The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (37 page)

Thorne sat up suddenly. “The rain. It’s stopped.” He sounded both surprised and fearful.

Vaun nodded. “Good. Now we can travel faster.”

The dwarf eyed the youth seriously. “That’s no the point, Swordsman. The rain is no supposed to stop for another three or four weeks.”

“What?” Vaun was shocked, realizing now what the change in the weather might mean.

“You’re a Swordsman?” Lymon asked Vaun. The youth nodded. “That’s why I couldn’t read you. The prophecy must be true after all. Maybe there’s still hope.”

Vaun opened his mouth to ask what he meant and to protest this latest attempt to
read
him but was stopped by his companions rushing to open the door. He looked back at Lymon as they reached the door, but the old wizard stared fixedly at a spot in front of him, lost in thought. Turning, Vaun halted as if frozen by a cold blast of air from the open door.

It had indeed stopped raining, and the clouds had even begun to break up. The village folk had also left their homes and stared wonderingly at the sky, trying to figure out who’d taken the rain away.

“Could Elak’s magic be doing this?” Vaun anticipated the answer.

Merdel nodded briskly. “It could only be that. Nothing else could cause this great a change in the weather. The earthquake was one thing, but this is much worse. Tholar tells of something like this happening when he was using the stones. Ice and wind, Elak must be farther along than I thought. We must hurry now before it’s too late.”

“Merdel!” Lymon called from the interior of the house. He had only just come out of his thoughts, and he waited nervously for the party to return to their conversation. “Merdel! You must heed me. I have something else to tell you. Something even more important than the stones and the wand.”

When the six had reentered the house and sat down, the old wizard continued. “Elak—fire curse him—has done something that’s perhaps even worse than using the stones. The aid he has summoned is quite possibly a bigger force to be feared. He’s…”

Those were the last words of Lymon the sorcerer. He gagged suddenly as if choked. His eyes widened in horror as he clutched his throat, trying desperately to breathe.

Merdel and his companions froze in confusion, not knowing what to do.

Lymon convulsed as he tried to get air into his starving lungs. After a few more terrible seconds of gasping and coughing, his head shot back violently and his arms dropped limply to his sides. His choking had stopped.

Merdel leaned hesitantly forward, Lymon’s collapse having served to release him from his paralysis. He touched the old wizard’s chest tentatively and called his name. Lymon didn’t move. Merdel turned in wonderment to his companions, but they were just as lost as he.

Suddenly, all of the lanterns in the room went out, and the fire blazed high. Thorne leapt from his position on the hearth, swearing loudly, and the others backed away from its heat. Lymon’s head lifted and straightened, and he looked around at them. His eyes glowed red.

“So,”
a voice said from the wizard’s mouth, dripping malice. Lymon’s rolling accent was gone, and the voice was deeper.
“You are the fools who dare oppose me.”
The wizard’s features, formerly benevolent, contorted into a menacing sneer. He looked at each of the party members and laughed contemptuously, a sound soaked with evil. The room seemed suddenly colder.

“You cannot stop me.”
The voice deepened with threat.
“Your lives are pitiful to me. Your power insignificant. Nothing you can do will stop me. Cease your steps now, or your deaths will be horrible beyond all things. Your quest is useless. Your lives mean nothing.”

The voice sounded now like many voices speaking at once, each one more malevolent than the others.

*
*
*

Then Lymon’s head turned, and those red eyes glared at Vaun.
“And you! You are nothing.”
The voices sounded like those that taunted him during his many bouts of self-loathing.
“Your world will perish, just as surely as this one. Give up your quest. You cannot hinder me. Your will is like water, and it has washed away what little confidence you have. Crawl into your hole of self-pity and forget this foolish adventure. You cannot stop that which is inevitable. No amount of skill is enough, no matter what any prophecy says. You are useless,
Swordsman
.”

The voice, or voices, spat the words contemptuously, making Vaun’s title, one he had only begun to find comfortable when used by his friends, vile and insignificant. He flinched at the words, feeling suddenly that they were true. All his talks with Drath seemed as nothing in the face of the evil confronting him.

*
*
*

At the same time Vaun heard those words, a different set of voices spoke to Thorne. They were deep, resonant voices that echoed hollowly, sounding like they came from inside a cave.
“All your strength will not serve to defeat my power. Your knowledge is worthless to you. All your efforts will not save you or your friends. Stop now, or you shall never see your beloved mountains again. Run away,
dwarf
, and cower in the fear that taints your soul.”

The way it named him, Thorne was almost ashamed to be called a dwarf. He was insulted beyond measure but couldn’t muster the courage to strike out at his abuser. It was as if what the voices said was true.

*
*
*

To Rush and Dart, those red eyes glared and those voices spoke only to them. They were high-pitched and childish, demonstrating by their tone what they thought of the cousins.
“What have we here? Two thieves looking for something to steal? Your abilities will not work against me. I can see you whenever I choose. I can hear your thoughts from a thousand leagues. I can taste the terror in your hearts. I am that which you fear most. Failure incarnate. Find yourselves a place to hide,
elves
, or I shall surely catch you. Your Great God cannot save you.”

Both Rush and Dart shook with fright and the desire to sprint away, but they were rooted to the floor. Dart vaguely sensed wetness on his legs but was too terrified to be ashamed by it. Never had either of them regretted being what they were until now.

*
*
*

To Merdel, the eyes searched him, measuring his power, before the voices spoke.
“What possible threat could your power be to one such as I?”
The voices had a mocking accent, a sickening parody of Merdel’s speech. They turned the word
power
into a curse rather than a gift.
“Old age eats at your bones and makes you weak. You can do nothing to prevent what will happen. You can do nothing to halt my coming. You can do nothing to save your world from my absolute victory. Your Great God is as impotent as you are. You…can…do…nothing,
wizard
.”

Merdel’s title dribbled off the tongues of the voices, making the mage feel insignificant and powerless. Even though he knew that was just what he was supposed to feel, he couldn’t convince himself otherwise. It seemed to make sense, to fit what he most feared about himself.

*
*
*

Drath merely stood and listened to what the voices told him and couldn’t help but believe them.
“So, princeling, you dare challenge me!”
In horror, Drath realized every voice he heard sounded like his father’s.
“You cannot begin to imagine the battles I have fought. You cannot conceive of the victories I have won. And you think you can defeat me. You think ordinary steel can harm me! You dare abandon your home in the hope to save your world. What kind of leader are you? You can only save your pitiful band if you flee. If you want to be their leader, you should quit this foolish quest, for it will only gain you sorrow and death. I know you, and I know the terror that coats your heart. I know what it is you fear, and you will face it if you come against me. Run,
Prince Drath
, while you still have the wretched life you value so much.”

Drath suddenly hated his father, and hated himself even more for feeling it. He knew those voices did not belong to his beloved father but could not control the feelings the words evoked.

*
*
*

Lymon, or whatever had taken control of him, began to laugh. It was the same laugh as before, only it echoed around the room in a chorus of malevolent voices. It rang loud against the walls of the old house, making them rattle and quake, as if the house itself feared what was inside. The companions backed away, trying to escape the fear rising in each of them. They all knew the voices had only wanted to frighten them into forgetting their quest, and though they ordinarily would have welcomed the challenge, the malice and power in those voices put the desire to flee deep into their hearts.

The old wizard’s body flew backward out of its chair, toppling it, and he crashed into the wall behind him. The laughing had stopped, replaced by dead silence. The fire in the hearth blazed high once again, then died completely without even a trace of smoke. The world itself seemed to hold its breath, and each person in the room could feel the presence behind the voices leave. Even then, they still dared not breathe.

Hesitantly, driven by a need to know, Merdel approached the body of his old friend. The others followed a couple of steps but were too afraid to move closer. Merdel knelt down before Lymon, muttering prayers that had no meaning for him now, and the old wizard raised his head. His eyes were clear now, though they didn’t sparkle as they used to. His mouth moved as he tried to speak.

No words came, only a thin trickle of blood escaping from between his lips. Desperately, he thrust a crumpled parchment into Merdel’s hands, still trying to speak but unable to make even the smallest of sounds. His head dropped onto his chest, and after a moment Merdel reached out to place two fingers on the old man’s neck. He jerked his hand away as if burned, and realized as he at last felt the magic at work what was happening.

“Go!” He rose quickly, shoving the others to the door. His companions obeyed wordlessly, still stunned by what they’d heard. They paused only long enough to snatch up their cloaks as they scrambled for a way to exit the place where they’d felt so much terror.

Once outside, they turned toward the house in time to see fire erupt inside. The flames seemed to spurt out of Lymon’s body, and quickly spread to the books and scrolls lying around him. With such excellent fuel, the house soon became an inferno. The companions backed away from the heat and flames and watched helplessly as Lymon and all his knowledge burned to ash.

“Stone and burning ice! What was that?”

Merdel shrugged. “I don’t know. Something very evil and very powerful.”

“Was it Elak?” Vaun looked terrified, as they all did. Even Rush and Dart were too scared to comment or wager on what would happen next.

“No.” The wizard was trying to take the fear out of his voice, but it wouldn’t leave. “That at least I do know. It was something else. Something far worse.”

Drath swallowed a lump in his throat. “Could it have been that thing Lymon was trying to tell us? That aid Elak has summoned?”

Merdel never took his eyes off the blaze. “Most likely. I didn’t recognize the magic it used, so I have no idea what it could be. Lymon obviously did, and he was afraid it would track him. That was why he was so nervous. I’ve never seen him as agitated as he was tonight. Whatever he had found also found him.” The flames illuminated the wizard’s dark eyes as he at last faced them. “Now we’ll never know what Lymon was trying to tell us.”

Village folk gathered around, inquiring as to the cause of the fire. As flames completely engulfed the house, its timbers started to weaken, and the structure gradually crumbled inward on itself. Fortunately, it stood far enough away from any other house that there was no danger of the fire spreading, but then again the buildings were all so wet they probably wouldn’t have burned. That, however, did not keep Lymon’s home from dying in a conflagration of greedy flames, flames that seemed unnatural as they ate not only the house and the old wizard, but the secrets he’d held as well.

Suddenly, Vaun’s side began to itch terribly, and Song-induced instinct drove him to draw his sword and whirl to block the thick-bladed scimitar sweeping for his head.

The impact jarred all the way to Vaun’s shoulder. He knew from that instant of contact that the man wielding the scimitar weighed twice as much as he did and had the strength to match. He could also tell he was quite nimble for his size.

*
*
*

The attacker was surprised he’d been discovered before he could strike the youth down, for he and his companions had waited until the wizard had turned back to watching the house burn before making their move. It was almost as if the fire-cursed Ramener had known he was coming. They’d all heard he was good, but Cortel hadn’t realized just how good.

Now the burly man found himself being overwhelmed by a whirlwind of black and white steel. He’d never seen anyone so fast, and it was all he could do to keep from being slashed open within the first few seconds.

*
*
*

The blade of his attacker’s sword was rusty toward the hilt, and the edge needed sharpening badly. There were several nicks in it that were years old, and polish hadn’t touched the sword since before some of those nicks were made. Vaun was disgusted as always when he encountered someone who mistreated his weapon so badly, and his fear turned slowly into fury. The Song pushed him on, and the Rhythm fueled his ire.

*
*
*

Cortel couldn’t believe this young man deflected his best strikes with what seemed so little effort. Just when he thought he had him, the scrawny youth would dance aside and that Vaulka would slap his blade so hard he nearly lost his grip. If he hadn’t been fighting him, he knew he’d be standing back and watching in awe. Most men stumbled or charged into battle. This one floated.