Revenant Winds Page 8

  “Well,” Adeline said flatly, “let us know if you need anything.”

  Without another word, Niklaus left the Matriarch standing in the church’s gloom.

  Chapter Five

  North of the World

  AS THE SHIP SAILED north along the coast, Aldric prepared himself for his new role as magister in the benefice of the Church in Caronath. More than likely it would be the same work as before, though he could not help hoping for something different. After all, he had been touched by Menselas, which was rare, and his healing skills were not insignificant.

  Every few days they stopped at a port or town to take on fresh provisions, exchange passengers, and deliver goods and letters. Thankfully, Aldric didn’t succumb to seasickness, seemingly to the disappointment of the crew. Although many times while pondering his new position, he found himself anxiously picking at his fingernails. Every day he washed in cold seawater and came to enjoy the salty scratchiness as his skin dried. His horse, on the other hand, wasn’t too happy with the voyage and the lack of sunlight below deck.

  While in port they ate whatever they wanted, and at sea consumed mostly salted and spiced fish with rice and noodles. When the sailors sparred to keep their weapons skills keen, they invited Aldric to join in, but he begged off. Along with sorcery, combat wasn’t something he was comfortable with. There were a few injuries to heal, mostly minor bruises and grazes from the sailors’ weapons practice. Luckily there were no major injuries, since the weather wasn’t rough, and there were only brief rain showers. Manning a ship in a storm often led to mishaps among the sailors, when decks and spars were slick with water and the ship rocked something terrible.

  The crew considered it a blessing to have a priest of Menselas and a healer aboard. One sailor, a grizzled man named Dillan, so devoid of body fat you could see the sinews of his muscles, often asked if Aldric would stay with them and become the ship’s healer. It was a nice idea, but Aldric declined each time. “I go where Menselas tells me,” he always said. Meaning, where the Church sent him.

  They were halfway into the relatively straightforward journey when Aldric was woken by the clanging of an alarm bell. He pulled on a shirt and hastily tugged on his boots.

  “Pirate!” someone shouted, the rest of his words muffled by the cabin walls.

  Grabbing his khopesh and his talisman, Aldric joined the crew as they rushed along narrow corridors and stamped upstairs to the deck.

  A gray glow lit the eastern horizon—dawn wasn’t far off. He situated himself at the prow, which dipped and rose, spraying sea around him. The crew were all staring to the east, where the black outline of another ship was visible.

  Aldric glanced at the captain, who was engaged in vigorous debate and hand-waving with the first mate. They didn’t look pleased. No doubt they imagined they offered easy pickings for a pirate crew hardened to violence. At least this was something Aldric could avert, even though it would change his relationship with the sailors forever.

  Each use of sorcery felt like another step down a path he’d never wanted to tread. Even if he only tapped into his dawn-tide power, he couldn’t help feeling it brought him closer to the darkness of the dusk-tide. His teachers in the Evokers had forced dusk-tide lessons upon him, coercing his reactions so he’d become more intimate with the darkness than he’d wanted. Aldric knew that if the pirates attacked, he’d be forced to use that hated dusk-tide power now.

  Reluctantly, he voiced a cant, and a perfect sphere of sorcerous energy surrounded him.

  Exclamations of wonderment and fear erupted from the crew. A few made superstitious signs to ward off evil.

  Aldric siphoned power from his dawn-tide repository and uttered a few words in Skanuric, an ancient language none of the sailors would understand. His shield glowed, its pale yellow light brightening. He held it for a minute, grimacing at the discomfort it exerted on his mind. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping into his eyes.

  The pirates should have seen my sorcery by now.

  Aldric chanted a dismissal, and his shield winked out of existence.

  The crew’s mutterings grew until he was afraid their fear of sorcery would overcome their fear of the pirates. He kept his eyes on the pirate ship, and gradually it turned. It was going to leave them alone.

  It disappeared in their wake, and a few of the crew clapped him on the back or clasped his hand, relieved they hadn’t had to fight. But many more did not meet his eyes; and from that point on, although he had probably saved them, all were polite to him to a fault. Even Dillan avoided him.

  It was after the encounter with the pirates that Aldric drummed up courage to use the relic Roald had given him for the first time. Shalmara had told him to learn more powerful sorcery, and he wondered what he would have done if the pirates had boarded the ship. Perhaps the relic would provide answers.

  He disabled the wards protecting the box and took it from where he’d hidden it at the bottom of his saddlebags. Aldric lifted the caged diamond from the felt. Its pale light unnerved him, the gem warm in his hands. He settled onto his bunk and closed his eyes. His pounding heart and swirling thoughts made it difficult to relax, but eventually the rocking of the ship lulled him. He drifted off … and his dreams were not his own.

  He looked down from a hill over a great encampment. Fires twinkled on the plain below; and to the north, a citadel reared from the ground. Its smooth stone walls were without joins—raised by the darkest sorcery and the blood of innocents. It stretched between the walls of a wide gorge, a dam that held back a dark tide. Nysrog was inside, along with the remains of his sorcerous cabal.

  “It will all be over soon, Marthaze,” said Sian.

  Marthaze turned to face her, and Aldric stared through his eyes. He was Marthaze. Platinum hair hung to Sian’s waist, and a talisman carved from driftwood was suspended around her neck.

  He suppressed the urge to spit. Unholy. All sorcerers were, even those who aided them against the demon.

  “And then what?” Marthaze said. “Nysrog’s cabal will still live on. They’ll try to bring him back even if we succeed.”

  “We’ll hunt them down.”

  Sorcerers fighting each other in a never-ending war. It had to be stopped. But Marthaze didn’t know how. His Church was growing in power, in influence, but they were healers, not fighters. The power the Five had gifted him could only be used to heal, never to wound. It couldn’t halt Nysrog or his corrupted sorcerers, which was why the Church had made an alliance with the Covenants of sorcery.

  Sian looked into his eyes. “You’ve done well. We’ve come so far. Almost to the end. Trust in us.”

  Never.

  ~ ~ ~

  Every night after that first experience, Aldric clutched the relic tight before falling asleep. Some of Marthaze’s memories were bland—everyday life and situations—while others were terrible: the horrors of war, of demons, of suffering, and loss. Some of the priest’s thoughts and actions were reprehensible, not at all what Aldric would expect from a follower of Menselas. Then again, Marthaze had lived in a harsh time and had fought an extraordinary evil.

  Each morning Aldric woke sweating and nauseous; and for the rest of the day, his thoughts were skittish, and he found it hard to concentrate. But he forced himself to repeat the experience. He felt he owed it to the priest to learn from his life. Aldric had been given the relic for a reason, and not using it because it made him uncomfortable would be foolish.

  ~ ~ ~

  The ship docked at Nantin for a full day, and the crew and dockhands hurriedly unloaded and refilled the holds with new goods. Then they sailed farther north until Aldric was satisfied he’d be able to cut a great chunk of time from his inland journey.

  The captain anchored in a cove, and a small group of sailors rowed Aldric to shore in a boat large enough to transport his horse. Getting the animal into it was troublesome, but that was what the loading rigs were for.

  “Good luck,” one of the sailors said as they pushed the rowboat back
into the sea. His tone indicated he thought Aldric was mad.

  Perhaps he was. Not many braved the wilderness, only a few trappers and treasure hunters, many of them forced to it by circumstance. Those who did it out of choice were a hard-bitten lot, prone to violence. But that was what was needed to survive in the wilds. It took a certain type of person to venture out voluntarily, either capable or desperate.

  For ten days, Aldric prodded his horse through the forest, passing mighty red cedars that thrust into the sky, so wide and tall they seemed gigantic pillars holding up the roof of the world. Moss and lichen covered their bark, and vines twisted about their bases. He kept his eyes on the trees and thickets to either side, stopping occasionally to peer through an extendable spyglass. A layer of decomposing leaves spotted with ragged patches of sunshine muffled the thud of his horse’s hooves.

  This part of the world, he knew, had once been the eastern marches of Swaidal. One of the Confederate of Skoiden nations, it had ceased to exist during the Fifth Cataclysm, wiped from existence, from most of the history books, and from memory. Once quilted with fields, the land was now covered by the trees that had crept slowly across it for millennia. There was a serenity to the forest, stemming from the absence of humankind, that both comforted and unsettled him.

  The air was cold and bitter, and somewhere in the near distance a stream gurgled. He tugged his coat about him, his other hand curled around the leather reins, red and chapped from exposure.

  A scattering of birdsong disturbed the quiet, and he relaxed slightly, though his unease remained. He let the reins drop from one hand and touched the hilt of his khopesh where it stuck out from a saddlebag. He tried to order his thoughts using the ancient techniques taught to him by priests, but, as always, they didn’t suffice. Sighing with disappointment, he turned to the other, less accepted mind exercises of sorcery, which imposed the order he sought.

  He was becoming convinced this short cut had not been a good idea. True, it had cut weeks from his trip, and he’d likely arrive at Caronath before he was expected. That would give him time for a well-deserved rest before he had to report for duty, and also to investigate the fortified city he’d only ever read or heard tales about. But such untouched wilderness had its own dangers: there were frightening creatures out here. Less dangerous for a sorcerer, to be sure, but still harrowing. The wilderness was these creatures’ home and had been for thousands of years.

  The roads he should have traveled were busy enough, with inns and way stations to make the journey safer and more hospitable. And there were wards set into milestones and markers to reduce the chance of a violent encounter with such creatures. Any that came too close would be dealt with by patrolling soldiers. But Aldric had been unable to resist the lure of the unknown, the chance to tread where no man had for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. In the forest, the air was alive, scented with pine and rich dark soil; and the water he drank from sparkling streams was sweet and icy. But he had to remain constantly alert, as he would if he wandered down the worst streets of a city where you could be knifed for looking at someone the wrong way, and your corpse stripped of valuables and left to rot. Except here, in the wilderness, you’d likely be eaten instead.

  To his delight, the next day he came across an ancient ruin in the forest. Parts of some walls still stood, though they were covered with roots and moss. Elsewhere, blocks of granite taller than a man and twice as wide lay scattered across the forest floor, and slides of earth partially obscured what had once been stone steps. Everywhere, the forest reclaimed the broken works of ancient races. A destroyed work of man, the stain of a broken civilization. Whoever had built this place, and what had happened to them, was something that would never be known.

  If Aldric hadn’t been on a mission, he would have liked to investigate the ruins. Perhaps there were artifacts and lost knowledge here that could prove useful. A distinctive angular script was carved into some of the stones. He debated making a charcoal rubbing of it, then discarded the idea. The stylized script and alien thought patterns of the old races would be indecipherable to even the most experienced scholars.

  He found a clearing where the great trees had failed to take root. Far above, open blue sky beckoned, though it was darkening rapidly. He gazed at it for a few moments, watching the birds zipping through the light and butterflies floating in the breeze. He enjoyed the wilderness and felt far more comfortable out here than among the lifeless stone and timber of the cities.

  He made camp and sparked a small fire to cook food rather than for its warmth and light. He was comfortable with the darkness: he knew it, and it knew him. The rituals and tests he’d passed under the Evokers had made sure of that.

  In the side of one wall he spotted a stone doorway. Around it were mounds of earth, as if someone had dug it out of a landslide. Bones cluttered the ground in front of the door, broken and chalky with age. After poking through the piles with a stick, he found at least three human skulls and many slightly smaller ones with pointed teeth. He cursed. Treasure hunters who had been set upon by Dead-eyes, and it hadn’t gone well for them.

  After a quick examination, he determined no one had been able to get past the wards guarding the entrance. Good. What was inside was better left alone.

  He ate dried wafers and cooked the last of a rabbit he’d snared the other day. Taking off his riding boots, he uttered a relieved sigh, then set them and his socks by the fire to dry. He warmed his feet and thought about the forest for some time until his fire died and only coals remained. Then he set up his canvas bed, placing his sheathed khopesh beside it.

  From a secure pocket sewn into his saddlebags, he removed the relic his Church had given to him for this journey: the green-glowing caged diamond.

  A priest’s memories, or “past magisters’ wisdom”, as the teachers had told him. “Not frail or prone to misunderstanding, like writing is. Real memories. And one day, yours will join them.”

  He wondered what it might be like to be interred in a relic like this. It was a form of immortality, he supposed. Of a sort.

  He settled down and wrapped his blanket around him. A vast scatter of stars carpeted the night sky. A cricket chirped close by, and in a nearby stream, frogs croaked.

  Aldric held the relic tight in his fist. Its silver wire bit into his flesh. He closed his eyes.

  The chaos of battle raged all around him. Weapons clanging. Horses screaming. Shouts of pain and triumph. Dust from the dry plain clouded the air, stirred up by thousands of mounts and studded boots.

  Marthaze hunched over a woman whose arm was almost severed, his crimson-painted hands working furiously to sew the ragged ends of the artery back together with an iron needle and hemp thread. His god’s power infused him, flowing from his mark into the woman’s flesh and bone. He finished with the slippery tubes and used crude, hasty stitches to reattach her limb. Giving the god a helping hand, they called it. Usually, his work was more considered and precise. But here, with the fight against Nysrog raging around him, he did the best he could.

  He wrapped a bandage around the wound and hollered for helpers to take the woman away. He didn’t know her name; she was just one of many he’d worked on. With the god’s healing working on her arm, perhaps she’d be able to use it again. Perhaps.

  Marthaze turned to see more wounded being dragged into the makeshift tent. Other priests worked feverishly on soldiers and sorcerers alike. One man’s face was seared to the bone, one eye as white as a boiled egg. Another’s leg had been crushed under his falling horse. They all screamed, begging to be healed, pleading for the pain to be taken away.

  He blinked, eyes burning with exhaustion, and stumbled outside. Using the god’s power came at a cost, and he was so very tired. But the battle had been raging for hours and didn’t look like ending any time soon. There could be no end, not until Nysrog was defeated and sent back to the hell he had escaped from. The hell he had been summoned from—curse the Tainted Cabal sorcerers and their lust for power.

>   He poured water into a bowl and washed his hands, then discarded the red liquid and walked a few steps away from the hospital tent. A buzz filled the air, and something punched him in the chest. He staggered backward and fell to the ground.

  An arrow protruded from his chest.

  He gasped, reaching for the Five’s power. Was denied. Power could only be used to help others. His hands pressed down around the shaft, attempting to stem the flow of blood.

  “Help,” he croaked.

  Aldric woke suddenly, thoughts foggy, dripping sweat. Something had disturbed him.

  Somewhere in front of him, a horse snorted.

  He came instantly alert and leaped to his feet, brandishing his blade.

  The horse was large—a destrier—though riderless. It hung back at the edge of the feeble light cast by the glowing coals of his fire.

  Aldric tapped his dawn-tide repository and voiced a cant. A glowing orb appeared high above him, painting the ruins and trees with a pale yellow light. The horse’s reins hung loose, dragging across the forest floor.

  In the shadow of one of the granite blocks, something moved and stepped into Aldric’s vision: the horse’s owner. He was tall and garbed in a dark cloak. Finely wrought mail glinted underneath. He wore the cloak’s hood pulled over his head, obscuring his face.

  His deep voice broke the quiet, speaking Skanuric, the ancient language of scholars. “I smelled the stench of your sorcery. What do you do here?”

  Shadows flittered at the edge of the light, quick and darting. White stick limbs crept forward. Glazed-over blind eyes peered from jerkily moving heads. Noseless faces snuffled the air, then retreated into the darkness. Dead-eyes, each one the size of a grown man, but half the weight.