Duty (Book 2)

Trysmoon

Book Two: Duty

By

Brian K. Fuller

Trysmoon

Book TWO: DUTY

Copyright © 2014 by Brian K. Fuller

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

Edited by Jessica Robbins [email protected]

briankfullerbooks.com

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ISBN-13: 978-1502806123

ISBN-10: 1502806126

For J.R.R. Tolkein and Raymond Feist:

Thank you for teaching me to dream.

The Chalaine hurried through the sunset-bathed hallway, hiking her dress up above her ankles so she could walk more quickly. Large, arched windows revealed a deep blue evening sky filled with puffy clouds and shards draped in the warm light of the dying day. Jaron trailed behind her, face grim. The shock of the demon’s attack haunted her dreams, and she slept less and less every night, mind and spirit unsettled.

The Pontiff had delayed the betrothal while he and Mirelle worked to calm the chaos, heal the injured, and bury the dead. The Chalaine knew the ceremony would have to take place soon to restore the people’s faith and confidence. Eight nobles from Rhugoth, three Warlords from Aughmere, and four Tolnorians died that night in the Chapel, and grief and fear wracked the people of Ki’Hal as the news spread.

But there was something else, as well. Gen’s name ran through the streets like wildfire blown on a gale. While many had questioned and even opposed his challenge to the Ha’Ulrich, there were none who could fault his bravery before the demon.

The Pontiff saw to it that the Chalaine’s deeds and those of Ethris and Gen were heralded from every pulpit as examples of the triumph of light over darkness. Because of his performance at the Trials, his challenge of Chertanne, and his courage in the Chapel, Gen’s fame swelled in the minds of commoner and noble alike. The Chalaine desperately hoped he would live to enjoy it.

At the first preaching of the events that occurred the night of the betrothal, many wondered what the Ha’Ulrich had done during the entire affair, for the Pontiff made no mention of him in his account, save to say that he escaped unharmed. But before long—though from whom, no one knew—the tale of the Blessed One, frozen in fear at the sight of evil and lying helpless in his own filth, circulated through the streets. The inaction and fear of the one sent by Eldaloth to be their leader and protector from evil eroded the confidence of the people. If the Ha’Ulrich could not bear the presence of evil as well as a Mage or even a commoner such as Gen, then how would he fare when faced with the greatest evil of all, even Mikkik?

Chertanne’s supporters countered by calling the story of his weakness an obvious ploy of the Ilch, perpetuated to weaken the unity and strength that the people would gain from trusting the Blessed One. They even invented a little story of how Chertanne had shielded his bride-to-be from the demon’s attacks. She snorted in laughter at this fabrication and her mother swore in disgust.

The falsified explanation sufficed for the common folk and settled the arguments on the streets, but the Chalaine and most of the nobles of two kingdoms knew the truth, and their doubts were far from dissolved, festering anew every day. Two weeks had passed since the attack, and the Chalaine knew of several clandestine meetings of confused nobles, though she wasn’t sure what was said. Chertanne called other meetings, attended by those he trusted most, no doubt to plan something to strengthen his position or to inform him of any activity against him.

But the Chalaine cared little about these political maneuvers and manipulations, confident that her mother would handle them adroitly. She descended the steps into the courtyard where those working to restore the Chapel were retiring for the day. They stopped to bow before her; she went by without acknowledging them. Her mind was fixed. In the lower levels of the acolytes’ chambers Gen and Ethris lay dying. Two weeks had passed and neither had awakened.

The Chalaine had come awake late the night of the attack. Her mother, Jaron, Cadaen, and Fenna circled around her. The Chalaine remembered a hundred questions flooding her mind, but the only one that came out was, “Does he live?”

They calmed her and fed her to help her regain her strength, reassuring her that Gen was alive, as was Ethris, but their faces told another story. It wasn’t until the next day when she was permitted to see them, both lying pale and fevered upon the beds of acolytes, that she understood the seriousness of their situation. Runic wards, drawn in white around their beds, protected them from unseen evil, and Puremen waited constantly at their sides, guarding lives that continually threatened to flee.

They had healed most of Ethris’s wounds, but many of Gen’s remained. She tried to approach him, but the Puremen blocked her way and her mother held her back.

“You cannot, child,” her mother explained softly but firmly.

“And why not?” the Chalaine said, her voice betraying her frustration. “Are they to save me and I do nothing?”

“Gen’s wounds were many and deep, and I’m sure some of those you could heal. The Pontiff and the Puremen labored through the night keeping them both alive and healing what they could. Ethris’s body they healed, and they will continue their work on Gen to its completion. But there is something, some poison of the demon, that works within them, gnawing at them. The Pontiff fears you could be hurt if you tried to heal them. Ethris and Gen have suffered more than bodily wounds, and even the Pontiff does not fully understand it.”

“Surely something could be done.” The Chalaine finally acquiesced, going to Fenna and placing her hands on her handmaiden’s shoulders.

Mirelle regarded her softly. “I have sent for Maewen to see if elven lore can shed any light on this.”

The Chalaine had seen Maewen but twice in her life. The half-elven woman looked no older than Fenna, but she had seen centuries pass. The great King Aldradan Mikmir saved Maewen's life during the First Mikkikian War. Since then, Maewen, a tracker of extraordinary ability, had served Rhugoth in its times of need. It was she that helped them find the Hall of Three Moons on the Shroud Lake shard, and it was she who would lead their caravan to it when spring came.

For two weeks the Chalaine had waited for Maewen, some answers, and some hope. Since seeing Gen that first day, she had gone every day, finding him steadily worsening. Fenna kept a nearly constant vigil at his side, holding his hand in hers and sobbing softly to herself or staring at him with a defeated expression. The Chalaine cried, too, though she was never permitted to touch him, for her mother and the Puremen did not trust her to not attempt to heal him.

Ethris fared better. His fever lessened gradually and his breathing came more evenly. By the time the first week passed, the Puremen had healed both of their bodily injuries, though each had massive scars where the creature’s spikes and blades had punctured and sliced their chests and arms during the fight. For Ethris, the scars appeared to be the first he’d sustained. For Gen, they were several of many and not at all out of place.

Today came a brief glimmer of hope. Maewen had arrived and would see them at once. The Chalaine fairly ran past the yellowing oaks and fall flowers, going in through the small doors of the acolytes’ quarters at the rear of the Church and descending a narrow flight of stone steps. She opened the heavy door as quietly as the old hinges would permit, finding her mother and Fenna already at Gen’s side. Cadaen looked on from a corner, and Jaron joined him as the Chalaine took a seat near her mother.

Maewen was there, studying Ethris, her mouth bent down in a frown. The half-elf was beautiful, her long, raven-black hair pulled back away from a delicate, oval face. Due to her elven heritage, her features were thin and elegant, ears slightly upswept, though her human side made her heartier than an elf would be. While her beauty would grace any noble’s court, the Chalaine knew this half-elven tracker was made of iron and had endured struggles and fighting for years untold. She wore the colors of the wood, browns, greens, and grays, and her gear lay in a pile on the floor, the tale of long miles upon them.

“Maewen, this is my daughter, the Chalaine.”

“Yes,” Maewen replied, voice strangely accented but beautiful. “I remember well this veiled one. I see she has grown tall like her mother.”

The Chalaine inclined her head to her. “It is an honor to see you again. You have served this kingdom long and well, and I hope you can shed some light upon this.”

Maewen offered no reply at first but crossed to stand by Gen, considering him with the same grave look she had given Ethris. “I have served and will serve, but I will be of little help here.” At this, Fenna lowered her head. “Though why so much care for this one? Who is he?”

“His name is Gen. He has served my house with great honor,” the First Mother replied. “He is courageous and wise beyond his years.”

“Ah,” Maewen acknowledged, nodding her head. “Then this is the one whose name jumps like a deer from tongue to tongue. I’ve heard tell of him as far west as Jameth. He was more handsome and a little bigger in the tales, however.”

Maewen returned to her seat. “Since you summoned me, I will tell you what I can, but first tell me what happened, in detail. I have caught pieces as I traveled, but I would have the whole of it, without exaggeration or embellishment.”

“My daughter should relate the events,” Mirelle suggested. “She was less affected than any of us.”

The Chalaine told the story the best she could, trying to insert every detail she remembered. What was spoken between Gen and the creature was a blur to her, and she was only able to pick out a few words. Maewen listened expressionlessly, though her eyes revealed her interest. When the Chalaine finished, Maewen stood and paced about the room for several moments.

“Intriguing, and some of it hard to believe. May I assume that the Chapel had been cleaned, refinished, and reworked recently? In preparation for this betrothal?”

“Yes,” the Mirelle answered.

“Then you would do well to look at your workers more closely next time. You were the victims of a Burka pattern, and a clever one at that. Done by someone powerful.”

“A Burka pattern?” Fenna asked, wiping her eyes.

Maewen nodded. “When Trys was still unveiled and the war with Mikkik and his creatures raged, Mikkik’s dark elf Mages were taught by their foul master how to summon beings from the Abyss and force them into battle. Human Mages clandestinely observed how it was done and began to do the same. They learned mental mastery over the demons, forcing them to fight against Mikkik’s own host, evil against evil. They called the creatures using patterns, a different pattern for each type of creature. The patterns were named after the human Magician who first mastered them, Burka.

“When Mikkik found that the humans had copied the trick, he used his power to create creatures in the Abyss itself, demons who could not be controlled using human magic. Instead, they had no mind of their own and were controlled directly by the will of Mikkik, like the puppets your children play with. Cleverly, he used a traitor amongst the humans to reveal to them the patterns for summoning these creatures. The humans learned the new patterns eagerly, hoping for a new weapon to turn the tide of the war.

“You may guess the rest. When the Magicians summoned them, they were unable to force their will upon them and were slaughtered along with hundreds of others. Few escaped.

“As time wore on, Mikkik’s Magicians became more devious, learning to make patterns upon the ground or on a floor in advance and have them triggered by some event, such as the passing of a certain number of people or the speaking of the dwarven tongue. The Mage that created the pattern could be hundreds of leagues away when the trap was sprung. In your case, the pattern was inscribed into the tiles of the floor and activated by the third repetition of the chant.

“Fortunately for the war, a Burka pattern has two weaknesses. For one, the Underworld creature cannot move far from it, the pattern acting as an anchor to its home. The armies of dwarves, elves, and men learned to simply run from the creatures. The second weakness is that those who practice the religious arts can send the creatures back to the Abyss with relatively little effort, at least in comparison to how much energy and skill it takes to summon one.

“War parties took Puremen with them wherever they went. The enemy countered with other tricks. When the pattern in the Chapel was forming, you mentioned how you were frozen in place, unable to move. This innovation in the Burka pattern hindered its victims from fleeing, allowing the creatures to slaughter all those who couldn’t break from the spell. Other patterns were imbued with magics to aid in their effectiveness. Again, the one used against you was created with the ability to destroy the exits from the Chapel and drop rubble around the altar and the Pontiff so the creature could do its work. You are fortunate that the Pontiff is as tough as old roots or you would all be dead or share the same fate as these two.”

Maewen paused to let the information sink in until a voice from the door startled everyone.