Fifthwind (59 page)

"You
can do it!" Ben cried. "You can use your magic to beat this!"

Kyla
was shaking uncontrollably, but managed to reach out and grasp Ben's
hand and opened his palm upwards. Instantly, he felt heat and
something growing above it.

There,
suspended in the air was her undying symbol of the beauty of the
Fifthwind. A purple flame. It burnt with the passionate fury of one
committed to the healing of the world.

The
wind was swirling around them as he knelt in the street, holding her
in his arms. She maintained her stare into his, but her brilliant
blue eyes were vacant and empty. She convulsed again and with the
last bit of air escaping her chest, she whispered, "Morbis."

Then
she settled lightly into his chest and was gone. The flame above his
hand, crystallized and fell into his palm. Its weight spoke of her
passing.

A
small crowd was gathering around the huddled pair, but it was clear
to everyone that there was nothing that could be done. The shocked
stares from the tear-filled eyes of the bystanders told a truth that
Ben was not ready to accept.

Ben
pulled her close and weeped freely. He pushed his lips against hers
and could feel the coolness of her skin. With blurry eyes, he held
his hand out and slowly opened his fingers to look upon her final
gift to him, a crystal that embodied the hope of the Fifthwind.

Even
in death... she still believed.

Not
a word was spoken, and not a figure moved. The silent scene stood
frozen in the memory of those who had witnessed it. No truer love had
endured so much to end in such pain and pointlessness. As if in
mourning, a single cloud passed before the sun and a brought a
saddened chill over the valley.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A
figure knelt before a statue outside the council chambers of Arlemon.
The man had not moved for hours as he held his head low before the
ancient stone effigy. A sword lay at its feet bearing the emblem of a
falcon over crossed spears. In the statue's upturned hand, an object
was placed: A small crystal of purple fire, a symbol of a
relinquished past and a lost love.

As
he was leaving, he turned to the next statue and knelt again,
lowering his head before the effigy of Fahd Cobalius. He raised his
hand to his chest to clutch at the pendant hanging there, but his
hand found nothing. The pendant was gone. He nearly tore away his
shirt to find it, but the item that meant so much to him was not
there.

He
slowly raised his eyes to Cobalius' upturned hand and saw the
familiar rose pendant hanging from the statue's fingers. He
cautiously held back any thoughts of hope, but smiled knowing the
pendant had somehow returned home.

It
was time to leave his former life behind and accept his new calling.
Bennick Karr and everything that man had stood for had died along
with the woman he loved.

He
got to his feet, bowed slightly to all the immortalized Fahd and
turned to once again to leave. He looked ahead to the hillside and
saw seven men gathered to greet him. Somehow it did not surprise him
that they would be there, waiting for him to introduce himself. How
does one introduce himself to a new life?

He
closed his eyes and prepared to Shift, but hesitated for a heartbeat
and softly said, "I am Fahd Morbis."

THE END

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A FOULNESS IN AULDWOOD

The
clouds and the cold receded. Warmth and light returned. And as I
looked down at the horned beast, slain by my own hand, I began to
understand...

It
was our reluctance, I think, to acknowledge evil in the world, that
spawned a propensity to twist many of the old myths into benign tales
that were more pleasant to the ear and more soothing to the soul.
Better to conceal truth behind metaphor and allusion than to face the
vile nature of reality.

Forgive
me, I seem to have a penchant for pensive rambling. Perhaps I should
start from the beginning.

As
I recall, it was late summer, though you would not have known it from
the cold, gray clouds that clung to the treetops with wispy and wet
fingers that reached down from the sky. The change in weather seemed
to reflect the general climate of despondency at the monastery. It
seemed that, despite all we had learned, our best days were behind
us.

It
was an extraordinary time, a time of awakening and advancement, a
time that would leave its mark on the Kingdom of Kreggoria. As our
knowledge grew, the promise it carried filled the world with
marvelous machines and miraculous, new sciences. As the new was
ushered in, the obsolete was shown the door.

"You've
been working too hard," is what I was told. "Take a holiday. Get
some rest."

The
newly appointed Chancellor of the Royal Academy on the grounds of the
Kinston Monastery had similarly sent away other scholars as he
secretly ruminated the future of the institute; there was little hope
that my fifteen years cataloging rare fragments of mythology would
survive the surgical precision of his so-called impartial knife. In
an era obsessed with new discovery, there seemed to be no place left
for the scholarly studies of old. I would undoubtedly be among those
to not return from holiday.

I
was granted a week's furlough at the Esteemed House of
Something-Or-Other along the shore of Miligand Firth. It was a
secluded getaway that was said to be a quaint example of Aristeed
hospitality set in the otherwise somber, Kreggorian countryside. I
am told that my antipathy is unfashionable, but I harbor no
appreciation for the haughtiness of the Aristeeds or their food.
Fortunately, it was unlikely that I would encounter either of those
things in a local boarding house masquerading as a pretentious estate
of self-proclaimed extrinsic finery.

Without
argument, I quietly set about gathering my personal things. Then,
before leaving, I secreted away several documents that had not yet
been cataloged. These were fragile pages of folklore, tales of
antiquity, too valuable to relinquish into the hands of an uncaring
new administration. The documents deserved preservation by someone
who understood their importance.

I
do not often ride, but I can manage to stay upright in the saddle of
an agreeable horse. The journey to the western shore of Miligand
Firth would span two long days with an overnight in the village of
Edgehill. Of course, that was of no consequence; I had no intention
of spending my last week of tenure being served cheap wine and
truffles by dubious "Aristeed" waiters with poorly disguised
kingdom accents, all the while knowing that there would be no return
to the life I once had. My scholarship was over. My work, incomplete.

As
I rode out of town, scarcely familiar faces bearing sympathetic
frowns lined the cobbled roads like a procession of mourners offering
a final goodbye. Through the years, I had come to know the citizens
of Kinston, but now those faces seemed distant and uncaring. Most
turned away without words, but as a light drizzle prompted a
shopkeeper to move his wares inside, he paused to looked at me. He
respectfully removed his hat and turned his eyes toward the cloudy
sky.

"Foul
day," he said. It was all that he said. It was all that he had to
say.

I
nodded and smiled. There was no need to respond; the man was well
aware of the weight that his words carried. It was a foul day,
indeed.

As
evening approached on the second day, I found myself miles away and
confronted with an unseasonable chill that nipped at my bones and
sent my stomach into knots. Even without the courtesy of a proper
rainfall, the near-constant mist dampened my clothes, making them
feel heavy and cold upon my back. Soon, the sound of my cough joined
the solemn chorus of rustling leaves and hoof-beats. The state of my
health was clearly in question. Whether from illness, or the distaste
for my dismissal, I did not know. I did know, however, that it was
time to change the path I was on, both figuratively and literally.

I
surrendered to that premeditation and reined my horse away from my
promised sabbatical and onto a less-traveled forest road. The route
was unfamiliar, and I did not relish the thought of spending a night
alone in the forest, but the path would eventually lead me to the
Western Realm. Perhaps in Arden City, in the shadow of King Erlich
himself, my talents would be appreciated, and the documents I carried
might find a new home.

The
trail was little more than a meandering line of trampled leaves.
Overhead, a thick canopy provided shelter from the rain, but cast my
journey into a patchwork of light and dark that toyed with my eyes
and awakened long-suppressed childhood fears. Out of the corners of
my eyes, shadows moved. The forest was old... and strange,
unexplained sounds stirred my imagination. In the failing light, I
began to question my judgment to enter the forest so late in the day.
My cough had become persistent, my bones were beginning to ache, and
my stomach was uneasy.

As
the evening progressed, so did my feeling of nausea. The farther I
rode into the forest, the more ill I became, a sentiment that my
horse seemed to share. The forest was listless and still, but more
than once, I felt that I was not alone. I sensed eyes upon my back.
Somewhere among the dark boles, a chronic presence lurked, an unseen
entity that seemed to feed on the forest's energy, dampening its
spirit and, I imagined, sapping my own strength.

Light-headed
and haunted by dread visions of ghostly shadows in the dark pockets
of the grove, I pressed forward. Night fell without notice, and in
the near complete darkness, somewhere along that forest trail, I
slipped from my saddle and lost consciousness.

The
hand of a stranger roused me from a fever-induced sleep. I opened my
eyes to a dull morning gloom, my stomach twisted in fits, my mind
racing with images of eyes in the dark. A man with a thick, brown
beard, gently lifted my head.

"Here,"
he said, "drink this quickly!" He tipped a small cup to my lips
and before I could object, a dark, bitter liquid was stinging the
back of my throat.

"I
am Faolan, of Auldwood," he said with a smile. "You need not fear
me."

I
did fear him. I feared the forest, and the clouds, and the eyes in
the dark corners of my mind. I feared what he might say if I dared to
ask. Instead, I kept my tongue and wrangled my nerves. Despite the
horrible taste of the black tonic, I soon felt better and Faolan
helped me to my feet. There was an urgency in his manner and concern
on his face.

"There
isn't much time. We must be gone from this place."

I
was hurried away on unsteady legs. The forest was shrouded in a heavy
fog, but the rain had stopped. Here and there along road, I glimpsed
tufts of withered grass and dying shrubs. Behind the wispy veil of
mist, silhouettes of nearby trees drooped with heavy limbs and a
sickly posture. Then, on the side of the path, not too far from were
I had fallen, we came across what remained of my horse.

The
carcass was gaunt; leather stretched across bones. The mare's eyes
were sunken, her mane was wispy strands of gray web. In the course of
a single night, the animal had been reduced to emaciated remains, as
if drained of life from the inside. Instantly, memories of the night
flooded my mind. Images swirled in my head of something sinister
lurking in the bleak darkness. Something hungry...

"It
wasn't my imagination," I said with a voice that trembled as much
as my hands. "There... there was something in the forest last
night."

"Yes,"
Faolan said. "You were fortunate to fall a good distance back or
your fate would be the same."

I
stepped toward the animal, but a firm hand restrained me. I turned to
Faolan. "Please, I must. It is important."

I
hurried to retrieve my satchel which was still attached to the saddle
of the dead animal. The documents contained within were too important
to leave behind. Sickened, I averted my eyes from the dessicated mare
and turned to the man at my side. "What did this?"

"A
foulness has descended upon us. A creature of spite and deceit."
Faolan grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the near skeletal
remains of my horse. "I will tell you all that I know once we are
safely away from here."

I
was led through dense underbrush and low hanging limbs, up a winding
gully and eventually to another trail; this one was wider and
well-traveled. Soon, we left the stifling weight of the grove behind
and walked a path through tall, yellowed grass that ran parallel to
the trees.

The
sky above was a sickly gray, a single expanse of cloud that stretched
from one horizon to the other. The air seemed thick and hard to
breathe while a ghastly breeze clawed at the back of my exposed neck.
Lost in my own thoughts, I almost did not notice the small collection
of stone and thatch cottages tucked into the edge of the woods.

"Auldwood,"
Faolan said, and picked up his pace.

"Charming..."
I muttered only halfway to myself.

Faolan
responded with a chuckle that was as lifeless as the forest around
me. "You are too kind with your lies. This placed is cursed. Death
surrounds us."

As
we moved through the village, I realized that his words were true. We
passed a small garden of dying vegetables, tended by a man with a
crooked back and hollow cheeks. His eyes lacked the spark of life,
his scrawny arms barely able to pull his hand-trowel through the
stubborn soil. He gazed at me and I felt the burden of his tired
soul, the pain of his dying heart. A sudden realization gripped me.

"There
is sickness here!" I exclaimed, catching my breath and
instinctively moving the collar of my overcoat over my mouth and
nose.