TWENTY
THE YOUNG MYRMIDON known as Newt stood watching while the twilight of dusk slowly thickened. Colors paled and the surrounding objects grew ghostly. It was normally his favorite time of the turn. On this eve—like most others—a mist had formed as the stiff onshore breezes of the lighted hours had died and the cool air of the mountain drifted down to greet the warm sea.
Light and insubstantial it was, common to both morn and eventide, yet it heightened his consciousness of the eerie glowing of the Adepts as they moved about beneath the Tower: the wenlords Shaka and Roland, and the giant Halfinger. They had come only hours previously because of the news that now had the whole island buzzing.
Odrim gone!
He had felt it more than most of his mates, for he was a native of Faerwyn-Joss and a nephew of Garth, Royal Steward of the Hunt. He had known Odrim; or rather, he had been aware of his presence since he had been a toddler growing up near Sherlyn Faer-Van, the ancestral castle of the Sids.
Odrim gone! The Serum failed at last!
He fingered the trigger of his disruptor, though there was no reason to be afraid here, the safest duty in the Pentarchy. What harm could come to a man on the Sacred Isle, standing in the shadow of the Tower itself?
He glanced at the slim spire, barely able to see the top from this angle: the lighted chamber with its ten glowing eyes. Something lived there. Something inhuman, the voices whispered; yet every man, woman, and child knew of its existence. None had seen it apart from the Magi, yet even the smallest child learned of it—
albeit with stilted words. How could anyone aptly describe the greatest wizardry in the Pentarchy?
His eyes could barely make out the eerie flickering cast upon the sloping sides. The Ten would be up there. With them would be the Pat’Riark, all of them bidding their silent farewells to whatever alien force resided therein. They were even now readying the Pegasus. All would leave soon for the last rites of the rigan—the prince and his consort with them. And left behind to guard the Tower would be the wenlords.
There were many secrets withheld from a young myrmidon, yet nothing could stop the wagging of tongues or the wanderings of a fertile imagination. Newton and his fellows possessed both aplenty. All knew they awaited the coming of the stranger: he who had gone into the hills ten turns ago.
The Saydin Mak Doom, they called him. A man, it was said, who had summoned the Flame before he had become Initiate. A man who was now a Sword Thane after only a few moons, and who walked with a tharfi as his sworn companion. What sort of man was this?
It had always been Newt’s wish to be Swordkind. Fate or luck had kept the wish a dream. He had not even possessed enough of the hunter’s gift to follow in his uncle’s footsteps. Instead, he had become a myrmidon of the Gardai, and he had striven to be the best he could be. He had passed beyond the hazing of the snick and was now a trusted member of the rank and file: a fifth blade.
He had spoken to the top blade only last week, requesting a transfer to the Rim Fleet. There was not likely to be any action in this posting, and a variety and wealth of experience was the only way of assuring his advancement. He intended to reach the level of top blade one turn.
He altered his position, stretching his body to ease the stiffness. He could already smell the scent of roasting meat mingling with the richness of spiced tea. His ears picked up the grumbling of his stomach and over it a more familiar sound. He smiled. The clanging of the culinars was an unerring timekeeper and meant his watch was almost over.
He strained his eyes into the growing shadows, thinking he had seen movement against the huge backdrop of the Korda. The towering grey walls blended with the coming night, making it difficult to distinguish anything lying in the same plane. And there was the damned mist, suddenly desirable no longer…
He stiffened, now certain he had seen something move.
Something large and swift.
He unlimbered his disruptor, though he did not move the setting off stun. It was now so dark he had trouble seeing anything in the mist more than a few steps away. The lights reflecting behind him further distorted his view.
He called out, demanding the intruder—whoever or whatever it was—to identify himself. Even as he brought his weapon to bear, he was aware it might be him. It would not do to shoot a Sword Thane, even if he didn’t have enough sense to reply with the password.
He saw it again: a wavering shadow moving at incredible speed. It happened so fast he barely had time to recognize it was not human, but something gigantic and grotesque and coming straight for him.
He pulled the trigger. The growl that followed the lancing arc of fire curdled his blood. A great weight descended on him, smothering him. He felt a pair of massive jaws clamp down on his shoulder at the juncture of his neck.
As he fell backward, he had time for only one scream, thin and wailing, before his voice abruptly cut off.
***
Newt awoke to a deep, gasping breath. His first sensation was joy. He yet remained with the living. His mind started working again and his eyes focused. Directly over him loomed the grizzled face of the top blade, wearing a look he usually reserved for the most inept of snicks: overwhelming disgust.
This surprised Newt. He had considered himself in the top’s good books of late. As he peered closer, he thought he saw a hint of understanding, perhaps even a little pity, though he would not have bet on it. It disappeared just as quickly, driven away by a gruff voice blasting into his ear.
“Keep your trap shut and act contrite! That’s the only thing that’ll save your dunghole now.”
As the top drew away, taking the overpowering scent of garlic with him, Newt judged only moments had passed since he had been unconscious. Enough time for a substantial gathering. They had been thoughtful enough to bring torches of teklume, which now lit the area and made it easy for Newt to identify everyone.
Foremost among the group were the three wenlords, who stood silent and forbidding with arms folded across their chests. At their side was Prince Mendiko, who was not even looking at Newt but at his consort. The Reamurian girl was a few steps to his right, yet what she was doing caused Newt’s eyes to grow twice their normal size. Not that he hadn’t seen a field dressing applied more times than he could count, but never to something so big and ugly.
The beast stood trembling as she tended the wound. A deep gash lay across the sloping hindquarter. It bled, though the cut appeared to be shallow. Newt gave thanks to whatever god had caused him to leave the disruptor on stun. There were older wounds crisscrossing the entire body. Color had drained from these lines, making the pelt look like a patchwork quilt roughly stitched together.
He recognized the tharfi. Only an idiot would not have. He cursed himself, knowing he was just such an idiot. He struggled to sit up, amazed both his arms worked. The puncture marks on his shoulder had barely grazed the skin. The tharfi had knocked the breath from him with such force he had blacked out for a moment. As he saw the grim looks on the faces of the Adepts, and the smoldering yellow fire in the eyes of the tharfi, he suddenly wished he had remained unconscious a while longer.
He made it to his feet, aided by the thick arm of the top blade. He remained stiffly at attention, awaiting the fall of the axe he was certain was coming for him. From the corner of his eye, he saw his disruptor laying on the ground a few steps away. It looked as though something had chewed on it at the very least. It now had the shape of a boiled noodle.
He waited as the sweat dribbled down his uniform, pooling near his belly and buttocks. After what felt like an eternity, Prince Mendiko finally looked at him. There was an instant’s delay. Time enough for Newt to pray the prince would remember him. Yet there was not even a hint of recognition on his face as he moved to stand in front, arms behind his back.
“You are family to Garth, are you not?”
“Aye…er, yes, Highness.”
“Why did you shoot Wulf?”
Newt glanced aside at the top blade. The man also stood at attention, yet was managing perfectly well to remain invisible. “Well, sir…er, Highness…it was a mistake, you see. A horrible mistake, to be sure. He came at me out of the gloom and didn’t answer the challenge. I thought…well, I didn’t recognize him in time, sir…and…” Newt gave up. “I’m a fool, sir, and lucky to be alive.”
Mendiko nodded, his face unreadable. “That you are.” He walked over to the wenlords and stood eyeing the huge Halfinger first. The Baron of the Third Wen merely shrugged expressively. Then his glance shifted to the two lords of the Fifth Wen, who rolled their eyes heavenward but said nothing. Mendiko then returned to the top blade, who shifted uncomfortably.
“You may deal with him as you see fit, Top. Perhaps this lesson will make him a more valuable sentry. But first, he will apologize to Wulf for his error.”
Newt swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the rising lump in his throat. “Apologize, sir?”
“You heard right, idiot,” the top growled. “This ain’t nothin’ to what’s comin’ later. Now get to it!”
Newt made his feet move forward, though it took all his attention to keep his sphincter from loosening. He got to within a pace of the huge tharfi, who eyed him as though he were bait on a hook. He cleared his throat once more, and then squeaked out the complicated apology he had formed.
“I’m sorry.”
The tharfi stared at him through yellowed eyes that seemed on fire. His huge head leaned close, and Newt could see the individual fangs glinting in the light. He felt the warm waft of carnal breath. The growl was so loud and startling he stumbled back and tripped, ending on his buttocks. There was but a second’s delay while he felt more ashamed and miserable than at any other time in his life. Then the top’s hand grabbed the collar of his uniform and pulled him up as though he were nothing but an empty sack.
“Now, Git!”
***
Mendiko watched as the top blade dragged the young myrmidon away, and then he turned to Wulf. He sensed the mirth the others struggled to withhold and knew the tharfi could sense it too. He studied the yellow eyes. Though he had communicated with the animal before this, he had in no way managed the ease of Ryder.
‘You are in great pain?’ The answering blast of anger was like a thunderclap in his head.
‘Yesssss!’
‘It was his mistake, but you could have avoided it by being more careful,’ Mendiko admonished. ‘You know it is still difficult for others to accept your presence.’
‘Yessss. That is why weeee will go to the lands of Halfinger to seeeek our own kind. Weeee have had enough of humans and their mistakes for a time.’
Mendiko looked at Shaleen, who nodded. “It is shallow. It will heal in two turns.”
Mendiko did not even bother to glance at Thorgrim. The wenlord had already given his consent. ‘You can leave with us this very night in the Flitter of the wenlords.’
The tharfi shook his head. ‘Weeee will go aboard the floating box first.’
Mendiko waited, certain there was more.
‘There is a message from the Maaaan. Heeee says heeee will climb the mount first. Then heeee will come…’ Wulf gazed up at the Tower. ‘…There.’
Mendiko looked at the wenlords, wondering if they had heard. Roland nodded. He had understood, and they would wait for Talisman.
Mendiko moved to Shaleen, encircling her waist. “We cannot stay longer. My kin await our arrival.” He gazed out into the darkness. He could no longer see the summit of Thunder-Fell, yet he knew it stood where he looked. How many times had he done the same as Ryder? Stood in empty aloneness, searching for something that would not come. It had been his sole reason for remaining in the warren.
How different I am now, he thought, smiling into the face of the woman who was his. If he lived another thousand cycles, he could never repay the debt he owed Talisman. It bothered him to leave when his friend needed his aid the most.
“You think of him,” Shaleen murmured. “Worry not. His strength is different, yet far greater than any I have seen. He will prevail.”
Mendiko nodded his thanks, for he too agreed and believed in her words. He faced the direction of the mountain.
“Go well, my friend, and hold true to your purpose. May the Aether afford you a smooth journey and an ending filled with light.”