Possessing the Grimstone (17 page)

Drith clashed against two undead; they swung at him and missed. One let out a baleful moan, and lunged. Drith scurried up a tree, and the dead ceased their attack. He watched as they continued through the swamp, ignoring everything around them.

“Get out of their way!” Drith called to the others. “Let them pass! Stop fighting, and let them pass. We are in their way.”

Tolan and Pim wound around and kept the trees at their backs. The Cardoon soldier lowered his sword, and followed their lead.

Shannara dug her blades into the nearest tree and climbed the trunk. Her warriors did the same, leaping onto each other’s shoulders and climbing out of the undead’s way. The women reached down to help the seers off the ground.

The undead fighters stopped their attack and walked on, single-minded, a purpose in their steps. They filed together and made a path through the swamps.

As the last of them passed through the area, Tolan looked to the others. “Follow them, they’ll lead us to Mort A’ghas.”

Drith, Shannara, and the others dropped to the ground. When the undead were at a safe distance, the group tracked them.

“They were only trying to get to Mort A’ghas?” Pim asked.

“We were in their way. They must have thought we were trying to stop them,” Tolan said.

“Our ignorance cost me the lives of my people,” Shannara said.

“How were we to know?” said Pim.

Shannara remained silent as they followed the distressed souls.

###

At last, it came into view: a structure composed of darkness and shadows, of altered perception, and perceived reality. Stone met wood at odd angles, foundation burrowed beneath charred ground, while two black steeples rose into the misty trees. Eerie red light flickered inside its hollows, and etched windows. The abode curled at some sides, while narrowing at others. Its entirety could not be completely determined as it toyed with the senses and threatened the sanity of those who looked upon it. One moment it was there, another it was but a hazy dream or nightmare. This was Mort A’ghas, the Church of the Dead.

Mort A’ghas stood on a small island in the center of a swamp with black waters. The dead walked one by one into the waters and submerged. They rose out of the water on the other side, and stepped onto the island, filing through the open doors.

“I cannot swim,” Drith said. “I will not be going to that damnable place.”

“I’m not sure any of us can cross those waters,” Tolan said. “The depths are unknown, the water is black… it maybe deadly to the living.”

“If I but had my wings now,” Shannara said. “There must be some way to cross. The Lich Lord must grant us an audience.”

She walked around the edges of the water, knelt, and cursed. Then she stood and sheathed her blades, looking around at the trees. “We must get across. There are some vines in these trees.”

Tolan stepped over to her. “Do not be foolish. You would never make it. The vines are not long enough, and the trees don’t even reach over the water.”

Moans echoed through the swamp as more undead rose from the water and entered Mort A’ghas.

Pim looked down into the swamp. He watched it ripple from the undead’s wake. The water was slick and reflected ethereal light from the stirring sky above.

“I can cross it,” he said to them.

Both turned with wide eyes.

“Pim?” Tolan started.

“My fleet. My fleet will carry me across.”

“Wivering can cross water?”

“This Wivering can.” He turned away from Tolan.
You’ve done it once, fool. Once. This might not even work. What if I fall in? Then what?

Tolan took him by the arm. “Are you sure, my friend?”

Pim looked up at him and cracked a half smile. “No. But I have to try.”

“Understand that you will be alone over there. No one will be able to protect you should the undead come for you. The Lich Lord, himself, might see it fit to…to…”

Pim swallowed. “As Shannara said, he must grant us an audience. Perhaps, because I will be alone, I will not be seen as a threat. He is our only hope. I have no choice but to do this. This is why we are all here, isn’t it? I have the fleet, and it’s my duty to use it.”

He moved away from the others. “Clear me a path.” They did as he asked, and stepped away from the water. Tolan looked on with concern.

Pim backed up as far as he could, and removed his boots. The mud seemed to slither around his toes.
You can do this. You can do this.
He breathed in and out, regulating it. He felt his heart beginning to beat faster. His palms grew damp.

He focused all of his concentration on the water. His heart pounded, now. His feet twitched. He took a deep breath, and his eyes tingled.

“Your eyes…” Shannara gasped with surprise.

Pim grinned. His entire body felt alive. It burned with purpose, with a new fire. He leaned forward, pressed all of his weight onto one leg, and ran. He unleashed his fleet, shooting past the group in the blink of an eye. The ground couldn’t hold him back. The mud scattered at his power.

Pim struck the water. He felt icy fingers scrape over his feet, but he ran, and he ran on top of the water. Mort A’ghas came up fast; the open doors gaped, and the windows leered at him. Pim felt exhilarated, his entire body surged. Both his face and his feet tingled.

The doorway flashed before him, and he stopped, slamming onto solid ground. Pim gasped as all the air left his body. Trembling, he knew he’d succeeded. He stood on the edge of the island, the doors before him. Everyone on the other side of the water cheered for him. Shannara’s bright smile and glinting eyes moved him. Joy filled his heart, only to be chased away a second later.

He turned to Mort A’ghas and crossed the threshold. The Wivering drew his sword, listening to the strange whispers all around him. Scratching sounds rose from the stone floor.

The interior was shrouded in shadows that moved across the walls and past the narrow windows, windows that seemed like eyes following Pim as he moved about. Stone pillars with serpents carved into them stretched to a pitched roof. A blood-red mosaic spread across the floor, etched with the images of frogs, birds, snakes, and other creatures of the swamplands. Pungent fumes billowed from brass urns, and the corners of the room glowed with candles mounted in tall candelabra.

The walls were fashioned with a variety of wet stones, jagged, protruding in spots, and caked with mud. Mud also laced the floor; Pim’s bare feet dragged through it as the stench of decay filled his nostrils. The air was cold, and it nipped at his flesh like teeth. A shiver shot through him, and movement, again, caught his attention.

A figure crossed to his left: he’d spotted it in his peripheral vision. He turned with his sword in both hands, and watched an undead warrior shuffle to the back of the room to what looked like a massive altar.

The warrior bowed to the altar, and then walked into an ornate circle on the floor. The circle glinted faintly in the shallow candlelight. Pim was just barely able to see some runes inside the circle. The warrior got onto his knees and bowed his head again.

Pim thought he heard weeping, but he wasn’t quite sure. There were many of these circles around the altar, and more undead found their way to them.

Pim felt something else stirring around him. The air changed, growing thick and colder. He felt eyes on him. He turned again, but nothing was there.

A shift; something close, almost touching him. Pim swung around, his sword trembling in his hands. Nothing.

Something cut the air. Something gliding, effortless, weightless. Its eyes on him, again.

“Are you the snake in my garden?”

The voice came from behind him. Pim turned, keeping the blade of his sword in front of him.

He swallowed rancid air. “Garden?”

“You think only flowers and perfumed bright beauties constitute a garden?” The voice was to his right, now, rasping and hollow. “The nightshade, the hemlock, thorny trees, bristle patches, and mushrooms. Fungus, lichen, and serpents. This is my garden.”

“I mean no disrespect. I have come…”

“I know why you have come, Wivering.” The voice rasped to Pim’s left.

Pim turned, his eyes fixed on a window. A cluster of shadows wriggled before it, squirming, taking shape. A crooked form rose out of the shadows, taller and taller, still, gaunt, writhing. A black, tattered cloak, stretching and fluttering like a flock of crows, appeared. Elongated arms the color of ash slid from beneath the cloak; spindly, bony fingers twitched. Pim’s gaze scaled the frightful visage, stopping at a blotched cowl. Inside the cowl, two points of white winked at him, the Lich’s eyes.

“You seek knowledge,” the Lich whispered. “You seek to know what I have seen through the ages. You seek something very powerful.”

The blood drained from Pim’s face. He felt weak in the knees. His legs actually quivered, threatening to give out on him, but he stood strong. “There is much that depends on me being here. I need to ask for your help.”

“The living come to ask for the help of the dead? When have the living ever helped the dead?”

“I… I… do not…”

“You do not,” the Lich cut him off as two snakes slithered from beneath its robes. “Of course you do not. You do not even know where you stand. This is the Church of the Dead. Those lost souls, and those slain by violent means hear the call of Mort A’ghas. They make their pilgrimage to my lands to worship, and beg Thet for ascension. They are confused and angry—they do not know why they still walk. They wish for Thet’s forgiveness, and sometimes he grants it.” He lifted his bony arm and pointed to one of the circles. The undead inside of it shook before a dim red light engulfed it, reducing it to ashes. A small white orb hovered where the undead had been. It floated up and vanished through the ceiling. Pim noticed that the mosaic glowed with red light, as well.

“Sometimes he does not,” the Lich continued. “Those who remain are bound to the swamplands to wander and return to my church day after day, night after night. The circle continues.”

A strange thought crossed Pim’s mind. Something wasn’t right with the undead that came for forgiveness. Pim gathered his strength, forced his resolve, and stared down the Lich Lord. “Please, my lord. I come on behalf of all of Athora.”

“Do you, now? In all of my ages, I have seen much. I have heard more, and I know that which cannot be found.”

“You speak in riddles. I do not have time for this. People are dying.”

“I would welcome them here. All here are dead.”

“Will you help me, or not?” Pim raised his voice and took a step forward.

The Lich’s cloak squirmed. The darkness rolled over it like rushing storm clouds. “I ask again: when have the living helped the dead? Why should I give you your answers?” He asked in a low rasp.

“Because all of Athora will fall, and you with it. There will be no more living, thus, there will be no more dead. The numbers of dead will become finite, and eventually, no more souls will come to you. I know what you are doing. I know Thet has nothing to do with it.”

“Ask your question,” said the Lich with some anger.

“The Grimstone. An army from the mist uses it to lay siege to our world. They have but one piece, and there are two more. Do you know it? Do you know where the other two pieces are?”

“I know of this stone. It is almost as old as I. Indeed, one of the winged people came through Mort A’ghas. His soul knew much… where it came from… who crafted it. But I will give you only that which you seek.”

“Yes.” Pim nodded.

“The winged people took the pieces to the ends of the world. One is found, one was returned from whence it came, and the last is where you heart is, Wivering. It is, at times, in your feet, and was, at times, beneath them.”

“From whence it came? I know that place. The shores of the Baltha Sea in the west. It washed up on the shores. It lies across the sea?”

The Lich nodded its cowl.

“The last piece? Where my heart is? Again, with the riddles. I do not understand. What does this mean?”

“You already know.”

“But I—“

“Enough. Your welcome in this church wears thin.”

Pim noticed that the undead had gathered around him. Desiccated faces leered at him, hollow eyes, gaping wounds, wringing hands. He backed away from them, glancing over to the window. The Lich Lord was gone.

The young Wivering moved to the archway leading back outside, and ran. His feet carried him back over the deep swamp waters, and land rushed toward him.

He grimaced, his eyes burned, his chest heaved. He tried to stop, but tripped over his feet, hitting a tree root. He ended up landing face-first in the mud.

“Pim! Pim!” Tolan ripped him out of the mud. “Are you alright?”

Pim gasped for air. Fatigue wracked his body; his arms and legs felt as if they weighed more than a hundred Wivering. He wiped the mud from his eyes, and smiled up at Tolan. “I know where we must go next.”

###

A wave of fireballs scorched across the sky and crashed into Sooth-Malesh’s magic barrier, crackling before they vanished. The barrier held—for now.

Neshing catapults launched spiked boulder after spiked boulder. Each one crumbled into pieces upon hitting the barrier.

The Neshing screamed as their mages focused their attention on the magic surrounding Cardoon. The legion of monstrous warriors grew outraged, rushing the barrier and squirming against it like trapped rats.

Sooth-Malesh turned from the rampart and headed down the stairs. In the courtyard, Jorrel and the Cardoon cavalry prepared to slip, undetected, through the back of the city.

“Now is the time,” Jorrel said to Sooth-Malesh. “While the majority of their forces concentrate on our city.”

Sooth-Malesh wove his hand over the soldiers. His eyes flashed. “I cast my protection over you. The closer you get to the stone, the weaker my magic will get.”

Jorrel nodded. “We understand, Mage.”

“You understand what you ride into? The stone will be protected. You may never set eyes on it, and you may never return.”

Jorrel turned to the old mage. “We have not heard from Tolan and his group in some time. They may never return either, but they did not turn their backs. They did not halt their steps, and neither do we.”