"Saturnio's Daughter"
Nov. 9th, 2024 10:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Saturnio's Daughter"
10/1218 DR
I.
Naked sword in hand, Romal the Mongrel crouched behind the tavern and listened to the shouts of the mob that pursued him. The Signarm accent had never seemed harsher to him than now, with thirty men yelling for his death. Seemingly a tall, sturdy young man not yet thirty years of age, Romal had draped his dark travel cloak around him for hopeful concealment. His head still revealed was crowned with thick shaggy black hair. His heavy-featured sullen face was clean-shaven but with a day's worth of stubble and his eyes were dark blue with odd amber flecks.
But those meeting him could stare at nothing but the ears which rose to sharp points. The Eldanarin and the Darthim had such ears, but he was clearly not a member of either Race. He was the only one of his kind in the world.
Daring a quick peek around the corner of the tavern, he saw the mob was gathered across the muddy street by the blacksmith shop. He growled deep in his chest exactly as a Troll would. His horse was tethered in that shop. Along with his blankets and heavier tunic. With winter coming, he needed all of that, especially the fine Skandoran stallion he had become used to. Romal slapped the flat of his sword against his free palm. He didn't want to slay any farmers or shopkeepers today, but if they left him no choice, well.... Let it be on their heads.
There were at least thirty men by the shop, waving torches or field tools such as pitchforks, axes and pruning hooks. No matter. He was Romal the Mongrel, and he feared nothing that drew breath. If that hateful crowd did not move away from the blacksmith shop, he would attack them and test his prowess to its limits.
Someone was approaching from behind. Romal's hard life had sharpened his senses to the level of a wild beast surviving in the wild. He wheeled around, sword drawn back and his side pressed up against the tavern wall. But there seemed to be no immediate threat. Walking openly toward him out of the darkness was a short, slightly built man in a loose robe of brown burlap with a hood pulled up over his head. His hands were empty.
Seeing that the man was making no outcry, Romal lowered his arm slightly but remained alert. The next few minutes could mean life or death. The robed man stopped just out reach and threw back his cowl to reveal a roundish, completely bald head with a placid face. In the gloom, his skin tone seemed to be tawny like a lion's, but not quite like that of a Chujiran.
Leaning forward from the waist, the stranger whispered, "Be at ease. I am Berjalam, a monk of Tel Shai and I come to aid you."
In the same low tone, Romal said only, "How?"
"I can take you past those men to retrieve your horse and we can go to the mountains. We of Tel Shai have developed some slight mystic arts." The man held up his open hands. A faint blue shimmer played around them, then extended itself into a nimbus over his entire body. The Mongrel glanced down and saw the blue light was glowing around him as well.
"What IS this? I mistrust sorcery..."
"Ah, this is nothing like the magic your Darthan masters used," Berjalan assured them. "This is beneficent, almost holy. I will explain it all later."
Romal held up his sword, almost admiring the azure nimbus along its length but finally saying, "How does this help me?"
"This is called the Veil. Now you will have to trust me, Romal, that the crowd will neither see nor hear us."
"What? Is this jest? Never mind. I will play along but mark these words. If that mob attacks, your head will bounce in the dirt before they reach me."
The monk smiled and gestured for the Mongrel to follow him. With only the slightest hesitation, the Mongrel straightened up, squared his shoulders and trod behind the smaller man. They crossed the wide muddy main street of Wyonal Town and neared the torch-waving, shouting crowd...
And the crowd ignored them completely. Nearly holding his breath, treading as lightly as possible, Romal passed close by the townspeople. He could hardly believe it. At any second, he expected those men to attack him with their farm tools.
"I tell you, he is a spy for the Darthim! It was they who gave him unnatural life. He reports to Tollinor Kje, no less!"
"He's a monster not meant to live in this world!"
"True! True! Stronger than a Troll, quicker than a Snake man. One pirate I met in the capital says Romal can breathe underwater like a Gelydra. Who knows what else he is capable of?"
Hearing the hatred in those voices, Romal gripped his sword hilt painfully tight. Always the same. He had been driven from one nation to the next, chased like prey, nearly hung from a tree or burned in a pyre. Rare it was that he had found a town which accepted him even for a short while, and such respites never lasted too long.
For one red-hot moment, he was sore tempted to begin slashing left and right at the Humans who did not see or hear him. If they were going to fear and hate him so much, thwn by the Halarin, he might as well give them good reason....
In that ominous pause, Berjalam snatched up a fist-shaped rock, drew his arm back and flung it down the street as hard as he possibly could. Glass was rare in the Darthan Age and it was merely by chance that the stone went directly through the only window in that frontier town. The unmistakable crash made everyone jump.
"The Magistrate's house! Did you hear that?" And thirty men ran full tilt down the main street, howling like hounds on a scent.
Left alone in the open double doors of the smithery, Romal rushed to where his Andromil neighed low and shifted its weight at seeing him. The big chestnut horse had become fond of Romal, who treated him well. The simple harness was pulled onto the horse's face, the folded wool blanket was draped across its back. Saddles existed in this Age but the stirrup had not been invented. Romal had not noticed that the blue glow had faded. The Mongrel grabbed his travel bag and threw it across his back with a strap.
With an easy bound, Romal vaulted up onto Andromil's broad back without jarring him. He swung the stallion around and, without asking, seized Berjalam by an arm and pulled the monk up to sit behind him. The slightest tug on the harness and a mild tap of his boots to the ribs made the horse take off at a gallop into the night.
Within minutes, the lights of the street torches were behind them and nearly out of sight. Even if the townspeople had found nothing by the broken window, even if they had seen the missing horse, it would take them time to mount up themselves.
Racing away from the beaten earth road leading from the town, Romal sent his steed thundering across an open plain and toward mountains that rose dimly in the starlight. Free. Free and alive where only a short time earlier he had been preparing to fight and die. As the relief washed over him, he broke into the first genuine hearty laughter he had voiced in too long.
II.
By the time the waxing moon was overhead, they had settled into a clearing in the foothills of the Blue Cloud Mountains. A small but quick-running stream promised potable water. Here was where the nation of Signarm ended and Asuva began. Using a bit of flint and his knife blade, the two men built a comforting fire from dried grass and twigs, adding larger branches as the flames grew stronger.
Romal had little in his travel pack but a clean shirt, a carved wooden mug and a soft sack of dried grains which he fed to his horse. He rubbed the loyal beast down, examined hooves for damaged and tethered the beast close to the stream so it might drink. Only then did he lower himself wearily by the fire and tug off his well-worn boots with a sigh.
"It is a good-hearted man who tends to his horse before his own needs," said the monk.
Romal snorted angrily. "That animal has treated me better than Humans have. Or Eldanarin or Darthim or Trolls or Gelydrim. If I could trust any living being, it would be him."
"You have named him Andromil, 'horse of faith.'"
"Hear me, monk. You have said little on the ride here and I was content to let it be so," Romal said in a newly stern tone. "But now is when you must say much. Tell me who you are, how your sorcery works, where your people are."
"I will do so gladly." Berjalam had gotten out of his burlap robe and turned it inside outside to air. Underneath, he wore a thin linen tunic which reached to his knees. The man's low soft slippers were kicked off next, then he began. "I mentioned the name Tel Shai, which means 'Bright Path.' That is the secret lodge or Order to which I belong. You were raised on the island of Maroch by the Darthim themselves, Romal. Surely you were taught what happened on Ulgor twelve hundred years ago."
"Of course," the Mongrel grunted. "Who does not know of the thirteen Sulla Chun who taught vile mystic secrets on Ulgor? Or how the island was thrown down to a chasm in the sea by the Halarin? I can tell you further that the cataclysm marked the beginning of this Farthan Age we struggle to survive."
The slightly built monk huddled closer to the fire, warming his hands. "Well said. But here I will tell you what few mortal beings know. To remedy somewhat the damage done on Ulgor, Jordyn and his two Halarin siblings began to impart benevolent knowledge to chosen Humans. in dreams and visions, this wisdom sank into Human minds. The ones so blessed began to join together and determined to found a new Order to preserve their new lore."
"Ah. The Tel Shai you spoke of."
"Yes, we remain hidden for the moment, biding our time. We meet in secrecy. But that will change after the Darthim fall.."
Romal gave a short barking laugh. "What, after the Darthim fall?! You dream wild dreams, monk. The sorcerers of Maroch rule this world and no Race can cast them down, no not even the immortal Eldanarin."
"A forest fire begins with a spark. One foot placed before the other takes a man across the known world."
"Is that the Tel Shai wisdom? Bah. Grandmothers repeat such sayings that their grandmothers taught them."
As he watched the Mongrel adjusted a thicker tree branch on the quickening fire, Berjalam continued, "Most men will not begin a daring crusade because they have much to lose. Wife and child, home and comfort. To dare overthrow the Darthim, a leader is needed who has little to lose except his grievance against the tyrants. A tree without roots."
And Romal said nothing.
III.
A chilly cheerless dawn broke under a cloudy sky. Romal had slept fitfully as always in bursts of an hour or so, waking at every suspicious noise but just as quickly able to drop off again. The fire had been allowed to ebb down to glowing red embers but he restored it and welcomed its warmth as fresh branches crackled.
From where he had been curled up, Berjalam suddenly unfurled himself and stood up without the usual stretching, yawning and rubbing of eyes most normal people would have gone through. He had been sleeping upon his brown robe and now he tugged it on again. "Not a promising sunrise, I admit. Still, each day has its surprises."
"Before those louts chased us out of town, I should have relieved them off some goods," the Mongrel grumbled. "I was prepared to buy some dried meat, beans, tea leaves, perhaps flour to make biscuits. And Andromil deserves a bag of oats, he had borne us well."
The monk turned slowly in a circle, eyes half closed. "Good Romal, I am not one of our Teachers or even a senior student, but I have picked up a few useful tricks. My skills involve lifeforce. If any Humans had approached us in the night, their presence would have rousted me before they got within bow range."
"And useful indeed that must be." Romal had seen to his horse's wellbeing and now watched as his strange companion stared at a clump of brush next to three trees. "I would be greatly pleased if you sensed the lifeforce of a nice big trout in that stream."
Without replying, Berjalam began walking toward the brush. As his footsteps neared, the leaves rustled and a brown hare dove out... only to fall flat and lie unmoving. The monk continued without breaking stride and fetched the limp form by a foot.
There was a stern tone in Romal's voice that had not been there a moment earlier. He had rebuckled his sword belt around his waist and his right hand tightened on the leather-wrapped hilt of his weapon. "My new friend, that is a dangerous ability to show anyone."
"My sacred oath is never to kill a speaking creature with my power," the monk replied. "Human, Dartha, Eldanar, Troll... none who speak words will die by what I have been taught."
"Oaths have no supernatural force, I have seen many tossed aside. Still, Berjalam, I think I trust you. If nothing else, you did aid me in a dark moment last night. Here. Bring that hare to the stream."
Kneeling, the Mongrel took his well-honed short knife from its sheath and set to work. He cleaned and washed the carcass, working steadily but without haste. "Hah, there is much good meat on this one. He has been feasting to be ready for winter."
The monk watched thoughtfully. "You have done this many times."
"Yes. I have been alone in the world since escaping from Maroch. I have survived much. Jungles of Okali, ice mountains of Skandor, deserts of Khebir. Each have their secrets. Do you want this fur?"
"I have no use for it, no."
"I will save some. Methinks this rabbit fur will line my boots and keep out the chill. There. Now, we skewer chunks on sticks and our breakfast will be roasting while we wait."
As the tempting aromas teased them, the two men sat in silence for a while. Then, Romal said reluctantly, "Good monk, Humans have helped me only because they want something. A great beast to slay, a hostage to rescue, a treasure to be found. I must think such is the case with you."
"I have made my offer. That is all the Teachers burdened me with. Here, this is done. See how the skin is crisp."
They began pulling off chunks and chewing slowly. "Tell me more of Tel Shai."
"Ah, right now the number of disciplines we study is eight. There are eight Teachers, all Humans who have received visions from Jordyn, Cirkoth and Eryasha. Mostly, my Order is charged with collecting and preserving knowledge of all kinds. Senior students often return to the world to help those in need with this knowledge."
Romal scowled. "And what does this noble endeavor have to do with ME?"
"My Teachers see great crisis ahead. They have had revelations of the years not far ahead, they see great wars taking nine of ten lives, they see all the Races clash in a storm like no other. And they foresee the two most powerful Races, the Eldanarin and the Darthim, unleashing primal forces that will endanger all living things."
"Bah. I hold little stock in prophecies."
The monk paused to consider his words. "I do not know if what the Teachers predict is what may come to pass or what must pass. They fear cataclysm so utter that the Halarin themselves will intervene. Jordyn and Cirkoth and Eryasha will move all Speaking Peoples to other realms and then they will reshape the lands and seas and air itself. It will be like a card game gone so wrong that the dealer takes the cards back and starts fresh."
"Good monk! Enough. No one can know what is to be. The future is a tale not yet told."
Berjalan shrugged. "Tel Shai has been sending some of our senior students out to help as healers, as rescuers, as builders. But now the Teachers want to send knights. Fighting for Tel Shai would mean a code of ethics that soldiers and mercenaries do not follow. Tel Shai knights would defend the helpless against oppression. They would take no rewards and gather no followers. It will be a hard and narrow path to trod."
"Not the path for me!" scoffed Romal. "I go my own way. Hear me, monk. I am heading North, to a mountain village where I stopped for a time two years ago. I mean to visit Saturnio, a sorcerer there that was known as a peaceful lore master but lately I have heard rumors... Well, we shall see. You are welcome to journey with me if you choose."
Not many scraps were left on the roasted carcass. Berjalan wiped his greasy hands with dry leaves and stood up again. "I would accompany you with good will, Romal. Nor will I ask you again to join Tel Shai, but I am sure we will spin many tales to entertain each other with."
The Mongrel seemed relieved as he rose to his feet. "We must be certain our fire is dead before we leave. Uncomfortable as that chilly water might be, we would be well-advised to scrub ourselves and leave refreshed."
Gathering the bones and bits of sinew left of the hare, Berjalan laughed. "And with me on hand, you will go hungry no longer."
IV.
The mountains of Asuva were not the hostile jagged peaks of Skandor, which retain snow all summer, but were rounded and gentler from age. Many level areas were large enough to support villages and farms, there was plenty of game and the dark soil was rich. Many rivers and streams ran down to the sea.
The friendly ally nation Signarm bordered Asuva to the South, and to the East was Myrrwha, which tended to its own affairs. To its North and West was Skandor, but that nation of harsh people in a harsh clime had ceased its raids and pillaging a generation earlier as the Darthim had discouraged such affairs if they themselves did not benefit.
All the roads had a slight upward angle, and the two travelers walked rather than ask Andromil to bear their weight against an incline. Barjalam knew the legend of Romal, how the Darthim had infused traits of all Seven Races into an infant cut from its unconsenting mother. Romal seemed to be nothing more than a tall, sturdy young man but concentrated within his muscles was the full strength of a Fighting Troll who would stand more than seven feet high and weigh nearly four hundred pounds.
Romal trod easily up the mountain trails with a lightness in his step that made Barjalam suspect the Mongrel could have easily run full tilt to the peaks without tiring. He himself was a toughened pilgrim who had hiked back and forth across the known world. But he could not outlast Romal and was forced to ask for rests from time to time.
Late in the gloomy afternoon, the Mongrel and the monk moved down the wide open main street of a village. In the center of town was a well sheltered by a wooden covering, and three old men sat on a bench nearby. Strangers to insular communities normally drew curious stares but Romal provoked a more unfriendly reaction than usual. It was not just his obvious fitness and confident stride, but the three foot straight blade he wore at his side. Swords were not common in the Darthan Age. Many men carried a straight staff for defense, possibly a knife in their belt. The expensive steel and its skilled crafting marked a swordsman as trouble. Agent of the King? Highwayman or bandit? At best, a mercenary seeking employment which meant trouble in itself.
The three old men may have passed the age of being able to herd or hew down trees, but they were not idle. Two sat whittling useful items of wood, a door latch and a whistle, while the third polished a curved ladle, using handfuls of sand. They kept working as they watched the strangers.
Romal spoke first, drawing Andromil close beside him. "We bid you good day, grandfathers, and ask only that we may draw some water for my horse."
"Hah, well spoke and well meant," answered the eldest there.
"Caring for your steed before yourself is a sign of good character," added the second.
The third senior there made a similar remark that sounded like "Gummish blut," possibly because he had not a tooth in his head.
As the old men gave permission and added that the newcomers should also ease their own thirst, Romal and Barjalam did so sparingly. They were in fact both dusty and thirsty. "Perhaps we should explain ourselves," the monk said. "This is my friend Alharod [which meant "seven," referring to Romal's unique mixture of the Seven Races]. He is strong and hardworking. He can repair fences and gates, he was a blacksmith's apprentice and he knows some leatherworking as well."
"All useful skills," said one elder and third added cryptically, "Moosh."
"I myself am a wandering monk of my Order," said Berjalam. "My specialty is medicine. Ending fevers, setting broken bones, sewing up wounds. Gladly will I tend those in need without asking for payment."
The oldest man there studied the newcomers and his voice deepened into sternness. "Even without his sword as a clue, I discern your companion is a fighting man. The way he stands, the white scars on both hands and by his hairline. That blade he bears has not been unstained."
"True words," Romal answered. "Yet I retain it in case of bandits or wolves. I do not fight without good cause. You must judge my character for yourself." Wary as always, he noticed the increasing number of villagers watching him as they went about their tasks.
"We could always use some skilled hands and strong backs," said the oldest man. "So heed this, Alharod and Berjalam. Our mayor concerns himself with squabbles between the goatherds and the farmers, with disputes over inheritances and the proper length of betrothals. I feel you should speak with the true master of this village. Go to the end of the main street. At the House Within the Hill, present yourselves to Saturnio."
"S'darro," added the toothless man.
"And his daughter...."
V.
They had left the last cottage a mile behind, and the crude road had become merely beaten earth. On either side, the woods grew thick and the trees leaned over the trail as if trying to hide it.
"Romal, I am troubled," Berjalam said. "My perception is being muffled. All my mystic senses grow foggy."
"Really?" The Mongrel raised one feral brow. "What might that mean?"
"That gralic force is gathered here!" the monk replied. "Someone is pulling it into a nexus of serious magnitude. Not a Dartha nor a Nekrosan. Certainly not an Eldanar. I know the feeling their magic leaves behind."
"So, a Human sorcerer, then? That would explain the fear in that elder's voice when he mentioned Saturnio. And his daughter." Romal had a light hand on his horse's reins, leading him with himself and the monk on either side.
Ahead stood two granite pillars five feet in height, with a pathway paved with flat stones between them. Atop each pillar was a carved stone hand crafted with its palm facing frontward and spread fingers together. Romal leaned forward to smirk. "These mean, 'Go away,' quite clearly. I like that, so many times I am warned aways by dry skulls impaled on sticks."
"I'm reassured you appreciate the novelty." Berjalam turned toward the horse. "Andromil is trembling."
"Nervous, eh boy?" said Romal, tugging on the reins but meeting resistance. "Damnation, the beast has decided to go no further."
"Wiser than we are," the monk said. He watched as the Mongrel tethered the stallion to a stout bush low enough that Andromil could graze on the grass if it chose. "Can you not feel it yourself? The heavy blanket of brooding malice?"
"No." Just the single word. Romal loosened his sword in its scabbard and strode quickly down the roughly paved pathway, with his companion beside him. They began to see cleared areas on either side, marked by tree stumps and torn away brush that left raw black dirt. Soon, the forest had been pushed back and only empty clearings remained. The ground sloped upward, not too steeply for easy access and ahead a rounded hill fifty feet high rose up.
On the side of that hill, carefully fitted stones made an arch large enough for three people to stand abreast in the opening which was barred by a massive oaken door. Standing motionless on either side of that doorway were a pair of gaunt men in rags which left their arms and legs bare. Under grey-shot lank black hair were two weathered faces that stared ahead as if frozen.
As Romal and Berjalan drew near, the sentries creakingly turned their heads toward the newcomers. Their eyes were rolled up in their heads to leave blank white spheres. Deep trenches ran down their faces like apples left in the Sun.
"Necromancy," rumbled the Mongrel in his deep chest. "Of all the Five Forbidden Arts, this is the one I hate the most deeply."
"I should be able to affect these Zombies," Berjalam said to himself. "I should be sble to siphon away the gralic force reanimating these poor revenants. Some power greater than mine is at work here."
Sensing movement close behind him, Romal whipped his sword free and wheeled about, his right elbow up and ready to thrust the blade forward. But he stayed his hand, barely in time. Standing within reach was a young girl not yet twenty, draped in a knee-length tunic of thin white cotton, belted at the waist. She was slim and boyish in build, with s haunting oval face framed by thick glossy black hair which reached her waist. The girl's skin was remarkably pale, given a striking contrast by her ebony-irised eyes under thick arching brows. She smiled placidly at a sword point inches from her eyes.
Romal exhaled sharply and lowered his blade. "Grelok's Horns, do you WANT to be skewered? Make some noise when you tread."
"Few are our visitors since the dark days of the Fever Pox," she answered in a mellow voice. "Welcome. Know me as Caraku [cara-KU], only child of the great Saturnio. I have never seen either of you in the village, nor in the forests or hills nearby."
"We are wanderers," the Mongrel replied without warmth. He sheathed his sword and threw back his travel cloak, untensing only slightly.
"My friend is too taciturn to make a good impression," said the monk. "My name is BerjalaM, a healer from a mystic order. We have come seeking to speak with your father."
"Of course! What young man would dare come here to see me on a quest of the heart? I am but a rose under a glass jar. Ah. Forget my rash words. Come inside, we will wait."
She passed between the two Undead guardians without their reacting, and close behind her, Romal and Berjalan did the same. "Timok and Wimbol remember me from the days when they drew breath. Unaccompanied, you gentlemen would not be allowed to enter freely."
The door to the strange house within the hillside had no knocker or obvious ring to pull to open it. Instead, Caraku simply pressed a long-finger hand against a black ceramic plate high on the door. There was a distinct growl like that of a beast disturbed at its meal, and the thick door swung outward with a creak. She stepped into the gloom, followed by Romal and Berjalam.
The interior was surprisingly spacious and fresh-smelling. The walls twenty feet apart were of stone blocks worked into the Earth, with roughly carved wooden shelves crammed with a bizarre assortment of items. High up on a wall facing away from the hill, a long open window let in both air and late afternoon sunlight. Two shutters showed how it could be snugly secured against cold weather. The center of the room was kept uncluttered. Against one wall was a plank table and bench. Rolled up in front of the fireplace were blankets and pillows.
But it was other details that grabbed Beljamar's full attention. Many aged scrolls tied with red ribbon, ceremonial athames and goblets, a hand-drawn chart showing the stars, a statuette in jade of an armored man raising a mace, a bin of polished animal bones, rows of small pottery jars marked with arcane symbols...
Romal caught his eye and nodded. He too knew the significance of sorcerous artifacts.
Motioning her guests to seat themselves on the bench, Caraku herself stood in the beam of sunlight slanting in through the window. She folded her arms across her modest bust and regarded them with an unreadable expression. "I will warn you gentlemen from the start that my father's skills are not for hire. Once he benefitted all in the village with his knowledge of Alchemy and other mystic arts. But, three years ago, the Black Pox ravaged this land like a wildfire rushing through."
Berjalam lowered his head respectfully. "A great tragedy."
"Not a single family was spared their losses. The Pox was an ill that my father knew no way to combat and, even though he suffered grief himself, he was blamed unfairly by many of the villagers. They thought he had failed them! They turned on him with bitter words and slurs."
"Humans choose folly every time they can," muttered Romal. "This I know well."
"So my father has withdrawn in bitterness to this House Within the Hill and a few acres of land surrounding it. His servitors tend simple crops, a few pigs and chickens. Enough is provided for our needs."
Romal spoke up grimly. "Especially since his servants need neither food nor drink for themselves!"
"I do not defend necromancy," retorted the girl. "Let the dead remain dead, I say. But my father was crushed with grief and he turned all his intellect toward the greatest mystery. His two guards and four tenants had sworn an oath of loyalty toward him until 'my lord releases me,' and he claims this justifies his blasphemy."
Unexpectedly, Berjalan asked, "Have you learned any of his magic?"
That caught her by surprise and she took a moment to answer. "He has taught me only minor spells and applications. No more than what a novice might learn."
The monk smiled very slightly, "And that is not enough for an strong-willed girl like you?"
"Hmm. Do you expect me to admit freely I have studied my father's grimoires and notes when he is away? Why would I confess such disobedience?"
At that, a deep mournful voice sounded, "Make way for the Master."
VI.
Filling the open doorway from side to side, ducking his shaggy head, a huge laborer in rough work clothes entered. He carried a pruning hook on a five foot handle, a tool which could serve as a deadly weapon in those mighty hands. The servant stood to one side. A thin old man wrapped in a deep burgundy cloak stepped into the room. His long hair and beard were pure silver-white, his hands gnarled and face wrinkled. The big servant brought over a high-backed chair with a cushion for him.
Both Romal and Berjalan rose to greet their host, and Caraku bowed slightly from the waist. The giant servant leaned back against the wall beside the door, tool still in hand.
It was Saturnio who spoke first. "Heavy is my heart to see young men casting their lives away without need. I bid you, flee now. Let this village be not even a memory to you."
Romal said, "Your farm worker there, he seems more lifelike than your sentries. He can speak. He has awareness in his eyes."
"Yes. Morigan is a later attempt at the Art. Each ember I restore to a coal burns hotter and longer. Some in the village think he is actually alive." Saturnio turned hard agate eyes at the monk. "I see you have some gralic skill of your own, son. Kerwandu. Think not to try it against me, my defense would slay you. I wish for both of you to survivie this day."
"I take you at your word, sir."
Between Saturnio in his chair and Romal and Berjalan on the bench, Caraku stood defiant. She placed small hard fists on her hips and exhaled sharply. "Father, I will have these men escort me to the towns at the base of this mountain. I will not abide here a day longer, surrounded by Undead, with no hope of friendship or, dare I say it, love!"
"Be still, my child," Saturnio began. "I have promised I will explain all on the day you turn one-and-twenty. Perilous it would be for you to venture beyond this homestead."
The young woman turned her pale taut face toward the visitors. "What say you? Will you men see me safely to a life of freedom? This is more a Tomb than a House Within A Hill."
Leaning forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Romal frowned. "My instincts all urge me to take you from here. I myself had to break loose to gain my freedom. Yet I do not know you, girl, nor do I know the laws and customs of Asuva. Should I add abduction to all my other crimes?"
"I want to live!" she cried to Romal. "Please! I am stifling here. I might as well be one of these unliving myself. I can see that you are a fighting man with courage in your eyes. Will you not rescue a hostage?"
Saturnio raised an imperative forefinger. "Have a care, young man. Morigan and my other servants are terrible foes. They do not bleed, they know no fear, they will fight even if hacked to pieces. Do not throw your live away, boy. I wish I could explain more."
With that, Caraku screamed like a cat dropped in boiling water. She raised both hands i an esoteric gesture. "Draldros! Grelok! Margoth! Free these wretched shells you have raised."
"No, daughter...!" shouted Saturnio, an instant too late.
"I beg thee, let the dead return where they belong. Rest! In! Peace!" she shrieked.
In a gust of freezing wind, both the huge Morigan and the two guards in the doorway fell apart into stinking heaps of vileness. An unbearable stench filled the room. The pruning hook clattered to the stone floor.
But all eyes were fixed on a clean white skeleton still covered in its robe, lying stretched out where Caraku had been standing.
Saturnio fell down into his chair as his legs gave way. "No. No...Bereaved again."
Romal the Mongrel had leaped to his feet but he knew there would be no fight. "In my heart, I suspected as much. It was strange for you to have daughter of her age..."
"Caraku was the greatest resurrection I could accomplish," Saturnio whispered. "She died more than fifty years ago."
11/9/2024
10/1218 DR
I.
Naked sword in hand, Romal the Mongrel crouched behind the tavern and listened to the shouts of the mob that pursued him. The Signarm accent had never seemed harsher to him than now, with thirty men yelling for his death. Seemingly a tall, sturdy young man not yet thirty years of age, Romal had draped his dark travel cloak around him for hopeful concealment. His head still revealed was crowned with thick shaggy black hair. His heavy-featured sullen face was clean-shaven but with a day's worth of stubble and his eyes were dark blue with odd amber flecks.
But those meeting him could stare at nothing but the ears which rose to sharp points. The Eldanarin and the Darthim had such ears, but he was clearly not a member of either Race. He was the only one of his kind in the world.
Daring a quick peek around the corner of the tavern, he saw the mob was gathered across the muddy street by the blacksmith shop. He growled deep in his chest exactly as a Troll would. His horse was tethered in that shop. Along with his blankets and heavier tunic. With winter coming, he needed all of that, especially the fine Skandoran stallion he had become used to. Romal slapped the flat of his sword against his free palm. He didn't want to slay any farmers or shopkeepers today, but if they left him no choice, well.... Let it be on their heads.
There were at least thirty men by the shop, waving torches or field tools such as pitchforks, axes and pruning hooks. No matter. He was Romal the Mongrel, and he feared nothing that drew breath. If that hateful crowd did not move away from the blacksmith shop, he would attack them and test his prowess to its limits.
Someone was approaching from behind. Romal's hard life had sharpened his senses to the level of a wild beast surviving in the wild. He wheeled around, sword drawn back and his side pressed up against the tavern wall. But there seemed to be no immediate threat. Walking openly toward him out of the darkness was a short, slightly built man in a loose robe of brown burlap with a hood pulled up over his head. His hands were empty.
Seeing that the man was making no outcry, Romal lowered his arm slightly but remained alert. The next few minutes could mean life or death. The robed man stopped just out reach and threw back his cowl to reveal a roundish, completely bald head with a placid face. In the gloom, his skin tone seemed to be tawny like a lion's, but not quite like that of a Chujiran.
Leaning forward from the waist, the stranger whispered, "Be at ease. I am Berjalam, a monk of Tel Shai and I come to aid you."
In the same low tone, Romal said only, "How?"
"I can take you past those men to retrieve your horse and we can go to the mountains. We of Tel Shai have developed some slight mystic arts." The man held up his open hands. A faint blue shimmer played around them, then extended itself into a nimbus over his entire body. The Mongrel glanced down and saw the blue light was glowing around him as well.
"What IS this? I mistrust sorcery..."
"Ah, this is nothing like the magic your Darthan masters used," Berjalan assured them. "This is beneficent, almost holy. I will explain it all later."
Romal held up his sword, almost admiring the azure nimbus along its length but finally saying, "How does this help me?"
"This is called the Veil. Now you will have to trust me, Romal, that the crowd will neither see nor hear us."
"What? Is this jest? Never mind. I will play along but mark these words. If that mob attacks, your head will bounce in the dirt before they reach me."
The monk smiled and gestured for the Mongrel to follow him. With only the slightest hesitation, the Mongrel straightened up, squared his shoulders and trod behind the smaller man. They crossed the wide muddy main street of Wyonal Town and neared the torch-waving, shouting crowd...
And the crowd ignored them completely. Nearly holding his breath, treading as lightly as possible, Romal passed close by the townspeople. He could hardly believe it. At any second, he expected those men to attack him with their farm tools.
"I tell you, he is a spy for the Darthim! It was they who gave him unnatural life. He reports to Tollinor Kje, no less!"
"He's a monster not meant to live in this world!"
"True! True! Stronger than a Troll, quicker than a Snake man. One pirate I met in the capital says Romal can breathe underwater like a Gelydra. Who knows what else he is capable of?"
Hearing the hatred in those voices, Romal gripped his sword hilt painfully tight. Always the same. He had been driven from one nation to the next, chased like prey, nearly hung from a tree or burned in a pyre. Rare it was that he had found a town which accepted him even for a short while, and such respites never lasted too long.
For one red-hot moment, he was sore tempted to begin slashing left and right at the Humans who did not see or hear him. If they were going to fear and hate him so much, thwn by the Halarin, he might as well give them good reason....
In that ominous pause, Berjalam snatched up a fist-shaped rock, drew his arm back and flung it down the street as hard as he possibly could. Glass was rare in the Darthan Age and it was merely by chance that the stone went directly through the only window in that frontier town. The unmistakable crash made everyone jump.
"The Magistrate's house! Did you hear that?" And thirty men ran full tilt down the main street, howling like hounds on a scent.
Left alone in the open double doors of the smithery, Romal rushed to where his Andromil neighed low and shifted its weight at seeing him. The big chestnut horse had become fond of Romal, who treated him well. The simple harness was pulled onto the horse's face, the folded wool blanket was draped across its back. Saddles existed in this Age but the stirrup had not been invented. Romal had not noticed that the blue glow had faded. The Mongrel grabbed his travel bag and threw it across his back with a strap.
With an easy bound, Romal vaulted up onto Andromil's broad back without jarring him. He swung the stallion around and, without asking, seized Berjalam by an arm and pulled the monk up to sit behind him. The slightest tug on the harness and a mild tap of his boots to the ribs made the horse take off at a gallop into the night.
Within minutes, the lights of the street torches were behind them and nearly out of sight. Even if the townspeople had found nothing by the broken window, even if they had seen the missing horse, it would take them time to mount up themselves.
Racing away from the beaten earth road leading from the town, Romal sent his steed thundering across an open plain and toward mountains that rose dimly in the starlight. Free. Free and alive where only a short time earlier he had been preparing to fight and die. As the relief washed over him, he broke into the first genuine hearty laughter he had voiced in too long.
II.
By the time the waxing moon was overhead, they had settled into a clearing in the foothills of the Blue Cloud Mountains. A small but quick-running stream promised potable water. Here was where the nation of Signarm ended and Asuva began. Using a bit of flint and his knife blade, the two men built a comforting fire from dried grass and twigs, adding larger branches as the flames grew stronger.
Romal had little in his travel pack but a clean shirt, a carved wooden mug and a soft sack of dried grains which he fed to his horse. He rubbed the loyal beast down, examined hooves for damaged and tethered the beast close to the stream so it might drink. Only then did he lower himself wearily by the fire and tug off his well-worn boots with a sigh.
"It is a good-hearted man who tends to his horse before his own needs," said the monk.
Romal snorted angrily. "That animal has treated me better than Humans have. Or Eldanarin or Darthim or Trolls or Gelydrim. If I could trust any living being, it would be him."
"You have named him Andromil, 'horse of faith.'"
"Hear me, monk. You have said little on the ride here and I was content to let it be so," Romal said in a newly stern tone. "But now is when you must say much. Tell me who you are, how your sorcery works, where your people are."
"I will do so gladly." Berjalam had gotten out of his burlap robe and turned it inside outside to air. Underneath, he wore a thin linen tunic which reached to his knees. The man's low soft slippers were kicked off next, then he began. "I mentioned the name Tel Shai, which means 'Bright Path.' That is the secret lodge or Order to which I belong. You were raised on the island of Maroch by the Darthim themselves, Romal. Surely you were taught what happened on Ulgor twelve hundred years ago."
"Of course," the Mongrel grunted. "Who does not know of the thirteen Sulla Chun who taught vile mystic secrets on Ulgor? Or how the island was thrown down to a chasm in the sea by the Halarin? I can tell you further that the cataclysm marked the beginning of this Farthan Age we struggle to survive."
The slightly built monk huddled closer to the fire, warming his hands. "Well said. But here I will tell you what few mortal beings know. To remedy somewhat the damage done on Ulgor, Jordyn and his two Halarin siblings began to impart benevolent knowledge to chosen Humans. in dreams and visions, this wisdom sank into Human minds. The ones so blessed began to join together and determined to found a new Order to preserve their new lore."
"Ah. The Tel Shai you spoke of."
"Yes, we remain hidden for the moment, biding our time. We meet in secrecy. But that will change after the Darthim fall.."
Romal gave a short barking laugh. "What, after the Darthim fall?! You dream wild dreams, monk. The sorcerers of Maroch rule this world and no Race can cast them down, no not even the immortal Eldanarin."
"A forest fire begins with a spark. One foot placed before the other takes a man across the known world."
"Is that the Tel Shai wisdom? Bah. Grandmothers repeat such sayings that their grandmothers taught them."
As he watched the Mongrel adjusted a thicker tree branch on the quickening fire, Berjalam continued, "Most men will not begin a daring crusade because they have much to lose. Wife and child, home and comfort. To dare overthrow the Darthim, a leader is needed who has little to lose except his grievance against the tyrants. A tree without roots."
And Romal said nothing.
III.
A chilly cheerless dawn broke under a cloudy sky. Romal had slept fitfully as always in bursts of an hour or so, waking at every suspicious noise but just as quickly able to drop off again. The fire had been allowed to ebb down to glowing red embers but he restored it and welcomed its warmth as fresh branches crackled.
From where he had been curled up, Berjalam suddenly unfurled himself and stood up without the usual stretching, yawning and rubbing of eyes most normal people would have gone through. He had been sleeping upon his brown robe and now he tugged it on again. "Not a promising sunrise, I admit. Still, each day has its surprises."
"Before those louts chased us out of town, I should have relieved them off some goods," the Mongrel grumbled. "I was prepared to buy some dried meat, beans, tea leaves, perhaps flour to make biscuits. And Andromil deserves a bag of oats, he had borne us well."
The monk turned slowly in a circle, eyes half closed. "Good Romal, I am not one of our Teachers or even a senior student, but I have picked up a few useful tricks. My skills involve lifeforce. If any Humans had approached us in the night, their presence would have rousted me before they got within bow range."
"And useful indeed that must be." Romal had seen to his horse's wellbeing and now watched as his strange companion stared at a clump of brush next to three trees. "I would be greatly pleased if you sensed the lifeforce of a nice big trout in that stream."
Without replying, Berjalam began walking toward the brush. As his footsteps neared, the leaves rustled and a brown hare dove out... only to fall flat and lie unmoving. The monk continued without breaking stride and fetched the limp form by a foot.
There was a stern tone in Romal's voice that had not been there a moment earlier. He had rebuckled his sword belt around his waist and his right hand tightened on the leather-wrapped hilt of his weapon. "My new friend, that is a dangerous ability to show anyone."
"My sacred oath is never to kill a speaking creature with my power," the monk replied. "Human, Dartha, Eldanar, Troll... none who speak words will die by what I have been taught."
"Oaths have no supernatural force, I have seen many tossed aside. Still, Berjalam, I think I trust you. If nothing else, you did aid me in a dark moment last night. Here. Bring that hare to the stream."
Kneeling, the Mongrel took his well-honed short knife from its sheath and set to work. He cleaned and washed the carcass, working steadily but without haste. "Hah, there is much good meat on this one. He has been feasting to be ready for winter."
The monk watched thoughtfully. "You have done this many times."
"Yes. I have been alone in the world since escaping from Maroch. I have survived much. Jungles of Okali, ice mountains of Skandor, deserts of Khebir. Each have their secrets. Do you want this fur?"
"I have no use for it, no."
"I will save some. Methinks this rabbit fur will line my boots and keep out the chill. There. Now, we skewer chunks on sticks and our breakfast will be roasting while we wait."
As the tempting aromas teased them, the two men sat in silence for a while. Then, Romal said reluctantly, "Good monk, Humans have helped me only because they want something. A great beast to slay, a hostage to rescue, a treasure to be found. I must think such is the case with you."
"I have made my offer. That is all the Teachers burdened me with. Here, this is done. See how the skin is crisp."
They began pulling off chunks and chewing slowly. "Tell me more of Tel Shai."
"Ah, right now the number of disciplines we study is eight. There are eight Teachers, all Humans who have received visions from Jordyn, Cirkoth and Eryasha. Mostly, my Order is charged with collecting and preserving knowledge of all kinds. Senior students often return to the world to help those in need with this knowledge."
Romal scowled. "And what does this noble endeavor have to do with ME?"
"My Teachers see great crisis ahead. They have had revelations of the years not far ahead, they see great wars taking nine of ten lives, they see all the Races clash in a storm like no other. And they foresee the two most powerful Races, the Eldanarin and the Darthim, unleashing primal forces that will endanger all living things."
"Bah. I hold little stock in prophecies."
The monk paused to consider his words. "I do not know if what the Teachers predict is what may come to pass or what must pass. They fear cataclysm so utter that the Halarin themselves will intervene. Jordyn and Cirkoth and Eryasha will move all Speaking Peoples to other realms and then they will reshape the lands and seas and air itself. It will be like a card game gone so wrong that the dealer takes the cards back and starts fresh."
"Good monk! Enough. No one can know what is to be. The future is a tale not yet told."
Berjalan shrugged. "Tel Shai has been sending some of our senior students out to help as healers, as rescuers, as builders. But now the Teachers want to send knights. Fighting for Tel Shai would mean a code of ethics that soldiers and mercenaries do not follow. Tel Shai knights would defend the helpless against oppression. They would take no rewards and gather no followers. It will be a hard and narrow path to trod."
"Not the path for me!" scoffed Romal. "I go my own way. Hear me, monk. I am heading North, to a mountain village where I stopped for a time two years ago. I mean to visit Saturnio, a sorcerer there that was known as a peaceful lore master but lately I have heard rumors... Well, we shall see. You are welcome to journey with me if you choose."
Not many scraps were left on the roasted carcass. Berjalan wiped his greasy hands with dry leaves and stood up again. "I would accompany you with good will, Romal. Nor will I ask you again to join Tel Shai, but I am sure we will spin many tales to entertain each other with."
The Mongrel seemed relieved as he rose to his feet. "We must be certain our fire is dead before we leave. Uncomfortable as that chilly water might be, we would be well-advised to scrub ourselves and leave refreshed."
Gathering the bones and bits of sinew left of the hare, Berjalan laughed. "And with me on hand, you will go hungry no longer."
IV.
The mountains of Asuva were not the hostile jagged peaks of Skandor, which retain snow all summer, but were rounded and gentler from age. Many level areas were large enough to support villages and farms, there was plenty of game and the dark soil was rich. Many rivers and streams ran down to the sea.
The friendly ally nation Signarm bordered Asuva to the South, and to the East was Myrrwha, which tended to its own affairs. To its North and West was Skandor, but that nation of harsh people in a harsh clime had ceased its raids and pillaging a generation earlier as the Darthim had discouraged such affairs if they themselves did not benefit.
All the roads had a slight upward angle, and the two travelers walked rather than ask Andromil to bear their weight against an incline. Barjalam knew the legend of Romal, how the Darthim had infused traits of all Seven Races into an infant cut from its unconsenting mother. Romal seemed to be nothing more than a tall, sturdy young man but concentrated within his muscles was the full strength of a Fighting Troll who would stand more than seven feet high and weigh nearly four hundred pounds.
Romal trod easily up the mountain trails with a lightness in his step that made Barjalam suspect the Mongrel could have easily run full tilt to the peaks without tiring. He himself was a toughened pilgrim who had hiked back and forth across the known world. But he could not outlast Romal and was forced to ask for rests from time to time.
Late in the gloomy afternoon, the Mongrel and the monk moved down the wide open main street of a village. In the center of town was a well sheltered by a wooden covering, and three old men sat on a bench nearby. Strangers to insular communities normally drew curious stares but Romal provoked a more unfriendly reaction than usual. It was not just his obvious fitness and confident stride, but the three foot straight blade he wore at his side. Swords were not common in the Darthan Age. Many men carried a straight staff for defense, possibly a knife in their belt. The expensive steel and its skilled crafting marked a swordsman as trouble. Agent of the King? Highwayman or bandit? At best, a mercenary seeking employment which meant trouble in itself.
The three old men may have passed the age of being able to herd or hew down trees, but they were not idle. Two sat whittling useful items of wood, a door latch and a whistle, while the third polished a curved ladle, using handfuls of sand. They kept working as they watched the strangers.
Romal spoke first, drawing Andromil close beside him. "We bid you good day, grandfathers, and ask only that we may draw some water for my horse."
"Hah, well spoke and well meant," answered the eldest there.
"Caring for your steed before yourself is a sign of good character," added the second.
The third senior there made a similar remark that sounded like "Gummish blut," possibly because he had not a tooth in his head.
As the old men gave permission and added that the newcomers should also ease their own thirst, Romal and Barjalam did so sparingly. They were in fact both dusty and thirsty. "Perhaps we should explain ourselves," the monk said. "This is my friend Alharod [which meant "seven," referring to Romal's unique mixture of the Seven Races]. He is strong and hardworking. He can repair fences and gates, he was a blacksmith's apprentice and he knows some leatherworking as well."
"All useful skills," said one elder and third added cryptically, "Moosh."
"I myself am a wandering monk of my Order," said Berjalam. "My specialty is medicine. Ending fevers, setting broken bones, sewing up wounds. Gladly will I tend those in need without asking for payment."
The oldest man there studied the newcomers and his voice deepened into sternness. "Even without his sword as a clue, I discern your companion is a fighting man. The way he stands, the white scars on both hands and by his hairline. That blade he bears has not been unstained."
"True words," Romal answered. "Yet I retain it in case of bandits or wolves. I do not fight without good cause. You must judge my character for yourself." Wary as always, he noticed the increasing number of villagers watching him as they went about their tasks.
"We could always use some skilled hands and strong backs," said the oldest man. "So heed this, Alharod and Berjalam. Our mayor concerns himself with squabbles between the goatherds and the farmers, with disputes over inheritances and the proper length of betrothals. I feel you should speak with the true master of this village. Go to the end of the main street. At the House Within the Hill, present yourselves to Saturnio."
"S'darro," added the toothless man.
"And his daughter...."
V.
They had left the last cottage a mile behind, and the crude road had become merely beaten earth. On either side, the woods grew thick and the trees leaned over the trail as if trying to hide it.
"Romal, I am troubled," Berjalam said. "My perception is being muffled. All my mystic senses grow foggy."
"Really?" The Mongrel raised one feral brow. "What might that mean?"
"That gralic force is gathered here!" the monk replied. "Someone is pulling it into a nexus of serious magnitude. Not a Dartha nor a Nekrosan. Certainly not an Eldanar. I know the feeling their magic leaves behind."
"So, a Human sorcerer, then? That would explain the fear in that elder's voice when he mentioned Saturnio. And his daughter." Romal had a light hand on his horse's reins, leading him with himself and the monk on either side.
Ahead stood two granite pillars five feet in height, with a pathway paved with flat stones between them. Atop each pillar was a carved stone hand crafted with its palm facing frontward and spread fingers together. Romal leaned forward to smirk. "These mean, 'Go away,' quite clearly. I like that, so many times I am warned aways by dry skulls impaled on sticks."
"I'm reassured you appreciate the novelty." Berjalam turned toward the horse. "Andromil is trembling."
"Nervous, eh boy?" said Romal, tugging on the reins but meeting resistance. "Damnation, the beast has decided to go no further."
"Wiser than we are," the monk said. He watched as the Mongrel tethered the stallion to a stout bush low enough that Andromil could graze on the grass if it chose. "Can you not feel it yourself? The heavy blanket of brooding malice?"
"No." Just the single word. Romal loosened his sword in its scabbard and strode quickly down the roughly paved pathway, with his companion beside him. They began to see cleared areas on either side, marked by tree stumps and torn away brush that left raw black dirt. Soon, the forest had been pushed back and only empty clearings remained. The ground sloped upward, not too steeply for easy access and ahead a rounded hill fifty feet high rose up.
On the side of that hill, carefully fitted stones made an arch large enough for three people to stand abreast in the opening which was barred by a massive oaken door. Standing motionless on either side of that doorway were a pair of gaunt men in rags which left their arms and legs bare. Under grey-shot lank black hair were two weathered faces that stared ahead as if frozen.
As Romal and Berjalan drew near, the sentries creakingly turned their heads toward the newcomers. Their eyes were rolled up in their heads to leave blank white spheres. Deep trenches ran down their faces like apples left in the Sun.
"Necromancy," rumbled the Mongrel in his deep chest. "Of all the Five Forbidden Arts, this is the one I hate the most deeply."
"I should be able to affect these Zombies," Berjalam said to himself. "I should be sble to siphon away the gralic force reanimating these poor revenants. Some power greater than mine is at work here."
Sensing movement close behind him, Romal whipped his sword free and wheeled about, his right elbow up and ready to thrust the blade forward. But he stayed his hand, barely in time. Standing within reach was a young girl not yet twenty, draped in a knee-length tunic of thin white cotton, belted at the waist. She was slim and boyish in build, with s haunting oval face framed by thick glossy black hair which reached her waist. The girl's skin was remarkably pale, given a striking contrast by her ebony-irised eyes under thick arching brows. She smiled placidly at a sword point inches from her eyes.
Romal exhaled sharply and lowered his blade. "Grelok's Horns, do you WANT to be skewered? Make some noise when you tread."
"Few are our visitors since the dark days of the Fever Pox," she answered in a mellow voice. "Welcome. Know me as Caraku [cara-KU], only child of the great Saturnio. I have never seen either of you in the village, nor in the forests or hills nearby."
"We are wanderers," the Mongrel replied without warmth. He sheathed his sword and threw back his travel cloak, untensing only slightly.
"My friend is too taciturn to make a good impression," said the monk. "My name is BerjalaM, a healer from a mystic order. We have come seeking to speak with your father."
"Of course! What young man would dare come here to see me on a quest of the heart? I am but a rose under a glass jar. Ah. Forget my rash words. Come inside, we will wait."
She passed between the two Undead guardians without their reacting, and close behind her, Romal and Berjalan did the same. "Timok and Wimbol remember me from the days when they drew breath. Unaccompanied, you gentlemen would not be allowed to enter freely."
The door to the strange house within the hillside had no knocker or obvious ring to pull to open it. Instead, Caraku simply pressed a long-finger hand against a black ceramic plate high on the door. There was a distinct growl like that of a beast disturbed at its meal, and the thick door swung outward with a creak. She stepped into the gloom, followed by Romal and Berjalam.
The interior was surprisingly spacious and fresh-smelling. The walls twenty feet apart were of stone blocks worked into the Earth, with roughly carved wooden shelves crammed with a bizarre assortment of items. High up on a wall facing away from the hill, a long open window let in both air and late afternoon sunlight. Two shutters showed how it could be snugly secured against cold weather. The center of the room was kept uncluttered. Against one wall was a plank table and bench. Rolled up in front of the fireplace were blankets and pillows.
But it was other details that grabbed Beljamar's full attention. Many aged scrolls tied with red ribbon, ceremonial athames and goblets, a hand-drawn chart showing the stars, a statuette in jade of an armored man raising a mace, a bin of polished animal bones, rows of small pottery jars marked with arcane symbols...
Romal caught his eye and nodded. He too knew the significance of sorcerous artifacts.
Motioning her guests to seat themselves on the bench, Caraku herself stood in the beam of sunlight slanting in through the window. She folded her arms across her modest bust and regarded them with an unreadable expression. "I will warn you gentlemen from the start that my father's skills are not for hire. Once he benefitted all in the village with his knowledge of Alchemy and other mystic arts. But, three years ago, the Black Pox ravaged this land like a wildfire rushing through."
Berjalam lowered his head respectfully. "A great tragedy."
"Not a single family was spared their losses. The Pox was an ill that my father knew no way to combat and, even though he suffered grief himself, he was blamed unfairly by many of the villagers. They thought he had failed them! They turned on him with bitter words and slurs."
"Humans choose folly every time they can," muttered Romal. "This I know well."
"So my father has withdrawn in bitterness to this House Within the Hill and a few acres of land surrounding it. His servitors tend simple crops, a few pigs and chickens. Enough is provided for our needs."
Romal spoke up grimly. "Especially since his servants need neither food nor drink for themselves!"
"I do not defend necromancy," retorted the girl. "Let the dead remain dead, I say. But my father was crushed with grief and he turned all his intellect toward the greatest mystery. His two guards and four tenants had sworn an oath of loyalty toward him until 'my lord releases me,' and he claims this justifies his blasphemy."
Unexpectedly, Berjalan asked, "Have you learned any of his magic?"
That caught her by surprise and she took a moment to answer. "He has taught me only minor spells and applications. No more than what a novice might learn."
The monk smiled very slightly, "And that is not enough for an strong-willed girl like you?"
"Hmm. Do you expect me to admit freely I have studied my father's grimoires and notes when he is away? Why would I confess such disobedience?"
At that, a deep mournful voice sounded, "Make way for the Master."
VI.
Filling the open doorway from side to side, ducking his shaggy head, a huge laborer in rough work clothes entered. He carried a pruning hook on a five foot handle, a tool which could serve as a deadly weapon in those mighty hands. The servant stood to one side. A thin old man wrapped in a deep burgundy cloak stepped into the room. His long hair and beard were pure silver-white, his hands gnarled and face wrinkled. The big servant brought over a high-backed chair with a cushion for him.
Both Romal and Berjalan rose to greet their host, and Caraku bowed slightly from the waist. The giant servant leaned back against the wall beside the door, tool still in hand.
It was Saturnio who spoke first. "Heavy is my heart to see young men casting their lives away without need. I bid you, flee now. Let this village be not even a memory to you."
Romal said, "Your farm worker there, he seems more lifelike than your sentries. He can speak. He has awareness in his eyes."
"Yes. Morigan is a later attempt at the Art. Each ember I restore to a coal burns hotter and longer. Some in the village think he is actually alive." Saturnio turned hard agate eyes at the monk. "I see you have some gralic skill of your own, son. Kerwandu. Think not to try it against me, my defense would slay you. I wish for both of you to survivie this day."
"I take you at your word, sir."
Between Saturnio in his chair and Romal and Berjalan on the bench, Caraku stood defiant. She placed small hard fists on her hips and exhaled sharply. "Father, I will have these men escort me to the towns at the base of this mountain. I will not abide here a day longer, surrounded by Undead, with no hope of friendship or, dare I say it, love!"
"Be still, my child," Saturnio began. "I have promised I will explain all on the day you turn one-and-twenty. Perilous it would be for you to venture beyond this homestead."
The young woman turned her pale taut face toward the visitors. "What say you? Will you men see me safely to a life of freedom? This is more a Tomb than a House Within A Hill."
Leaning forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Romal frowned. "My instincts all urge me to take you from here. I myself had to break loose to gain my freedom. Yet I do not know you, girl, nor do I know the laws and customs of Asuva. Should I add abduction to all my other crimes?"
"I want to live!" she cried to Romal. "Please! I am stifling here. I might as well be one of these unliving myself. I can see that you are a fighting man with courage in your eyes. Will you not rescue a hostage?"
Saturnio raised an imperative forefinger. "Have a care, young man. Morigan and my other servants are terrible foes. They do not bleed, they know no fear, they will fight even if hacked to pieces. Do not throw your live away, boy. I wish I could explain more."
With that, Caraku screamed like a cat dropped in boiling water. She raised both hands i an esoteric gesture. "Draldros! Grelok! Margoth! Free these wretched shells you have raised."
"No, daughter...!" shouted Saturnio, an instant too late.
"I beg thee, let the dead return where they belong. Rest! In! Peace!" she shrieked.
In a gust of freezing wind, both the huge Morigan and the two guards in the doorway fell apart into stinking heaps of vileness. An unbearable stench filled the room. The pruning hook clattered to the stone floor.
But all eyes were fixed on a clean white skeleton still covered in its robe, lying stretched out where Caraku had been standing.
Saturnio fell down into his chair as his legs gave way. "No. No...Bereaved again."
Romal the Mongrel had leaped to his feet but he knew there would be no fight. "In my heart, I suspected as much. It was strange for you to have daughter of her age..."
"Caraku was the greatest resurrection I could accomplish," Saturnio whispered. "She died more than fifty years ago."
11/9/2024
