Trials (32 page)

“Definitely Ilenian… I recognize a couple of symbols which are very curious. On the one hand the symbol of the Soul, and also one I think represents a Great Warrior or Fighter.”

Iruki was amazed that it fitted so perfectly what her sword represented.

“Didn’t you find anything else in the sarcophagus?” Iruki went on, with a touch of suspicion in her voice.

“Well, I think it was Komir who looked inside the sarcophagus, but I don’t remember him finding anything else.”

“Tell me, Lindaro, does this Komir have eyes of an intense emerald green and long brown hair?”

Lindaro was surprised.

“That’s right. How… how did you know? Do you know him perhaps?”

Iruki smiled. “Let’s say I’ve seen him… that we’ve been… connected…” she emphasized the element of mystery in her words. “But your friend Komir hasn’t told you everything, Lindaro.”

“What do you mean?” asked the good priest nervously.

“I mean this,” replied Iruki. She took out the Medallion from the Temple of Water she wore round her neck and showed it to him.

“A medallion, I don’t see…”

“You’d better listen carefully, because the story I’m going to tell you now equals the one you’ve just told us. Only the spirits of the steppes know how we managed to survive. It must have been they who protected us when we were on Masig sacred land.”

Iruki told them then how she and Yakumo had escaped from their tireless Norghanian pursuers, the climb to the Fountain of Life, the traps inside the Temple of Water, the sea snakes of the abyss, the Guardian Mage they had had to confront, and the medallion of the King she had found in the sarcophagus.

Lindaro and Sonea listened open-mouthed, speechless, riveted by the story the young Masig was sharing with them. Sonea was the first to react.

“That Temple of Water has to be an Ilenian Temple!” she said excitedly, waving her arms enthusiastically. “It has too many things in common with the Temple of Ether to be just a coincidence. The odds that these two temples aren’t related are, in my humble opinion, practically non-existent. That sword and the medallion prove it. Their origin is Ilenian, which means that both temples must be the same, and what’s more, there must be a connection between them. There’s still more that I can’t manage to see, even though it’s right here in front of us…”

Lindaro had astonishment written all over his face.

“By the Light that guides us and illuminates us! I agree with Sonea. This is wonderful news! Two Ilenian temples, in two distant points of Tremia, related. It’s amazing. We must find out what else is behind the temples and the mystery they hide.”

“The temple of Water and the Temple of Ether…” said Yakumo thoughtfully. “My master taught me the Way of the Five Elements. This is a doctrine that gives the power to survive under the most extreme conditions, and to make use of the five elements when using the Gift…”

“Have you been blessed with the Gift?” Lindaro asked, impressed.

Yakumo nodded in silence.

Sonea broke the silence: “He’s right. In our culture the basic elements are four: Earth, Water, Fire and Air, and we don’t include Ether as a fifth element. But because of my studies at the Great Library, I know that some cultures do.”

“Then do you think the Ilenian temples are related to the five elements of nature?” said Iruki.

“No doubt of it!” said Sonea and Lindaro at the same time. They looked at each other and laughed.

“And what about this place we find ourselves in?” asked Yakumo, looking around him. “My Gift warns me there’s a powerful magic here. A magic that exudes antiquity, together with something else I can’t grasp. But its essence is very similar to what I felt at the Temple of Water.”

“The grimoire of the Temple of Ether showed me this place. That’s why we came here intending to find out what it hides.”

“My medallion showed me the way to this place too,” said Iruki.” That can’t be a coincidence either.”

“No, I’m sure it’s no coincidence,” said Sonea. “This place was built by Ilenians. The symbols and runes engraved on the floor show that.

Lindaro looked round warily. “So we must assume that we really are in an Ilenian temple.”

He fixed his eyes on Iruki’s medallion, and his expression became thoughtful.

“You said before that Komir hadn’t told me everything. What did you mean?”

Iruki smiled at the man of faith. “Your friend didn’t tell you that he found a medallion in the sarcophagus, around the neck of the King who was resting there in his eternal sleep”

“No… but I don’t see. How do you know that was the case?”

“I’ll tell you, man who serves the Light.”

Calmly, the Masig told them of her encounters with Komir and the girl with the golden hair, by means of the link provided by the medallions they carried.

Sonea clapped her hands in delight.

“Three medallions! That means… three Ilenian temples!”

“We can surmise so…” said Lindaro.

“Could you communicate with Komir now?” Lindaro asked excitedly. “They left before I’d recovered from the wound I got in Ocorum, and I haven’t heard from them since then. I pray to the Light to protect them and I hope they’re well. Is it possible for you to find out?”

Iruki shook her head.

“I’m sorry, man of faith. The visions are not called upon by this daughter of the prairies. I believe they are created by your friend Komir, whom I mistook for an evil spirit sent to steal my soul. The medallion round my neck,” —she said caressing it lightly ̶ “acts of its own accord. I’m nothing but a means for its magic. I can’t activate it or control it. Perhaps Oni Black Cloud, the shaman of my tribe might be able to…”

Yakumo stood up and unsheathed his daggers. “If we’re in an Ilenian temple, we’re in danger. We must prepare ourselves and be ready. Remember the traps, remember the Guardian Mage. It’s time for extreme caution.”

Not far away, in another limestone cave, Lasgol awoke, bruised and bewildered. He looked at the blue water around him, only a part of the ground was solid rock. Beside him, undaunted, Morksen was sharpening his hunting knife.

“Where are we…?” Lasgol asked.

“I haven’t the least idea, but it’s time to hunt the Assassin.”

The night was perfect for the risky mission.

At last.

Gerart looked at the sky, searching for the moon, but did not see it. He looked for a star shining above, but there were none to be seen either. On that dark night the clouds covered the whole firmament and not the least sparkle came through to reach the damp earth. In that blinding darkness the forest rose threateningly like a nightmare monster waiting to devour anyone who dared go into it. Gerart turned cautiously. He could see nothing behind him, but at the same time no one would discover them.

“Look for the Nocean watchmen. None of them are to escape alive, or else the mission will fail. And get rid of the bodies,” he whispered to the three officers who followed him. The officers saluted, and a few moments later three dozen men left stealthily to carry out the orders of the Prince of Rogdon. In the blink of an eye they had disappeared, swallowed up by the dense forest and the reigning darkness.

Two scouts came back to Gerart. Their faces and clothes were camouflaged and they were barely discernible, they looked like forest shadows. One of them was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. Gerart did not see the wound at first, but when he noticed it he looked at the soldier’s eyes and in a muffled whisper asked him what had happened.

“A Nocean watchman, your Highness.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Good. Is the way clear?”

“Yes, your Highness. We found another watchman a little further on, but we took care of him before he could run and alert the rest.”

“Good, excellent job, soldiers. Now take us to the hermitage.”

“At your command, your Highness,” said the scout. He and his companion turned round to lead the way.

How those men could see within the forest on such a dark night was something Gerart did not understand. He was unable to identify anything more than two hand’s-breadths away from his nose. He had asked for the best scouts of the realm, and that was what he had got. The mission was critical for the survival of Rogdon. The kingdom’s fate was hanging by a thread. If the mission failed, the thread would break and Rogdon would perish. But Gerart preferred not to think about such a possibility at that moment. They had been preparing the mission for weeks, and now it was vitally important that everything went according to plan.

He glanced back. A dozen Royal Swords, all in black, followed closely. Their faces were painted black so that only their eyes, filled with courage and loyalty, could be seen. They were dressed like his own guard: black chain-mail and doublet, black tanned-leather gloves, reinforced black pants and high black riding-boots. On their backs they wore a long black woolen cloak with a hood that covered their blond heads completely. Even the swords and daggers they carried were black. He touched his own cheek and put his finger in his mouth. The black paint which covered his face tasted of rust.

A wolf howled in the distance. Gerart could not help the thought: if a single Nocean watchman discovered them, everything would be lost. They went on deeper into the forest, which was growing thicker and steeper as they advanced, making the silent incursion more difficult.

“This way, your Highness,” whispered the experienced scout as he turned east, circling a group of moss-covered rocks. Gerart followed him to what looked like the edge of the forest. The second scout came up to them.

“The open area begins right ahead. The hermitage is in the center,” whispered the first scout.

“Shall we go?” Gerart asked uncertainly. The darkness prevented him seeing the hermitage, although he did see part of the flat land around it opening before them.

“We’ll have to check the perimeter first, your Highness. There may be an enemy watchman or a patrol near the area. Wait for our signal.”

Gerart nodded, and both scouts left at once. The first one went westwards, following the edge of the forest, and the second went eastwards. Both of them at a crouch, hiding under the trees. Neither set foot on the open area of land. Gerart and his Royal Swords waited, tense and alert. After a long moment a Royal Owl called three times from the opposite side of the forest.

“That’s the signal. We must move on.”

Gerart signaled to his men to enter the open area. As fast as they could, crouching and with the utmost caution, they crossed it and reached the old stone hermitage. They waited with their backs to the walls of the small building in silence, away from prying eyes. All of a sudden the two scouts appeared at his side. Gerart’s stomach gave a lurch.

“There’s no danger, Sire. Go inside,” whispered the one nearest him.

They followed him into the hermitage. It was a simple building, plain and with space for only twenty people, as was the tradition for these buildings of the Order of Light. The priests would come to these rustic chapels about once a month, attracting the nearby residents of the areas without a village. There were many scattered farms whose dwellers made a living from the mountains and woods, which because of the war were now deserted. The Nocean army commanded the southern region of Rogdon, and most of the people who lived there had gone north long ago.

Gerart walked into the hermitage through the main door. He followed the two scouts between the lines of benches till he reached the pulpit. An enormous but plain symbol of Light, carved out of wood, hung on the wall. Gerart looked at it for a moment: a star of thirty points in shining white set inside a circle of the same color against a black background. When he looked closer, he realized the black background was nothing more than a dark cloth fastened to the stone wall. An enormous stone chest, with prayers and blessings chiseled on it, rested below the symbol of Light. The two door panels were shut behind Gerart’s back, leaving the place in complete darkness. Four small windows, two on each side wall, would normally have let in some light, but that night was so black that none passed through them.

“Have the torches at the ready, but don’t light them until I give the order,” said the Prince of Rogdon. Blindly, Gerart followed the wall with his hands until he reached the black cloth hanging behind the great symbol.

“Quickly, lift me up,” he said. The two scouts by his side followed his order. Gerart ran his fingers over the cold, rough stone under the cloth until he came to the center of the great symbol. Come on, come on, it has to be here. Abbot Dian confirmed it. The Order of Light has kept the secret for centuries, and it’s never been revealed, but it’s here and I must find it.

He heard a loud crack under the pressure of his hand and his heart filled with joy. He jumped down to watch in astonishment as the slab which covered the massive stone chest sank, revealing a narrow passage under it. “Blessed be the Light and the blessed priests who protect it!” cried Gerart to himself.

“Scouts, watch the entrance. The enemy must not find this secret passage.”

“At your command, your Highness. We’ll protect it with our lives.”

Gerart nodded. Without wasting another moment, he went into the chest, then down the passage to a tunnel dug under the forest. The dozen Royal Swords followed suit.

“Torches!” he cried, and his men, at the ready, lit two torches.

The tunnel was wider than Gerart had imagined. That was good news, and some of the restlessness that gnawed at his guts disappeared. In the light of the torches the tunnel looked like that of a mine and had been built and reinforced in the same way. Dampness seeped through the earthen walls. Judging by the state it was in, it was clear that no human had set foot in that passage in many years.

“Let’s go,” he said to his men, and they all moved on quickly down the dark, abandoned tunnel. It took them several hours to get to the position Gerart wanted to reach.

“Move on silently now,” he whispered, putting his finger to his lips. “We’re right under the first wall, the outer one.”

Before Gerart rose the granite foundations of the first wall which had fallen into enemy hands weeks ago. Gerart went on to a metallic door with black bars set into the rock wall. He stared at the intricately wrought-iron lock and shook his head. They could not break through that iron door. Luckily, he had counted on that. He took two huge keys from a pouch at his belt. The biggest keys he had ever seen. Abbot Dian had given them to him, together with the map of the secret passage. “King’s Escape” he had called it. The priests of the Order of Light kept very valuable secrets, on his return he would have a chat or two with the good Abbot of Ocorum.

They went on underground. Above them rose the foundations of the great city: neighborhoods, streets and plazas. They crossed it quickly to reach the second and inner wall, where his brave countrymen were still resisting the siege. Gerart opened the second wrought-iron door and went on to the Duke’s castle. They reached the rock wall where the tunnel ended. Gerart stared at the wall by the light of the torches, in puzzlement. He had not expected this. Abbot Dian had not warned him of this particular obstacle. He grabbed a torch and ran it along the wall, but there was nothing to be seen. Upset and angry, he pulled his hood back, and in so doing his eyes went unconsciously to the ceiling. There was a trap door there, covered with dirt and mold.

“The entrance to the castle!”

Together with two of his Royal Swords, Gerart pulled the ring on the trapdoor, and it gave with a fearful squeal. They went up some stone steps to a heavy marble slab. It took several of his men to lift it.

They found themselves inside the castle chapel.

They got to their feet, coming out of one of the Duke’s family tombs.

Gerart looked around. With great surprise he found himself confronted with twenty Rogdonian soldiers, who were staring at him with disbelief.

A dear friend led them.

“Welcome to Silanda, your Highness,” said Mirkos the Scholar, stretching his arms with a wide smile.

From the top of the inner wall, Gerart looked at the lights above the besieged city. Even on that night, with neither the moon nor stars as witnesses, he could make out the devastation and ruin which the Noceans had wreaked upon the once-prosperous and beautiful city, the jewel of the south, the southern capital of the Kingdom of Rogdon. Thousands of fires, torches and oil lamps illuminated the destruction.

And during those terrible moments in which his soul bled for his people, he found his thoughts turning to what his heart yearned for: his beloved Aliana. He had lost her somewhere in Usik territory, but with his whole being he refused to accept that she was no longer alive, in the same way that he refused to accept that this war was lost for Rogdon.

No! We’ll come out of this trap, we’ll come out victorious. Against wind and sea we shall win. They day of Victory shall arrive with Aliana at my side, sharing that glorious moment with me.

Dawn arrived while Gerart still struggled with feelings that threatened to flood him like torrential rain. With the first rays of the sun the view of horror became clearer, and his heart shrank with pain. Hundreds of buildings had been destroyed, whole portions of the city razed to the ground. Several of the most emblematic neighborhoods had been completely demolished, those of the arts, the merchants’ quarter, the district of craftsmen. The Nocean army had taken up its position in the rubble of the once flourishing city, far enough to remain out of reach of Rogdonian arrows, yet close enough for the last defenders to feel the constant threat and pressure of the enemy. The invaders had made a giant pile out of the bodies of the fallen from both sides and had placed it well in sight of the defenders. The putrid stench of the bodies reached the wall on the southern breeze.

“It’s heart-breaking, isn’t it?” commented Mirkos sadly from beside Gerart.

“All this death and destruction… it is horrible…” said the Prince.

“It’s the price innocents pay for the excessive greed of Kings, my young Prince. Never forget these images, keep them in your memory. One day you will be King, and the decision to avoid atrocities like this will be in your hands.”

“You needn’t worry, dear friend. However long my life might be, I shall never forget what our kingdom, our people, are suffering in this vile war. I know my father has done all he could to prevent it, and I would have done no less.”

Mirkos smiled and stroke his long white beard. But the smile lasted only an instant. His face shadowed.

“We’ve been under siege for months. Day after day they punish us, either with catapults and ballistae from a distance or by attacking the walls with the help of their Sorcerers. The Curses Magic is wreaking havoc among our people, even though I do my best to stop it from reaching the walls and the Duke’s castle. Day after day, good old Dolbar defends the wall masterfully. It’s to him we owe the fact that Silanda still holds fast. Without his unequaled expertise at the head of the defense, the city would have fallen a long time ago,” Mirkos indicated Duke Galen’s younger brother, who was watching the enemy.

Dolbar bowed his head at the great Mage’s words and sighed heavily.

“Every day we have more losses here on the walls, while the Noceans destroy and plunder some new part of the city. Soon we shan’t have enough men to defend the whole wall… and on that day it will fall, and soon after it the Duke’s castle, our last redoubt. Not even Mirkos’s powerful magic will be able to stop them for much longer.”