Defenders of The Sacred Land: Book One of The Sacred Land Saga (34 page)

“Good point, forget I asked.”

“All is forgotten.” She smiled, knowing Bhavare did not quite believe her explanation.

The remainder of the day the two travelers sat under cover of the trees but did not talk to each other much. Kimala revisited her plans in her mind, and Bhavare entertained himself by scratching patterns in the dirt with a stick. At last, Kimala deemed it dark enough to proceed, and Bhavare began to search out a suitable hiding place. Kimala approached the keep at a full run once she cleared the trees. Two startled guards stopped her as she tried to run through the gates.

“Halt, woman, what is your business here?” the left guard said.

Kimala spoke in her most serious, desperate tone. “You presume to hinder me? I am Kimala, mistress of Naneden. He has gone mad, and I am here with a warning for Sir Yarbrille.”

“What sort of warning?” the first guard asked.

“Of an attack on the keep and on the Sacred Land,” she said pleadingly. “Let me go to him. You are all in grave danger.”

The two guards looked at each other for a long moment and then the second guard spoke. “I will take her and send Fanteen to replace my watch.” The first guard nodded. “This way, mistress,” the guard said, leading Kimala into the keep.

The entranceway to the keep was a wide foyer with tapestries and implements of war lined along both sides. It led to an enter-chamber, which in turn entered into a large council room. At the rear of the council room was a long table with five men sitting behind it. The guard stopped and stood before the men. Kimala looked around the chamber; several columns supported the domed ceiling and in between each column stood a marble statue of people Kimala did not recognize.

“What is your purpose here?” the man seated in the middle asked the guard.

“I have brought you a messenger from Scarovia. She claims to be Naneden’s mistress bearing an advance warning of an imminent invasion.”

“I never said invasion,” Kimala spoke up. “I said attack.”

The guard became irritated. “All right then, she has news of an attack.”

“What kind of attack?” one of the council members asked.

“I will show you,” she said, taking a tome from her pack. “I have the plans right here.” She held up the book. “May I approach?”

The council member seated at the middle of the table dismissed the guard and motioned for Kimala to approach the table. Kimala handed the tome over to the council member.

“This tome appears to be a grimoire, mistress. Is it your intent to cast a spell over the Enforcer council?” The other council members gasped in shock at the tome.

“How dare you bring items relating to the outlawed magic arts into this chamber,” another council member said. “Arrest her, Yarbrille, and throw her in the dungeon.”

Kimala’s eyes narrowed with contempt at the belligerent council member.

“Quiet, Jacum,” Yarbrille said in a raised voice.

Kimala opened the book to a middle page that did indeed seem to be plans for attack by Dramyds. “You see, I tell you the truth; now read the caption there.” She pointed to some small writing at the bottom of the page. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead as she realized Yarbrille was reading it silently.

“Well, what does it say, Yarbrille?” the far left council member asked.

“It does not make much sense. It says something about a tree.”

No one seemed to notice Kimala smile and take a step back.

“What about a tree?” the council member asked.

Yarbrille stiffened with irritation at the questioning. Then he read:

“
a tree in the forest is tall and true, chop it down and the army gets through, to see it fall is the doom of the keep, the Enforcers will soon sow what they reap
.”

Kimala jumped backward at the word reap, and Yarbrille realized he had read an incantation a moment too late. He stood to counter it, but again he was too late. In a flash of light, a blue, sparkling swirl, the council members all vanished. Kimala smiled with satisfaction. “I thought that old bugger would never read it aloud.” She walked to the only window in the chamber and opened it outward to a small balcony. A black creature stood there in the darkness. “It is done, Drasmyd Duil, where are the rest of your kind?”

The creature did not move but in a raspy, guttural voice answered, “I have sent for them. They will soon be here. Your secret is secure.”

“I have risked much for this; I wish you to realize that.”

The creature’s voice became louder. “You will get your rewards soon enough, vile witch, now leave my sight and prepare yourself to receive the master.”

“Naneden comes here?”

The black creature laughed his unnatural laugh. “No, not Naneden. Drakkius. Drakkius comes to the Enforcers’ keep.”

Kimala sneered. “Even better.”

“Did he not instruct you to come here and do this deed?” the Drasmyd Duil asked.

Kimala cocked an eyebrow. “He did, but he did not say why. I thought Naneden must have been behind it since he involved the tome,” she lied.

“Step aside now, witch, and let me do my work.”

Kimala let the Shadow Lurker slither past her, not knowing whether it believed her lie or not, but she expected it did not.

Chapter 18: Vetell Fex

In all directions lay ruin and lifelessness; the Sacred Land had not known life for one thousand seasons. Vast forests of dead trees and wide patches of lifeless grass on either side of the path made Dorenn feel uncomfortable and, to some degree, sad knowing the land was once vibrant and alive. No birds sang, no crickets chirped, not a creature stirred. Dicarion led the party on until nightfall and then stopped to make camp at the edge of a dead forest. The light of the full moon cast ominous shadows, and Dorenn was glad when Gondrial started a warm fire at the center of camp.

After a quick supper of dried beef and biscuits, Dorenn watched Ianthill pack his pipe with tabac and light it with a burning twig. Thick puffs of sweet-smelling smoke filled the air around him, and he sat back against a fallen log, relaxing for the first time in a long while.

“Ah, I wonder if I might borrow some of that fine tabac, Ianthill,” Dicarion asked.

“Certainly,” Ianthill replied, handing his tabac pouch to the old man.

“It has been far too long since I enjoyed a good smoke. Not many sailors bring good tabac to the docks of Old Symbor,” Dicarion said as he packed his long curved pipe.

Vesperin retreated to his prayers, and Rennon stayed near Gondrial.

“Come, Rennon, we will scout around a bit,” Gondrial said. Rennon nodded, and the two disappeared into the dead woods.

Being alone with the two old wizards made Dorenn uncomfortable at first until he realized it was what they had intended. He moved to join the two elders, and Ianthill produced an extra pipe from his robes. He packed it and handed it to Dorenn, who sat next to another fallen log closest to Ianthill.

“I know of your wishes, Dorenn, and of your sacrifice. Your friends will not understand at first, but if they are true friends, they will come around.”

“I hope what you say is true, Ianthill,” Dorenn answered.

Dicarion let out a great puff of smoke. “The way of the wielder is often lonely. Make sure you know what your full intent is before you take on that responsibility.”

“I do understand it. I feel a pull to it within my soul.”

“Morgoran has foreseen this; he spoke of you over one hundred seasons ago. He said you were the blood of the ancient kings,” Ianthill said amusingly between puffs of smoke.

“Me? How is that possible?”

“How is anything possible? It just is,” Ianthill stated bluntly.

Dicarion eyed the young apprentice apprehensively. “Do you know what you are getting yourself into, boy?”

“No, not really,” Dorenn replied stoically. Dorenn was not about to give the two wielders an opening.

“Are there any questions you wish to ask us while you have the chance?” Ianthill asked.

Dorenn decided to ask the obvious. “Who is the more powerful, you or Dicarion?”

Ianthill laughed at the question, which surprised Dorenn. “Power is in the eyes of the beholder, each to his own gifts. Dicarion is a different kind of wielder than I.”

“Who can cast the most powerful spells then?”

Ianthill began to get irritated. “Surely you can think of better questions to ask than these.”

“No, not really, I want to know.”

Dicarion puffed out a bellow of white smoke. “I will answer the boy, Ianthill. The most powerful spell is blackfire. It is not only the most powerful and the most destructive but also the most costly to cast.”

Dorenn was confused. “The most costly? How does it cost you?”

Dicarion grinned. “Essence, my boy, all magic uses essence, and blackfire draws more than the land can withstand. You see, not only does it drain all the essence around you to cast, but if it doesn’t find enough essence in its surroundings, it will use the essence of the caster and his nearest companions. Friend or foe, it doesn’t distinguish between the two.”

“What happens if it uses the life essence of the caster?”

“If the caster is skilled enough in its use, it will only drain him, and then he is vulnerable. If he is not skilled, it will put him in a deep sleep, a sleep of the dead. Sometimes the caster will awaken and sometimes he dies. If the caster has no skill, the blackfire will kill him as soon as he tries to use it. I would suggest that you never try to use it at all.”

“What does blackfire do exactly?” Dorenn pondered.

“Some things are best left to the imagination,” Dicarion answered. “Just don’t take it lightly and do not try it.”

Ianthill nodded in agreement. “Enough about the blackfire. What is on your mind, Dorenn?” Ianthill asked sharply.

“I just wanted to know…” A strange noise behind him interrupted his train of thought. “Did you hear that?”

Dicarion sat up alert. “It came from behind Dorenn, in the tent.”

Ianthill sat back, puffing on his pipe. “It’s probably just Parlane and the Defenders returning from patrol, or Gondrial playing tricks again.”

Dorenn stood up from the fire and slowly stalked around his tent.

“Be careful, boy, it could be a wild animal,” Ianthill cautioned.

Dicarion scoffed. “In the Sacred Land? I don’t think so.”

Ianthill did not reply, instead he puffed his pipe again.

As Dorenn reached the rear of his tent, he realized the dead forest beyond had become quite ominous as the cloak of night descended upon the land. The leafless branches reached into the dimly lit sky like twisted arms pleading to a silent god for redemption. The moon was still low and orange in the sky as low clouds began to roll in above the trees. A feeling of dread welled up in him as Dorenn searched for the source of the noise behind his tent. The sound occurred again, and Dorenn reached out with his mind to it. Immediately, Dorenn reeled his mind back. He had touched the core of evil. His senses burned, and his nose began to run red with blood. Dizzily he stumbled back to the fire where Ianthill and Dicarion jumped to his aid.

“Something is out there, something bad,” Dorenn said, still feeling dizzy.

Ianthill looked to the direction Dorenn had indicated and then turned back to Dicarion. “Do you feel that, Dicarion?” he asked.

Dicarion handed Dorenn a white cloth for his bleeding nose. “I do now. Something is indeed wrong, and I think the Defenders have been ambushed.”

“I feel it as well. Get rid of that fire before we are next,” Ianthill said.

“What is it?” Dorenn asked.

Dicarion flinched. “I cannot say. Something stirs in the dark of the forest though.”

Dorenn shook his head to clear it. “What of Rennon and Gondrial?”

Ianthill extinguished the fire by kicking dirt over it. “Gondrial can take care of himself.”

Dicarion hunched down low beside Dorenn’s tent and pointed into the forest. “There, I see movement.”

Dorenn squinted in the darkness and saw something white fluoresce between the trees. It glided along as a boat on a clear pond, trailing white mist behind it. “What is it?”

“An abomination,” Dicarion said. “Creations of a twisted mind bent on destruction. Toborne used them as generals for his cursed army. Clerics of the War of the Oracle defeated them at great cost of life, and the mindwielders were completely decimated by them. They are called Shades.”

Ianthill hissed a curse under his breath. “I thought their kind had been exterminated along with the mindwielders.”

“Mindwielders?” Dorenn asked. “What is a mindwielder?”

Ianthill looked as if he had eaten something sour, and Dorenn realized he had not intended to bring them up in the first place. Ianthill shook his head and pursed his lips irritably. “They were the forbearers of what you call wild magic. Their art was lost when the last one died on the battlefield. No one knows how their art works now.”

A sudden revelation struck Dorenn. “So that is what Morgoran meant when he told Rennon to remember it. He was talking of the wild magic.”

“Most likely,” Dicarion agreed.

“But how did the Shades kill them?” Dorenn asked perplexed.

“They are immune to mindwielders. There is some kind of feedback that cripples the mind.”

Ianthill put his hand up. “That’s enough talk of Shades. There has not been a Shade since the War of the Oracle. You must be mistaken, Dicarion.” He gave Dicarion a grave look.

Dicarion nodded reluctantly. “We have underestimated Naneden and his plans since the beginning. He has outsmarted us, and he has remained one step ahead of us on every turn.”

Ianthill sighed. “We need to find Gondrial and Rennon and head for the monastery. We cannot afford rest now.”

“Where did Vesperin go?” Dorenn asked urgently.

Dicarion glanced around in the darkness. “He was praying just outside the camp to the west last time I saw him.”

“Go and get him, Dicarion. If there are Shades out there they will sense him first of all of us and come for him,” Ianthill commanded.

“Why Vesperin first?” Dorenn questioned.

“Because he is a cleric of the Goddess of Life, and Shades are creatures of death. They would sense and hate him the most of all of us.” Dicarion headed out of the camp to the west. A few moments later, he returned with Vesperin, and Dorenn sighed in relief.