The Light of Endura Page 16

  ANDREG stressed urgency, but gathering supplies required several days at Andioch. Trader dealt with the chamberlain and took charge of logistics, while Aerol spent his time studying maps and gaining whatever information he could about the enemy and the road ahead. Filby felt a bit out of place, so he took to long and pleasant walks far from the city center. He found a practice range set in a sprawling garden, where soldiers had set up targets designed for bow and arrow. He began practicing with Ethreal’s bow, although, much to his dismay, his aim never seemed to improve. On his third day fumbling with the bow, a familiar voice called from behind.

  “I told you that you were a Redmont.”

  Filby turned to see Ethreal limping toward him. He thought about the simple statement and realized it was Ethreal’s way of thanking him. Simple, and short, and done. No more needed to be said.

  “No cane?” asked Filby. He was overjoyed to find her up and out of bed, healthy and walking, but he restrained his emotions. He knew, it was not Ethreal’s way.

  “I don’t plan to follow their rules,” answered Ethreal. “I plan to follow my rules.”

  Filby stretched out his arm and gladly offered Ethreal her bow back. “No more of the original arrows I’m afraid.”

  “Arrows can be replaced,” said Ethreal. “The bow cannot.” She held up her hand, refusing the bow, and motioned for Filby to carry on with his practice. “No arrows means you shot something?”

  “I shot at something,” said Filby with a shrug. His face wrinkled with the memory.

  “Well, you are none the worse for it.” Ethreal pointed to the target. “Let me see.”

  Filby paused for a moment, unsure if he wanted to put his clumsiness on display, then he hesitantly raised the bow and slowly stretched back the string.

  “Elbow up,” said Ethreal with a soft voice. “Loosen the grip with your left hand—everything should be calm and relaxed.”

  Filby listened intently and made the adjustments.

  “Don’t squeeze with your fingers,” instructed Ethreal, calm and matter-of-fact. “Mark along the arrow, then release.”

  Filby fired . . . and hit the outer edge of the target.

  “You gripped too tightly with your left hand.” Ethreal made a motion with her hand, as if to suggest it should remain almost open. “The lead hand should be loose and relaxed. And you moved your wrist when you released. Everything should remain still, even your breath.”

  Filby nocked another arrow, then carefully lifted the bow and aimed at the target, keeping his wrist calm and relaxed. He slowed his breathing, then released. The arrow flew across the garden . . . imbedding itself squarely in the outer edge of the target.

  “Practice,” laughed Ethreal. “It is the only way.”

  Filby turned at the sound of footsteps in the garden, relieved at any distraction from his inept practice session. Aerol approached, nodding approval at Ethreal’s recovery. “You are well?” he asked, motioning to her injured leg.

  “Well enough.”

  “The Watcher has secured the last of our supplies, and we leave tomorrow.” Aerol held her in his gaze, a look of concern in his thin eyes. “Will you be ready to travel?”

  “I am ready today.” Ethreal stood straight and looked defiant.

  “I am heartened. This mission stands a much better chance with a warrior of Effindril by our side.” Aerol turned to Filby and tilted his head. “You have told us your story, Filby, and your journey was difficult. But one thing remains. How is it you arrived here so many days before us, and on foot, with nary the aid of a good mount.”

  Filby shrugged. “The farmer who helped us, La Bont, said the main forest road bends away to the north, in order to avoid crossing the river and some high hills and canyons. I guess we took a shortcut right through that section.”

  “And what of La Bont?”

  “He returned to his farm on the edge of the forest. I only pray he stays safe.”

  Aerol nodded his head. The sky became shallow over the east end of the garden, while a red sun painted the horizon beyond the city’s far wall. Aerol revealed the Map of Dunhelm from the folds of his shirt. “The map and the see-er are reunited. Andreg urges us to read the runes before we depart . . . he awaits in his chambers.”

  Darkness came down upon the city as the three walked through the main square. Soldiers manned the ramparts, where torches once again lined the battlements against an unseen but ever-present foe. Andreg welcomed his companions into his chamber, and Aerol laid the map out on an oak table near the hearth. The worn vellum seemed more stained than usual, thought Filby, and darker, as if the artifact had seen another thousand years of wear. Andreg waved a candle over the surface, looking concerned. “Even the visible symbols begin to fade,” he said. “The lines grow thin.” He ran his fingers over the surface of the velum then slowly turned to Filby. “Can you make out any markings?”

  Filby grasped a pen and began transcribing what he saw onto a white sheet of paper. The runes seemed different to him—simpler, almost repetitive. And they appeared in perfectly straight lines, whereas before, the letters were always slightly askew.

  Filby slid the paper across the table, and Andreg tilted his candle over the markings. He sat for many minutes, muttering to himself and scratching his chin. His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “These runes are difficult to explain,” he said finally. “They are meant to signify an empty space—there really is no equivalent for it in our language, sort of like we would use a dash, or more accurately, the way we would use an empty space between words or sentences.” He turned up his hands. “This is at its heart a sentence full of dashes, or empty spaces.”

  “What do you make of it?” asked Aerol.

  Andreg was deep in thought, and seemed not to hear the question. “Still, I think it has meaning.” He began muttering, almost to himself. “Perhaps it is meant to signify an emptiness, or a lacking . . . I dread to think.” His complexion became white as a pale sky and he trembled. “I believe the Flame has expired.”

  A cold chill ran along Filby’s legs.

  Aerol shuddered. “Would not the days be that of night if the Flame is no more?”

  “When the sun disappears from the edge of the world, it takes time for the day to fade,” replied Andreg. “So it is when the Flame dies. So does it take time for the light to completely disappear from these lands.”

  “Then we still have time,” said Ethreal, flatly, hands shaped into fists on her hips.

  “We must make haste; soon the bright noon day will be black as coal, and nightwraith will roam the land freely, and a second age of darkness will have come upon these Five Kingdoms.”

  Filby leaned over the map and his eyes widened. “Another rune has appeared!” He lifted the pen and drew. This one was more ornate, perhaps the most complex of all the runes, taking many minutes to copy onto the page.

  Andreg moved the candle closer and fell into deep thought. Again, he seemed to have trouble making out the meaning. “There are many variations in the ancient runic language to signify a blank space.” He moved his fingers over the runes he had already deciphered. “And all these various runes have a meaning such as I have described.” Andreg paused and gazed at the page. “Except for the new one.” He turned to Filby. “Are you sure this is what you see?”

  “I have written it exactly as it appears,” answered Filby. The room was dim, and the others stood by watching him as if he had produced something that was about to cause them all a great deal of trouble. He became a bit self-conscious.

  “Then it is a rune unfamiliar to me. It looks more like a set of runes written atop each other.” Andreg tilted the candle closer, pointing at a corner of the rune. “This section, taken by itself, would be translated in the ancient tongue as vessledore, which means ‘holder’ or ‘keeper.’ This other section of the rune would translate as sendermae, meaning ‘to seek.’”

  “Well?” said Ethreal, glaring at the mage.

  “We are too far away from the
source,” said Andreg, shaking his head and standing straight. “We must move east and read the map closer to the Far Mountains. Then, perhaps, the meaning will be revealed.”

  THE ANCIENT walls of Andioch shrank into the western sky as Aerol led his companions along the boundless plain. They were freshly supplied with smoked venison, dried fruit and berries, and whole grains that were light to carry, needing only the addition of boiling water. Ethreal was united with her white stallion once again, while Andreg and Filby rode two of the land’s best mounts—mottled brown and white, smaller but bred for the arid climate and rocky soil. Ethreal’s quiver bristled full of arrows, with many more in the saddle bags, and thick new cloaks would protect the entire party from cold and darkening days.

  They had said their goodbye’s quickly at Andioch—there were no great farewells or ceremonies; people did not turn out in the streets to see them ride out of the city. Time was of the essence; Pergrin and the other city leaders knew as much, and so Aerol and his party left in the small hour before dawn when most of the citizens were still tucked away in their featherbeds. Andreg had urged haste, and so they made haste.

  Aerol’s black steed trotted in front as the single-file line of riders followed the sun. The featureless land stretched flat and unbroken into the vague distance; in places a square-topped mesa or rigid canyon jutted into the dusty air, only to recede beyond the western edge of the country leaving a flat expanse to the east yet again. They saw scattered bands of mounted halfwraith on the shimmering plain, but the enemy fled behind far-off curtains of rising air before they could be caught or counted.

  Aerol stuck to the cobblestone road, fearing dust kicked up from the desert might give their location away, but soon the road became so encrusted with sand that a billowy cloud of brown dirt trailed into the sky as a sign for all to see. Though the opposite was also true. Telltale clouds on the horizon marked the movements of some dark and evil adversary, and they knew it was the enemy, for all others had fled the land long ago. Trader pointed to one such cloud far off on the horizon, and Filby strained to see what the Watcher was following with his keen eyes. To Filby, it looked like a distant oak tree magically lumbering across the desert floor. “A single ogre tracking east,” said Trader. “Must be twelve feet tall, but it has not seen us.”

  “Let us keep it that way,” said Aerol, looking to the north, as he quickened the pace to a slow trot. Sand disappeared from the cobblestone way, while the terrain to the north and south became hard sandstone. Ancient and forgotten ruins began to border the road: marble pillars half-buried in rock, colonnades once adorned by an ornate marble roof, now strewn about in a pile of rubble. Faded mosaics and carved finials could still be seen on the broken pieces, like a treasure lost to the sands of time.

  “It is the Temple of Minothos,” said Andreg, as he trotted beside Filby. “From before the first dark age. But the evil rose up and the Five Kingdoms went to war with the dark army that came from the east. The kings fought mightily, but the kingdoms fell into chaos, and darkness ruled the land for many years. Only the warriors of Effindril remained with the knowledge of the ancient ways, hidden in their mountain sanctuary to the north, and they alone held a plan against the black tide. They brought the Light of Endura back from beyond the Far Mountains, even as the enemy overran those lands, and they protected and nurtured the Light, for it was the last hope of man in a doomed world.”

  Filby’s horse bucked his reins, then settled in and walked easily along. Filby turned up the collar of his cloak against the north wind. “How did the Light get back beyond the mountains?”

  Andreg gazed up at a figure carved into the stone wall, twelve feet tall with a flowing beard and a crown adorning his head, as he and Filby rode slowly by. “The written history is vague, and the oral telling is wrought with myth and falsity. The Order of the Mages took a vow never to reveal what occurred during those dark times, and alas, they were the only true chroniclers of the age. We know only that a band of the best warriors was assembled and trained, and they were called the Far Riders. They were charged with the task of returning the Flame, but if they ventured forth and how they fared is left unknown to the sands of time. We do know this: my forefathers, of the Order of Mages, retreated to their ancient castle keep of Dunhelm where they created the map that Aerol now carries. We . . .” Andreg stopped, as if catching himself about to say something he did not want revealed. “The mages lingered there, secreted away in their sacred stronghold for years, even generations, to create the magic necessary to instill upon the map . . . a map to monitor the Flame, and aid the affairs of men if the darkness were ever to rise again.”

  Andreg’s horse snorted, and the mage jiggled the reins then looked over at Filby with an emotionless gaze. “But the Five Kingdoms faded into memory. Only the Far Riders remained to lead, and the descendants of the line of Effindril. Since then, Far Riders have been chosen throughout time so the darkness would never take hold on these lands. But through the ages the story became lost in legend. The Far Riders dwindled to but a handful and became outcasts. And now, there is only one. Your grandfather was the last to have ever ventured beyond the Far Mountains, but rest assured his travels were not in vain. He went to seek the Map of Dunhelm, and he brought it back and protected the sacred parchment all these many years.”

  Filby clutched the collar of his cloak and squeezed it tight around his neck. The whole thing made him somehow feel cold. “The Order of Mages, you said. If there are more like you, why aren’t they here helping us now?”

  “I am the last,” muttered Andreg, quietly and inwardly, then he spurred his horse and trotted ahead.

  The sun passed noon and sank quickly in the west, yet the day was a mere three hours old. Murky clouds gathered on the horizon, running before a hard wind that pressed down from the north. They entered a set of rounded hills, like clay mounds rolling endlessly to the east, and the road curled between them to form the base of a snaking canyon. The riders made a slow bend around a wide, low hill. Trader halted and raised his hand. “Something approaches.”

  The others listened. They could not see around the broad bend in the canyon, but far off in the distance came the slight sound of rolling thunder, and they waited. Then all was quiet.

  Moments later, again the sound rose. Boom . . . boom . . . like the distant beating of drums. Aerol unsheathed his sword and stiffened in the saddle. Boom . . . boom . . . closer it came, and the ground began to shudder with each drum beat. And behind the thunder came the vague cries of many voices.

  Trader drew his sword.

  The ground shuddered and rocks rattled down from the hills on either side. Boom . . . boom . . . Trader’s horse wanted to flee, but the Watcher held a tight grip on the reins. Far-off voices became cackles and cries, and the thunder shook the mountains and the ground trembled.

  Thirty troggs swept around the bend, running full bore, swords held high, and at the head of the melee a massive ogre pounded his way forward. Boom . . . boom . . . Ethreal swung her bow to the ready. Andreg and Filby unsheathed their swords.

  Ethreal drew three times in as many seconds and three troggs fell on the left, and seconds later three more troggs fell atop the hill. Six more tasted Ethreal’s bow before the tide swept upon them, and the horrible screech of metal upon metal rang throughout the canyon. The ogre raised a massive club and shattered it upon the ground. Aerol fell from his steed and slayed two troggs as he rose. Filby and Andreg were surrounded, but Ethreal’s bow still pulsed, and six troggs dropped all at once. Then she spun—reached back to the quiver and, grabbed three arrows at once, set them all to string and let them fly. Three arrows hit the ogre square in the chest, and the beast stumbled and teetered like ship at sea. But still the ogre came on and raised its mighty club and smashed it to the ground.

  The horses stumbled and fell, but Trader rose and slayed a trogg. Aerol advanced, sword held high, slashing the ogre through the waist. Ethreal let loose again, sending three more arrows pounding into the stomach
of the beast. The ogre crashed to the ground like a felled tree, then Aerol cut a gash through the creature’s neck. The Far Rider swung around, sword dripping blood onto the tan desert sand, while the remaining troggs fled down the canyon road.

  Filby rose from the ground and tried to catch his breath; his sword was bloodied and a dead trogg quivered next to him. Trader stood frozen, watching the troggs flee. Andreg too held his small sword over a dead trogg, until he slid the weapon back in his scabbard and walked over to the massive ogre, now lying in a heap along the trail.

  Andreg pointed to a mark on the arm, and to Filby it looked like a trident surrounded by a half-circle. “The mark of Telfgar,” said Andreg. Filby had never before seen the look of fear on Andreg’s face, but now it was there. “If these demons have truly been awakened, I fear our mission is impossible. I fear we are doomed.” Andreg turned white and his legs shook and he bent over and leaned upon his horse. “These lands have not seen power such as this since the first dark age, and there are none left in this time who have the skill to meet this evil. I see only defeat and doom ahead.” Andreg lowered his head and seemed to shrink into the form of a frail old man.

  “If it bleeds then we can kill it.” Ethreal pointed her bloodied sword toward the beast. “Look, there lies one, defeated at the skill of our swords.”

  Andreg steadied himself against his horse and pointed to the east. “What lies ahead of us is not one demon of Telfgar, but thirty-three. Alone they can be defeated with skill such as yours, but together, if we cast ourselves upon them, it will be like breaking water against the cliffs of the sea. These are not the simple mountain ogres of the north . . . these are ancient and terrible creatures, with powers that reach back to the time of wizards and necromancers.”

  “Enough!” cried Aerol, his voice cutting above the clamor. “We ride onward and we move with stealth, but we fight what comes our way if need be, and that is the whole of it.”

  The team collected their horses, and Aerol set them to a gallop. The sun already touched the western lands as they left the rolling hills, a cold light at their backs weaving long shadows on the arid plain. The cobblestone road led southwest, and they passed many barren mesas and dry riverbeds before descending into a low caldera of hot and humid sand. Then they rose again onto a high plateau, and the cold night arched overhead where the stars were hidden by a low and hazy sky.