to kill the Grand Duke. We can’t say for sure, but it makes sense that they may have been co-conspirators,” said the Captain, unable to mask his uneasiness.

“With all due respect, Captain, I very much doubt that. Assassins act alone. Rarely, if ever, do they work in tandem. And I understand the delicacy of the situation.” Lasgol stood up and saluted the Captain, who stood and returned the salute. “I will set out at once. They already have quite a bit of advantage and time is precious in these matters.”

“The patrols are probably looking for them on the steppes toward the southwest on the way to Rogdon. Good luck to you; may your hunt be fruitful,” said Captain Tonarson.

“Thank you, Captain—I’ll need it.”

“Bring me that bastard alive so I can interrogate him. We need to know who is hiding behind the attack. There is so much at stake... If this is not resolved with the greatest diplomacy we could be facing all-out war with Rogdon. Thousands of lives are in jeopardy,” stressed the Count.

“Don’t worry, I will, Sir.” With that, the tracker left the room to begin the hunt.

A short while later he was embarking on a small sailing vessel from the wharf in Skol and heading toward the great steppes.

It was now nearly a week later. Lasgol stopped scanning the flat horizon of the interminable plains and walked back toward his horse, Trotter, who was nonchalantly grazing, indifferent to the world’s problems. Lasgol gently caressed the horse’s velvety light brown neck. It was soaked in sweat from the exertion of the long hunt. Four years old and sixteen hands high, this Palomino was the one thing Lasgol loved. With a tail and mane that were nearly albino, Trotter was a beautiful creature, worth its weight in gold—no one could deny that.