Ossierel
Straggling in a long, disordered column through a ruined arch in the inner barrier, the company climbed a steep ramp onto cobbled streets. Everywhere their eyes fell on delicate masonry, a tracery of ornate carving and shapes designed to rest the senses and delight the eye. Mullioned windows of stone gazed out from even the humblest building. No street or alley ran in straight lines, but followed curves and spirals to beguile the senses, as if love of nature had married the art of the mason with ornamental trees, now dead or overgrown, decorating every street. On and on, their tired gazes took in the beauty that had been Ossierel, its meandering streams and sculpted bridges, its fountains. There was a poet’s eye in the curve and flow of form, the joy of permanent springtime in the weave of nature and
architecture, the music of running water, cascades and fountains, the soul of a great spiritual capital framed on every twist and turn by the staggering views over the forests and blue distances of the Vale of Tazan.
Even in its ruined state it was breathtaking.
The Shee called a halt while they probed for any signs of an ambush in the dark caverns between broken walls. But they found none, only desolation. Street by street, and ruin by ruin, they searched for safety and shelter until, in roughly the center of the city, they entered a plaza in front of a building large enough and sufficiently preserved to accommodate the injured. Alan was amazed by the deep-carved entrance, flanked by the inwardly sloping jambs and surmounted by a great triangular lintel. Inside, the great chamber was so generous it must have been some kind of meeting place. Outside the entrance, to the west and east, paved roads led to walled gardens and courtyards.
The Shee wasted no time making a careful inspection of the damaged defenses. Alan left them mapping out the breaches; meanwhile he needed to assess the situation with the Olhyiu. Siam joined him, leaving Kehloke to organize the nursing of the exhausted and injured now scattered about the great hall.
“You have succeeded, Mage Lord, where none believed it possible.” Siam’s voice was a ragged whisper. As he walked now by Alan’s side, it was with the stagger of a man making the best of exhausted muscles and blistered feet. They halted next to one of the
small fires that had been lit within the chamber. Alan nodded in sympathy with the chief, whose dark eyes reflected the orange glow of the fire. His own voice was little above a whisper. “Siam, I know how many of your people have died.”
“I fear more will follow.”
The Kyra, arriving to discuss the situation with Siam, interrupted their conversation. “The Death Legion will not attack today. Unlike the Legun, they are ordinary flesh and blood. They will have to endure the same journey through dense forest to get here, hauling malengins of war. Yet we should be wary of smaller groups—sporadic attacks designed to harry our positions while testing our resolve and strength of numbers.”
Siam grunted, his calloused fingers twisting the crumpled hat he had preserved through attack and adversity. “We need rest first and foremost. Then if die we must, let us die bravely in the dignity of these hallowed ruins.”
Alan clapped his hand on the chief’s tensed shoulder before he allowed Ainé to lead him away to speak with him in private. The Kyra had shown little emotion before, but now, looking up into her eyes, he couldn’t mistake the gleam of desperation he saw there.
She spoke bluntly. “Even a day’s rest will not refresh these exhausted limbs and demoralized spirits. And there is little food left.”
“I know.” Alan’s eyes swept over the huddled masses of frightened and demoralized people. “I need to talk to Milish.”
They found the Ambassador, her hair awry, kneeling before a wounded mother. Milish’s sleeves were rolled up, and her hands and forearms were stained with blood. Alan could see that the wounded Olhyiu was on the point of death. Her husband must have carried her all the way up the mountain.
“We have run out of healwell,” Milish whispered.
They drew the Ambassador away from the scene of anguish. Walking out into the plaza, where the fitter of the Olhyiu were settling, they watched the tired hands spreading their impoverished bundles around the fires. Others among the exhausted had fallen into stupors, with ice crystals condensing on their cooling flesh. How many, Alan wondered, would wake up again? Even as he gazed down on them, there was an explosion in the forest. He followed the sound to a pillar of fire, closer to the river, perhaps three or four miles downslope.
Ainé spoke softly. “The Legun taunts us by destroying stone heads.”
Milish tugged at Alan’s arm, drawing him to one side so she could confront him eye-to-eye, as if weighing what he must be thinking. “Do not despair. Consider what has been achieved.”
“I’m not sure it counts for much.” He sighed. “We are facing attack—and we’re never going to be ready for it.”
A squall of wind rattled the needles of some nearby trees. “I think the time has come for you and me to be a little more open with each other.” He hesitated before continuing. “I’ve talked to Qwenqwo. I know about the
Fáil, Milish—the fact that it is believed to hold all the answers.”
“You must stop such discussion!” Fear caused Milish’s pupils to grow, as if devouring her speckled brown irises.
“I can’t stop asking these questions. I need to know. And you’ve got to be honest with me.”
Milish was swaying on her feet with exhaustion. Alan reached out and supported her before she fainted. Yet still she shook her head at him, her exhausted eyes firmly shut.
“Why won’t you answer my questions?”
“I cannot. There are dangers more perilous even than Leguns.”
Abruptly there was another explosion; another head destroyed.
Alan stared sightlessly into the distance. Then, suddenly, from the nearby forest came the clash of battle. It had to involve the Shee guarding the perimeter. He hurried back to join those sheltering in the great hall. Siam was alarmed by what was happening close to the sanctuary. “Arouse yourselves, warriors of the Tilikum Olhyiu!” Siam did his best to sound confident, but he was unable to hide the hoarseness in his voice as he staggered among his people, attempting to inspire them to a final effort. “Let a proud people make a valiant stand!”
Alan hefted the Spear of Lug. From outside, in the plaza, he heard Ainé’s shout of command. The Kyra too was injecting her determined leadership into what could only be a hopeless battle. And then, plaintively,
he heard the brave chant of the Shee. But the chanting of so few voices was drowned by the explosion of legionary weaponry.
Maybe the main army of Death Legion was still struggling with the ascent of the steep slopes, but a considerable advance guard must have arrived at the barrier. The sky nearby grew ominous with the flickering green fire. Alan’s ears pricked in the direction of the nearby conflict. Surely it wouldn’t take long for the small guard of Shee to be overwhelmed. Then he heard the Shee battle hymn begin again, louder, more powerfully—so powerfully . . . Siam tore past him, his blistered feet forgotten, running out into the plaza. Alan blinked repeatedly. No—it was mere wishful thinking that had entered his mind! All the same, through the weariness in his limbs he ran after Siam.
“By the Powers! Mage Lord—see who comes!” It was Siam’s voice, laughing like a crazy man, throwing his hat into the air.
Alan saw the gangling figure of Turkeya making his way through the tide of human bodies on the plaza. Suddenly, Turkeya was running toward his father. Siam’s hair was standing up wildly on his head, and his side-whiskers stood erect like outstretched bird’s wings as father and son embraced.
And then the glinting of silver on the cape brooches was the first Alan saw of the new arrivals. An army of Shee flowed into the plaza in a chanting wave. They expanded out to fill the space, eyes darting about warily
as if searching for evidence of a trap. Their battle song overwhelmed that of Ainé and the small gathering of her companions. From the weary Olhyiu a great cheer broke the air, as bruised arms thrust their weapons aloft.
A wizened newcomer—she could have been Layheas’s twin—pressed a flask of healwell into Alan’s hand as he gazed about himself in amazement. He felt diminished by the stature of so many gigantic women. There appeared to be as many as two hundred of them already within the square, their great capes twisting and turning: an army of new faces, many bruised and bloodied from conflict, with different colors of braided hair, different armor and uniforms, and everywhere the flash of weaponry at the ready.
Alan found himself facing a remarkable woman whose skin was as magnificently black and fine-haired as that of a jaguar. Though she moved with the same stealth and grace as the other Shee, she was not quite as tall and she looked older. Her long hair, braided over her left shoulder, was threaded with white.
“I am Bétaald,” she said, in a clear, deep alto. “And you are Duval! The Mage Lord who bears the Oraculum of the First Power of the most holy and sacred Trídédana. I am honored to meet you!”
Between Bétaald and Ainé he sensed a wordless communication.
Bétaald bowed. “It is the very air of legend I breathe.”
Alan could only gaze into her eyes, the orange yellow of sunflowers, with astonishment. More and more Shee were arriving by the moment. Already they greatly outnumbered the Olhyiu.
Milish rescued him from his confusion, arriving at his side to take his arm. As he struggled to comprehend all that was happening, Bétaald held a hand to the air as if to demand quiet, and Alan realized that the sounds of battle had ceased. An ominous silence pervaded the encircling forest.
“Fortunately we encountered only a scouting party of Death Legion. But they bore new weaponry, which may carry their foul discharge over greater distances—and Gargs in such numbers as have not been seen outside of the Wastelands. I fear that there is a great force of them at large in the forest—tens of thousands—and still more legionaries are arriving from Isscan by the river.”
Alan’s heart sank with this news even as he took a welcome sip of the healwell. His gaze returned to Bétaald, noticing that Ainé treated the dark-skinned newcomer with respect. Bétaald herself carried no weaponry. He assumed that she was their spiritual leader.
Her return of his gaze was frankly assessing. “We must conclude that this is the spearhead of the invasion we have long anticipated, a first step in their strategy to take Carfon.”
“Then,” declared an exhausted Olhyiu elder, “all is surely lost!”
“Not so!” growled the voice of Qwenqwo Cuatzel, who had appeared from the hall, with Kate, Mo, and
Mark in tow. “Not while the Vale of Tazan still holds them back. You might ask yourself why they move with such patience, destroying heads with the energy they might otherwise devote to city walls.”
Bétaald lifted her eyelids at the intrusion of the Mage of Dreams. She gazed at Qwenqwo with interest. “Perhaps you are right, Fir Bolg—it may be that in such a vortex of ancient forces their malengins do not function well.”
Alan joined Kate and the others and headed back to the circles of fires, where supplies of food and drink, and much-needed flasks of healwell, were being distributed among the Olhyiu. While Siam needed no more than the safe return of Turkeya to bolster his spirit, Aides were busy treating the wounded. Like Layheas, these were a curious-looking people, wiry and tough in build, with dry, almost leathery skin. The newly arriving Aides had come decorated for war with broad lines of ochre, red and blue painted on their cheeks. Alan knew from conversations with Milish during the journey that they included metal-smiths, weapon makers and architects among them. In fact, the more he saw of them, the more he understood how essential they were as partners to the Shee.
Kate grabbed his arm and led him away from the bustle of the plaza to stare at the silhouette of the eagle, observing it in the process of alighting on the formidable crag that reared up through the morning mists to the north, dominating the ancient city.
“Do you see the staircase?”
Alan’s gaze picked out the winding steps hacked out of the stone that led to the summit, where, soaring above
the wheeling clouds, he saw the black fist of a pentagonal tower with its ancient roof remarkably intact. From one high corner protruded a single stellate window. The window appeared to be glazed, judging from its twinkling reflection of the mid-morning sunlight.
Beside him Kate shivered. A prickle of fear also invaded Alan as his gaze lifted beyond the lofty tower to the very pinnacle of the crag, immediately above it, where he now realized that Qwenqwo’s eagle had alighted—atop the very statue of the Dark Queen, Nantosueta.
“Such omens does it conjure up within one’s mind!”
Alan and Kate turned to welcome Qwenqwo, who joined them in staring up at the statue on the pinnacle.
For Alan it felt as if many pieces of the mysterious jigsaw were coming together here, in this ancient capital, where the High Architect, Ussha De Danaan, had met her death, and where two thousand years earlier Nantosueta had plotted and warred. In answer to the look in Kate’s eyes, Alan squeezed her hand. He spoke quietly. “Qwenqwo, I know how crazy this might sound. But this place, with all of its terrible history, has put an idea into my head. Is it possible that Ossierel holds memories—memories that could be recovered, like . . . well, like dreams?”
A frown invaded Qwenqwo’s features, still staring skyward.
But Alan persisted, “I think you know what I want you to do for me. I want you, the true Mage of Dreams, to see if you can recover those memories.”
The dwarf mage flinched, his right hand rubbing at his broken arm through the sling.
“I wouldn’t ask it of you if I could see any alternative.”
The dwarf mage looked directly into Alan’s eyes, making no attempt to hide his disquiet. “I have anticipated such a request. Yet so fearful am I of its implications, I beg you to reconsider.”
Alan felt Kate’s hand tighten on his.
A Heart of Iron
“It’s a lot bigger than I thought—it’ll be even harder to defend,” Mark remarked to Kate and Mo as they gazed out from the vantage of a roof terrace over the ruins that extended over several acres of the plateau. They were leaning over a corner that came close to the third barrier and from here they could enjoy a panoramic view of the river as it meandered through the valley. How glorious—and deceptively peaceful—it looked!
Alan was busy in the plaza with a war council of Shee and Olhyiu. Meanwhile Kate and Mo were preparing in their own intuitive ways. The girls had painted the Aides’ lines of ochre, blue and black across their own cheeks, with ribbons of the same color knotted in their hair, which had deteriorated to wiry bushes of fiery red and mahogany in the absence of shampoo
and hair-straighteners. “The way I see it,” Kate had explained to Mark, determinedly, “Alan isn’t the only one who came here for a purpose.”
He could only admire their spirits. They knew, as he did, that even with the thousand or so of Shee that had arrived, they were still grossly outnumbered. The Legun had herded them into a killing zone.
“Ah! There you are!” All three wheeled around to hear the dwarf mage’s voice coming from the spiral staircase that opened out onto the roof level. Qwenqwo emerged onto the windy terrace and strode toward them.
“Why,” he guffawed, in his boisterous way, “I would be making no more than an inspired guess, but I see now that you girls have joined the Aides?”
The very presence of Qwenqwo lifted both the girls’ spirits.
“However, it is young Mark here that I have most specifically come to address! I think that our young friend will understand.”
Mark looked up warily at the dwarf mage, who could hardly miss how bloodshot and puffy his eyes were from lack of sleep.
“My young friend—all I ask is that you remove your coat and shirt.”
Mark stared at Qwenqwo. “Why—what are you up to?”
“On my honor, no harm will befall you.”
Mark sighed. His hands trembled as he removed his fur-lined coat and then his leather jacket and shirt.
Kate and Mo gasped to see the black oval that covered his left shoulder.
“Oh, Mark!” Mo brought her hand to her mouth, seeing the flickering silver matrix within the oval.
“Are you satisfied now?” Mark dropped his head in shame.
“I would prefer to demonstrate rather than explain.” Qwenqwo produced his runestone and passed it to the tormented youth. “Gaze into it and tell me what you see.”
Mark shook his head. “Don’t do this to me! Please, Qwenqwo—you know I can’t do it.”
“Before doubt overwhelms you—observe!” Qwenqwo gazed up into the sky to where, a mere speck in the distance, the eagle once again hovered. He lifted Mark’s hand so the plane of the runestone was perpendicular to that flight and an arm’s breadth above a flagstone in the center of their small circle, where it would be illuminated by sunlight. There on the flagstone all four of them could see the emerald eye projected onto the stone.
“The eye of truth!” Kate exclaimed.
“Indeed, the eye of truth—and you recall what the soul eye tests?”
“The heart of the holder!”
“So now you know—the heart of your friend is true. As well I anticipated, for I have been observing Mark’s struggle with the dark force that sought to take his soul. Your friend has a heart of iron.”
Mark shuddered as Kate and Mo hugged him.
Qwenqwo accepted the runestone back from Mark. “Now tell them what happened on the Temple Ship during the attack of the Storm Wolves.”
Red with embarrassment, Mark told them his story: how he had been seduced by the doll-faced woman, how his lips had been sealed by her wile and treachery. He explained how she had instructed him to push Kate. And how, rather than threaten her, he had tried to protect her in the confusion of the Dragon’s Teeth pass.
The two girls stared at Mark in a shocked silence. Kate, blinking in bewilderment, turned to Qwenqwo. “But what in heaven’s name is a succubus—and why me?”
“One thing at a time!” The dwarf mage nodded. “From Mark’s tale we learn several things. We discover that you, Kate, are important to our enemies—so important that the succubus went to considerable lengths to have you destroyed. We also need to consider that the succubus does not act for herself. She has a mistress, a very terrible one, half in league with and half in violent jealousy of the Tyrant—a great witch, known as Olc, who inhabits the Wastelands beyond the Eastern Ocean.”
“Oh, Lord—I don’t know what to believe!”
“There’s much I don’t yet understand myself,” continued Qwenqwo. “But we know enough to conjecture. The succubus has not completed the will of her mistress. She will try again. And this time Mark must be ready for her. We must ensure that rather than becoming the puppet of her scheming he will become the instrument of her undoing.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Just tell me how.”
The dwarf mage shouted a single word, “Aides!”
They waited as lighter footsteps ascended the stairs and an old but sprightly figure emerged from the shadows of the stairwell holding a glittering weapon in a leather harness. They recognized the Aides, Layheas, who had been introduced to them by Alan. Layheas went down onto one knee and slid the weapon out into the sunlight, revealing a bronze twin-bladed battle-axe. It was smaller and lighter than Qwenqwo’s weapon, but it was unmistakably a Fir Bolg battle-axe.
She laid the blade across her open palms.
Qwenqwo nodded to Mark. “Take your blade. It is cast of bronze from the mines of the Geltigi Mountains, made rune-worthy with crystals of jet and cobalt. It was forged by weapon masters as skilled as any known to the Fir Bolg.”
Mark accepted the weapon with a clumsy bow to the Aides. He stared at the battle-axe in his hands, closely, disbelievingly.
“And now, if you will pass it to me. There is a gift in my power that even Layheas cannot provide.” Qwenqwo accepted the axe from Mark and sat down against the low wall, laying it across his knees and running the runestone along the cutting edges of the blades. His eyes were closed and his face turned skyward as he intoned a mantra. A pattern of runes appeared over the cutting edges, glittering in the sunlight as Qwenqwo returned the weapon to Mark.
“For a warrior his weapon must also be his friend. Perhaps its new master would test it for balance?”
Mark climbed to his feet and, ignoring the fact that his upper body was exposed to the bitter wind, he felt the battle-axe vibrating faintly in his left hand. He swung it through repeated figures of eight, as he had seen Qwenqwo exercise prior to combat. The matrix in his left shoulder pulsated. He could feel the pulsation over and above the vibration from the axe itself—and from the expressions on the girls’ faces, they could see that something was happening too. He gazed down and saw for himself the flickering arabesques of silver that ran down his arm from the pulsating black oval on his left shoulder. He lifted the battle-axe high over his head, feeling his soul spirit become one with its being.
Qwenqwo pressed the runestone against Mark’s left shoulder. “Let warrior and weapon be united in life as in death!”
Too amazed to speak, Mark stared up at the bronze battle-axe, feeling its runes and arabesques pulsating with his heartbeat.
Layheas spoke. “Every weapon calls for its name when newly presented to its warrior—but this is a deeply personal thing, something the warrior alone must share with it.”
Mark thought without hesitation:
I name you Vengeance!
Qwenqwo laid down the runestone and clapped his hand on Mark’s right shoulder. “Now you must test the
union of warrior and blade. Cast your weapon, as if at a distant enemy!”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
The dwarf stood next to Mark, who was several inches taller than him, though Qwenqwo was as broad and gnarled as a truncated tree. “Now cast it as far and high as you can into the air. As it reaches the point where you imagine it has struck your enemy, call it by its secret name—in the intimacy of your own heart and mind.”
Mark grasped the central hilt and twirled the battle-axe a few times to get a sense of balance. Then, bringing it back over his left shoulder, he spun his wrist at the same time as he hurled it with all of his might. Tempted to close his eyes from sheer panic, he waited, with his left hand stiffly extended. The axe emitted a high keening note as it flashed, spinning into the distance . . . But then he saw its whirling form returning, completing a broad arc, before smacking into his hand again, his fingers and thumb closing around it in an instinctive clasp.
Qwenqwo held the runestone against Mark’s heart, and intoned, “Swear in all that is good and just that you will fulfill the role I now entrust to you. I now charge you with the duty of Kate’s protector. You will become not only her shadow but also her shield, if necessary to the death. Do you swear it?”
Mark looked for a moment into Kate’s eyes. With tears dimming his own eyes, he nodded.
“You must say it in words—and mean it.”
“I will protect Kate to the death. I swear it.” Then, allowing the battle-axe to fall to his side, he turned to Qwenqwo and met his eyes. “Thank you!”
The dwarf mage returned his gaze unflinchingly. “You will best thank me by discovering your affinity with the weapon, and its affinity with you.”
Mark nodded, but he saw something else in the eyes of the dwarf mage, a barely concealed pain. “What’s really going on, Qwenqwo? There’s something else—something you want me to do?”
Qwenqwo lowered his head and softened his voice, so that he spoke slowly, in a bitter whisper. “Not you alone—both of you, Mark and Kate—your destinies must now be revealed to you. Though it pains me deeply to instruct you so, I speak of the Rath of the Dark Queen.”
Kate looked from Mark to Qwenqwo. “Are you asking us—telling us—we’re to climb up there . . . to the tower?”
There was no mistaking the look of anguish that invaded the dwarf mage’s face as he instructed them with a sigh, “Look for the shade of one whose fate it is to linger there. Long ago she faced a situation as grim as that which we face today. Discover what lesson, if any, is to be learned from it.”