THE TOME OF THE GRAY SKIN GOD

Lord y’Darreth leaned close to Arcites’ ear and said, “Are you certain they understood you? Do you truly speak this primitive gabble?”

The journeyman mage frowned. The “primitive gabble” of the Merrowen tribes was far closer to High Amaranthian, the pinnacle language of the ancients, than the lord’s own Purpardean tongue. Still, he carefully studied the Merrowen chieftain and his clan elders as they conferred in hushed tones at the far end of the table. From their furtive glances at the Purpardean lord’s fine armor and weapons and the gold at his fingers and throat, Arcites surmised they were weighing the price offered against the risk involved.

“They understood me, my lord. Their chieftain takes the counsel of his elders.”

Lord y’Darreth settled back into his chair with a snort. “A council of fools, if ever there was one.”

As they waited for a decision, the young mage studied the Merrowen tribesmen gathered in the longhouse. He thought they were a handsome people. Most were tall and strongly built, with dark hair and eyes of blue and gray. Although their clothing was rough compared to Lord y’Darreth’s, it paired durability with a simple, elegant style. Some of the wealthier Merrowen wore heavy gold torques and necklaces laden with glittering stones, some undoubtedly precious. Most wore weapons of some sort at their belts, ranging from hand-axes to swords.

One of the Merrowen attracted his attention. She stood out from the others and sat by herself at the end of one of the long benches. Unlike the other tribesman, her eyes were locked on the raised table where he, the lord, and four of the nobleman’s retainers sat rather than on the chieftain and his elders. And what eyes they were; amber in color, with the same hue and unsettling intensity as those of a wolf. To add to her exotic and off-putting appearance, her long, dark hair was teased into a matted snarl around her face, which was smudged with dirt or ashes. Her hands and raiment, however, were clean and presentable. Arcites wondered if she sat alone from preference or if was shunned by the other Merrowen. Perhaps she was a madwoman?

A sudden silence fell over the hall and snapped Arcites from his revery. The chieftain, who styled himself Riombar the Just, stepped forward to address his gathered people. The big man took a moment to survey the room and fix everyone in it under his authority before speaking.

“Inform your master that we will not assist him in locating the Garloth’s Hold, nor shall we hinder him in his quest.” Riombar’s voice held a booming, baritone certainty that left no room for argument. “We will not risk war with the Hydori, from which we would gain nothing. The Gray God’s folk are both weak and poor. Besting them would bring no glory to Andred or wealth to our warriors.”

Arcites frowned at the pronouncement and Lord y’Darreth asked, “Does he refuse us?”

“He does. His folk won’t molest us as we pass through their lands, but they won’t help, either. They don’t want to antagonize the Hydori, on whose lands the temple is apparently located.”

“Cowardly dogs. Tell their chief that if he cannot loan me one of his men, I will pay handsomely for the services of an independent scout.”

The stubborn set of Riombar’s jaw and the hard stares from the elders arrayed behind him made it clear he would not budge, but Arcites did as he was told. The old bull of a chief simply shook his head and said, “I forbid any of my folk from aiding your master.”

“He forbids his folk from assisting us, my lord.”

“Does he now? Then hell take him and all his curs with him. May his gods have mercy on him if he tries to impede us, for I will not.”

Lord y’Darreth stood so swiftly that his chair toppled behind him. He ignored the clatter and stalked out of the longhouse, his sullen-eyed retainers close on his heels, hands on their hilts. Riombar seemed more amused than offended by the display. When Arcites bowed politely and rose to leave, the chieftain approached him and lay his large hand on his shoulder.

“The Merrowen do not countenance slavery,” he said. “If you wish to stay with us, we can find work for you among the People. You seem strong and clever for a Southron and you bear yourself with dignity.”

“I’m no slave,” Arcites answered. “Sadly, it is more complicated than that. Your generosity honors me, nonetheless.”

“As you wish. May your gods watch over you. Your master cares only for himself.”

Arcites bowed again and stepped out of the warmth of the longhouse and into a crisp fall evening. He fumed silently as he rushed to catch up with the Purpardean lord and his men as they made their way back to their camp outside the village’s rough palisade.

The Merrowen chieftain was righter than he knew. Arcites’ master was only concerned with himself, but the ill-tempered Purpardean wasn’t his master. That title belonged to Oloron the White Eye, the mage under whom Arcites had studied the esoteric arts for over a decade.  

When Lord y’Darreth arrived at his master’s manse some months ago and asked Oloron’s assistance in a treasure hunt, Arcites half expected the cantankerous old wizard to lay a bane on the foreign aristocrat for his impertinence. Instead, to his horror, the two men sat down and negotiated a contract that left him all but indentured to y’Darreth – a fact that the noble reminded him of at every opportunity.

In truth, Arcites’ involvement with the undertaking was a foregone conclusion the moment Oloron granded y’Darreth an audience. The arrangement the Purpardean suggested held an irresistible appeal to both men’s particular greed: Power. Success promised a mountain of gold to y’Darreth, which translated to greater influence in the royal court of Purparde, and the good favor of an arch-mage to Oloron, a priceless commodity for an aging wizard of middling ability.

Lord y’Darreth had a widespread reputation as a man with the skill and connections to discreetly acquire objects of art and ancient curios for wealthy patrons with an interest in such things. In that office, he’d been approached by a lackey of Yrrich, the Archimage of the Tower of Crows, one of the most reclusive and powerful wizards of the Sundered Kingdoms, with an offer of vast amounts of gold to retrieve the grimoire an ancient mage, Garloth the Gray.

The prize was too great to ignore, but y’Darreth soon realized that the task was beyond his abilities. Yrrich had little information on the current location of Garloth’s tome and y’Darreth was not the sort to spend days digging through historical archives for clues and, even if he was, he lacked the arcane knowledge to recognize them. He sought the help of a mage and turned to Oloron, for whom he’d once secured a minor mystical artifact from a rival magician.

Oloron, for his part, was happy to assign Arcites the task of sniffing out the trail of Garloth and the final resting place of his book in exchange for a taste of y’Darreth’s gold and the prospect of an arch-mage’s friendship. Oloron extended his influence to gain Arcites access to several extensive private collections, and the locked archives of Anselonthe’s Royal Library, where he spent weeks poring over ancient books and scrolls. He eventually picked up Garloth’s trail and discovered that he’d been a secretive wizard who lived during the time of the cataclysm. Initially it appeared Garloth the Gray (and his book, presumably) had been swallowed by the Sea of Sorrows after the Fall of Heaven, but after days of fretful digging he stumbled upon a traveler’s diary penned shortly after the cataclysm that referenced Garloth of the Gray Skin, a powerful war-mage who’d taken a small island in Northern Wilds under his protection.

This discovery put Arcites hard on the heels of the long-dead mage. He found a cycle of songs reciting the Gray Mage’s victories over the enemies of his island kingdom, and a history that described a living “Gray God” worshipped island dwelling Northron barbarians. His moment of triumph came while leafing through a traveler’s journal in which he found a passage describing a “Tomb of the Gray God,” a great, domed structure in which “Garloth, the Gray Skinned God lies in state, his sacred book clutched to his breast.” Best of all, the author included a credible map showing the location of the island upon which the tomb stood.  

His pleasure at the discovery turned to dust in his mouth when Oloron ordered him to accompany y’Darreth to Garloth’s tomb. Y’Darreth wanted a someone at hand that could deal with any arcane wards that might have been placed on the tomb or the book they sought, but Oloron wanted no part of a perilous and uncomfortable journey into the Northern Wilds. He assured y’Darreth that Arcites, although an apprentice, had sufficient skill to deal with any lingering magical safeguards they might encounter within Garloth’s tomb. While y’Darreth was satisfied with the arrangement, Arcites was not pleased at all. To soothe his feelings, his master promised to introduce him to more advanced magical formulations as a reward for any inconveniences he might suffer while in y’Darreth’s service. The prospect of deeper knowledge in the future hadn’t proved to be much comfort in the face of daily abuse from the y’Darreth and his equally obnoxious retainers.

To y’Darreth, an apprentice was an apprentice whether they were learning a mundane trade or studying the High Art, and in his mind an apprentice was only a little higher in station than a mud-grubbing serf. He was insolent and rude to Arcites in his master’s presence. Outside his manse, matters only worsened. Lord y’Darreth treated him little better than a body-servant and his men-at-arms followed his example. It rankled him that the contempt of his fellows was obvious to a barbarian chieftain after less than an hour’s observation.

Indignity aside, his treatment at y’Darreth’s hands was frightening. It seemed unlikely he would survive y’Darreth’s wrath if he was incorrect about the location of Garloth’s tomb or the tomb was where he thought, but the book they sought had crumbled to dust or fallen prey to some earlier tomb robbers. In darker moments, he wondered if he would survive the expedition even if it proved successful. In his heart, he doubted if he would live long enough to draw a breath outside the wild northlands again.

With that thought in mind, Arcites kept his guard up at all times. If an attack came, y’Darreth would find that he would not be as easy to dispose of as he might think. The Purpardean’s perception that Arcites as a helpless clerk was the basis for his obvious contempt. At y’Darreth’s insistence, Arcites had been forced to accept a geas from Master Oloron that made it impossible for him to use his magical arts in any way that would affect the nobleman.

It was clear that y’Darreth assumed that his only means of defense were magical. He and his men took every opportunity to ridicule the sword and long knife that hung at his side, believing them to be the swaggering affectations of a pathetic academic. Arcites was more than happy to let them believe what they would. If the time came, which it seemed it inevitably would, they’d find out that not every scholar began his life with soft-hands and ink-stained fingers.

Back at camp he made to join y’Darreth at the fire, but the nobleman waved him away with an insulting curse that left his retainers snickering into their sleeves. Arcites shrugged and ducked into his small tent on the edge of the camp. He sat cross-legged on his bed roll and pulled a scribe’s traveling desk in front of him. After carefully opening a pot of ink and dipping a pen in it, he lost himself in recording all the day’s observations in his journal. He hoped in the centuries to come some other wizard or scholar whose travels matched his own might find his memoirs as useful as those that had guided him to the lands of the Merrowen. For their sake, he also devoutly hoped they’d find themselves in better company.

#

Nialla watched the Southron outlanders leave the longhouse. She didn’t like the looks of their leader, but the slave who spoke for him seemed decent enough. Chief Riombar apparently thought the same, based on the hand he placed on the man’s shoulder and the low, obviously kind words he exchanged with him. It galled her that her chieftain’s heart, so hardened against one of his own kind who had offered him no offense, could find kindness for a stranger from the Southlands, but it was not the slave’s fault. She suspected Riombar had offered him a place among the People. It came as a surprise when he didn’t accept it. She’d heard tales of people who’d so beaten down by cruel masters that the idea of freedom frightened and repelled them. Perhaps he was such a wretch, despite the weapons carried.

She knew that the outlander’s chief would be a cruel and wrathful master to any unfortunate enough to bend their knee to him. That he was prideful and arrogant was obvious from the way he looked down his long nose at everyone, even his own arms-men. The tone in which he spoke to his slave dripped with a contempt that bordered on loathing that transcended any language barrier. This puzzled her. The slave spoke the People’s Tongue with the clarity, if not the accent, of a native. Any man who would treat such a skilled servant so poorly was a poor master indeed. The only explanation was that the outland chief was a fool. His actions seemed to support that assessment. She’d half expected the idiot to draw steel when Riombar refused his request for help in looting the Hydori temple to their dead god. Instead, the man had simply jumped to his feet and stomped off like a sulky child. It was just as well, Riombar would have snapped the outlander in his hands like a rotten twig.

She could understand the outlander’s anger at her chieftain, though. In fact, she shared it. She’d expected Riombar to refuse any significant aid to the strutting, cruel-eyed, Southron peacock, but she’d counted on him allowing any who wished to sell their services to him to do so. His feigned reluctance for a war with the Hydori was pure nonsense. The Hydori knew from experience of old just how well they’d fare in a war against the Merrowen: Their villages would burn and their children would mourn lost parents. She was confident that fear and respect for the Merrowen would outweigh their adoration for a long-dead god in any Hydori war councils.

No, Riombar had taken an immediate and intense dislike to this “Lurd Eedorahf” and had set his heart against him. She didn’t blame him for it, but she had no intention of honoring his decree. Her people had shamed her for long enough. She was treated almost as poorly by her own folk as the foreign slave’s master treated him. It would only grow worse now that her father was gone. Nialla longed to leave cold looks from her former friends behind in favor of the warm, sunny lands of the south - and these foreigners were the key to her escape. Riombar’s intransigent distaste for Eedorahf would not trap her here. She couldn’t allow it. With her father’s death, she had no way to support herself. The curse upon her forbade her from practicing her family’s trade or going a-raiding. She would be forced to sell her birthright one crumb at a time until nothing remained. Then she would starve.

With that cold realization firmly in mind, she slipped out of the longhouse and walked home, careful not to appear in too great a hurry. Still half expecting to hear her father call her name as stepped through the door of her family’s sturdily built home, the silence caught at her heart with its frozen hand. Nialla pushed back another wave of mourning and went to the arms chest. There, she strapped her father’s thick sword belt about her waist. His sword was slightly longer and heavier than her own, but that was all to the better in her mind. The hours she’d spent venting her frustration in practice at arms had left her own blade feeling flimsy and light. She thrust a hand axe through her belt as well, along with a broad-bladed dagger. She carried her oil cloth wrapped armor out to the boat that lay tied at the pier that backed up to her father’s workshop. It was a fine vessel – a boat built by a shipwright for her father’s own useand, the most valuable possession he left her. It saddened her that tonight might be the last time she sailed in it.

She packed a few more items into the boat and when she was satisfied that she had all she needed, she turned to look around her house for the last time, committing it to memory. Her neighbors would pick it as clean as the gulls gorging on the beached carcass of a whale. Maybe not tomorrow, or even the day after – but soon. They could carry away the things loved, but they could not take her memories of them. There was the low bench by the hearth where her mother had given her lessons in the Way. There was the thick rug on which she’d wrestled with her father, endlessly replaying the legend of Aithric and the White Bear, although with far more giggling and guffaws than the tale merited, she supposed. There, too, was the door through which Riombar had come, head cast down and eyes raw and red, to inform her father that her mother had died a-raiding. And again, to tell her that a ship her father had been shaking out had been driven onto rocks by a rogue gale. She closed her eyes, fixed the memory in her mind, and then stepped out into the lowering gathering dark. She left the door slightly ajar behind her.

#

Arcites was just drifting off to sleep when he heard Lord y’Darreth bellow his name from the far side of the camp. He acknowledged the summons with a shout that tailed off into a string of low curses. He fastened his sword belt and ducked out of the tent. Lord y’Darreth and his six retainers clumped at the edge of the halo of light that surrounded the central campfire and shook his head. Everyone had run to the shouting, leaving no-one behind to stand guard over their mounts and pack animals. If the Merrowen had changed their minds about safe passage through their territory, y’Darreth and his “seasoned warriors” wouldn’t last through the night. Nor would he.

“Took you long enough,” y’Darreth said. “Make yourself useful and dismiss this beggar-woman. I tossed her a few pennies, but she refuses to pick them up or stop her jabbering. She may be mad.”

Arcites could see a dark figure on the edge of the firelight. When the fire flared, he caught a quick glimpse of yellow wolf’s eyes in a shadowy face surrounded by a nimbus of wild, tangled hair. The hair on his arms stood on end in supernatural dread. He smiled at his own high-strung nerves. This was no shape-shifting demon from some Northron hell – it was the woman that he’d noticed sitting alone on a bench at the Merrowen chieftain’s longhouse.

“Ah, good! The slave that speaks the People’s tongue!” The woman’s calm, direct tone didn’t match her wild appearance. “Tell your master that I will guide him to the Gray God’s Tomb, if he will meet my terms.”

“I’m no slave,” Arcites said. Lord y’Darreth and his liverymen were obviously puzzled by the heat in his voice, but Arcites ignored them. “I am my own master.”

The woman held up a hand and smiled apologetically. “I meant no offense. The tall one treats you poorly for a free man. Please tell your chief that I will guide you to the tomb, if he agrees to my terms.”

“What does the savage say?” y’Darreth interrupted.

“She offers to guide us to the Gray God’s tomb, if you will meet her terms.”

Lord y’Darreth frowned. “The chieftain forbade his people from assisting me. Ask her why she flaunts his will. And ascertain if she is sane. I have no desire to be led into the maw of an ice wyrm by a madwoman.”

Arcites shared that sentiment. He turned back to the Merrowen woman and said, “I am Arcites. How are you called?”

“Nialla, daughter of Streng the Shipbuilder.”

“You wish to help us find the tomb against Chief Riombar’s will?”

“Like you, no man is my master. I will help your chief find the tomb if he will help me.”

“I do not mean to offend you, Nialla, but your appearance differs fromfrom that of the other women of your folk.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the Merrowen woman laughed softly. “My hair and the ash on my face?”

Arcites nodded.

“My father died five days ago. I am in mourning. Tomorrow I will be done with it and can brush out my hair and leave the ashes in the firepit where they belong.”

Arcites nodded again. Her story probably explained why she was isolated in the longhouse, too. He’d read of cultures that ostracized the family of a deceased member during the mourning period for fear that their misfortune might be contagious.

“What are your terms, then?”

“I wish to travel with his warband when he returns to the south. I will guide him to the tomb in exchange for that.” She gestured at y’Darreth’s men with her chin, “Do these men fight for pay?”

“Some do. Some are his sworn men.”

“Tell him I will also fight for him, but I expect to be paid the same as his other sell-swords,” she said and stood easily, patiently awaiting an answer.

“She isn’t mad. She’s in what passes for mourning garb for her people,” Arcities said. “Her own master and her chief have no right to tell her what she can or cannot do. If you agree to her terms, she will take us to the tomb.”

The nobleman eyed the woman skeptically. “And what are her terms?”

“She wishes to travel with us to the south. She wants you to employ her as a mercenary.”

“A small price to pay for such a valuable service – and these Merrowen fight like demons,” y’Darreth chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Ask her how her chieftain will feel about her disobedience.”

Arcites did, and she said, “How do you think? He’ll come after us to punish us all for ignoring his decree. If we move swiftly, though, I can take you to the tomb and we can be out of Riombar’s reach before he’s any the wiser – if you’re willing to sacrifice your horses.”

#

Nialla wasn’t sure if the outland chief would agree to her plan. Horses were extremely valuable, after all, and she’d been told that some Southron folk virtually venerated them. This was apparently not the case with Lord y’Darreth, though, because he eventually agreed to abandon their horses, draft animals, and any supplies that would not fit in her father’s smuggling boat, which lay moored at a small fishing pier a little less than a mile from the village. Some of his men were less enthused about the idea. When they understood they would be leaving their mounts for the first Merrowen fisherfolk who stumbled across them, she thought a mutiny might break out. Her assurances that the Merrowen didn’t eat horseflesh and y’Darreth’s promises of rich rewards seemed to placate them, though.

Although the boat rode somewhat low in the water under the weight of eight men and their gear, it was far easier to handle with extra hands, however inept, to work the sail. It wallowed a bit as the course took them nearly parallel to the cliff lined shore and the rolling waves that beat against them. The uneasy motion of the boat was doing y’Darreth and his men no favors. They sat in the boat's waist, their faces masks of stoic misery. Arcites seemed comfortable enough, though, and sat next to her in the sternsheets as she manned the tiller.

As they approached the island, he watched the tall, moon-dappled cliffs rise from the dark sea and said, “I would never have believed there would be a safe place to land along this ironbound coast. Will the Hydori have it guarded?”

“Not the place we’re bound for. It’s near the tomb, but too small to land a serious raiding party. Just a bit of sheltered beach at the base of a cliff.”

“I hope Lord y’Darreth and his men are in fit condition to scale the cliffs by the time we arrive,” Arcities said.

“There is a steep stair cut into the face of the cliff – more of a stone ladder, really. We’ll be grateful for the moon. It would be treacherous to climb in the full dark.” Nialla recognized the shape of a boulder atop a cliff and hauled on the tiller. “There is our landmark. Tell those outlanders to take up the oars and be prepared to pull for their lives when I strike the sail.”

Less than an hour later, they safely pulled the boat up on a sandy shelf at the edge of a deep tidal pool bordered on three sides by steep cliffs. The echoing crash of the surf was deafening, and they had to shout to hear one another. The stone “stair” proved to be just as steep as Nialla had warned and so narrow that they were forced to ascend in a long, single file. At the top, they found themselves in a wind-blasted stand of stunted pines. The barest scrape of a trail led uphill from the top of the cliff into a deepening grove of hardier pines.

As they waited for the last of the men-at-arms to ascend, Nialla leaned close to Arcites and said, “Do the others speak the People’s Tongue at all?”

“Amaranthian? No, not a word. Why?”

“This Lord y’Darreth, do you trust him? Are you his sworn man?”

“No,” Arcites said, answering both questions at once. “I serve him against my will.”

“How so, against your will?”

“I was a sworn man and my master commanded me to serve y’Darreth,” Arcites said, and in that moment, he made a decision. “But I’m sworn no longer. My master has abused my service and as of this moment, I withdraw it.”

Nialla nodded slowly. She was sure something important had just happened, but she didn’t have time to ask for an explanation. “Good. I don’t trust the dog, either. See how he whispers with his men and watches us slyly over their shoulders? I don’t believe he intends to keep his word to me. I believe he’ll set his men on me once he has what he wants, and I’ve landed us safely ashore on the mainland.”

Arcites nodded and said, “We’re of the same mind. I believe he has the same plan for me.”

“Then we share an enemy. Does that make us allies?”

“It does.” Arcites smiled. It was the first real smile he’d worn since discovering the location of the Gray God’s tomb. Having an ally seemed to lift half the weight of the world from his shoulders. “When the time comes, you can count on my steel.”

“What are you two gabbling about in that savage tongue?” y’Darreth asked as he strode up to them. “Planning an assignation? She looks like the type you might actually talk into your bed.”

Behind him, y’Darreth’s men laughed.

“No, she was telling me that the savages on this island check this spot from time to time for intruders. If they find our boat unattended, they’ll sink it by dropping rocks on it from above. She suggests you leave four men here on guard so we don’t find ourselves stranded here.”

Lord y’Darreth chewed his lower lip and studied Arcites for a long moment. Then he said, “I’ll leave two. I want the other four with us. They’re bound to have guards at the tomb of their god. You’ll be useless in a fight, and this savage will probably bolt at the sight of her own shadow once we reach the tomb. Superstitious fools, your savages.”

“Could you blame her? These old tombs are often guarded by shadow demons – man-shaped creatures formed out of flesh-flaying darkness.” Arcites spoke a little loudly for the benefit of y’Darreth’s men, several of whom exchanged nervous, side-long glances.

Lord y’Darreth’s eyes flashed with anger, but he laughed as he replied, “Maybe a few centuries ago, but without a skilled wizard to keep up the weirds, they’ll have lost all their power. You said so yourself, as did your master.”

With Nialla at his back, Arcites found the courage to shrug. “As you say, Lord y’Darreth.”

“As you said,” y’Darreth corrected him. “And if you have misled me on that point or any other, you needn’t fear any shadow men. I’ll flay the flesh from your bones myself. Now, tell the savage to lead on.”

Arcites nodded and turned to Nialla. He spoke quickly, striving to keep his voice natural to avoid arousing y’Darreth’s suspicion. “I told him to leave some men here to guard the boat from wandering Hydori. He wants you to lead the way to the tomb now.”

“Good. There will be less of them to deal with if he sets them on us at the tomb.” So saying, she turned and headed up the trail. Arcites fell into step beside her.

“Will there be Hydori guards at the tomb?”

“Probably not. They’re afraid of the place. They think the Gray God sleeps and they don’t want to reawaken him.”

“I thought Garloth was their protector?”

“Protectors aren’t always a good thing to have. Riombar was my protector, but I’ll starve if I stay with my people. Your master was probably your protector, but he made you serve this peacock.”

“I take your point.”

Lord y’Darreth pushed forward to join them. “Tell her to keep silent unless she needs to sound the alarm. I want you back with me, Arcites. You won’t be any help to is if you walk into a Hydori arrow before we reach the tomb.”

Arcites nodded and told Nialla, “He wants me at his side. He said to tell you to keep silent unless you need to warn us.”

“He’s suspicious. Be careful.”

Nialla led the way up the trail which followed the easiest contours toward the top of a tall hill. She walked carefully despite the thick scattering of pine needles. There weren’t likely to be any Hydori lurking in the woods above the tomb, but there was no point taking chances. At the top of the hill, the world opened up in front of her. A shallow, bowl-shaped valley dimpled the side of the hill. A large, stone structure topped by a crystalline dome which shimmered eerily in the moonlight dominated the valley. As she crouched behind one of the large old pines that crowned the hill and waited for the outlanders to join her, she noticed the uncanny silence that blanketed the valley. No birds called; no foxes barked. The entire valley seemed to hold its breath to avoid disturbing the rest of the sleeper beneath the crystal dome.

She startled as Arcites lay a careful hand on her shoulder.

“See, I told you she’d jump at her own shadow,” y’Darreth sneered.

“What did he say?”

“It’s not important,” Arcites said, and glanced over her shoulder at the domed tomb below. “The place reeks of magic. I could feel it looming down there before we were half-way up the hill. Have you seen any movement below?”

“No. Nothing is moving down there.” Nialla rose on her knees to point out a beaten path that led to an archway cut into the tomb’s eastern wall. “That looks like the entrance the Hydori priests use to – do whatever they do in there.”

#

Arcites relayed the information to y’Darreth, who nodded gravely. Despite his jibe at Nialla, the deathly silence radiating from the gleaming tomb below obviously unnerved the nobleman. He loosened his sword in its scabbard and said, “We won’t find the book admiring the view from up here. Arcites, tell the savage to lead the way.”

The short hike down the valley’s gentle slope was nerve wracking. Against the terrible silence of the place, their passage sounded riotous to Arcites’ ears despite the thick blanket of pine needles beneath their feet. His skin tingled with the presence of magical energy much stronger than he’d expected from such an old site. Either the Hydori hedge mage who tended the place was a prodigy or the original spells lain upon the place had been mind-bogglingly powerful. He found both prospects equally troubling. When they neared the entrance to the tomb, Nialla stopped and motioned for him to join her. He glanced over his shoulder at y’Darreth, who nodded his assent.

When he crouched beside her before a pair of great, iron-bound doors, she said, “There’s magic here. Do you feel it?”

He nodded. Whoever had placed the ward on the doors had made no effort at subtlety. Still, Nialla’s sensitivity impressed him. She either had some training in the arts or was a natural talent. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and said, “You’d best step back. If I don’t do my work well here, anyone near me is liable to get hurt.”

As she backed away noiselessly, he surveyed the entrance to the tomb. Wooden doors reinforced with heavy iron bands were set deep into the shadows of a stone archway easily wide and tall enough to allow two mounted men to pass through abreast. The doors themselves were plain and relatively unadorned. He assumed the Hydori had replaced them multiple times in the millennia since their Gray God went to his rest. The archway was intricately engraved with runes and glyphs from half-a-dozen classical languages he could recognize and three or four whose like he’d never seen. The inscriptions wore worn nearly smooth in places by the passage of time and the ravages of the elements, but those he could read filled him with self-satisfaction. “Here,” they read, “sleeps Garloth the Gray Skin God. Disturb his rest and suffer their wrath.”

Arcites chewed his lip thoughtfully. Their wrath?

“Get us through the door, Arcites,” Lord y’Darreth hissed at his back. “Or is it beyond your skills?”

Arcites snorted. Beyond his skills? Hardly. This was no ancient warding. It was a simple alarm cantrip, probably placed by one of the Hydori “priests.” He muttered a few words, waved his hands for show, and then invited y’Darreth to open the doors with a courtier’s bow.

“I think not,” Lord y’Darreth said. “Let the savage test your handiwork. It’s no great loss if she’s blasted by some spell you were too inept to counter.”

Arcites didn’t reply to the insult. He simply stepped forward and grasped one of the heavy iron rings set in the right-hand door. With some effort, he pulled the door open wide enough to enter. He peered inside into darkness and silence. He was about to step inside when a strong hand grabbed him and jerked him back with such force that he nearly fell. His temper flared, and he whirled on his heel only to have the curses forming on his lips crushed by a hard, back-handed slap from Lord y’Darreth.

The iron studs on the back of the noble’s gauntlet scored Arcites’ cheek, and he staggered sideways. He caught himself against the rough wooden door and raised a hand to his bleeding face. He glared at y’Darreth, who snarled, “I forbid you from risking yourself unnecessarily again. Let the barbarian woman open all the doors from hence forth. I don’t give a damn if she’s burned to ashes by a magical trap, poisoned by a barb, or dropped into a pit full of spiders and snakes, she’s fulfilled her oath by bringing us here – yours is not fulfilled until Garloth’s book is in my hands!”

“As you will,” Arcites said, swallowing blood and rage. His words slurred by his thickening lip. He kept his eyes cast down so that the nobleman wouldn’t see the hate in them. Rude treatment was one thing – but the Purpardean dared to lay hands on him? To strike him? Arcites’ heart seemed to slow under the effort to pump blood so suddenly thick with murder. “I must stay near her, though, to warn her of any further wards.”

When y’Darreth made to object, Arcites raised a deferential hand and said, “I’m not concerned about the Merrowen, my lord, but there are wards she could stumble into that would mean death for us all.”

Lord y’Darreth chewed his moustache for a moment and then said, “As you say, but have a care, apprentice. You’re entering perilous ground.”

Arcites nodded and pretended not to notice the veiled threat.

“No need for that,” Arcites said when he saw one of y’Darreth’s men preparing a torch. “I’ll light the way.”

A muttered incantation later, a small orb that glowed a little brighter than two or three candles hovered a foot or so over Arcites’ left shoulder. He expected Nialla to be alarmed by this, his first blatant use of the Art, but she hardly seemed to notice.

“You’re to lead,” he told her. “I’ll follow and warn you if I sense any magical traps or snares.”

He followed her into the tomb and found himself in a broad hallway with a smooth stone floor. By the way his magelight reflected from it, he assumed it had once been polished marble. Now it was covered in dust, grit, and a scattering of leaves and twigs that proved the doors to the place were not always securely closed. The hall was a good twenty feet long, its unbroken path ending at a smaller version of the doors through which they’d entered. These interior doors were half obscured by an irregular hump of dirt.

“Gods, what’s that smell?” Lord y’Darreth asked from behind them.

Nialla padded forward and Arcites followed. His light revealed the hump to be a pile of garbage on the floor, composed of animal carcasses in various stages of decomposition, bowls of rotting grain, and mounds of putrefying vegetables. Before it all sat a gleaming brass grail full of what Arcites suspected to be sour barley wine.

Lord y’Darreth looked over his shoulder and said, “What is this?”

“Offerings to the Gray God,” Arcites answered.

“No wonder he sleeps, then,” y’Darreth said. “I wouldn’t rouse myself for such rough fare, either.”

Nialla knelt and examined the offerings more closely. “The freshest meat looks to be a week old.”

Arcites leaned over to give her more light. “How often do you think they leave offerings?”

Nialla shrugged. “Who knows? The Hydori are weak. They probably grovel before their dead god whenever a shadow crosses the moon.”

“Fortunately, it’s a clear night,” Arcites said. “I doubt they’d appreciate finding us here in their holy place.”

Arcites edged around the rancid pile of offerings and examined the interior doors. He felt magic ooze from them, but nothing too malefic. He motioned for Nialla to try it. She seized the ring on the right-hand door and tugged once and then a second time with more force. The door didn’t budge an inch. She stepped away and one of y’Darreth’s men tried his hand with no better result.

Lord y’Darreth gave the ring a half-hearted tug himself and frowned. “There is no lock on this side. Is it barred from the other?"

“I don’t believe so,” Arcites said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve seen this before. I believe they are secured by sympathetic magic. Most likely an attraction between the iron bands has locked them tightly together. I believe I can remove the binding.”

“It would be best if you could,” Lord y’Darreth said and gave Arcites a meaningful look. “If we have traveled all this way to be thwarted by a door, I will not answer for my actions.”

Arcites ignored the fresh threat and went about his work. He pulled a sharp, steel stylus from the satchel that hung at his right hip and scratched a specific design on the iron bands that reinforced the left door. He muttered a few words and then pushed on the right-hand door with his open palm. When he removed his hand, the door swung outward under the force of a light draft that brought a disturbing damp, earthy odor with it to mix with the stench of rotting meat and plants.

“Well done,” Lord y’Darreth begrudged. “You may have been worth the rations to get you here after all.”

“Now you must be twice as wary,” Nialla said, wearing an impressed smile to hide the meaning of her words. “He knows you truly have power now and remembers how he’s treated you. As do his men. They’ll expect you to retaliate now and may try to slip a knife into you before you can place a curse on them.”

“How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “I just know.”

“Enough nattering,” Lord y’Darreth said. “The prize is at hand. I’d like to seize it before a gang of savages arrives to decorate our corpses with arrow shafts.”

The hall beyond the doors was slightly wider and rose to a soaring groined ceiling unlike any Arcites had seen outside of drawings from ancient Amaranthian tomes. The air was thick, damp and laden with a smell reminded him of damp earth with a faint trace of corruption. He found it was slightly more difficult to maintain the brightness of his magelight and was left with the unshakeable feeling that the darkness that seemed to press in on them was more tangible than the mere absence of light should be.

“This is a bad old place,” Nialla said quietly, and he nodded.

“What does the barbarian say?” It was one of y’Darreth’s armsmen who spoke and the slight tremor to his voice made Arcites wonder if he was remembering the flesh rending shadows he’d spoken of on the cliff below the Gray God’s tomb.

Before he could answer, Lord y’Darreth said, “Look, there are carvings on the wall.”

Arcites intensified the strength of his mage light and the bas reliefs adorning the walls at either hand were revealed in all their horror. Some ancient and masterful hand had carved a series of scenes into the walls, which offered a glimpse into the island’s ancient past. Here was a towering, majestic man, Garloth, he assumed, stepping onto shore from a tall-masted ship. The native Hydori knelt before him on the beach. Strangely, more figures seemed to watch his arrival from the sea itself, their narrow shoulders and oddly elongated heads protruding above the stylistically carved waves. In another tableau, Garloth was shown accepting the gifts of food and goods from a top-knotted figure that Arcites took to be a chieftain of the Hydori. Behind him, tall, inhumanly proportioned creatures feasted on Hydori warriors, women, and children. The carving emphasized their terror-bulging eyes and wide, screaming mouths, leaving no doubt that the unfortunates were consumed alive. Other carvings showed Garloth leading his monstrous servants to victory over would be invaders and the raising of the great temple in which they stood, all interspersed with images of Garloth receiving homage from the Hydori in the form of food, wealth, servants, and human sacrifices to his inhuman host of gangling, fang-toothed monsters.

Arcites pointed at a scene depicting the creatures feasting on wailing victims, each bound at hand and foot, and asked, “Do you know what these things are?”

Nialla shook her head. “Our stories say that the Hydori were once protected by a Gray God, who died. While under their god’s protection their island was invincible, after his death raiders fell on the island expecting rich prizes – instead they found poor pickings and meager glory. The Hydori prefer to ambush invaders and slink off into the woods instead of meeting them chest to chest in actual battle.”

“What does she say?” y’Darreth asked.

“That her people have no tales of these creatures,” Arcites answered y’Darreth. “They were probably bound to Garloth by a spell of servitude. I assume it was broken at his death and they are long gone.”

“If they were ever here at all,” Lord y’Darreth said, loudly enough for his mean to hear. “These wall scratchings look more like the fantasies of primitive savages than history to my eye.”

The detail and tone of the reliefs looked very much like history to Arcites, but he nodded and gestured to Nialla to lead on. 

They followed her deeper into structure and discovered that it had been a vast, opulent manse before it became Garloth’s tomb. Tall doors opening onto the central hall and a quick examination proved that they led to a complex of small living quarters for staff, a kitchen, storerooms, and workshops. Arcites’ heart leapt when they stumbled into a long, narrow room packed with shelves of scrolls and folios. Lord y’Darreth flashed him a questioning look, but Arcities shook his head. No mage would keep their personal grimoire in a simple library such as this. Still, the place was a treasure house of ancient knowledge and Arcites raged inwardly when Lord y’Darreth refused to allow him a few minutes to pluck any obvious gems from the collection. He doubted the greedy noble would show the same restraint if they stumbled into a room full of actual gems.

The central hall finally ended at the feet of a pair of massive iron doors. The great doors, darkened with age and spotted with large patches of rust, were devoid of any decoration. Arcites sensed no trace of dweomer about them, but he spared a quick glance at Nialla who nodded her agreement.

“Well?” Lord y’Darreth demanded.

“I don’t sense any trace of arcane wards,” Arcites said. “I cannot say if there are any mechanical safeguards, though.”

“That’s what our pet savage is for.” Lord y’Darreth pointed imperiously at the doors, looked at Nialla and barked, “Open those damned doors!”

His order required no translation. Nialla strode up to the doors and braced her hands a shoulder’s breath apart on the nearest. She planted her feet on the dusty marble floor and shoved. Arcites saw the muscles bunch in her back and shoulders and marveled as the iron door screeched on its massive hinges and ponderously gave way. As the gap between the doors widened, a malodorous miasma seeped into the hall, filling it with a musky scent mixed with stagnant water and damp earth.

When there was enough space between the doors to allow a man to pass freely, Arcites leaned in to warily survey the room. The crystalline dome over the chamber reflected and seemed to magnify the meager light radiating from his magelight. The dull, milky light revealed a circular chamber, easily a hundred feet and more across. In the center of the room was a circular dais surrounded by a wide moat filled with water that looked black under the unnatural light. A low sarcophagus seemed to crouch on the dais, accessible only by four narrow causeways which crossed the moat at the cardinal points. Another set of enormous iron doors was dimly visible on the far side of the room. Otherwise, the room was strangely bare.

Arcites closed his eyes and allowed his awareness to expand and fill the great domed hall. A white-hot spike of magic burned at the center of the chamber, but otherwise the room contained nothing more than his eyes revealed: Dust and cobwebs. He turned to Lord y’Darreth and said, “It’s safe to enter. If what we seek is here, it is in the sarcophagus, yonder.”

The Purpardean lord shoved past him, and growled, “It had better be, for your sake. If you’ve wasted my time and treasure on a fool’s errand, the Gray God may find himself with a new sleeping companion.”

Arcites shared a significant glance with Nialla before following y’Darreth and his men through the iron doors. They moved as a group towards the nearest bridge across the moat, each step closer increasing the assault on their nostrils. Arcites prayed silently that the places odorous damp hadn’t reduced Garloth’s tome to a rotting mass of moldy pulp.

At the foot of the bridge, Lord y’Darreth glanced over his shoulder at Arcites, who nodded and said, “It is safe. The only magic I sense is on the dais, and I believe it is the book itself. There is no whiff of a ward here.”

The Purpardean clambered over the bridge and Arcites and his retinue followed. Nialla stayed put and readied her bow. Lord y’Darreth noticed and paused long enough to mock her.

“Poor little savage girl! Too frightened of ghosts to approach old, dead Garloth!”

The noble’s men laughed with him and jokingly wondered what good an arrow would be against a ghost, but Arcities gave her a subtle nod. He understood the bow wasn’t intended to use against ghosts, but to make one or two if need be. She was watching his back, just as she’d promised.

“Quit your gaping at the girl, you moonstruck fool,” y’Darreth snapped. “She’d choose me or one of my men before wasting her time with milksop like you. Keep your mind on your work and do your job!”

Arcites examined the sarcophagus carefully. It was carved from a solid slab of some sort of soft, white stone. The lid was sculpted in the likeness of a grim-faced man with broad features, a shaven head, and a thick beard. The sculpture’s face was open-eyed, which was odd for a what amounted to a death mask. The ancient sculptor had captured an expression that radiated both intelligence and cruelty. If the carving matched its model’s proportions, Garloth must have stood well over seven feet in height. He was depicted in the flowing robes of a monarch. His powerful hands clutched a thick book to his deep chest. Arcites sighed in relief.

He made a quick but thorough examination of the sarcophagus and found it apparently unwarded. He looked up at y’Darreth and nodded mutely. The noble grinned and motioned for two of his men to remove the lid of the sarcophagus. The lid was too heavy to lift, but by pushing together on one side, they finally slid it to one side. In their enthusiasm, they overbalanced the lid, and it fell to strike the dais edge first, where it shattered with a crash that roared in rolling echoes around and around under the domed ceiling. When silence finally fell, it was deafening.

“Fools!” y’Darreth snarled. He would have said more, but the sight of light glinting off a brass-bound book imbedded in the chest of the long, brittle skeleton within the sarcophagus distracted him. A cry of exultation replaced the string of curses that had formed on his lips. He seized the book and raised it over his head. “The Tome of Garloth! I have it! I have the tome!”

Arcites startled as an angry ululation from the far end of the chamber answered Lord y’Darreth’s victory cry. He felt the pressure of hostile magic press against his will and threw up a hasty defense with a shout of his own.

#

The crash of shattering stone and the Purpardean fool’s shout of pleasure distracted Nialla, so she failed to notice the Hydori priest and his guards enter through the doors at the far end of the chamber. She couldn’t miss the sending he launched against her and the outlanders, though, and reflexively called upon the power of Andred to protect her. To her surprise, she felt the sending shatter against the shield of the goddess. She drew her bow until the nocked arrow’s fletching tickled her cheek and then let fly before her mind truly registered her mark. The Hydori priest’s blood-choked wail brought a fierce grin to her face. Four more arrows were in flight before the death-cry’s echoes had faded and all four of his guardsmen lay dead. The last fell only a half-dozen feet from the bridge leading to the dais, where y’Darreth stood stupidly with Garloth’s book raised over his head.

“The time for celebration is past,” she snapped as she dashed across the bridge to join the outlanders. “If there are more Hydori in the temple, they’ll come running to see what the howling is about.”

She skidded to a halt next to Arcites who stood staring y’Darreth, who still held the book aloft. The sharp insult that sprang to her lips died there as she noticed the unnatural stiffness of the Purpardean’s stance and the frozen, rictus-like expression on his face. Only the nobleman’s eyes moved, rolling frantically from side to side like those of a fear-maddened mare.

“Gods,” she hissed. “He’s been be-spelled!”

Arcites nodded. He turned to her and was about to speak when one of y’Darreth’s seized him by the arm and jabbed a finger at his master and snarled accusingly, “Is this your doing, mage?”

Before Arcites could answer, a grotesque, gurgling cry split the air. Nialla felt magic in it, magic laden with despair and a thirst for revenge. She stepped around the sarcophagus and loosed another arrow which buried itself up to the fletching in the Hydori priest’s left eye. The air thickened around her. She nearly gagged on the overpowering smell of death and damp earth. She heard a noise like a fish turning in a still pond looked to the moat. She looked out over the black water separating their causeway from another in time to see its black surface roiled with ripples that suggested something rising to the surface.

The first of the creatures broke the surface of the moat at her very feet. It came at her in a blur of flying water, gnashing fangs, and claws like curved daggers. She thrust her sword out before her out of pure instinct and the thing skewered itself on the keen blade. She saw the sickly green-gray light of its devilish eyes dim as it clutched at her blade and slid slowly back into the depths. Although she’d only seen the thing for a split heartbeat, she recognized its long limbs, leering features, and strangely elongated head immediately: It was one of the Gray Gods’ minions, just as she’d seen them carved on the walls of the entry hall.

Even as the dead creature sank beneath the black water, she saw three more of its gray-skinned brethren pull themselves up on the opposite edge of the mote. They crouched and studied her for a moment, their long, forked tongues writhing obscenely between fangs as long as her hand. A quick glance showed more emerging from the water in twos and threes. So far none had tried to pull themselves up onto the dais itself. Perhaps the lesson of their fallen brother made them wary, but, judging by the carved images that showed them engaged in gleeful slaughter, it was more likely that the beasts merely prolonged their sport.

The soldier holding Arcites gave him a brutal shake, “Free Lord y’Darreth from your spell! Now!”

“It’s not my spell,” Arcites said, and jerked his arm free in a surprising display of strength. “My master bound me with a geas which forbids me from working any magic upon Lord y’Darreth. This is the work of the Hydori priest.”

“Then free him,” the armsman snarled, glancing over his shoulder at the thickening ring of gray-skinned creatures lining the far edge of the moat. “Your magic should be more than a match for some savage hedge-witch!”

“Aren’t you listening? I’m bound by a geas that stops me from working any magic that affects your master. Any magic!”

Nialla didn’t understand a word that had passed between Arcites and the armsman, but she couldn’t mistake the meaning of the high-pitched, mournful keening that escaped between y’Darreth’s clenched teeth. The arrogant nobleman was doomed and unmanned. She ignored the wordless plea in his eyes and snatched the book from his paralyzed hand. The action seemed to provoke the ghoulish servants of Garloth, who crept slowly forward with bared teeth and extended talons. They came on silently, which she found more unnerving than any chorus of howls or gibbering might have been.

Lord y’Darreth’s men impressed her. They formed up around their petrified master with bare blades in their hands and grim expressions on their faces. It was clear they were determined to make a stand, but she had other ideas. She handed the book to Arcites and drew her father’s heavy bladed sword, saying, “Our oath is fulfilled. Let us go!”

Arcites nodded and shoved the book into the satchel hanging from his shoulder. He drew his own sword and dagger. Together, he and Nialla rushed the creatures that blocked their escape, pursued by vehement curses from y’Darreth’s men-at-arms. They would be wiser to save their breath for their death-song, Nialla thought as she closed with the gray skinned monsters. She sidestepped the raking claws of the nearest creature and struck it an overhand blow that drove it to its scaly knees with a crushed skull. Arcites was at her side an instant later, and while his sword arm lacked the length and power of her own, he seemed to make up for it in speed and deftness. She admired the way he stuck doggedly to her left hand as they fought their way towards the great door through which they’d entered Garloth’s burial hall, allowing her to concentrate on foes directly ahead or to the right.

The short stroll from the entrance of the great hall to the dais holding Garloth’s mortal remains transformed into a hellish trek on the return trip. Gray-skinned devils contested every step they took and soon had Nialla and Arcites surrounded. The stocky mage abandoned her left side to fall in behind her. Back-to-back, they fought their way through the press of otherworldly creatures, dealing blow after blow until their arms were leaden and their eyes stung with sweat and splashed gore.

The ordeal ended suddenly. She struck down one of the leering beasts with a blow that nearly hacked it in half at the waist and stepped over its wildly thrashing corpse and into the empty entrance hall. A heartbeat later, Arcites stumbled in next to her. The few moments it took to gain the hallway had seemed like hours. She turned to hold the door and allow the mage to take the lead now that there were no enemies to their front. She was shocked to see the creatures that had struggled so implacably to prevent them from reaching the exit turn and lope back towards the moat-girdled dais. Over their heads she could a pair of y’Darreth’s men struggling to defend him as he stood frozen in place, his right hand still raised ridiculously over his head. The gray skinned devils tore the corpses of two of his men to pieces and scattered their savaged remains in a wide swath around the little island.

She thrust her bloodied sword through her belt and drew her bow as she saw another of y’Darreth’s soldiers go down. Alone, his companion lost his nerve and began hacking his way desperately towards Nialla and the hall leading out of Garloth’s horror filled tomb. It was like watching a mayfly brave a gale. Wave after wave of gray-skinned terrors surged out of the dark waters of the moat. Others, to Nialla’s horror, seemed to materialize from the hall’s damp stone walls. The space under the crystalline dome took the appearance of a writhing gray mass of taloned claws and gnashing teeth in misshapen gray faces. The lone retainer had no chance against the ever-increasing horde and who pulled him down before he was half-way to freedom.

Nialla strove to ignore the details of his end as she aimed along the shaft of her arrow. She released the arrow and was pleased to see it strike its mark, dead in the center of the Purpardean lord’s right eye. The nobleman’s body twitched spasmodically for a moment and then collapsed in a boneless heap. A strange, susurrating murmur of disappointment arose from the gray horde and, as one, over a hundred pairs of baleful, pale eyes turned on Nialla.

“Why did you do that” Arcites demanded as he grasped the door’s heavy metal ring and helped her drag the ponderous door closed.

“Mercy,” she answered. “They would have pulled him apart and eaten him alive, and he unable to lift so much as a finger to defend himself. Can you imagine the horror? No one deserves to die like that.”

“We shall have to agree to disagree,” Arcites said and Nialla made a private vow never to get on the mage’s bad side. She watched as he traced patterns on the door with his fingertips and muttered words that were accompanied by the smell of heated iron. She startled as the door boomed under the impact of dozens of the gray skinned monsters, The great valve shook, but did not budge.

“I’ve sealed it for now,” Arcites said, wiping sweat from his broad brow. “But there must be other ways out of that hall. We should run.”

Nialla, who’d seen the creatures oozing out of the hall’s stone walls agreed. They ran, pursued relentlessly by the echoes of their own footsteps down the wide halls of the tomb of Garloth, the Gray Skin God.

#

Their breath was burning in their lungs as they passed over the rim of the natural bowl that sheltered Garloth’s tomb but the sound of a great, hoarse gasp rising from hundreds of inhuman throats at their backs revitalized them. They sprinted recklessly down the hill, leaping over fallen pine trunks and moss-covered stones like stags in flight. When the burst out of the woods, they were greeted by the puzzled stares of Lord y’Darreth’s remaining armsmen.

“Run,” Nialla shouted. “Death follows!”

“Run,” Arcites repeated in Purpardean dialect. “Run for your lives!”

One man opened his mouth with a question on his lips, but Nialla and Arcites were already past them, headed for the cliff and the steep climb down to the shore and her boat that awaited them there. Nialla spared a glance over her shoulder and saw the two soldiers take a faltering step after them and then turn to head up the trail towards the tree line. Whatever else y’Darreth’s men were, they were loyal to their lord. They wouldn’t abandon him on the word of a wild-eyed tribesman and a magician’s apprentice.        

At the edge of the cliff, Nialla turned to Arcites and said, “I’ll go first. I’m the better climber, so I’ll get down faster and cover you with my bow.”

The mage frowned but nodded. Nialla scrambled over the edge and practically bounded down the narrow stone risers. Arcites followed, but far more caution marked his descent. He was only half-way down when Nialla dropped the last six or seven feet to the spray-dampened stone shelf at the foot of the cliff. Above them they heard a faint cry of alarm followed by a fearsome shriek. The rest of Arcites descent was far swifter.

They were casting off when the first malformed heads appeared over the edge of the cliff above. Soon a river of gangling, inhuman forms was pouring down the stone ladder. In their haste, several of the creatures fell and cartwheeled silently to strike the hard rocks below with a wet thump and the sound of cracking twigs. Nialla and Arcites pushed off the rocky shelf with their oars and then settled side-by-side on a rowing bench and pulled for their lives. Minutes later, when the boat was nosing its way into the passage that would lead to the open sea, Nialla spared a glance behind her and saw the stone shelf had been transformed into a heaving, writhing mass of gray, sinuous forms. The creatures continued to pour down the ladder and the press was so thick that each new arrival toppled one or two of the things at the edge of the ledge into the sea where they sank below the surface with no more effort to swim than a stone dropped in a well. The most unnerving aspect of the scene to Nialla was the utter silence in which it played out. She turned her back on the terrible fate from whose claws they’d slipped and bent to her oar with a will.

Later, with all but the highest promontories of Garloth’s Isle sunk behind them, Nialla tied off the rudder and joined Arcites in the waist. A steady soldier’s wind filled their sail and drove the little boat towards the mainland. Lighter now by the weight of seven armored men, the little vessel was much livelier and Nialla was relieved to see that Arcites continued to show no signs of seasickness. Such a hardy constitution would make the journey she had in mind far more comfortable for them both.

The mage looked up from Garloth’s book, its pages lit by a pale blue orb of luminescence that hung just over his right shoulder. “I’m keeping this.”

The Southron’s tone was even, but final. Nialla shrugged. “I have no use for it. I can’t read.”

“As you said, I’ve fulfilled my oath. I swore to help y’Darreth attain the book, and I was as good as my word. He held it with his own hands.”

“No need to convince me,” Nialla grinned. “Keep the book if you wish.”

Arcites continued, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “Mater Oloron has kept his vow, too. He promised to introduce me to deeper arts if y’Darreth’s quest was a success. Studying this book will certainly deepen my knowledge of the art. This book isn’t read, so much as absorbed – the ideas seem to form in my mind more swiftly than my eyes can follow the text.”

Nialla nodded, but her attention was elsewhere. She rooted around through y’Darreth’s belongings until she found a small travel chest wrapped in oilcloth. It was heavy and clinked merrily when she gave it a shake. A prodigious padlock whose key was probably deep in some gray skin’s gut sealed it. Holding the box tightly between her elbow and side with her left arm, she grasped the lock in her right and gave it a hard twist. The sound of tearing wood as the hasp broke free of the box brought a smile to her face.

She lifted the lid and tilted the box towards Arcites, “Is there enough here to support us in the Southron lands for a while until we find some other employment?”

 “Support us?” Arcites closed the book and gave Nialla his full attention. “You wish to form an alliance?”

“Why not? We’ve faced adversity together and taken each other’s measure. I can sail you back to the Southron lands and you can teach me your language and ways. What say you?”

Arcites considered the offer and found it appealed to him.

“I like your plan,” he said, and extended his hand. “Your road is mine.”

Nialla’s grin was as fierce as her grip. “And yours is mine!”

#

End