The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (24 page)

“I hope I’ve timed this well,” he said, smug and superior. He took the cup from Eldrith’s palsied fingers and sniffed at the dregs. “You
can
still speak, yes?”

Eldrith was sure that he could, though not for long. It was becoming difficult to breathe. His lungs felt weighted down, and the pain from his limbs and innards writhing increased with every lumbering beat of his heart. Perhaps Machreth would believe he was too far gone. But how had he known?

“Water hemlock,” Machreth said. He set the cup on the desk and bent close to sneer at Eldrith, who could no longer turn his head. “Effective, but slow, and more painful than people expect. Isn’t that so, Eldrith?”

It was far worse than he had believed. The spasms were so violent, he thought his bones might break, and the burning was beyond unbearable. Eldrith silently begged the Gods for his heart to stop, but he would not speak to Machreth.

“You see,” Machreth drawled, perching on the edge of the desk so that he could engage Eldrith comfortably, “it isn’t a difficult death you should fear. Death itself isn’t difficult at all, really—rather like expelling a breath. And in many cases, as I imagine you are contemplating this very moment, a welcome relief from a state of, well, frankly, misery.”

Eldrith thought he had planned it all so carefully. Machreth was amusing himself, like a cat toying with a spider by plucking its legs out one by one. But it would be over soon. He could feel his life leaving.

Machreth smiled. “You’re thinking you have beaten me to the endgame. I can see it in your eyes, that expectation of deliverance all men of faith cling to. It
is
near, Eldrith, your death. I can
smell it
.”

He knew he was weeping, tears blinding him and spittle
spilling
from his mouth, but he could control none of it, not even his bowels. And yet, his heart was still pulsing and his lungs
drawing
air in shallow, rattling breaths—upon which the
faintest
of whimpers escaped. Terror filled Eldrith as Machreth’s smile widened.

“You need only tell me what I want to know, and I will let the hemlock run its course. If not, I will hold you in this pendent wretchedness until one of us tires of the game.”

Machreth waved one hand left to right, and Eldrith felt his existence suspended, no longer progressing toward death or ebbing away from it. He watched, horrified, as Machreth slowly curled his fingers into a clench. Eldrith’s body responded as though it were being crushed. He shrieked.

“I knew you would find your voice.”

Machreth spoke as though he were coaxing a mule to stable. He relaxed his hand, and Eldrith’s agony eased, ever so slightly. Again he prayed for deliverance.

“I still do not understand your resistance, Eldrith. You hardly seem the sort of man to martyr himself for principle, but perhaps I have underestimated you.” Machreth glanced around the rectory. “You are Ruagaire, after all—or at least you were before you contented yourself with the trappings of title and the belly-softening monotony of administration. ‘Those who can no longer practice are consigned to preach,’ or some such banality.”

Machreth clenched his fist again, sending Eldrith to new depths of anguish. He felt his ribs splinter and cried out, but he did not ask for mercy. In this awful, bleak moment he knew
triumph
and honor. He had lost his way, but not his soul.

“You are stronger than I expected, Eldrith,” Machreth said, releasing his grip. “But Trevanion lasted three days and still never spoke. I doubt the same shall be said for you.”

“Why?” Eldrith gasped. If nothing else, he would die
knowing
.

“Ah,” Machreth said, cocking one eyebrow in mild surprise. “Are you bargaining with your conscience now? Perhaps you are hoping my intentions are less despicable than you believe them to be.”

Machreth pulled a cavalier shrug. “If knowing why I seek Elder Keep will help you see your way to submission, then so be it. All the better for both of us, if it puts an early end to this tediousness.”

Breath came in labored pants and his mind was befuddled by pain, but Eldrith wanted to hear. He had convinced himself that knowing mattered, if only to make sense of all that had happened to him these last weeks. It was then that Eldrith realized he did not want to die.

“I must confess,” Machreth began. “I had no knowledge of Elder Keep until Madoc began to plan his succession. When he named me his heir he began to reveal his secrets. Little by little as I gained his trust, and then as necessity forced his hand.”

Machreth folded his arms loosely over his chest and crossed his legs at his ankles, as if he were having a casual conversation with a friend. “The Stewardry and the Well of Tears are inaccessible to me, at least for now. My only recourse is to keep the Fane from regaining its strength and its leadership until I can find a way to reclaim it or time snuffs it out altogether.”

“You see,”—he looked pointedly at Eldrith—“I had thought to unite the mages in a new purpose, to make us powerful again by taking back that which was rightfully ours all along. But I have learned these last weeks, as I have traveled among plain folk, that there is no hope of that. The age of the sorcerer has all but passed. I see that now. But neither would Madoc’s way have brought us to any better place. He was wrong to put his faith in the kings of men. They will no sooner share their power with mages than with each other. The prophecy was a lie all along.”

He shrugged. “But there is still something to be salvaged in all of this, a legacy to build by other means. The future of magic is through the likes of me, sorcerers who will find their destiny in the world by sitting on their own seats of power. It is simple, really. If I cannot lead mages, then I will lead men. And I will do it from Elder Keep.”

Eldrith was almost relieved. Perhaps Machreth did not know the whole truth of Elder Keep, all that it was. Still, if ever he found his way there, he would soon enough discover it.

“But I am weary of this.” Machreth pulled straight and refocused his attention on Eldrith. A new determination shone in his eyes and his tone reverberated with intensity. “Where is the
portal
?”

The little hope Eldrith had held that his secrets would die with him, died first. And then his dignity, faith, and courage withered. Eldrith was left with only a few last shreds of honor to cling to, which gave him the strength to stay silent a few moments more. Even Machreth could not keep him alive forever.

“So be it.”

Machreth held forth both hands for Eldrith to see, and then ever so slowly, curled his fingers inward. As his bones splintered and vessels burst, Eldrith knew he would fail. Before his organs imploded he would scream and beg, and in the end he would give Machreth what he wanted, just to end his suffering half a moment sooner.

T
WENTY-
T
HREE

H
ywel’s mood was as grim as the air was foul. His men had recovered the dismembered and gnawed corpses of four brave men, which accounted for the original Cad Nawdd complement and their commander. However,
Cerrigwen’s
daughter
Ffion was not among the dead. Nor was the sorceress she and Thorvald had been sent to retrieve.

The Cad Nawdd soldiers had hidden away their signature blue cloaks in order to travel unrecognized. Odwain had taken it upon himself to collect the cloaks and any personal trinkets from each of the men so that something of them could be returned to their families. Hywel had ordered a mass grave be dug and what was left of the bodies buried, though like the rest of his men, he would have preferred the traditional rite. Like it or not, Hywel dared not risk the smoke from the pyres giving their position away.

“There are at least four mounts still missing. And horse tracks leading into the trees on both sides of the road.” Odwain tied the bag carrying the possessions he’d gathered to his saddle. His affect was sullen, but his disposition otherwise impassive.

Hywel thought of the demon warriors in blood-red armor and the giant man-eating mounts that Odwain had described. “What are the odds that these Hellion beasts and their creatures are still a threat?”

“We’d have seen them by now if they were still nearby. There are tracks along the road, but they are so over-trodden I can’t be sure which are coming and which are going. My guess is that the Hellion gave chase if there were survivors, or returned to their lair. I would expect to find their trail in the woods,” Odwain said. “Cerrigwen is anxious. She is asking when you will order a search of the forest.”

“We’ve done all we can here,” Hywel decided. It was time he conveyed his confidence. Odwain had earned it. “Take half the men and search the south side of the road. I’ll take the rest north.”

Odwain swung astride his horse and acknowledged the king’s orders with a stiff tip of his chin as he sought to take his leave. “Brenin.”

The formal gesture was a more subtle barb than Hywel had come to expect from this particular man, but the point was not lost on him. Though he hadn’t said so, Odwain was offended by the previous night’s test. A man of quality might even feel betrayed. This had not been his intent, and Hywel felt the need to make amends. “Wait.”

Odwain turned his mount around and walked the horse back. “Is there something else?”

Hywel took pains to speak with sincerity. “I’ve met less than a handful of men who could have bested these woods the way you did.”

“You flatter me, Brenin.” Odwain bowed his head in a show of humility, but his expression was still flat, and his tone carried a hint of sarcasm.

Apparently the compliment was not enough to ease the tension between them. Hywel was annoyed. He was not in the habit of explaining himself, and there was only so far he would go by way of apology to any man. But he did not like to carry regrets.

“I underestimated you,” Hywel offered. “I won’t do so again.”

The grim lines on Odwain’s face softened, just a little, but it was enough for Hywel to consider himself forgiven. Odwain tipped his chin again, this time with more jaunt and less grit, and rode away to begin his search.

Hywel watched to see how his instructions were received. As he expected, his lieutenants complied without incident and split their leadership between the two parties. Cerrigwen rode with Odwain and his group into the woods south of the road, while the rest of the men searched the thickets nearby. Hywel decided to look on his own for the horse tracks Odwain had seen along the northern tree line.

In the frosted leafy mud he found impressions left by two distinct sets of hooves headed into the trees, one leading the other by two full strides. Evidence of life and maybe an attempt at escape, at least. Hywel dismounted, leading his horse so that he could better follow the tracks through the forest duff.

The black gelding had been his favorite since the day the horse was foaled. Hywel had named him Aeron, after one of the old Gods, and had spent countless hours grooming him for battle. He knew his horse as well as he knew any of his men, and trusted him more. Aeron had heart, and he was smart in ways that were not at all horse-like.

Hywel trailed the hoof prints for nearly half a furlong when they suddenly disappeared. The underbrush was thick here, but not so thick that it would so well hide a trail. Either the riders were close, or the White Woods was playing tricks. Hywel drew his sword.

If he were patient, and very still, anything that did not belong to the forest would soon reveal itself. He had long ago learned the sounds of the woods. Some were harmless and some were not, but they were all familiar to him. If something new were about, he would know it.

Hywel alerted to Aeron tugging gently at his bit—a tell sign that the gelding’s senses detected something disturbing. Aeron’s ears were tilted toward his near side. Whatever had raised the horse’s attention was coming from the west but was still too far off for Hywel to hear.

Something much closer interested him more. Hywel had caught the sound twice now, but he had to concentrate to distinguish the soft, rhythmic whisper from the subtle rush of the air moving through the trees. He knew what the sound was and what made it, but not who or why it was still hiding.

“I can hear your breathing.” Hywel let loose the reins and stared into a dense thicket of furze bushes a few feet to his right, watching for movement. “I mean no harm to you.”

He did not expect a response, not right away. Whoever it was had good reason to be cautious. “We have come from the
Stewardry
, in search of Thorvald.”

“No doubt you’ve found him by now. Or what’s left of him.” The mature, deep-throated baritone was steady but forced. “Who sent you?”

“We travel under the banner of Seisyllwg, on the king’s business and as a favor to his friend Alwen, the Sovereign of Fane Gramarye. Show yourself.” Hywel took a single step toward the thicket, fairly certain the man was injured. “Unless you are unable to do so.”

“Stay where you are!”

Hywel took heed and stopped where he was. The man’s bark was still strong enough to be threatening. If he were wounded, a true warrior would never let it be known, not until he was certain he was no longer in danger. Hywel did not want to provoke him, but neither did he intend to wait much longer.

“If you want my help, say so and I will gladly give it. Otherwise, I will leave you be. Make your choice, but make it quick. We have sorceresses to find.”

Leaves rustled and the furze thicket shook. Hywel stood ready, on the off chance his intuition was wrong, and waited for the wounded man to present himself. He expected the elder and now only son of Aslak, whom Hywel thought he should recognize on sight by the build and strong chin known to mark the men of their clan. And if not, any officer of the Cad Nawdd would have Madoc’s peculiar wizard signet sewn on his blue cloak.

But what appeared to him was not a wounded man. It was not a man at all, but rather a very small, very young but noble-looking woman with jet-black hair and milky skin—a princess in plain clothes. She held a long-bladed dagger like she knew how to use it, and there was not even the slightest glint of fear in her dark, defiant eyes.

“Was that a bewitchment,” Hywel asked, wary, but intrigued, “or is someone else there with you?”

“Goram needs a physician, though he is too stubborn to admit it.” Rather than step back, she took a squared stance between Hywel and the thicket, as though she were the protector. “But before I let you near him, you will tell me who you are.”

“
I
will tell
you
?” Hywel’s ego was pinched, but he was more amused than annoyed. It was a struggle not to smile at this tiny woman with such a bold nature. “Well, if those are your terms.”

“They are.”

“I am the king of Seisyllwg.” He lowered his sword but did not sheath it.
Let the woman know the limits of her daring
, he thought. “And who, then, are you?”

When she started to answer, the deep-throated baritone cut her off. “Not another word until you are certain he is who he says he is.”

Such a look of confoundedness came over her that Hywel felt a little sorry for her. She was young, and worried more for her friend than she was for herself. To be fair, Hywel had a good idea who the woman might be, but he risked as much as she.

“My name is Hywel,” he said. “You may know me better as the heir to your prophecy.”

As he spoke, Hywel was distracted by a thunderous rumble drawing closer so quickly that there was barely time to take cover, and none at all to outrun it. Aeron screamed and pawed at the dirt, and the young woman’s eyes widened in terror. Whatever storm was about to overtake them, it was not falling from the heavens.

“How close are your men?” The man she called Goram
lumbered
to his feet and rounded the thicket with surprising speed and agility, sword in hand. His cloak was gone and his chain mail and leather armor were in shreds. There were at least three ugly gashes to his torso in dire need of dressing. And yet he made ready to fight. If this were not the son of Aslak, he should have been.

“Not close enough,” Hywel admitted, wondering if they were besieged as well.

“Send your horse away. He is no match for what’s coming,” Goram said, taking position in front of the young woman. “The four-legged beasts that carry them have only one weakness—a soft gut. The heart is just below the gullet. Go low and strike hard there, but mind their toothy grins.”

“And the demons themselves?” Hywel slapped Aeron hard on the haunches and watched to be sure the animal had gone a safe distance. “Have they a weakness?”

“None that I have found,” Goram said, tossing a wry grimace in Hywel’s direction. “Luckily, she has skills that I do not. Draw the beasts off and leave the demons to her.”

Hywel flanked the soldier, a rush of tension-fueled blood pounding in his ears. He had barely balanced his weight when the forest in front of them seemed to explode.

A monstrous barrel-chested creature with a bulbous head burst through the trees, gnashing a grotesquely protruding jaw of jagged teeth the length of Hywel’s forearm. The creature had staggering height and breadth—it was at least three times the size of Hywel’s horse, taller and broader and hairier, and oddly boar-like with its hulking shoulders and thick neck. Its roar rattled his bones.

Atop it sat the demon warrior just as Odwain had described it, clad in gut-red metal that shielded it from head to foot and armed with a two-sided ax. The only part of it to be seen was its eyes, twin beams of fire piercing through a slit in its helmet.

Before Hywel could react, Goram struck first, a finely targeted stab into the mid joint of the beast’s left foreleg. Using every last ounce of his strength, Goram forced the blade in until it snapped from the hilt. The animal reared wildly, tossing its head and shrieking in anger and agony, exposing its vulnerable underside.

“Quick,” Goram hollered as the force of his blow toppled him into the brush. “Now!”

Hywel ducked under flailing forelegs and darted forward just before the beast’s arch reached full crest. It was easy enough to spy the sweet spot, but not so easy to reach it. The beast was too tall. His best chance would come as the animal dropped, but his aim would have to be perfect and the strike full and forceful.

These were the virile, full-hearted moments in which he secretly reveled, when his soul felt afire with the power of holding destiny firmly in his own hands. It was these times when Hywel best knew his greatness, when survival hinged on instinct and cunning and brash decision. Even when the likeliest outcome was a gruesome and untimely death, it was in these moments he felt most alive.

A single, precisely timed lunge gave Hywel leverage to drive a swinging upthrust deep through fur and hide and flesh as the beast dropped back to its feet. He gripped the hilt with both hands, tucked his chin to his chest, and grounded his right knee so that he might withstand the force of the falling weight and stave the beast’s breast in far enough that his blade would cleave its heart.

Hywel felt the bulk bow his shoulders as it hit, and the searing burn when his thighs tensed against the crush. He also felt the tear and snap of his blade rending muscle and flesh, and then the subtle rebound of denser tissue just before it imploded. His sword had found its mark.

The beast heaved before collapsing, giving Hywel time to roll out from under just before its massive lower jaw crashed to the ground right where he had been. He scrambled to his feet, alert to the danger that still remained, armed now with only his boot dagger.

“Step aside.” The tiny sorceress spoke softly behind him. “Goram needs your help more than I do.”

Hywel could not pull his eyes from the giant red fiend standing on the other side of the fallen beast. The demon presented with his battle-axe raised. Hywel yearned to answer the challenge, sword or no sword.

“Please,” she insisted. “Move out of my way.”

Reason urged him to do as she said, but Hywel actually obliged because he felt compelled by the sound of her voice. He recognized the effects of magic at work on his will, and though he was intrigued by the bizarre effect, he resented it. He was not so stubborn that he would refuse to take the wiser path, but in his own time and of his own volition.

How fortunate for him that the sorceress had not indulged him. The demon had already heaved his axe, sending it tumbling head over handle like a throwing knife, straight at Hywel’s head. As soon as the axe left the fire-eyed demon’s hands it charged, bounding up and over the beast’s carcass with terrifying ease.

Hywel sidestepped the whirling blade by a hair’s breadth and instinctively spun around to engage the red fiend. The sorceress had already put herself in the demon’s path, just as the axe head buried itself in the ground at her feet.

She raised her arms, palms facing forward. The demon came to a sudden stop a few feet beyond her reach, as if an invisible wall of stone had sprung up in front of him. He staggered backward a few paces, steadied himself, and let loose a furious howl.