The Quest (The Hidden Realm Book 5) (4 page)

“We have the best chance of success if we stay together,” Ascilius replied, interrupting his grim vision. Taken aback by the Dwarf’s rejection of his plan, Elerian suddenly lost control of his temper.

“Enough of the cold logic of your stony hearted race!” he shouted angrily. “Tell me the way to Tyranus!” Ascilius’s face darkened with anger at Elerian’s insult, but he made no answer to his demand, maintaining, instead, a flinty silence. Engendered by Ascilius’s stubborn and, to his mind, unreasonable refusal to divulge the location of Anthea’s prison, a hot, unreasoning fury suddenly blossomed in Elerian’s mind, and his gray eyes took on a dangerous, frantic gleam better suited for an enemy than a friend.

“Tell me the way, you miserable, obstinate creature, or I will force the information from your stubborn lips!” he threatened furiously

“Until your commonsense is restored, I will say nothing more to you,” replied Ascilius angrily, red motes floating in their depths of his dark eyes.

“Where was your commonsense when you blew the horn in the vigilarum of Ennodius,” demanded Elerian sarcastically, his voice still raised, and his gray eyes growing brighter, as if a fever burned within him. Without warning, he suddenly lunged at Ascilius with the speed of a panther.

“Tell me what I want to know, or I will part you from the beard that you prize so highly,” he shouted as, seizing a braid of the Dwarf’s long beard in each hand, he began to tug vigorously on them, as if he intended to tear them out by the roots. Bellowing in pain, Ascilius promptly dropped Fulmen and grasped Elerian by each of his wrists with his powerful hands. A furious contest punctuated by shouts and threats now ensued as he and Elerian strained against each other: pushing, tugging, and whirling violently about as each sought to master the other with strength that would have broken bones on a man.

“Unhand my beard, you fiend!” Ascilius roared.

“Not until you tell me the way to Tyranus,” Elerian shouted back. Despite Ascilius’s iron grip on his wrists, he gave a firm tug on the Dwarf’s captive braids that elicited another pained roar from Ascilius. Standing helplessly at a little distance from the two combatants, Dacien observed with dismay the violent argument that had erupted between Elerian and Ascilius.

“This is no friendly contest such as I have witnessed between them in the past,” he thought to himself as he watched them struggle. “Elerian is overwrought as I have never seen him, and Ascilius is growing angrier by the moment. I must end this now before someone is hurt.” Taking out his dagger, Dacien held it in his right hand point up and pommel pointed down.

“Whose side should I take?” he wondered uneasily to himself. In his heart he sympathized with Elerian’s desire to attempt the rescue of his sister immediately, but reason urged him to take Ascilius’s side, for the Dwarf’s plan to rescue Anthea seemed to have the best chance of success. When Elerian suddenly presented his back, Dacien impulsively struck him on the head with the heavy ball fixed to the end of his dagger handle.

“Now I have you,” shouted Ascilius triumphantly as Elerian went limp. He promptly froze when Dacien suddenly seized the right braid of his beard in his left hand and rested the keen edge of his dagger against it.

“You will stop this mad battle now, Ascilius, or lose half your beard,” said Dacien firmly. The threat coupled with the stern look in Dacien’s gray eyes calmed the Dwarf at once.

“We must act quickly then,” Ascilius replied in a more staid voice. “It is imperative that we bind this fool before he wakes, for in his fey mood, he may decide to use magic against us.” Taking a cord from his pack, Ascilius, with Dacien’s help, quickly bound Elerian’s wrists and ankles, taking extra care to secure his long fingers. When Elerian stirred in the midst of their efforts, Ascilius promptly rapped him on the head with Fulmen’s handle. As Elerian sank back into unconsciousness, the Dwarf’s dark eyes gleamed with pleasure, as if he had derived a great deal of enjoyment from the action that he had just taken.

“Have a care Ascilius!” warned Dacien in an alarmed voice. “Your strength is such that you could easily slay him or scramble his wits with your heavy handed blows! We will need his help if we are to have any chance of recuing my sister.”

“He is in no danger from my love taps,” replied Ascilius in an unconcerned voice. “You have seen for yourself the thickness of his skull.”

After a wad of cloth and a gag ensured that no spell would pass Elerian’s lips, Ascilius sat him down with his back to one of the walls of the passageway. Before long, Elerian regained consciousness again and at once began struggling furiously until another tap from Fulmen, lighter than the last, caused him to see stars.

“Before I release you, you will promise not to harm either Dacien or me,” said Ascilius in a stern voice. “You will also agree to travel with Dacien and me on foot and in your own form when we set off to rescue Anthea.”

Eyes incandescent with fury Elerian glared at the Dwarf who still held Fulmen’s handle in his right hand, ready to deliver another blow if it was needed. Realizing that, for now, he was in Ascilius’s power Elerian struggled to bring his rage under control. He was not able to vanquish it completely, but his mind cleared to the point where thought was once more possible.

“Pretend to agree with him,” prompted that part of his mind that was still subject to his anger. “When you are free, you can strike him down and do as you will.” As he considered that suggestion, through the red haze that permeated his mind like a crimson fog, Elerian suddenly saw Anthea’s fair face, a measuring look in her cool blue eyes.

“Even if I could bring myself to break my word, Anthea would not approve, even if it saved her life,” he thought dejectedly to himself, for there was no mistaking the thought behind that penetrating glance. “For now, at least, I must acquiesce to this obstinate creature before me. Familiar as I am with the stubbornness of his race, I know that he will make good on his promise to keep me here until I give in, even if it should take a year.” His eyes filled with resentment and subdued anger, Elerian nodded his head in acceptance to Ascilius. The Dwarf, confident that Elerian would never break his word, promptly removed his gag before loosening the ropes binding his limbs.

“If I do not arrive in time to save Anthea my promise not to harm you will not save the two of you from my wrath,” said Elerian coldly to Ascilius and Dacien as soon as he could speak. With a great effort, Ascilius curbed the anger instantly engendered by Elerian’s threat.

“It is fear for Anthea’s life which makes him speak thus,” he cautioned himself. “I will tread lightly here until he is himself again.”

“If we survive this hopeless quest, which I doubt, you are free to do as you see fit,” Ascilius replied, making his voice indifferent.

“Do not say we,” said Elerian angrily. “Tell me the location of Tyranus, and I will proceed there alone, for I want none of your company or that of the traitor behind you!”

“If you wish to rescue Anthea then you must follow me as you agreed,” insisted Ascilius. “As for the location of Tyranus, I will only tell you that it is in Nefandus.” Fuming with anger, Elerian lapsed into a sullen silence. For now, Ascilius had the upper hand and would have to be humored.

“If we are to travel on foot, how will we leave Iulius if the pass behind us is now closed against us?” asked Dacien, hoping to ease the tension between Ascilius, himself, and Elerian by changing the subject.

“There is another tunnel leading out of the Caldaria,” replied Ascilius reluctantly. “I would not consider taking it at all if there was any other path we could follow, for the gate blocking its entrance has been opened only once since Dwarves first entered this valley, and the outcome was not a happy one for those who ventured inside it.”

“If there is no other way to leave Iulius, then I will dare this passageway no matter how dangerous it is,” said Elerian without hesitation. “Let us go there at once, for each second that passes has become precious to me, lengthening as it does Anthea’s time of torment.”

“Before we can begin our journey, we must first return to Iulius,” said Ascilius calmly.

“That will needlessly waste several days,” objected Elerian, his anger flaming up again.

“It cannot be helped,” replied the Dwarf patiently. “We cannot open the Black Gate that seals the passageway without Dardanus’s permission. We will also need supplies for our trip. We will not serve Anthea by dying of starvation before we reach her side.” Without any more delay, Ascilius set off down the passageway. Abandoning his saddle, which was of no more use to him, Dacien followed silently behind the Dwarf, the falling out with Elerian and the weariness engendered by his trip weighing down on him like a leaden blanket. Elerian followed behind Dacien, his eyes bright with worry for Anthea, and his heart full of bitterness against his companions for the unwilling promise they had forced him to make.

A DESPERATE DECISION

On the night before Anthea’s disappearance, Merula suddenly started out of a restless sleep, his slumber disturbed once more by the image and feel of Anthea’s dagger against his throat. His open eyes glittered in the dark, betraying the turmoil in his mind occasioned by her most recent rejection of his advances. Anger and bitterness warred with desire in his breast, each emotion demanding a conflicting action from him. As the fog of sleep cleared from his mind, he made a sudden decision.

“I must satisfy all three emotions,” he thought to himself, “else I shall go mad. I will have her whether she wills it or not to satisfy my desire. Then, as she learns to obey me like a spirited steed, broken unwillingly to saddle and bridle, I will have recompense for the injuries she has done to my pride.”

He rose then and looked out the window in the outer wall of his bedroom. From the position of the stars, he knew that it was well past midnight, an ideal time for him to set his plan in motion. After dressing quickly in leather riding clothes and a cloak, he strode purposefully to a nearby stable where he kept his stallion. After saddling his complaining steed, he leaped onto its back. Wrapped in his cloak, its hood pulled low over his face, he rode through the silent, empty streets of Niveaus to a minor gate in the northwestern city walls where the guards let him pass through without question, for his face and voice were well known to them.

“Where does the commander ride to at this late hour, I wonder?” asked one guard of the other after Merula had passed, a puzzled look in his clear gray eyes.

“Best keep your questions to yourself,” advised his companion softly as the clop of hooves from Merula’s steed faded into the distance. “He has been in an uncertain temper lately, troubled by some matter of which he speaks to no one.”

Outside the city walls, Merula followed a tributary road into the foothills behind the city, riding through a dark forest of oak and chestnut to a remote, upland meadow. In this isolated place he tied his horse's reins to a low hanging branch near the edge of the glade. Without stepping out of the shadows, he drew out a silver necklace from beneath his tunic with his right hand, staring pensively at the ruby which depended from it. The artifact had come from the same questionable Ancharian mage who had supplied the gold ring he had used against Elerian during their contest of swords.

“Take this as a gift,” the Ancharian had said, his dark eyes gleaming and his face inscrutable. “If ever you need assistance with some difficult undertaking that you would accomplish, hold the stone in your hand and concentrate your thought on it. It will bring aid to you.”

“Why would you give me such a valuable gift?” Merula had asked suspiciously. The Ancharian had laughed softly in response, as if enjoying some private amusement. “It costs me nothing, for it does not come from me. He who gave it to me is a personage of great power. He has long watched you from afar, hoping to cultivate your friendship,” he said cryptically. The Ancharian refused to elaborate further, but on a whim, Merula had taken the chain. He had never used it until the morning when a confederate informed him that Elerian and Anthea had ridden out alone onto the plains. Well cloaked, he had taken the stone in his right hand in this same meadow, his hate for Elerian burning like a flame in his breast. At the touch of his fingers, the faceted ruby had suddenly burned with a fiery glow, and at a little distance from him, a man high opening had appeared, like a clear window into the night, outlining a tall, dark figure standing in a chamber dimly lit by red mage lights. Their scarlet rays turned the rubies which graced the figure’s iron crown into pools of crimson fire.

“So, the Goblin King is my unknown benefactor,” Merula had thought to himself, recognizing at once the significance of the crown. Fearlessly, he had met and held the dark-eyed gaze of Torquatus. Merula had thought his pale, lean features unexpectedly fair seeming, more like those of a great lord than a Goblin.

“What do you desire my friend,” Torquatus had asked in an unexpectedly pleasant and friendly voice.

“Slay the outlander who has come to trouble me and I will be in your debt,” Merula had responded coldly, in no wise daunted by the closeness of his fearsome enemy. “He is riding the plains to the east as we speak. The maid who rides with him is not to be harmed.”

“I know not why I should aid you,” Torquatus had replied, his voice taking on aggrieved tones. “I recognize you now. When I moved my forces into Orianus’s kingdom, you were one of the chief architects of their defeat.”

“You had no invitation to enter Tarsius,” Merula had replied coldly. “Your armies will never be welcome in my country while I live, but if you aid me, you will have my gratitude. If I gain the throne someday, as I hope to, that gratitude will translate into gold, men, whatever you wish.”

“You will never be king as long as Orianus’s son lives,” Torquatus had objected mildly.

“He would no longer be an obstacle if he fell into your hands again,” Merula had observed coldly. “First, however, you must dispose of the outlander who bewitched the king’s daughter and supplanted me in her affections.” Torquatus had eventually agreed to his request, but somehow, Elerian had escaped the Dark King’s servants. A second attempt to have Elerian slain by Torquatus on the northern Tarsian plains had also failed.

“Little good this talisman has done me thus far,” thought Merula sourly to himself, “but what other choice remains to me except to use it a third time?” Grasping with his strong right hand the red stone depending from the silver chain hung around his neck Merula waited impatiently until Torquatus appeared before him behind a man high portal.

“You have summoned me again, but still not in the manner of a friend,” Torquatus said in a gently, reproving voice from the far side of his magical gate. “Again you have come to me with your face covered, meeting me in a wild and lonely place better suited for desperate folk.”

“I have no desire to be your friend,” Merula replied coldly. “Neither do I wish anyone to see me associating with a Goblin, no matter how high his rank.” Pinpoints of red began to burn in the depths of Torquatus's midnight black eyes at Merula’s insolent tone.

“Is this how you speak to those who would help you?” he asked in a pained voice. “Remember, it was you who first came to me seeking my aid.”

“Had you succeeded in granting what I asked, you might find me more grateful,” Merula replied grimly. “Twice I delivered the outlander to you in a lonely place far from aid and twice you failed to slay him.”

With an effort, Torquatus reined in his anger. “Fate has favored him thus far, but his luck has run out at last,” he replied, his voice low and full of venom. “He is trapped now in Iulius. Once I lay hands on him, he will never trouble you again. But why have you called me tonight?” he asked, his voice again becoming that of an old friend and his pale, lean face taking on a warm and caring look. “What else troubles you besides the fate of the Hesperian?”

“I have abandoned my plan to become king of Tarsius by wedding Orianus’s daughter. I wish now only to possess her,” Merula replied in a hard voice, a familiar wild gleam springing up in the depths of his blue eyes as he spoke.

“I can help you gain what you desire if that is what you wish,” replied Torquatus easily, his sudden delight at the request remaining well concealed beneath carefully schooled features.

“Fate favors me at last,” he thought to himself. “If I can convince this arrogant fool to deliver the woman to me, I will gain a singularly valuable captive. With Orianus’s daughter in my possession, I can thwart Dymiter’s prophesy and at the same time draw the Hesperian out from Iulius using her as bait. She may also offer me the means to bring about the subjugation of her father’s kingdom.” With studied casualness, he walked over to the left hand wall of his dark chamber and slid back a secret panel. After studying the potions and philters that rested there in glass bottles, Torquatus raised his right hand and selected two thumb-sized containers made from clear crystal. One bottle was filled with a blood red liquid. The fluid in the other container had a sickly yellow hue.

“These will do nicely,” thought Torquatus to himself. Walking back to the portal, he said softly to Merula, “Find a way to make the king’s daughter swallow this red potion. It will cause her to fall into a deep sleep after which you can spirit her away.”

“I would be found out,” objected Merula. “Orianus’s hunting hounds are renowned for the keenness of their noses.”

“Rub the potion from the second bottle on your boot soles before the abduction,” advised Torquatus. “No hound will be able to track you then.”

 “Even so, Orianus would leave no stone unturned in Tarsius to find his daughter,” protested Merula. “She would be discovered no matter where I concealed her.”

“I could keep her safe for you in Nefandus,” offered Torquatus, carefully schooling his features into genial lines, for this was a critical moment in the implementation of his plan.

“Why should I trust you with Orianus’s daughter?” demanded Merula, suspicion instantly clouding his handsome face upon hearing the Dark King’s offer.

“Because I am your friend, but if that reason fails to satisfy you then consider this,” replied Torquatus, maintaining an amiable and eminently reasonable tone to his voice. “It will be advantageous for me to have you for an ally, for you are high in the counsels of Orianus. Speak favorably of me in his presence and I will be well recompensed for helping you.” Merula’s eyes again took on a fevered look as desire warred with caution in his mind.

“Once I have Orianus’s daughter safe, you may step through my portal and visit her whenever you wish,” added Torquatus slyly. “You may then do with her as you will.” Merula’s eyes grew even brighter at the image of Anthea suddenly subject to his commands.

“I am the most worthy of her suitors and the most deserving of her hand,” he reasoned to himself. “What does it matter the methods I use to achieve my purpose? If I must resort to abduction and an alliance with the ancient enemy of my people to gain my ends then the fault is hers alone,” he thought bitterly to himself. “Despite my worthiness, she has spurned me over and over, both publically and privately in favor of the outlander, diminishing me in everyone’s’ eyes. There is risk here in trusting this Goblin, but I must have her or go mad.” His gaze fell then on the furred form of Malevolus crouching obsequiously at Torquatus’s feet.

“Have your familiar hand me the vials,” said Merula at last. He was not so trusting of his dark ally as to place himself in his power by stepping through the portal.

“Bring them to him,” Torquatus coldly commanded Malevolus. Taking the vials into his furred right paw, the Goblin turned spadix carried the bottles to Merula, keeping his furred head lowered to conceal the wicked amusement in his yellow eyes.

“Wise fool,” thought Malevolus to himself. “You avoid one trap by not stepping through the portal but fall into another by accepting these potions from my master.” With a right hand that trembled slightly, influenced by the turmoil in his mind, Merula took the bottles when Malevolus offered them in a stubby fingered paw.

“Call on me as soon as you have Orianus’s daughter in your grasp,” said Torquatus to Merula after Malevolus returned to his side. “I will immediately open a portal and have her carried through it to an apartment which I will have prepared for her.”

“I must go then to make my arrangements,” replied Merula before turning abruptly on his right heel and striding away. Behind him, Torquatus closed his portal before seating himself on his throne, smiling as if in anticipation of some savory feast.

“If he is so foolish as to bring this woman to me, it will be the last he ever sees of her in this world,” thought Torquatus sardonically to himself. “Once I have her in my iron grip, I will never release her again alive, for she has a role in Dymiter’s prophesy. I will keep her demise a secret, however. When the Tarsian returns, I will present him with a counterfeit who, through subtle means, may bring him and the Tarsian kingdom under my control.” Torquatus smiled again as he considered the clever plan he had concocted, a course of action devious enough to please any Goblin.

For the rest of the night and the greater part of the next day, Merula neither slept nor rested, instead pacing his rooms in a state of extreme agitation as he readied himself to risk both his position and his life to satisfy need to possess Anthea. In the evening he sent one of his servants to the palace to request a visit from an acquaintance, a woman named Alypia. She was a distant cousin of Anthea and had become her close companion after losing her husband years ago in a skirmish with the Goblins. Tall and dark haired, her fair face softened, and her clear gray eyes gleamed with pleasure when she was escorted to Merula’s parlor and saw him standing there. Handsome and unfailingly kindhearted and attentive to her since the loss of her husband, Merula had never given any sign that he wished to be more than her friend, but he had nonetheless captured her fancy. Now, observing the intensity of emotion in his eyes, Alypia immediately mistook his agitation for a softer sentiment.

“Has he summoned me to declare his love?” she wondered to herself, her heart beginning to palpitate wildly. 

“I have come as you requested, Merula,” she said rather breathlessly, bestowing a warm look on him to encourage any declaration of love that he might be prepared to make. Merula took her right hand into his left, but to Alypia’s disappointment, he merely pressed a small vial into her palm with his right hand rather than drawing her into his arms as she had hoped.