The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 02 - The Darkest Hour (15 page)

             
“Well?” The Warleader was obviously waiting for an answer to a question that Zarfensis hadn’t heard. Xenir stood, gripping the edge of the table with extended claws, glaring at the High Priest. It would do no one any good to provoke the Warleader, so rather than show that he hadn’t been paying much attention to the tirade, he took a different path.

             
“You are absolutely correct, Warleader. It is a shameful disgrace. However, what if I told you that even being subjected to such dishonor, the Chosen came out of the entire encounter with the advantage?”

             
“How?” The Warleader was plainly skeptical.

             
“We have this,” Zarfensis replied, taking the stone fingertip from his belt pouch and laying it on the table between them.

Xenir glance
d at the stone, then to Zarfensis, and back again. He shook his head slowly.

“You mock me? We lose four of our warriors to the vermin and yet you mock me?” The Warleader’s voice had grown in volume until the end of his sentence was little more than an ear-splitting roar.

The High Priest spread his hands, palms up, a gesture of supplication. “I mock no one, Warleader. Not you, and not the memory of our fallen brothers. This is no simple stone,” he said, tapping the table with one claw. “What lies here before you is incredibly valuable. Its appearance is deceiving.”

“Then what is it?”

“The living finger stone of a gargoyle.”

Again, the Warleader looked from the High Priest to the stone and back. Xenir picked up the stone and turned it over in his palm. His tongue flicked out, circling his maw. His ears twitched in agitation.

“You have the living stone of a gargoyle?”

“It was a happy coincidence, to be sure. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. However, we do have it. The sacrifice of our brothers was great, but so was the reward that came from our endeavor.”

Xenir dropped the stone back to the table as if it had burned him. “So what do we do with it?”

“We find the relic and ensure that we get to it before the
Swordmage or any of the other vermin.”

Without waiting for Xenir to ask any more questions, Zarfensis took the gargoyle’s finger and cupped it in his massive hands. As he spoke the ancient words of power, calling on the forces of the sphere, he felt the stone vibrate in his hands. He pressed the
fingertip to the wall of the council room and watched as it melted into the stone. Xenir rumbled deep in this throat, but Zarfensis ignored him.

The cavern began to tremble and the two Xarundi had to brace themselves against the table to keep from
being knocked over. The shifting of the walls and floor was enough to unnerve even Zarfensis, so he could forgive the stink of fear wafting off the Warleader.

A moment later, the earthquake stopped and an area of the council room wall began to glow with the reddish-orange color of molten rock. As they watched, the molten area became larger, eventually spreading from the ceiling to the floor. A face formed in the center of the glowing mass and pushed outward into the room, extruding itself. Arms and legs appeared next, as the gargoyle hauled itself out of the fissure. The opening closed behind it, leaving only the stifling air in the room and the odor of charred stone in its wake.

“High Priest. Warleader.” The gargoyle nodded to both Xarundi.

“How did you--” Xenir blurted, but the gargoyle cut him off.

“The stone hears all, and we hear the stone, Warleader. Please forgive my brusqueness, but our time is short. The moon’s rays do not reach us here. My name is unspeakable by your race, so you may address me as Sleeper.”

“Sleeper,” Zarfensis said with a respectful half bow. “We wish to know--”

“The location of the relic which you seek, so that you might obtain it before the humans.”

“Yes.”

“I must commune with the stone,” Sleeper replied, stretching out his hands and caressing the rock as one would touch a lover. His touch lingered here and there, tracing lines and striations in the wall as he mumbled to himself in a language Zarfensis had never heard.

“Yes,” Sleeper said. “The stone remembers. It remembers many relics the Chosen have sought over many hundreds of years. You seek one relic, a special relic, buried in snow and ice.”

“Yes!” Xenir’s skepticism seemed to have waned at the mention of the relic from his vision. “That is the relic I saw!”

“The stone remembers. Many Xarundi have sought this relic.”

“My great grand-sire among them, Sleeper.” Zarfensis was nearly as excited as Xenir. “Can you show us where it is?”

“I can show you what the stone remembers.” Sleeper took his hands from the rock and traced a series of symbols on the wall with one stony finger. The traced sigils glowed bright orange on the dark stone before they seemed to take on a life of their own. The symbols spread out, twisting and writhing across the wall. A mountain range of tiny little spikes grew from the stone. In other areas, the stone dropped away, leaving deep valleys and wide expanses of emptiness.

It took Zarfensis a moment to realize that what was forming before them was a map of Solendrea. Xenir’s startled yelp from behind him satisfied the High Priest that the Warleader had come to the same conclusion. Sleeper tapped his finger deep in a rocky range of hills.

“This is the area you call the Warrens.” Sleeper traced a circle with his finger and the area began to glow with a pale orange luminescence. He traced a line from the Warrens, zigzagging up through the clan lands and into the icy wastes far to the north. Farther north than the Xarundi had ever explored.

“Here,” Sleeper said, tapping the spot where his finger had stopped. “Here is the place you will find your relic. Beware, the thing you seek is ancient and powerful. Perhaps more powerful than you can control.”

Zarfensis stared at the map, trying to commit every detail to memory. Xenir had the presence of mind to grab a scrap of parchment from the scroll case and was rapidly scratching out a crude replica of what was displayed on the wall before them. Xenir gave an inarticulate cry as the map began to fade into the same glow that Sleeper had emerged from.

The gargoyle stepped into the molten rock, his body half consumed by the unlikely portal, he inclined his head toward Zarfensis.

“Farewell, High Priest of the Xarundi. Our alliance is concluded. Thank you, again, for freeing me from the humans.”

Without another word, he vanished into the stone, the molten portal sealing behind him.

Zarfensis turned to see Xenir standing over a crude, but
mostly complete, replica of the map Sleeper had drawn for them.

“It’s real,” Xenir whispered. “It’s real and we know where to look for it.”

             
“This is it?” Tia had tried to keep the disappointment from her voice. She knew Wynn was excited to bring her here, but somehow, she had expected something much more impressive.

             
The gate room was small, nondescript, and much plainer than Tia would have imagined. Maybe fifteen feet square, the only remarkable feature of the room was the gate itself. A ring of standing stones about waist high and twelve feet in diameter. A wizened old man sat on a bench in one corner of the room, wiping down a tin bucket with a scrap of cloth. Wynn looked hurt and Tia felt a stab of contriteness. She had asked to come, the least she could do was be polite.

             
“I’m sorry, Wynn.” Her grin was sheepish. “I was just expecting something a little more...”

             
“Something more magical and sparkly?”

             
Tiadaria laughed. “Yes, something more magical and sparkly.”

             
“Well, when someone is coming through, it gets a little more interesting. Then you might find it appropriately impressive.”

             
“Is Blackbeach the only other place with a gate?”

             
“That I know of.” Wynn nodded. “Although, I’m told that the order wanted to put one in Dragonfell, but the king wouldn’t allow it.”

             
“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.” Tiadaria wrinkled her nose. “Heron is a great man and a good friend, but he has some strange notions about quintessentialists and magic in general.”

             
Wynn stared at her for a moment before he was able to speak again. “So you’re on a first name basis with the One True King?”

             
“No.” She faltered when he quirked an eyebrow at her. “Well, yes, but it’s not like that. We, uh, found ourselves thrown together by circumstance.”

             
The look Wynn gave her seemed to say that that particular circumstance was just about as likely as a dragon popping up in the gate room, but he said nothing.

             
“So,” Tia continued, filling the awkward silence. “If there is near instantaneous transport between Blackbeach and Ethergate, why didn’t Faxon tell me about it?”

             
“I suspect he probably would have, had you not taken it into your head to run off on your own.” Wynn frowned at her. “When Faxon says something, it's usually for a good reason.”

             
Tia sighed. If she had to endure one more of Wynn’s lectures on logic, reason, and responsibility, she was going to scream. The first day or two of their recovery, he had been almost normal, happy to be alive. It hadn’t taken long for that to wear off and for the apprentice to return to his stubbornly rational ways.

             
There was a commotion in the hallway outside the gate room and Tia and Wynn turned toward the door. Cabot, looking much disheveled, stumbled into the gate room, fumbling with the buttons of his doublet. One of his boots was untied and his travel pack was half open, threatening to spill its contents over the floor at any given moment.

             
“Oh, Tia, Wynn. I’m glad to see you. You’re both looking well, by the way. I knew a couple of days in the capable hands of Ethergate’s healers would set you right.” His voice cracked and he hastily cleared his throat.

             
“In a hurry to get somewhere, Cabot?” Tia was curious what would have the normally imperturbable young man so out of sorts.

             
“I’ve been recalled to Dragonfell. I was hoping to catch the gate back to Blackbeach and shave some time off the trip.” He looked expectantly at Wynn. “What do you say, Apprentice Wynn?”

             
Wynn looked at Cabot, then glanced at Tia, silently pleading for her to intervene. She shrugged.

             
“I don’t know the gate ritual,” he finally said to Cabot. “I wish I could help.”

             
Cabot looked crestfallen. A shadow of something flickered behind his eyes so quickly that Tia was sure she had misread his expression. “I understand. Thanks anyway, Wynn.”

             
The young man turned to leave and Tia laid a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened and for a moment, she thought he was going to turn on her.

             
“Cabot?” she asked quietly. “What’s going on?”

             
“I just need to get back to Dragonfell.” He took a deep breath. “Harold. My father. The innkeeper. He died this morning. His injuries were just too severe.”

             
“Oh Cabot, I’m so sorry.” Tia’s eyes were suddenly wet. She could still see Harold sprawled on the common room floor.

             
“Yeah. I need to go. Maybe there’s a wagon heading east.”

             
Cabot all but ran from the room, leaving Tia and Wynn standing in silence. Tia wiped her eyes and turned to Wynn. She was surprised to see that his eyes were just as moist as hers.

             
“Wynn?”

             
“I’m fine. Harold looked after me for a while after Faxon brought me to Ethergate. He was...important to me. When Cabot came to see you in the infirmary, I knew he was familiar. I just now realized why.”

             
“I’m sorry.”

             
“Me too. So let’s get to the library and find this relic before anyone else has to die.”

             
Tia chose to ignore the bitterness in his voice as they made their way out of the gate room and across the city toward the reliquary. The wall in the lower library had been repaired, the lightness of the new stone a telltale sign of the recent construction. The tunnel beyond had been collapsed with charges of flashpowder. Never again would Ethergate by breached by way of the old Xarundi bolt-hole.

             
Although the wall had been patched, no one had been in to set the library right. Shelves were still toppled in all directions and books and papers were strewn about without a care for their age or fragility.

             
“You’d think a city full of quintessentialists would be more concerned about their books.” Tiadaria was collecting the oldest tomes from the floor and piling them on the nearest desk.