The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (36 page)

“What are you doing, bard?”

“I am looking for enhancements among the items of these dead soldiers, so I am.”

“Well?” asked the knight irritably.

“There is nothing enchanted here. Nothing with any lasting powers to be of any use to us.”

“Then how did they defeat the fireball?”

“They were empowered with the Shadow Sigil, spells of shielding no doubt. Empowered items have very limited uses, and once the magic is expended they are useless.” Bart kicked the hands of a dead fighter for good measure. “There is nothing worth keeping here, unless someone is in need of a nasty whip.”

Ederick checked the body of the dead binder mage, but even the magician had nothing of value. It was the sign of a disciplined group. One whose purpose was reconnaissance. They would not carry much of lasting value, and less of anything that could identify them.

Carym hobbled over to Bart. “You have knowledge of the Sigils. I need your help,” he croaked. The bard looked at him with disgust.

“I should say so,
Nemandi!” an
swered the bard with a scowl. “That was foolish, no, reckless beyond measure. You could have been entirely consumed by the Tides, destroyed even.”

Carym felt a combination of shame and anger. Who was this bard to question Carym? Gennevera cast a scathing glance at the man too.

“We must flee towards the port before Hessan discovers our plans.”

Even the bard seemed to be trying to taking charge. Carym was stunned. He felt as though the knight was just waiting for an opportunity to take away the leadership of the group, but his own code of honor probably kept him from it.
Now the bard?
Though Bart was right, now was not the time to argue. They had to move.

“Right,” Carym sensibly agreed. “Let’s go. Everyone to their places, we will take turns filling Kharrihan’s position.” A pang of guilt assaulted Carym. He felt he could have saved his friend if he hadn’t been so greedy with the Tides.

Carym put a hand out to the bard. “Bart, I am sorry. I wish I could have done something more,” he said lamely. He knew damn well he should have done something more.

“Save it!” growled the bard. “We have work ahead of us. And you have a lot to learn, so you do!” Bart said as he stalked away. At least he wasn’t trying to usurp Carym’s authority, yet. Carym shook his head. What was happening to him? Since when had he become so prideful that he had to be in charge all of the time? With a stab of grief, he thought of his wife. Had he ever acted that way toward her while she lived? Would she have even put up with it?

Bart set off in the lead, heading towards Port of Powyss, his staff stabbing the snow angrily. At some point during their battle, clouds had rolled in and a light snow had begun to fall. Carym pragmatically wondered how they would ever make up for the loss of the elf’s scouting ability. With a last, sorrowful glance in the direction of Kharrihan’s captors, he set off towards Port of Powyss.

At nightfall the group called a halt and set up camp. With no signs of pursuit, and the proximity of Port of Powyss, all agreed it would be safe enough to build a fire. Bart reckoned that they owed the lack of pursuit to the quiet nature of Hessan’s presence on the island, the Nashian’s having no official presence here. It was unlikely that they would encounter any further harassment from Hessan, in any obvious fashion at least, as the presence of deathly knight’s forces might inspire the enmity of the unpredictable sovereign of Ckaymru. Shalthazar, a master of tactics and deception, knew well the strategic value of possessing the Cklathish Isles and would not allow Hessan to risk galvanizing the many Cklathish peoples against him at this time.

The somber mood of the group was oppressive and there was little conversation. Carym decided to break the silence. “What are these bandit gangs like, Bart?”

The bard raised an eyebrow and half-smiled as he stared into the flames. “The bandit gangs are mostly cut-throats and thieves, so they are. Outlaws relegated to living among the woods to avoid the sheriff of this Isle. Some of them became outlaws for good reason, while others were simply persecuted by the law for whatever Tywyss Rhi decided was illegal that day. In any event, we need have no fear of bandit gangs who dwell in this area.”

“Why is that?”

“You don’t trust me, do you lad?” the bard smirked and shook his head, staring into the fire. “You are so naive. You have no idea of the magnitude of the power you wield, do you? You toy with the Tides as though choosing what spice to flavor your tea with!”

“What do you know anyway?” Carym retorted, glancing around. Who was this bard to challenge him anyway? Genn was busy in the woods gathering what herbs she could, but Hala had taken a seat by the fire, listening with interest. She was a curious one, he noticed, and a bit mysterious. Her eyes blazed with intensity in the flickering firelight, she wanted to
know
. As the beautiful warrior-princess turned her penetrating gaze upon him, he felt suddenly foolish, prideful. Here was a vibrant woman somewhat younger than he, skilled in magic he knew nothing of, and though she was typically laconic, she was very wise.

Unable to bear the power of the woman’s gaze, Carym turned away from her. And, as he did so, he felt oddly conflicted about it. His heart belonged to Genn, with little doubt, yet he couldn’t help but wonder why he was so charmed by Hala and kept thinking about her affectionately. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind and tried to remember why he began to think about Hala anyway. When his eyes passed over the glowering bard, he remembered. He had asked the man a question.

“Well?” he asked, pretending to have been listening. The bard smirked wickedly.

“Had you not been trying to look down the shirt of the princess, you might have heard me the first time. I shall not repeat myself.”

Carym knew enough to accept that he was being baited. But why do it in front of the princess? Did he want to provoke Carym to a fight? Perhaps he recognized Carym’s guilt in Kharrihan’s disappearance.

“You said you were a keeper of the lore of the Air Sigil. How did you learn to use it?”

“We of the Air Sigil know far more than you think!” the bard stood, angrily and whispered something Carym could not hear. A slight wind drifted into the camp and embers from the fire danced in the air, swirling and angry, weaving a shroud of flaming sparks about his body. Carym thought he looked a bit like a demon.

Carym, his pride stinging, stood to face him. He envisioned the Tides swirling around him and called them to him, all of them. He let their power course into his soul, drunk with power. He would show this bard just who was a fool! Gennevera had returned, an eagerness in her eyes as she looked on. Her confidence in him gave him the courage to match wits against the bard and he thrust his arm out, fully intending to blast the man with the fire he dared attempt to control.

Nothing happened! He thrust his other arm out attempting to repeat the spell. Again, nothing happened. Angrily he pulled his fighting sticks and brandished them as he advanced on the bard. Bart flicked his hand and Carym felt something wrap itself around his legs, tripping him. He fell heavily to the ground and he dropped his weapon. Bart let the embers surrounding him fall away and he stepped over Carym, who was staring at the invisible bonds clasping his feet together.

“You were saying,
nemandi?
”

Carym looked up, his pride deflated. Gennevera looked disappointed and stalked away. Ederick and Hala were watching too. There was no mistaking their expressions: disdain. He felt his blood boiling at the condescending looks the two were sharing about him.

“How did you do that?” he demanded, angrily.

The bard smiled and sat down. Carym tried to use the Tides again, but found that nothing would happen. He could see them, feel them dancing around his feet, feel the tingling against his skin. But he couldn’t use them. He glared at the bard. Were they all teaming up against him now?

“What did you do to me?”

“I was beginning to think you’d lost your way, lad. But now I see, you need a few minutes away from the power, so you do. Sit down and mind yerself.”

How
dare
he talk to him that way? Carym was a Fyrbold
!
A student of the great immortal Mathonry!

“You don’t talk to me that way, bard!” he snapped, doing his best to cast a baleful and condescending gaze at the man.

“Sit down, a’fore I take ye down, lad,” growled the bard softly. He was growing tired of the brash Cklathman. Could this man really be the
One
? Bart shook his head, and as he did so, saw Carym make a furtive movement. Bart was a fighter with whom very few could match skills. He was a master of the Volan hand-to-hand combative arts and possessed lightning reflexes. Standing quickly, he stepped in very close to Carym’s person, too close for the man to strike him with the
bo-tani
he had just recklessly swung at the bard. Bart wrapped his arm over the top of Carym’s
bo-tani
and locked it under his own and slammed his elbow into Carym’s solar plexus, stunning him. With one quick shove, and a look of disdain, he knocked Carym to the ground flat on his back, unarmed.

Carym rolled over on his side, trying to catch his breath, furious. What was happening to him? Had his skills become that rusty? There was a time when Carym was respected for his fighting skills, learned in the service of the deadly Arnathian military. Or, was the bard really that good?

“Have you had enough, lad?” he said, exasperated. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Carym. You are a good deal more prideful than most brigands I know, so you are.”

When the toe of the bard’s boot planted itself on Carym’s ribcage, the Cklathman gave up. He had been beaten. Carym dropped back to the earth, his face dirty, breathing hard. Ederick and Princess Hala were now gone, as was Gennevera. The bard said nothing as he turned and walked away. Carym had been beaten down once many years before, and that encounter had ended similarly, with Carym lying face down in a gutter.

What was Zuhr doing to him? He eyed Bart balefully as the bard found a seat by the campfire and began pointlessly poking the already well placed logs. Carym finally returned to his feet despondent, his pride well stung. For the moment, Carym didn’t want to be near anyone and so wandered away from camp and a bit deeper into the woods, cursing himself all the while.

Ederick returned to the fire, having removed his armor, and sat comfortably beside the bard; Hala joined them.

“What is going on here?” asked the knight, looking into the fire.

“I don’t know, Ederick. He seems darker, angrier, now, so he does. Something is stirring up his emotions and clouding his rational thoughts.”

“We are in the middle of brigand infested woods, in a country where the authorities are hostile, the Headless Rider hunting us. And our leader has lost his wits? Perhaps you knocked some sense into him, eh?”

Bart said nothing, continuing to needlessly tend the fire.

“Is there nothing we can do to help him?” asked Hala.

Bart shook his head. “I fear this darkness is caused by Umber’s dark minions. Our friend carries a great burden, demons will tempt or torment him every waking moment. And there is naught we can do to help him shoulder it.”

“I fear you are right, Bart. This is exactly what caused the downfall of the Dark Paladin.” Ederick stared listlessly into the fire, suddenly very weary. “What are these strange spell casters we’ve been seeing?”

“Binder mages. Very evil, so they are. Little is truly known about them, except that they gain their powers by allowing a spirit or demon to inhabit their own body. It is a parasitic relationship, wherein the host will eventually lose. The parasite will take over and manifest itself as the host. Their hideous appearances are the signs that the host is losing ground to the parasites.”

“How do they get the demons or spirits to agree to this?” asked Gennevera.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “Perhaps a magical spell allows the mortal to control the immortal being. Perhaps a mutual arrangement is reached. It doesn’t really matter. Evil is evil, all the same.”

“Power,” said Gennevera in a low voice. “Power is a very tempting thing. Perhaps that is how the Zuharim seem to have fallen.” Logs crackled in the fire, echoing the tension everyone around that campfire suddenly felt; especially Ederick. The knight said nothing and spoke volumes. No Zuharim could let a perceived slight against the order go undefended, which meant that the knight well knew the extent of the darkness facing the lands. Those of his order who had been out of touch in Al Zocar could not help him here, and none here could go to their aid. The very existence of the Zuharim as Sir Ederick knew it, as he had bled and fought for it, was on the brink of destruction.