Voyage of the Fox Rider (92 page)

A groan escaped Aravan.

“Oh. What’s that? You would speak? Well then, fool, speak.” And Durlok muttered,
“Elattótheti!”

A degree of the paralysis lifted from Aravan, and he managed to turn his head toward Durlok and whisper, “Why?”

Durlok’s eyes widened in amazement. “You are even a bigger fool than I thought, for when I grant you speech, instead of begging for your life, you stupidly ask a question instead. —Why what?”

“Why dost thou do these evil things? Why didst thou destroy Rwn?”

Again Durlok’s eyes widened. “Evil? Evil! The destruction of Rwn was not an act of
evil
. Nay, not at all! Instead it serves the purposes of my Lord Gyphon. He has plans. Yes, He has plans. —Damn Adon for opposing Him!”

Beyond Durlok, Aravan saw shadow fluctuate about Jinnarin.

“And thou, hast thou no plans?” whispered Aravan.

“Oh my yes, fool. My plans are many. I will rule upon Mithgar.”

More shadow gathered about Jinnarin, her form obscure yet unmoving.

Aravan opened his mouth to speak, but Durlok hissed, “Enough, fool!” He took up his long, black staff in his left hand and raised up the crystal in his right and paused as if admiring the smoky gemstone. Muffled shouting came through the dark barrier at the entrance, and there sounded picks on stone. Durlok laughed and looked down at Aravan, then held the crystal before his eyes. “This crystal is now without power,” whispered Durlok, “but I will Truename it and draw out your astral fire.”

In that moment, Aravan remembered Aylis’s prophecy, and her instructions in magewords, and the circled word in the lexicon of the Black Mage. And he struggled to move, to grasp the stone—all in vain for he was yet held by Durlok’s spell. And Durlok laughed at Aravan’s feeble efforts and raised the crystal on high and opened his mouth to speak—

—And shrieked and clutched the back of his neck, his staff clattering away on the chamber floor and the crystal falling to the altar.

And his face turned grey and he staggered, and he turned to see Jinnarin standing behind, the Pysk stringing another minuscule arrow to her tiny bow.

“Iè húdor genoú!”
he managed to gasp, and the grey fled from his features.

And he raised his hand to blast Jinnarin from existence, shrieking, “You are dead!” but the paralysis had lifted from Aravan the moment Durlok had turned away. And the Elf took up the dark gemstone, and with all his might he stabbed it into Durlok’s back, while at the same time crying out,
“Krystallopýr!”

Aravan had
Truenamed
the stone.

And it flared hotly and drew astral fire unto itself.

And Durlok’s eyes flew wide in horror, and shrieking he clawed at his back, trying to reach the stone but failing. And shrilling, he turned and lurched toward his staff, but the burning dark gem piercing him sucked away his , wrenched out his , the screaming Black Mage ageing even as he stumbled toward his
goal. His flesh sagged then seemed to draw in, his back bent, his skin turned mottled brown and withered, his eyes grew dim and his hands shook with palsied tremors, his throat and jaw and brow and cheeks shrivelled and sank until his face seemed to be nought but a parchment-covered skull. His horrified screams turned to croakings, to hollow whispers, and still he tottered toward the black staff. Ancient, feeble, he fell to his knees, no longer able to walk, and moaning and sissing crawled weakly forward, stretching out a skeletal hand. And as he reached the staff—

—Aravan squatted down and stayed the Black Mage’s hand, the Elf whispering, “For Aylis and Alamar and all the others.”

—And Durlok’s mouth hinged wide in terror, in the gaping silent scream of the dead, and then he collapsed, his brittle bones shattering, his flesh turning to dust.

—And amid the stirring ashes, a gleaming dark gemstone lay.

Scatterings

Autumn, 1E9575–Spring, 2E1

[The Present]

S
uddenly the crystal chamber plunged into darkness, the faint glow of Krystallopŷr providing but feeble light. But moments later, from the doorway came the glow of Dwarven lanterns piercing the dark. Dwarves and Pysks came boiling into the crystalline room, Jatu as well, for with Durlok’s death the barrier had vanished, just as had the magelight within. And Bokar shouted, “Captain Aravan, are you all right?”

Aravan stood holding onto his ribs. “’Ware, Bokar,
Yrm
may lie in Durlok’s rooms. Too, be there a healer with thee? Farrix lies you—stunned or slain, I know not.”

Bokar barked out orders to the Châkka, and as Burak moved forward to tend Farrix, a contingent of warriors hefted their axes and stepped across the chamber to cautiously enter the doorway to Durlok’s quarters, several enshadowed Pysks going before them. Some Châkka and Pysks stayed behind and stood guard.

Jinnarin knelt at Farrix’s side, along with Burak. Moments later she called out, “He is coming ‘round now.”

Jatu trod down into the temple and squatted by Durlok’s remains, now nought but a pile of char. And Aravan hissed, “Touch not the crystal, Jatu. It is deadly.”

Jatu glanced over at the black staff then up at Aravan. “We could see, Captain, though darkly. Durlok seemed desperate to reach this length of wood. I wonder why?”

The Elf shrugged, then turned and glanced up at Burak and Jinnarin and Farrix. Farrix was now sitting up.

Gingerly, Jatu touched the staff with a finger, quickly jerking it away. Then he touched it again, and once more, finally taking the staff in hand. He stood and measured its length: it was as long as the big black Man was tall. “Strange wood,” murmured Jatu. “Like ebony, but not.”

Accompanied by Anthera and Fia, Bokar came down to the altar, and Aravan asked. “The Trolls, Armsmaster, be they slain?”

Bokar nodded, but his eyes harbored pain. “Aye, Captain, they are all dead. But thirteen Châkka are slain, and two Men. Too, we have fourteen wounded—eleven Châkka and three Men—most with broken bones.”

“My ribs among them,” said Aravan, “cracked by the Troll I slew.”

“Aha!” barked Bokar, as he turned and summoned Burak. “So that was you, Captain. How done?”

“Poniard in the ear,” answered Aravan.

“We wondered how it was done and by whom.”

Burak aided Aravan to remove his jerkin, then the healer began binding the Elf’s rib cage.

“What of the
Yrm?
” asked Aravan.

Anthera raised her bow and said, “Lest there be any Rucha or Loka hiding under Durlok’s bed, we deem all are slain.”

Aravan glanced at the mutilated corpse lying on the far side of the altar. “Had Durlok any captives?”

Fia shook her head. “There was a Man in chains in the prison, but someone had just cut his throat, we think to keep him from calling out for aid. Most likely he was slain by the Ruch we slew in turn.”

Farrix now stood and with Jinnarin came down to Aravan. Pointing at the ashes, he muttered, “That’s Durlok?”

Aravan nodded.

“Well, there lies the crystal he used to draw down the plumes.”

“Touch it not, Farrix, for I spoke its Truename and it is hazardous.”

Jinnarin glanced up at Aravan. “We can’t just leave it here.”

“I know, Jinnarin.” Favoring his freshly bound ribs, Aravan squatted. Reaching out, he held his hand above the bladelike gemstone and whispered,
“Krystallopýr,”
and the hot gleam vanished from the smoky crystal. Aravan then cautiously touched the stone, ready to draw back at the first sign of danger; sensing none, he took it up. He considered for long moments, then handed it to Jatu, saying, “Keep this safe until we find a way either to use it or to destroy it.”

Pysks and Dwarves came back from Durlok’s quarters and into the chamber. “All clear, Armsmaster,” called down Lork, second in command to Bokar now that Kelek was dead, “no Grg within.”

After retrieving the ballistas, they sank the black galley in the deep waters of the understone lagoon, the sinister ship hissing in protest as it went under, great bubbles rising long after it had vanished down into the dark, unplumbed depths.

At Aravan’s command, splinted and bandaged, the wounded were sailed ‘round to the temporary camp on the northern bluffs. Then they laded the dinghies with their slain comrades, and sailed them ‘round as well. The remains of the Men were buried at sea, Aravan entrusting their souls to Adon, but the bodies of the Dwarves were carried up to a great pyre atop the bluffs and gently placed thereon, along with Troll warbars and clubs and war mattocks—the weapons of their slain foe.

As twilight fell, all gathered ‘round—Men and Dwarves and Pysks on foxes—while Bokar spoke the service for the Châkka, calling upon Elwydd to watch over the spirits of these slain heroes as they roamed among the stars awaiting the time of their rebirth. And as the great pyre was ignited, the scrub and brush flaring up, Bokar stepped back to Aravan’s side. They solemnly watched the smoke rise into the darkening sky, and Bokar said, “They died in honor, Captain, which is the best death a Châkka warrior can hope for. Ah me, but were we not sworn to secrecy concerning this mission, the battle to bring down Durlok would be a feat of which the bards would ever sing. Twenty-eight Trolls did
we altogether slay in this battle. One by you, Captain Aravan—by poniard in his ear. Two by Tink and Tivir: one by drowning; one by ballista bolt. The rest by Châkka hand, or as good as. Never before has such been done by so few. And as for our own dead, no warrior could ask for a better fate, even though it will go unsung.” Bokar turned and glanced out to the sea, as if seeking solace on the distant horizon, the sky now pink and violet and indigo in the dying light.

Aravan stood silent for long moments, and only the murmur of the wind and the crackling of the fire and the rolling boom of surf below disturbed the quiet. But at last he said, “Forget not the Pyska, Bokar, for without them, it could not have been done. And as for these deeds going unnoted, ‘tis not so. I will record the measure of this battle in the logbooks of the
Eroean
. Too, I deem there will come a time in the far future when the veil of secrecy can be lifted—when, I cannot say, but surely the day will come, and then shall the songs be sung. This I swear, my friend…my valiant warrior friend.”

Bokar did not turn his face from the sea, but he nodded sharply, once, unable to speak for his tears.

The next day, Aravan called Jatu to him and said, “There is much wereguild to pay for the slain, Jatu, for the care of the families they left behind. Too, the Men and Dwarves and Pyska deserve reward for a task well-done. Take Bokar and a Pysk or two and select a crew and go to Durlok’s treasury. Choose among the things of value for us to take back.”

Jatu nodded. “Aye, Captain. How much?”

Aravan considered. “We could safely lade three dinghies, neh?”

Jatu smiled grimly. “If we run into weather on the way back, we can always cut them free and come again another day.”

A bleak look swept over Aravan’s face, and he shook his head. “I doubt that we will ever come here again.”

In a trice Jatu had selected those who would go with him, Anthera and Jinnarin among these, though the Pysks had merely shrugged at the thought of taking any of the treasure for themselves.