NINE
“YOU BRING US ill tidings, Kronus of Tsark. This has been a night of misfortune and gruesome purpose.”
Arkadies Venn, born Woden Halfinger but also known as the Dipsoman, was Jain of the Guild and the elder brother of Thorgrim, Baron of the Third Wen. He was also one of the few surviving lieutenants of Owen Mondragon, and the major architect of the Guild. Ravel had become his unofficial wen.
He stood two point eight meters in height—on those rare occasions when he stood. His weight varied depending upon whether it was before breakfast or after dinner, but hovered near three hundred kilos. Though he was neither Swordkind nor Magi, he dominated those who stood or sat in various attitudes of repose around his central figure.
Six among the gathering had followed him to his quarters in the Hub following the attack. The wenlords, Shaka and Roland, had appeared soon after with Kronus on their heels. The Guild Jain had listened in silence to the description of the attack upon Ryder, Mendiko, and Shaleen, then further as the Lord Chronicler had laid out his tale. Now, as he waved a massive arm the size of a tree trunk, his voice boomed from his massive chest and reverberated throughout the gigantic chamber serving as the anteroom of his residence.
“Indeed, these blasted villains have all but ruined my appetite!”
Ryder watched as the Guild Jain raised his tankard and quaffed two liters as though it were a spoonful. By his reckoning, it was the fifth such dunking. Those occurrences had been mere pauses between the untold mouthfuls of food that had disappeared through the same portal: quantities vast enough to sate a shagtusk. The sight had quenched what little remained of Ryder’s appetite.
“To attack two of the Swordkind in my domain…” The giant’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head in disbelief. “Before tonight, I would have said such a thing was impossible. As for the treachery of Daedalus…” The expression on his face explained what words could not.
“Indeed,” Fortunatus agreed. His brow furrowed in a mixture of brooding anger and disgust. “Yet I fear there may be worse to come. They may try another attack, even here.” He stood and walked to where Kronus perched between the lords of the Fifth Wen. “What troubles you, old friend? You have been strangely silent since telling your tale.”
“I like it not that I sit here with you,” the Tsarkin admitted. “In my haste and anxiety, I forgot I am sworn to impart this information to the primus...as are we all.”
“There is time enough for that!” the Pat’Riark snapped.
“Our discussion is worthwhile, my lord Chronicler,” Shaka soothed. “Victor Mondragon will be grateful for our advice. Though he is neither foolish nor rash in his judgments, he will need the counsel of cool heads in this matter.”
“Aptly spoken, Brother,” Roland agreed. “Yet what can he or any of us do?”
They all looked at him in surprise, yet none more than Kronus.
“What do you mean?” the Tsarkin spluttered in disbelief. “I was there! I saw and heard…”
Roland raised a hand. “None doubt your word or the truth of what you saw. I merely point out: although you may be Lord Chronicler of the Codex, Sentinel of the Sacred Scrolls, and Keeper of the Great Seal—the most trusted individual in the Pentarchy—no one else witnessed what happened.”
“Roland is right!” the Dipsoman thundered, accompanied by a voluminous belch. “The primus cannot accuse the High Halcyon First Talon of treachery in the Star Chamber. It would no doubt lead to immediate civil war and the end of the Pentarchy.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “Even though it seems an eventuality, this is not an ideal time to begin such a conflict.”
“Are we to do nothing, then?” Shaleen blurted. She had been a timid onlooker until that moment, awed by such august company. “Must we forget this treachery?”
“We will not forget,” Fortunatus admonished. “Yet this is not the time for warriors…or warrior maidens.” The smile he offered her took the sting from his words. “We will inform the archduke,” he said, glancing at Kronus. “As for the rest, it must remain our secret.”
“How can that be, my lord?” Mendiko queried. “Many others must have noticed the battle in Ravel. Even if not, we cannot easily disguise the effects of disruptor cannon. Buildings lie in rubble. By now the holomen…”
“Will say nothing!” Arkadies blurted, and he was grinning. Propping his arms on the rests of his chair, he levered himself to his feet and waddled ponderously to the great vat of ale in the corner. Beside it towered a massive bar stocked with an uncountable number of beverages. The company waited while the liquid gurgled into his tankard, then watched mesmerized as he noisily slurped yet another full brew. There was no sign the strong beer had affected him as he turned his large, intelligent brown eyes upon them.
“You may have forgotten it was I...or rather, I and Robert the Piper who perfected the Zurd holo-net. In his…er…absence, I am Chieftain of the Techniks as well as Jain of the Guild. I believe they will listen to my suggestions. If they refuse…” The smile broadened. “…Well, I am lord here.” He laughed and pointed at Shaka. “You might say this is the Sixth Wen. They will find no witnesses. My workmen are already busy clearing the area.” His large fingers snapped with a bright, popping sound. “It never happened.”
“But it did, Arkadies,” Niobe corrected softly. “And even more important, what other information has Daedalus sold? Do the Grimman-Seth now possess the secret of Zurd?”
“It might explain their boldness and their lack of concern regarding reprisal,” Fortunatus mused. “And they will have allies…no doubt the D’ia Mor. It can be no other.”
They all remained silent while he paced for a moment and then abruptly stopped. “I think it best they proceed unhindered. Let them have the winged youth if they so wish, yet we must watch Daedalus closely. With proper care, we may learn the full extent of what he has done.”
Deemus spoke for the first time. “Hopefully, it will not be too late.”
An enormous, opened window fronted the chamber and overlooked the Hub. A trickle of breeze swayed the hanging curtains and the distant murmur of voices filtered through. In a recessed alcove beneath, a tiny candle burned serenely. For no apparent reason, Ryder had felt drawn to it. As he knelt and stared into the flickering glow, he muttered to himself.
“The Swordkind will be powerless…yet how can that be?” His eyes lost focus and the flame danced away from the candle as though it had taken on a life of its own. He was conscious of a tingling sensation in his body and the overwhelming presence of vertigo. He did not fight it. He had expected its coming. The flame altered, morphing into a human shape.
The old warrior materialized like a mirage in the desert. The jutting nose, proud and fierce, was both warm and familiar. The face was as aged and wrinkled as ever, yet the eyes were alive with intelligence and glowing with power. He beckoned and Ryder followed. The voices around him faded into nothingness as he stepped into a different world.
***
“By the Rim! He glows!”
Only Mendiko had noticed the absence of Ryder from the circled gathering. Upon his startled exclamation, the others moved at once to surround Ryder’s kneeling figure. The Sword Thane lay hunched over as rigid as a marble figurine, yet bathed in an eerie light not of this world.
“It is near enough the same as the warren gate!” Mendiko said. He reached forward as though intent on touching the glowing aura.
“Wait!” The Pat’Riark shouted. “There is danger here!”
They all waited expectantly. Seconds passed, yet Ryder remained immobile. Only the deep, regular rise and fall of his chest proved he was alive.
“This also reminds me of another time,” Mendiko observed. “At the Well of Sharn, when he rode the winged horse.”
“When he what?” Fortunatus cried.
“Yes,” admitted Mendiko sheepishly. “We decided it would be better not to mention it since the experience ended rather badly. He…er…fell off, you see.” Mendiko shrugged. “Even stranger, he asked afterward what rested in the Tower. He mentioned the Flamen.”
Fortunatus jerked as though stung. “By the Rim!”
“It resembles sword-glow,” Shaka observed in wonderment, “yet it is strangely different.”
“See how his lips move, yet no words does he utter,” Roland added uneasily.
“The flame…watch the flame!”
Alerted by Deemus’ warning, they jerked their heads toward the tiny flame. The glow had risen until it suffused the alcove, spreading beyond to encompass the still form of Ryder Talisman. The color had altered from the normal yellow-orange to a flickering pattern of colors, each shade lasting only moments before it blended into another. The speed became faster than the eye could follow until it was a dancing, strobic rainbow.
Niobe raised her hand and clutched the shoulder of Deemus so hard he turned and regarded her intently. Her face had drained of blood, ghostly pale in the candle’s glow. As she turned toward Fortunatus, her voice trembled as though she too witnessed what was happening.
“It is time, Brother! Now, while his mind is open…”
“No!” Deemus clutched her arm as though he would prevent her by his touch alone. “Not again! Was the loss of your sight not enough warning?”
Niobe reached up and gently but firmly removed Deemus’ restraining hand. “There is no vanity in this, my love. Though I too sense danger, we must do it now if we are to have any hope of opening the barriers blocking his mind.” She turned once more toward Fortunatus, who leaned heavily upon his staff. Slowly, but with an obvious air of misgiving, he nodded.
Niobe reached out her trembling hand. Guided by some inner sight, she touched the aura surrounding Ryder Talisman.
***
“Welcome once again, Ryder Talisman, he who is the Sunbear!”
Ryder stood on the brow of a gently sloping hill. In many places the lush grasses had served as a meal for some forest denizen, yet there was no animal in sight. A light but steady breeze chattered merrily through the branches of white-barked trees fringing the glade.
It was high summer. Before him was a predominance of green, dotted with shades of brown and amber. No trace yet of the wild artistry of autumn. As he lifted his head, he saw the looming peaks of distant mountains, snow-capped and glistening blue-gray. The image tugged at his memory, elusive as the darting form of a fox.
The old warrior stood a few paces to his right. White hair flowed around his head and shoulders, and scattered wisps flattened against the jutting planes of his face. Slung across his back were a bow and quiver of arrows. The brightly colored tufts of feathers clung to the hafts and stuttered in the breeze. He leaned on a tall spear adorned with eagles’ feathers. When he spoke, his voice was like the dry rustling of fallen leaves in the stillness of night.
“You remember me?”
Ryder nodded slowly. “You are Elkhorn, the father of my mother.”
The old warrior’s face creased further as he smiled. “And this?” He jerked his head, indicating the area upon which they stood.
A memory formed in Ryder’s mind, filled with gently swirling clouds that obscured but did not completely hide. “The land of the Redcoats,” he answered with only a slight hesitation. He nodded toward the distant mountains. “We traveled this path together long ago when I was a boy.”
“Yes,” agreed Elkhorn. “It was your first meeting with the Flame Lord. You named him Petala, the Little Flame. Yet all of this is only a vision. We stand in the nexus between the planes where time has little sway. What you perceive now is but a wisp of my spirit-force, enough to assume the appearance of this earthly form. I summoned you through the Flamen in the earthly realm, the spark lying within the Tower. Even this is dangerous. The Lightless One grows stronger, his attention ever more focused. Even though you continue to pass unrecognized, it is time to open the veil and confront what lies in the Tower. Only in this way may you redeem the power lying dormant within you.”
Ryder remembered the brief vision near the Well of Sharn, and its clarity.
Elkhorn nodded as though reading his thoughts. “The Guardians of the Tower do not fully realize what rests there, or its true purpose. Remember…to redeem the power you must seek the Flame.”
At that moment, Ryder sensed another touch on his mind. He watched as a fog stirred over the swaying grasses, lifting to form a wispy shape: the insubstantial form of Niobe.
Elkhorn’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Fool!” he hissed. “Twice now you have disturbed the veil. Did you learn nothing from your first experience?”
Niobe’s voice wavered and her form became even more ethereal. “I…we thought only to help…”
They realized something else. Another presence had appeared. It had even less form than Niobe, though its malevolence already threatened to overpower them.
“The Ling Umbrog!” Elkhorn spat in hatred. “The tongue of the Shadow!”
They watched as a tendril of darkness with the consistency of smoke crept sinuously over the grass. Snake-like, it searched blindly as might a night creature suddenly confronted by intense light. Suddenly, it paused. The tendril coiled upon itself, rising like a head, searching as though sniffing the wind until it pointed unerringly in their direction.
“Quickly! You must leave. It is you he seeks. I can hold him here, for neither the Dark nor the Light hold sway in the ‘tween realm.”
Elkhorn crossed the grass and his shape grew until he towered over Ryder. “I am but a servant of the Flame Lords. Yet in you lies a true spark of them, only waiting for the proper time to awaken. If his minions sense your presence, they will try to destroy you. You are the herald and the focus of the Light. If they succeed, the Dark One may then be too firmly ensconced for even the Master of Forces to cast out. In the reality of this plane, the Light may extinguish for untold eons.”
With his spear raised high above his head, Elkhorn advanced toward the approaching darkness. As he moved, his appearance changed until he glowed as if on fire. The light of his form swept in front until it touched the outline of the Shadow. There was an instant howl of rage, one far beyond the capacity of any human throat. Superimposed upon this was a thin wail of despair: the cry of Niobe.
“Go quickly!” Elkhorn thundered. “He must not discover whence you have come. Even now, it may be too late!”
Ryder’s vertigo was more intense than anything he had ever felt. With the greatest effort, he held onto consciousness as he saw a last flash of the giant forms grappling in battle. There was an even greater jolt as his spirit-force once more slammed into his earthly body. He groaned and opened his eyes, only to see Mendiko staring down at him. He tried to speak, but his mouth felt numb.
“What happened?” The mumbled growl of his voice sounded strange to his ears.
“At first, you glowed with an eerie aura. Then darkness engulfed you.”
Ryder tried to raise himself and bring Mendiko’s face into focus. The effort produced a wave of dizziness that forced him to sit back and lean on his arms for support.
“It was an evil such as we have never seen,” Shaka added, his voice reassuringly deep and somber in Ryder’s ear. “I have never felt so helpless…so insignificant.”
“Niobe…” Ryder struggled to his knees. He leaned forward, straining for balance as the grogginess receded.
“She is here.”
He recognized the voice of the Pat’Riark. Turning his head, he beheld Niobe unconscious, her head cradled in Deemus’ lap. The Pat’Riark knelt in front, sponging cool water over her face.
With Roland and Mendiko’s help, Ryder rose to his feet. He wobbled as he walked the scant distance and stood looking down with a worried expression. “It affected her more, possibly because of the difference in her Gift.”
Fortunatus paused in his work to stare up at him. “What was it?”
“The one who guided me called it the Ling Umbrog—the Tongue of the Shadow.”
Fortunatus nodded somberly, his face set in grim lines. “It is the language of the D’ia Mor.”
“It touched her?” Deemus' voice was thick with worry.
Ryder shook his head. “It followed her form, yet it was seeking me.”
Niobe suddenly jerked upright, coughing like a woman rescued from drowning. Her face was a frozen mask of fear as she struggled weakly to sit up. Deemus held her, stroking her face. “Rest easy, my love. You have returned safely.”
Hearing the comforting sound of his voice, Niobe settled back. Her features slackened as calmness returned. “He must go to the Tower,” she said when she could speak.
Fortunatus and Deemus exchanged an uneasy look.
“She is right,” Ryder agreed. “I must seek the Flame resting there.”
“What do you know of the Tower?” Fortunatus demanded. “Or the Flamen?”
“I know you and the Magi are its guardians,” Ryder replied. “I have been summoned. You must not deny me.”
Fortunatus shook his head. “I doubt you are strong enough. You have not yet mastered the Higher Power…”
“Listen to him, Brother!” Niobe shrugged off the restraining arm of Deemus and rose unsteadily to her feet. “It is we who are as children in this. He is the One. I have seen…”
“You were wrong before!” Fortunatus thundered. “I tell you, the power of the Flamen is too great for any mortal touch!”
Niobe moved purposefully until she stood directly in front of the Pat’Riark, confronting him toe to toe. “I was guilty of pride and it misguided me. Yet who now is misguided, Brother?”
The eyes of Fortunatus remained darkened with anger, yet he was helpless before the force of her logic.
“He is more than mortal man,” Niobe pressed. “How else could he have survived the countless cycles without the Serum? How could he have lived through the cataclysm, entombed and without aid? You said it yourself: he is the Saydin Mak Doom.”
The others stood grouped around the two, maintaining an uncomfortable silence. The Dipsoman cleared his throat and caught everyone’s attention, breaking the deadlock.
“Perhaps we should think about such a weighty matter further before we take any action.”
Fortunatus nodded. “You are wise, Arkadies. Such a grave decision should await our return to the Sacred Isle. There we can assemble the rest of the Magi.”
When it seemed Ryder would argue further, the Pat’Riark raised his hand. “To leave now would only invite unwanted attention.” His eyebrows lifted in mockery. “Besides, you would not leave now…not before the festival. Not even for the Flamen.”
Ryder flicked his eyes at Mendiko and saw him grinning. Checkmate.
“No one must know of what transpired here,” Fortunatus added, and his look encompassed in particular the Swordkind. “We can no longer trust even the Brotherhood.”
“Thorgrim must know,” argued Arkadies. “And there are others…”
Fortunatus and the Guild Jain stared hard at each other in a silent battle of wills. Surprisingly, the Pat’Riark gave in. “You are right. They have drawn the lines of battle, even though the fighting has not yet begun. It is time to marshal our forces and to count the number of those we trust. I leave this decision to each of you.”
“And what of the archduke?” Kronus protested loudly. “Surely you don’t mean to exclude him?”
Fortunatus shook his head and sighed. “If all were as diligent in their loyalty as you, old friend, even the evil forces would flee such formidable odds.”
“I will inform my brother,” Niobe said, and her hand hid her smile. “Though it may often appear otherwise, I am certain he is already aware of the greater part.”
Arkadies came to stand beside Fortunatus, and the two men regarded the bedraggled look of both Mendiko and Ryder—and Shaleen.
“You three have had little rest,” the Guild Jain said. “There is plenty of time before the height of the festivities. Afford yourselves the luxury of my quarters for a time. Join us at the arena when you are ready.”