The Faerion (30 page)

"A sponge for life-force," said Blackthorne. "A vampire of sorts."

"Quaint," said Wynne. Blackthorne glanced at her.

Wynne began to hear a voice in her mind. It was a fuzzy sound, both comforting and irritating. At first she thought it Galamog, but it did not threaten, nor did it feel evil. There was strangeness to it and she could not make out the words. It seemed to be urging her to do something. The voice did not grow in volume yet it seemed to start a throb in her head.

Blackthorne moved to the left and Navir to the right to flank Galamog. The dark queen laughed at them, but her voice did not sound Man anymore. She was slipping back to her original form. It proved difficult to do anything but watch. Even Navir felt the tingle of fear in his flesh.

They each ran to different areas as bolts of blackness shot out from Galamog singeing anything it touched. Navir dove and spun to escape death. Blackthorne threw spell after spell at the creature with no noticeable effect. Wynne held her head, the voice blasting inside her, quenching her thoughts.

The squat black shape with flailing appendages filled the ravine. Galamog appeared part spider, part octopus. The stench assailed them, invading their lungs, clinging to their clothing. Wynne covered her face, running to find a place to hide. The inner voice grew louder, urging her to fly. She shook her head, trying to displace the words. The Faerion held tight to her bosom also seemed to murmur. For several minutes she worried that Galamog bewitched the book but then the voice began to speak of her mother. She heard things Navir did not tell her, yet there was truth in what she heard. This she knew in her heart. As a Wierlun she could truth-say and no one could speak falsely to her without her knowledge. The words she heard came from the Wierluns who had created the Faerion and given their lives so Galamog could be ultimately destroyed. The inner voice was the voice of the Faerion. Wynne opened her mind to the voice and knew what she had to do.

Navir hid behind a boulder and watched Wynne as the feathers began to sprout during her transformation. For a moment he feared for the Faerion, then he saw it clutched in the hawk's talons, shimmering with a faint blue light. The boulder rocked as Galamog assailed him again. Rocks fell upon him and he scrambled to escape the punishment. Blackthorne's voice rose time and again, only to be submerged by the hideous laughter of Galamog. Her voice shook small rocks off the sides of the hills. Navir tried to support Blackthorne's spells with his own. Galamog sensed the increased attack and blasted the overhang where Navir stood. He fell down the ravine, striking his head as he settled at the bottom. The blackness of Galamog washed toward him.

The hawk cried overhead, swooping low with the Faerion clutched tightly. The blackness paused, and then rose to meet her. The hawk dropped the Faerion into the center of the darkness and peeled away. Blackthorne made his way to Navir and dragged him away.

Suddenly, a burst of color erupted from the blackness and two creatures could be seen. It appeared the black-armed spider form of Galamog struggled against a huge tree shape. Its green branches wavered and struck Galamog. A flash of green and blue preceded a cry of pain from Galamog.

"The Faerion!" cried Blackthorne. "It turned into a living creature."

"The accumulative power of the Wierluns that made it," gasped Navir. His breathing still labored after his fall.

"How did Wynne know?"

"I do not know," said Navir. "I wasn't certain how it was supposed to work myself."

They watched the supernatural creatures' battle. No one spoke.

Berimar had sensed the coming of Galamog. He felt the vibration through the stone of the mountain. Her rage was terrible. At this moment, when deciding to thwart her designs, Berimar felt fear. True fear. Despite the generations of servitude she forced upon him he never realized what true fear could be. He would risk the end of his lengthy life to save the Tuors? Perhaps it was his own freedom he craved. It mattered not.

He watched the Tuors. They knew fear. He had their lives in his hands. So far he had been able to resist Galamog's directives. It tired him and soon he would have to submit. If he moved quickly, the Tuors could escape. He watched Culver wash Elise's face. She would die, regardless of what he did. However, he might spare Culver and Tomen. Was it worth the risk?

"There is a chance to save your lives," Berimar whispered to Tomen. "But it may not work and we all shall perish."

"It is better than waiting here for you to kill us."

"There is no hope for Elise."

"I know it, but do not speak of it to Culver. His heart is already breaking. We must keep his hope alive."

"Even falsely?" He arched an eyebrow.

"Even falsely." Tomen sighed. There were no good answers.

"Come," he said to Tomen. "Bring the other two. Galamog battles your friends. If we are lucky, I might be able to help them and yourselves."

He handed Tomen and Culver long knives that served for swords for Tuors. The hilts were inlaid with pearl and the blades gleamed red.

"These are enchanted. They will bring injury to any supernatural being you encounter. I doubt we will see Men in this battle except for those on our side. Right now, Galamog is engaged with Blackthorne, Wynne and Navir. I plan to add whatever assistance I can. You three are to escape. Run as fast as you can and never look back. Run all the way to Paglo. I will try to keep you safe. Let us go."

"Berimar," said Tomen. "Thank you."

The sorcerer grinned a sad grin and patted Tomen on the head.

Even as they left Berimar's sanctuary the seekers waited for them. Berimar filled the cavern with power, searing everything in its path.

They dashed over the smooth stone path, Tomen bringing up the rear. Seekers appeared from nowhere. Berimar blasted them with bolts of power and Tomen's sword killed those that drew near. Culver, holding the increasingly weak form of Elise, kept pace with Berimar.

The path to the surface seemed shorter than their decent.

They stepped out of the cave into a surreal scene. The Faerion creature and Galamog battled below them. Tomen rubbed his eyes. It could not be real. Berimar pushed them out.

"Run! Run!" His voice boomed through the mountains. Even Galamog paused and turned toward him.

Galamog hissed in rage as she saw the Tuors escaping. With a scream she unleashed a stream of power at the Tuors. Berimar moved instinctively, throwing up a shield to protect the Tuors. The blast ricocheted off the shield and struck Berimar fully. Galamog roared even as the Faerion creature attacked again, drawing her full attention.

The creature of forest green resisted the enfolding of the black shadows of Galamog. Streaks of green shot out of the darkness like light through a cracked door in the night.

Wynne regained her Man form and staggered to Navir who held her tightly. It was over for them. Whatever happened, win or lose, they could do no more. Blackthorne stood off to one side away from the glare of Tomen. Berimar sat as if senile. His bloody mouth hung open and he patted the cold forehead of Elise. Culver did not notice the battle of the Faerion and Galamog. He sat on his knees, holding Elise's hand, thinking of all that they would never do, how brave she was, how pretty she was, why did she choose him and why did she come on the journey. His thoughts ran wild through his mind, a kaleidoscope of images numbing him.

The air was full of thunder. Galamog screamed in rage, tearing at the creature the Wierluns made when they became aware of her coming to their land. Galamog tore the greenness into bits, battering the creature until it was no more. Her red eyes turned to the watchers on the bluff. She laughed, shaking the very earth. The blackness reached for them.

Behind her the color of the trees grew together with a sucking sound and the creature of the Wierluns leapt upon the blackness that was Galamog. The thunderous concussion knocked Wynne and Navir to the ground. Galamog screamed and raged, struggling to free herself of the Faerion.

A strange thing happened. The green began to blend into the blackness, darkening as they mingled. Darker and darker it became until it was almost black. Yet, it was not. Slowly the green began to grow, spreading throughout the area until the darkness was gone. Then the greenness pulled itself back, compressing into a small shape.

They watched but nothing more happened. Navir stepped forward. Blackthorne followed him. Wynne held her breath. Navir walked to the shape and bent to it. He picked it up and turned to Wynne.

"It's the Faerion again. Just a book."

"It's never been just a book," said Blackthorne.

"Give it to me," rasped Berimar.

Navir looked at him.

"Don't," said Wynne. "We can't trust him."

"Galamog is dead," said Berimar. "And my life is nearly over. All I want is one chance to see it again."

"Again?" said Navir. "When did you see it?"

"Heh, heh. You do not know?"

"I know," said Blackthorne.

"Of course you do. You were there."

"Where?" asked Wynne.

"The Faerion was not created by the Wierluns alone," said Blackthorne. "Berimar helped them. He gave them the structure of the book to fill with their power. He showed them how to accomplish their desire."

"It was before I foolishly allowed Galamog to trap me," said Berimar.

"Why didn't tell us?" asked Wynne. "Well could have prepared for this battle."

"I do not know the limits of Galamog's power. Because if I spoke it aloud, she might hear me and know I held such knowledge. And then she would try to force my mind to reveal everything I knew. I played a dangerous game for many years. She could have tried to destroy me at any time."

"It looks as if you are dying now," said Blackthorne, not unkindly.

"I believe you are right. It does not sadden me. There is a new era dawning."

"Is Galamog really dead?" asked Wynne. "Or imprisoned?"

"The Faerion was supposed to kill her," said Berimar.

"Supposed to? Can you tell if she is dead?"

"I can't sense her anymore but she is a Jungegud."

"A god?" said Wynne. "Can we kill a god?"

"Unlikely," said Navir. "I would guess she is imprisoned and if she escapes we should be far away."

A shout rang out from up the trail. Two figures ran down to join them.

"Berimar!"

"Dellana? Dellana, is that really you?"

She ran to him and hugged him. Behind her came a man in a habit. He grinned at the two, and then noticed the others.

"I'm Carle. I recognize Wynne and Navir."

"I am Blackthorne. Those two are Culver and Tomen. They are Tuors."

"Tuors! I thought they were only stories." He stared at them, and then turned away, embarrassed. "I see they grieve for the other one."

"Don't disturb them," said Wynne. "You are a member of the Brotherhood of the Rose?"

"No longer. I no longer follow their policies."

"I see. What can you tell us of Nantitet? How is Treteste governing?"

"Not well. Wierlandians have laid siege to Nantitet. I don't know all the details, but Sir Kirkes is leading a rebellion against Treteste. Prince Estes is with him."

"Estes?" said Wynne. "He's alive?"

"A man named Apal brought him to Nantitet."

"Apal is really Lord Tagera," said Navir. "I tired of Estes and left him in Tagera's hands."

"But why is Kirkes against Treteste?" asked Wynne.

"I believe the imprisonment of Queen Richela and Sir Kirkes led to his defection. I can say that I assisted in their rescue. I am no hero, and I don't mean to speak proudly, but it was a departure for me."

"We understand," said Wynne, smiling at Carle. "Tell me of the Wierland siege. Can they take the city?"

"I don't think so, but they are led by a berserker. He kills everyone. Sir Kirkes did not seem bothered by the prospect of fighting a berserker. I don't know anymore. I tend to ignore politics."

"Who is Dellana?" asked Wynne. She noticed Carle kept an eye on her and she recognized the glow in his face when Dellana was mentioned.

"Berimar's sister."

"I don't see the resemblance," said Wynne. "She doesn't favor him thank goodness."

"Indeed," said Blackthorne. "For centuries I believed they were husband and wife. A clever deception. Berimar was defying Galamog all those years ago. Interesting. She has magic?"

"Yes. I've seen her use it. She surprised me. She was also a member of the Brotherhood."

"Clever hiding place," said Wynne. "Daass would never have found her there."

"Someone did. I think Garlac knew who she was, or at least suspected some of her origin. He dug his nose into everything he found. Very little escaped him. I'm surprised we did."

"I'm afraid Berimar is dying," said Wynne. "I cannot help him."

"Nor I," said Blackthorne.

"Even if I had the strength, the damage to him eludes my skill." Navir tried to put his arm around Wynne but she pushed it away. He followed her away from the others.

"I must have more time," said Wynne. "I see your side now, but it does not ease the pain. You don't know what I went through."

"I respect your wishes. We have time. If nothing else, we have that."

"Navir, how old am I?"

"You are as you appear."

"The last of the Wierluns were killed hundreds of year ago. How did my mother survive that purge?"

Navir rubbed his forehead.

"Every choice I have made with you turned out wrong. I am glad I am not human, having to raise many children. How is it done?"

"How old?"

"Well, as near as I can remember, you were born 278 years ago."

Wynne's eyes filled with tears.

"Where was I all that time?"

"Mostly with me, but as a hawk. I decided to send you out into the world when I grew tired of caring for you in your Man form. I could trigger the transformation. Your human form wouldn't age while you were a hawk and the hawk is ageless. Your mother told me that. I became fearful for you when you changed into a Man on your own. I had been gone several days when I found a near death toddler in my lodge. You nearly starved because you couldn't fend for yourself, nor could you change back into the hawk. I decided then and there to find a suitable home for you. Then, I lost track of you and the years. I have no excuse."