The Quest (The Hidden Realm Book 5) (29 page)

Large brown eyes gleaming with excitement, she followed Forian’s sleek form deeper into the clear waters of the pool. Reveling in the liquid medium that now surrounded her, she alternately darted about, propelled by her webbed paws, or hung suspended and motionless, enjoying the sensation of being weightless. Beneath her, Forian pursued silvery trout as long as a man’s arm, finally seizing one of them in his jaws. Looking up through the clear water above her, Anthea saw Elerian standing by the edge of the pool. A gleam that might have been laughter or perhaps only reflected starlight lit her eyes before she darted down into the depths of the pool and closed her mouth on a second trout, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of smooth skin and cold flesh on her tongue as she did so. After she and Forian had caught six fish and dragged them onto the bank where Elerian waited morosely, they finally quit the pool, water streaming from their sleek fur. They saw then that, alongside the trout resting on the bank like bright bars of polished silver, Elerian had added an armful of watercress and several handfuls of large mushrooms with honeycombed caps.

While Forian resumed his natural form, Elerian restored Anthea to her own shape, carefully schooling his features to conceal his amusement at the annoyed look on her face when she discovered that she was wet and dripping beneath her clothes. Fortunately, Forian was just as wet, giving credence to the innocent look Elerian assumed when Anthea turned a suspicious glance his way. Ignoring both his damp state and Elerian, Forian sat down on the root of a great oak tree, his leaf green eyes fixed on Anthea.

“How much of you is Eirian?” asked the Niadd abruptly.

“Very little,” admitted Anthea, sitting down beside Forian. “I am mostly human.”

“Then, at the risk of offending you, I must tell you that the path you follow will lead you into grief,” said Forian somberly. “The same sad fate that waited for Eliphas will fall on you if you wed Elerian.”

“Our wedding is no longer a foregone conclusion,” said Anthea coolly, at the same time casting a sidelong glance at Elerian who stood nearby listening. “I am, however, curious to know what the fate is that you speak of.”

“It is the doom that falls on every mortal who falls in love with one of the elder races. You, Anthea, will grow old and die, but Elerian will remain unchanged for centuries or perhaps forever if he has inherited Indrawyn’s immortality.”

“Anthea and I have discussed this before,” interrupted Elerian impatiently. “We will happily take whatever time we are allowed.”

“If we are wed,” said Anthea coldly. “When I promised myself to you, I had no idea that you had such an aversion to home and family.”

Elerian was dumbfounded at her words, for it seemed incomprehensible to him that after all that had passed between them she could turn away from him so easily, but he detected no gleam of humor in her cool blue eyes. Before he could issue any protest, Anthea leaped lightly to her feet and stalked off toward the oak sheltering the rest of the company. In silence, Elerian and Forian cleaned the fish lying on the bank before gathering up the bounty they had collected.

“Believe me, it is better this way, Elerian,” said Forian as they, too, returned to the oak where their companions waited for them. “It will be better for both of you if you make a clean break now.” 

“There are things that are still hidden from you, Forian,” replied Elerian impatiently. “After a battle in which she defeated three Goblin mages, Anthea was left drifting towards death. I brought her back, but in doing so, I awoke the elvish blood which runs almost true in her veins. With each day that passes, she becomes less human.”

“I see now where your hope lies,” said Forian doubtfully, “but what if you are wrong?”

“In that case, I will take to the dream paths when Anthea leaves me and not return,” replied Elerian grimly.

“You are like your mother then,” replied Forian sadly. “She intended the same fate for herself when Eliphas came to the end of his days.”

After Elerian and Forian arrived at the oak, they found a blanket hung over the entrance. Stepping past it, they discovered the whole company inside, sitting on a thick cushion of decayed wood and leaves. Taking the fish, Ascilius grilled it over a mage fire which he had already lit in the center of the cavity. Beside him Anthea chopped the peppery watercress before placing it into a bowl. The mushrooms she cooked in a skillet along with bits of bacon after slicing them thin. Elerian frowned to see the two of them thick as thieves while he was ignored again. Feeling that he had no part in the warmth and cheer that pervaded the hollow, he lifted the blanket that concealed the entrance and stepped outside. Climbing lithely into the upper branches of the oak, he sat on a wide limb with his back propped against the rough barked bole of the ancient tree, brooding in silence as night fell around him.

THE SENDING

At the same moment that Elerian sat in his tree, far to the west, Torquatus also sat alone with his thoughts which were none so pleased and confident as they had been only four days ago. Once again his enemy had thwarted his plans. Elerian’s rescue of Orianus’s daughter from the most secure cell in his kingdom had sent a tremor through the foundations of his reign, for the Dark King sensed doubts now in his servants that had not been present before. Behind the subservient features which masked their true thoughts, he knew that the strongest of them were observing him closely now, searching for any weakness that they could exploit.

Opening a small portal with a wave of his right hand, Torquatus sent it out over the face of the Middle Realm. Far to the south, through its magical eye, he saw that the gates of Marsala, the key to Hesperia, were under assault by his dark forces. West of the city, smoke rose from burning homes and farms the length and breadth of Lascar, forming a dark pall over Hesperia’s northernmost province. In the shadows of its forests, lupins and mutare snapped and quarreled over their grim feasts.

In the east, more of his forces were gathering in Silanus, armies of Wood Goblins, lupins, mutare, and Trolls as well as tall, grim Ancharians. When the time was right, Lepida would open the way for them, and they would storm over the Arvina, bringing Tarsius under his rule. Sending his eye south, he saw ships with black hulls and sails manned by grim Ancharians harrying the coast of Tarsius, distracting Orianus and his armies from his western borders. Speeding north, his eye perused another of his dark armies camped before the gates of Iulius, waiting for the moment when Herias would unwittingly allow them into the Caldaria. Sending his eye west across the Murus, he beheld a land already firmly in his grip, for his surrogates and servants held all of the fortresses, overseeing the miserable men who labored endlessly to do his bidding. Surrounded by the dark forests which had invaded their countries, they crouched shivering around their fires at night, sheltering in rude huts and miserable towns while Mordi prowled through the forests and lupins howled in their depths.

“The Middle Realm trembles before my power, but I am still not able to contain the actions of one Elf,” thought Torquatus grimly to himself. “Four days now and there has still been no sign of him. He vanished from Tyranus through a gate, but my spies tell me that he has not appeared in Tarsius or any other kingdom east, west, or south of the Broken Lands. Reasoned thought tells me that his second gate exhausted his power, and that he is now concealed in some wild place in the Broken Lands, waiting either for his power to wax again or for an opportunity to cross on foot into safer lands.”

A small but growing sense of uneasiness pricked at Torquatus’s mind then, for once again, all the elements of Dymiter’s prophecy were beyond his control and free to act against him. Of its own accord, an image suddenly appeared in his mind of a great hourglass, sand pouring slowly but surely from the upper chamber. Like the sand, his own life and kingdom might end if he did not slay the two agents of Dymiter's foretelling, or at least destroy the talismans that they carried. Opening his long right hand, Torquatus thoughtfully regarded the small vial of Elerian's blood which he held in his palm. The contents of the vial had pleased him enough that he had given the Uruc who brought it to him a quick death instead of a long, painful one.

A pleading, mewling cry drew his gaze then to a small iron cage set on a black table of polished basalt that stood to the left of his throne. Confined inside of it was a black rat with red eyes grown thin from hunger and thirst. Trapped inside the beast was the shade charged with guarding Anthea’s cell. Besides sharing in the misery of its host, it suffered further torments when Torquatus siphoned off a little more of its power each day.

“Have mercy master,” it begged mind to mind, but its pleading only added to Torquatus’s cruel enjoyment of its plight. Turning his attention back to the vial in his hand, he weighed again whether he ought to use its contents.

“Once loosed, the creatures which I create will not easily be contained again,” he thought to himself, “but what does it matter if first they manage to rid me of this Eirian and his companion?” Resolved at last to act, Torquatus kicked with his booted right foot the small, furred form that crouched miserably at his feet, feeling a surge of pleasure from the act of inflicting pain on Malevolus.

“Fetch Valgus,” he said harshly to his servant, who now crouched just out of range of his feet, awaiting his orders. At once, the Goblin turned spadix scurried away, returning a few moments later with the captain of the Dark King’s personal guard.

“Valgus,” said Torquatus softly, “I have a task for you. Take a half dozen of your soldiers and search among the Goblin mages who have displeased me for four of the strongest that you can find. Find me, too, one human prisoner. Bring everyone to the chamber at the root of the mountain and summon me when they are assembled.”

Valgus bowed and left without a word to carry out his task, for the vial his master held in his hand and his request for mages told him more clearly than speech what his Dark King intended. Following his master’s instructions, Valgus brought four sullen Urucs and a Hesperian to the dungeon that lay in the deepest regions of the fortress. After stripping the Goblins, he chained them to a wall. The human prisoner, bound hand and foot and deathly pale from fear under his layers of dirt, was thrown into a corner. Dispatching his six Goblins to summon Torquatus, Valgus waited alone in the cell with his prisoners, the red mage lights burning in lamps set on the black walls of the chamber casting a ghastly hue over his pale, lean features and those of the prisoners.

Slow minutes crept by, the only sounds in the chamber the harsh breathing of the prisoners and the occasional rattle of an iron link. When the Dark King appeared suddenly in the cell, seeming to materialize out of thin air when he stepped through a portal, Valgus, well used to these sudden appearances, remained still. The prisoners, however, started back, the links of their chains rattling as they shifted uneasily about, startled and made fearful by Torquatus’s sudden appearance. Shivering in their chains, wondering what awful fate awaited them, they stood with lowered gaze as Torquatus examined them with his cold, predatory eyes.

Pleased by what he saw, Torquatus turned to Valgus, who fixed his dark eyes doubtfully on the four thin collars of black iron Torquatus held in his pale hands. On each one, a single line of flowing, twisting script was engraved into the iron, the etchings filled with silvery argentum.

“Even the collars that you hold will not entirely control the creatures you propose to create lord,” said Valgus, speaking with the familiarity of long association. “Once transformed and loosed, they will not easily be contained or killed, for all four are powerful mages.

“I care not who they kill or how many, so long as they accomplish the task I will set them to,” replied Torquatus callously. Ignoring the misgivings of his captain, he silently cast a spell over each collar in turn, the letters written on them turning crimson, as if they had become small coals. When Torquatus handed the collars to Valgus, they went dark once more.

Under the watchful eyes of his Dark King, the Uruc swiftly and surely fastened a collar about the neck of each of the first three prisoners, who darted their dark eyes desperately about the grim chamber, as if seeking some escape from the awful fate which was about to visited on them. When the last one pulled away slightly, Valgus, displaying an enormous strength out of keeping with his slender form, delivered a blow against his left cheek with the flat of his right hand that threw the prisoner back against the wall behind him. After closing the last collar on the dazed Uruc, Valgus stepped back behind Torquatus.

The Goblin King slowly raised his right hand, the heavy silver ring he wore on his index finger catching the red glow of the lamps and taking on a bloody hue. As a haze of red magical energy, visible only to Torquatus’s third eye, covered the four cowering prisoners, the script on their collars began to gleam again like lines of red fire. Slowly, under the influence of the spell cast by their king, all four of the Urucs began to change. Shaggy black hair grew out to cover their sinewy bodies, and they grew taller and heavier, dwarfing Torquatus and Valgus. Their faces changed to those of beasts with elongated, wide muzzles filled with sharp teeth and long fangs. Hands and feet became more like paws with stubby fingers sporting long, curved claws intended for holding and ripping. The dark eyes of all four Goblins changed from black to yellow, seeming to glow from some inner fire burning in their depths.

As he lost his last resemblance to Goblin kind, one of the changelings threw back his head and howled, the sound echoing and reechoing throughout the chamber. One after another, the four newly made licantropes snapped the heavy chains that bound them to the wall. Snarling, crouched on all fours, they formed a half circle around Torquatus. Behind the Goblin King, Valgus nervously laid his right hand on the hilt of his dark sword, prepared to leap forward to defend his king's life with his own, but the changelings stopped instantly when Torquatus raised his left hand. The slender figure of the Goblin king was overshadowed by his monstrous creations, but he showed no fear as he spoke in a commanding voice.

“I bind you now by the power of the collars you wear to find and destroy my enemy. Let nothing stop you less than your own death, neither hunger nor thirst nor weariness.” Opening his left hand, Torquatus exposed the small, glass container that held Elerian’s blood, the thick red liquid inside it appearing almost black under the rays of the mage lights. He hesitated for a moment, then, for it was an enormous risk to introduce blood to these creatures, but driven by his pride and by necessity, he finally tipped his palm, sending the vial crashing to the floor where, amidst the sound of shattering glass, the blood splattered onto the stone floor of the dungeon. Jostling each other and snarling, the changelings lunged forward to thrust their broad muzzles into the blood, snuffling deeply of its scent as they lapped up the bright crimson drops with long red tongues.

“Thrust the human into their midst, Valgus, before they turn on us,” Torquatus quietly urged his captain. Seizing the Hesperian by the hair with his right hand, Valgus dragged the prisoner from his corner and cast him into the midst of the four slavering beasts crouched before Torquatus. Their foul breath blew into his face when their cold yellow eyes immediately turned his way. One brief, terrified scream issued from his lips before he was torn to pieces, his blood splashing across the floor and walls of the chamber. Standing as closely as he dared to the bloody melee, Torquatus inhaled deeply of the alluring smell of blood as his changelings fed. Behind him, Valgus licked his thin lips, red sparks floating in his dark eyes.

Reining in his savage instincts, Torquatus silently signaled to Valgus with his right hand. Careful to make no move or sound that would attract the attention of the creatures feeding on the Hesperian, Valgus crossed to the far side of the chamber where a stout iron door was set in the stone wall. Quietly, he unlocked and opened the well-oiled door, exposing a passageway that led up to the surface well beyond the walls of Ossarium. Then, standing behind the safety of the door, he suddenly whistled sharply. At once the four licantropes turned and rushed at the sound, mouths agape. They would have tom him apart then through the bars of the gate, but the sight of open doorway overrode their desire for blood. Driven irresistibly by Torquatus’s directive, the blood-maddened creatures bounded up the passageway, their howls echoing through the tunnel as they raced toward the exit where a second door had already been opened for them. A cruel, satisfied smile now appeared on Torquatus’s pale face.

“No matter where the Eirian has hidden himself, my creatures will sense his blood from afar,” he thought vindictively to himself. “Fearing neither light nor dark, they will not tire no matter how far they run. He may slay one of them, but not the greatest hero of the past could slay all four, for their stony flesh will resist even a magical blade, and their teeth and claws will rend even the finest mail.” Turning to Valgus, Torquatus said softly, “Sound the horns in warning. Let everyone beware of my sending, for they will rend friend and foe alike!”

After his Dark King suddenly vanished, Valgus left the bloody dungeon to carry out Torquatus’s final command. Soon, the sound of brazen horns blared harshly from the windows and gates of Ossarium, their hash notes warning all the surrounding countryside to beware of the horrors that had been loosed from the depths of the fortress.

Running northwest, the four licantropes left a trail of death and destruction in their wake, for there were many abroad on the Dark King's errands who were not able to seek some safe refuge in time. At each kill, they paused only long enough to lap fresh blood and rend the air with their uncanny howls before racing off again. Fixed in each of their bestial minds was the scent of the one they must kill and where they must travel to find him, for the Dark King’s spell had created an ethereal link between them and Elerian that only death could sunder.

Unaware of the sending Torquatus had loosed against them during the night, Elerian and his companions resumed their journey west the next morning, unaware that their path and that of the changelings would eventually intersect near the borders of Nefandus. Staying near the fringes of the foothills, they walked through an ancient wood was inhabited only by wild animals, but out of an abundance of caution, Ascilius skirted the open, stony meadows that were so common in the Terra Fractus, keeping entirely to the forest where the sun did not penetrate through the thick canopy of leaves overhead, trusting to the thick cover and Elerian’s illusion spell to keep him and his companions concealed from any enemies that might be about.