The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (32 page)

What power!

With scarcely a thought Carym reached down and grabbed the dazed man by the neck with his left hand while clutching the Shadow stone in his right. He could feel the stone pulsing, he could almost
see
the man’s soul lurking in his body. Then he saw a second presence hiding behind the first. He marveled at the abominable evil lurking inside this man. Surely here was the foul demon to which the binder mage had made his pact. Perhaps the spell caster was a prisoner, a victim of the greater power? Yes, that must be the case. And Carym would free the man of his otherworldly parasite.

Carym concentrated on the foreign presence and reached his hand
into th
e body of the warlock, confident he would be ridding the man of this parasitic force. He was satisfied to see the evil spirit writhing in his grip, hissing, spitting, shrieking in protest as Carym yanked the creature from the man’s body. With a triumphant shout Carym dropped the warlock to the ground and held aloft the shimmering form of the evil spirit in his hand. As the sun rose higher his vision became more clear. He saw what he held in his hand with a sense of horror beyond measure....the man’s bloody spine!

Carym dropped the gory thing to the ground next to its mutilated corpse and nearly retched in grief over his actions.
What have I done?!
He had thought he was going to save this man. Then laughter filled his ears as a black shadow separated itself from the bloody body of the binder mage and hovered above him for a moment.

“Thank you, mortal!” the spirit laughed, hysterically. “You freed me and fed me a meal of human soul!”

The shadowy spirit dissipated and was gone, the echo of his laughter trailing away, leaving Carym alone with his thoughts. Deep down, Carym knew that he had chosen wrongly the very moment his hand touched the Shadow stone. But the temptation of that power was so great he let the ends justify his means.

“Help” came the voice of the young woman, temporarily dispelling his brooding thoughts. He turned to see that the woman’s side was bleeding, clearly the wound had been inflicted by the binder mage’s whip. Her visage seemed to shift before his eyes, becoming catlike and then human-like once more. She seemed to sprout fur from her skin, then it vanished altogether, then appeared again. He leaned in close to her and tried to help her stand, wondering if she had been infected with some sort of lycanthropic disease - and if it was contagious.

He almost left her there then. His sense of decency won out and he decided it would not do to leave her here to die, especially at the hands of Hessan or the Black Baron. With one fluid movement he scooped up the woman, shouldered her limp form and ran towards the portcullis. He felt his strength ebbing, the price of the use of the powerful Sigils, and stumbled through the portcullis. Passing the corpses of his foes, and those eternal testaments to the Black Baron’s wickedness on the side of the castle highway, he made it to tree line and staggered into the woods beyond. Finally Carym emerged in a small clearing and tumbled headlong to the dirt. He lay there a moment, breathing heavily, pleased that there had been no pursuit.

Carym heard the sounds of someone approaching and staggered to his feet. He was relieved to find Sir Ederick and Gennevera.

“Were we followed?” Carym asked, breathless.

“No,” the knight said grimly. “Though I had not expected this to become a rescue mission.”

“I couldn’t leave her.”

“No, you couldn’t,” agreed the knight. “But now we are further burdened by one who is afflicted by disease and in need of a healer.”

“Aye,” he said testily;
who was in charge here anyway? “
And left behind she would have been tortured to death!”

“I do not disagree with you. However, you must be aware of the ramifications of your actions.”

Carym did not like the knight’s superior manner. He had already considered those very things and was feeling miffed that the knight would assume otherwise.

“Noted,” he grumbled. Gennevera was now helping the strange woman to the side of the clearing where Kharrihan had appeared from the woods.

“She is not diseased,” announced the small elf, with a measure of awe in his voice. The rest of the group looked at him questioningly. Bart appeared by his side nodding agreement. “She is of the Jaguar Tribe.”

“What tribe is that?” asked the knight, uncertainly. “I have never heard of them.”

“That is probably because they are reclusive, like elves, and live in the mountains to the north of here; the mountains where your Tomb is said to be hidden. Perhaps Hessan’s minions thought this one may have information as to the whereabouts of the Tomb.”

With a sidelong glance at the knight, Carym was relieved when he saw the warrior nodding to him, a silent acknowledgement of his wisdom in rescuing the woman.

“Either way, she needs help. And badly. Perhaps there is something I can do,” said the bard.

Carym watched the man expectantly. It was widely known that bards often performed as battlefield surgeons, their healing skills and knowledge of herbs was legendary. But Bart did not produce any herbs or salves or bandages. Instead he took out his flute and began to play. The melody flowing from the flute was hauntingly beautiful. It touched Carym’s soul like nothing he had ever heard, easing his own mental burdens.

Kharrihan seemed aware of what the bard was doing and stood with his hand over the woman’s wound. She was unconscious and seemed to be fading. The music seemed to reach her and she began to stir. Kharrihan lifted his hand and to Carym’s amazement, the wound closed over and the flow of blood stopped. The woman settled down and stirred no more, her breathing remained strong and regular. Her features returned to normal and the young woman appeared exactly that, a young woman.

Carym stared at the bard in amazement. When the song stopped, Carym felt a pang of loss. “What on Llars was that?” he asked.

“That was the song of the Storm Lords,” whispered Bart.

C H A P T E R

10

The Rider Pursues.

The Cost of Escape.

“The Storm Lords?” asked the knight, skeptically.

“Aye,” said the bard, standing and putting his flute away. “It was not mere chance that you and I met in that inn, as you have probably suspected.”

“What?” Carym demanded, sensing foul play. “I thought you were of the Bard Alliance! Who sent you?”

“None but the winds of Fate herself,” the bard replied mysteriously. Seeing the dangerous look in Carym’s eye, he decided it would be wise to elaborate. “I am Barthal O’Donnel, as I have already said, and I am in fact a bard. And, as you, Carym are in fact
Fyrbold,
I am
Tyranar....
so I am.”

Silence fell in the camp. Kharrihan even seemed surprised at the revelation; though Carym didn’t know if the elf was just surprised that the bard decided to share his secret at all.

“What is a
Tyranar
?” asked Carym, exasperated.

“Storm Lords. We are to the Sigil of Air as you are to the Sigil of Flames.”

“How can that be? I thought that there were no other Sigilists?”

“The Circle of Mysts’ purpose these long centuries has been to keep the lore of the Sigil of Air, to await the Return. There are many more like me among my order, some may have already begun to sense the Tides returning.”

“That order has been extinct for centuries,” growled the knight, still skeptical.

“Extinct like the Fyrbold
?
” quipped the bard with a glance at Carym and a laugh at the scowling knight. “That is what we wanted you to think. Do not doubt, Sir Knight, each of the other five Sigils has its own order seeking the very same end.” The bard plucked a leaf from a nearby shrub, wiped it on his shirt, then stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it.

“I can see the Tides clearly now. And I can use them; something I had not been able to do until you explained the nature of your own powers. You are the
One,
Carym.”

“I guess I am,” he agreed numbly.

“The Fyrbold will be seeking you too, determinedly so. They will be skeptical of you and they will be unpleasant; typical of the Fyrbold, that.”

Carym stared at the man in wonder.
How many more surprises are in store for me? What is this man’s agenda? Are the Storm Lords to be trusted?
He cursed his ignorance on the matter and glanced at the rest of his group.
Are they members of secret organizations too?

Seeing Carym’s consternation, Kharrihan spoke, “Carym, I have known Bart many years. He can be trusted.”

“How can I trust anyone?” he asked harshly. “My lifelong friend has abandoned me and stolen the very thing that has enabled us to survive the last days of this horrible quest. I have been forced to make a deal with a devil to save my own skin, when that very deal may soon cost the lives of innocent people, perhaps even women and children. Families whose menfolk aren’t there to protect them,” he finished very quietly, almost whispering.

“I know this comes as a shock Carym, but you must understand we are on the same side,” said Bart.

“How must I understand? I know nothing of your Order. I know nothing of your ways, or your deeds or perhaps even misdeeds. What is your motivation? What is this Circle of Mysts?”

“We are a secret Order, descend from the ancient Storm Lords, seeking only the return of the Sigil of Air, which you have already succeeded in accomplishing.”

“So leave then,” he said tersely. “What more use do you have of me?”

The knight stood by watching intently, close to Carym. “The prophecies speak of the return of the First Paladin in the context of the Fyrbold, bard. They say nothing of the Storm Lords,” offered the knight.

“
Your
prophecies, knight.” Then he turned to Carym. “I ask your permission to continue along with you, so I do. I have knowledge of the way of the Sigils. Perhaps I can teach you some of the finer points of the use of Sigils, now that your mentor is gone. But even more, Carym, I believe in
you!
I believe in your quest.”

“What of the darker nature of your Order, bard? What of the assassins!” said the knight, he veritably spat the word.

Carym scowled and sat down, trying to think this through; he felt like the knight was stretching now. Perhaps he was trying to provoke the bard that he might better judge his character. Whatever the reason, the bard didn’t rise to the knight’s bait; he just stuck an odd looking leaf in his mouth and began to chew. Carym knew he was being childish; Bart had done nothing to deserve his mistrust. He was just lashing out, the pain of Zach’s abandonment a fresh would.

“Kharrihan and I are old friends and we might bolster your chances of success, we might indeed.”

“I know something of the history of the Fyrbold, Carym. Perhaps Bart and I can help you sort this out.”

Carym nodded his head to the elf, saying nothing. He looked at the newcomer to his group, the strange shape-shifting woman. Gennevera sat next to him, and hesitantly placed her arm around his shoulder. He looked at her and his heart warmed, suspicion melting away. “Please, sit. I am just tired of being surprised.”

“I understand,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “You have a burden to bear, now.”