Spellbinder, p.42
Spellbinder, page 42
part #2 of The Jester King Series
“Very well.”
“I will gladly send someone in your place. Actually, I’d rather you stay here to help me plan.”
“Leif will not deal with just anyone. Besides, I’m the only one who knows the location of their secret camp.”
“Then go and prepare everything. Collect the gold you will need from the vault and meet me here in the great hall.” With that, Ergyfel sealed his orders for Feolaghe, using his signet ring, and stood up.
Hengest also got to his feet. “I only need to gather a few items, brother. If you wait but a short while, I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time, brother. Have something to eat. I must leave Orgulous for a few hours, but will send you to Leif upon my return.”
“Do you need me to accompany you?”
Ergyfel picked up the tattered scroll and paused. “No. It would be best if I go alone. I’ll take a troghoul for protection.” He turned to Hengest. “There is one small task you can do for me before you leave.”
“What is it, brother?”
“Our new friend Snegaddrick has implicated me for what was probably his involvement in Prince Gaelyn’s murder. See to it that Hereweald knows exactly where the old fox has run.”
“My man shall leave at once. But, brother, where are you going at this late hour?”
“To treat with a very old ally, who may even our chances against Hereweald.”
***
Guthfana Tor, a desolate rocky butte, rose from the plane of Gadrian with its back against the Hag’s Teeth—a vertical stone ridge that petered out to the north, but to the south, joined the Draig Mountains that protected Nyraval on three sides. Ergyfel remembered Caenne’s funeral as he left the road to Tawel Nef and headed up the steep track to the summit.
The last time I summoned a spirit to my cause, things did not work out so well. Could this be a mistake?
He looked up from his saddlebow and saw Caenne standing beside his path.
“Hello, lover.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Mind if I tag along?”
Ergyfel ground his teeth. At that moment, Reiver, the troghoul loping just ahead of his horse, passed through her image, and she dissipated like steam. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Despite two more appearances by Caenne, Ergyfel remained calm to the top of the butte.
The top of Guthfana Tor was as stark and flat as Loch Nyraval, which Ergyfel observed glittering under the moon in the distance. An ancient watchtower slept in ruin next to a large firepit at the center of the mountaintop. The lonely site’s long abandonment was journaled on wood and stone alike by remarkable colonies of lichens.
As the king approached, he could see that the blackened stones circling the firepit were stolen from the old tower. In their center, a tangled pile of half-petrified sticks and logs still waited to signal warriors who had long been in the ground.
Ergyfel called Reiver to his side. The loathsome creature ambled over to its master, sniffing at the ground and air.
“Anything?” Ergyfel eyed the cavernous shadows of the ruined tower.
The creature shook its head and Ergyfel dismounted. He then pulled out the leather scroll and presented it to Reiver. After a quick sniff, the beast circled round the firepit and entered the ruin while Ergyfel stayed his ground. Shortly, the creature emerged from the shadows and made its way around the broken structure. When this short patrol was finished, Reiver came back to the firepit, squatted, and shrugged.
Ergyfel tied his horse to a low-lying shrub and stepped to the rim of the pit. I suppose we could use a fire.
He picked up a pinch of dead grass, clapped his hands, and rubbed them together while creating a tiny cave with the grass in the middle. As he stepped closer to the firepit, he whispered into the gap between his hands and blew. A faint light appeared between his palms and he blew some more, coaxing the tiny spark into a flame. Then, in a quick movement, he threw his palms towards the dormant pyre and shouted, “Ignis viva!” A fountain of embers shot forth from his hands, igniting the twigs and logs.
The pain and energy drawn by this simple task—this simplest of spells—was far more than Ergyfel had counted on. He dropped to his knees before the growing blaze, gripping his arm and baring his teeth.
“How could that take so much?”
Eventually, the pain subsided, and Ergyfel pulled out the old scroll and horn. While he examined it under the firelight, he noticed that an anonymous author had cut three mundane runes into the surface of the bone horn—three runes from the old ways. When he tipped it into the light, he could see them plainly. The first and last were both simple, but the middle symbol was a dark, byzantine sign.
Ergyfel translated them. “Our ... calamitous—no—dire ally.”
An ominous prophecy, but for whom? “Surely it’s for our enemies.” Of which I have many!
The thought of all his enemies encamped together against him tightened Ergyfel’s gut. He put the horn to his lips and blew. The sound that issued forth was a shrill, warbling, mournful call. As his wind and the sound tapered off, it echoed in his head and stirred up an achy feeling of vulnerability and helplessness at his core. Desperate to end the feeling, he blew the horn again. While the sound of the horn was strong, he was calm. As the sound died, the aching returned stronger than before and his desperation climbed, trying to tear free of his flesh. He inhaled and blew the horn with all his might as if to exhale the alarming emotions trapped in the bottom of his lungs.
The mountaintop was still.
Ergyfel collapsed next to the fire and rested. An hour went by, and still nothing stirred. Then another. Even Reiver, who had remained vigilant through the first hour, had curled up across from his master for a nap. The fire had consumed nearly all the wood and become a bed of glowing coals and darting salamander flames.
Ergyfel sat up and dusted off in preparation to leave. Without warning, a shadow leapt from the darkness of the ruined tower and descended on the troghoul. Ergyfel scooted back as his horse reared up with a whinny and then bolted for home. Reiver squealed in pain as the monster crushed his bones and sank its teeth into the flesh of his neck. A second later, a sickening snap sounded, and Reiver lay dead. Ergyfel froze.
The king watched in shock and horror as the thing hunkered protectively over the troghoul and devoured it. A tattered scarlet shroud hid the greater part of the fiend’s body while a black bearskin cape crested high over its shoulders and tapered to a well-worn point that dragged on the ground behind it. Its bony hands and feet, the only members visible, appeared human, though the flesh was dark grey and the long, filthy nails on each digit were thick and curved like talons. These gory appendages cracked bone, shredded flesh, and plunged into the troghoul’s carcass to pull out bits of organs and shove them into what, presumably, was its mouth, hidden in the shadowy recesses behind the pale horned skull of a dragon, which it wore like a masked helmet.
All at once, the nightmare stood, holding up the troghoul’s heart to the sky. It stared at the moon as it ate the heart, oblivious of the man trembling a few feet away.
The demon’s form was like a man with gnarled joints. The same sickly grey flesh covered all its extremities while bronze scale mail adorned the chest. A broad, black girdle drew in its red shroud at the waist with an old, worn gladius affixed to one side and a variety of artifacts dangling from the girdle on cords.
It snapped its head around to look down at Ergyfel, then crouched and picked up a large club that laid on the ground next to Reiver. The club was a bundle of long bones lashed together into a cudgel, with the blackened skull of an infant on top. Once the club was in hand, the demon strode towards the king. Ergyfel scrambled back until he pressed against a rock.
The monster came upon him. The air surrounding it was oppressive, like the stench of a tomb. The demon grabbed the king up by his tunic and raised the club high above its head. The stench threatened to overwhelm Ergyfel’s senses. He remembered the old leather scroll in his hand and thrust it at his assailant. The demon halted. The black pits that served as eyes seemed to examine the scroll. It dropped its weapon and held up its bloody palm to the parchment. It sniffed the scroll and ran its claws over the surface. Ergyfel felt a tingle of magic from the scroll. The pungent smell of death and decay still filled his nose.
The scroll drained power from Ergyfel’s body. Pain shot through his arm, and he wanted to drop the scroll, but the demon locked its bony grip around his wrist and hand and forced him to hold on.
As the pain grew, Ergyfel heard a strange, indistinct whispering, and felt the demon trying to force its way into his mind. Like Dheumon, it wanted to sink its darkest hooks into him, using pain as a conduit. But this creature, as powerful as it was physically, was no Dheumon.
Ergyfel pushed back, and as their thoughts collided and twisted together, the king saw images of warriors lying dead on a beach. They wore furs and carried flint weapons. The image shifted, and he saw an army with bronze weapons and armor lying dead in a meadow. The images continued to shift, each time showing another battlefield and another army dead, and each time, he saw the ecstatic demon running into the field to feast on their bones. The images acted like footholds, allowing the demon deeper and deeper into his mind. At last, despite the distraction of the whispering and gory images, Ergyfel found what he was after.
“Deimog, Deimog-ghul!”
At once, the demon retreated backward, bowing its head. It was then that Ergyfel recognized the artifacts hanging from its belt; items that before had been meaningless trinkets. Among them was a bronze spear tip from an ancient Albion tribe, pieces of Viking hack-silver, an iron dagger bearing an Irish slogan, and a golden eagle that had topped the standard of a Roman legion.
The demon turned away and went back to its grisly feast. Ergyfel got to his knees. The pain from the arcane wound throbbed all the way up to his shoulder. He could still hear the demon whispering in his head, and saw something alien—a tiny worm with teeth, wriggling as if in his body—and he knew that, like Dheumon, this foul spirit had left something of itself behind. He pondered if the ghoul had also taken some part of him.
Without looking up, the fiend spoke in a raspy, wind-like voice, “Your sacrifice is acceptable.” It hissed between swallows. “The pact will be honored.”
“Then why all the ...”
“Games?” The demon seemed to grin.
“Yes. You could have honored the pact without that! Deimog-ghul. I demand you tell me why.”
The demon shifted its position, as if uncomfortable, and sniffed. “You still smell of the one replete with wisdom that came before me.”
“So.”
Deimog cocked its head and looked at Ergyfel with its empty eye pits. The whisper in the king’s head made a disparaging sound, and he felt like a scolded child.
“Where there is room for one, there is room for many,” the demon said.
Ergyfel caught another glimpse of the demon’s presence within him as it slithered through his mind. He gritted his teeth and attempted to bear down on it and expel it, but it was too fast, too slippery.
“So. Now that we know one another, what is thy bidding, King of Lyonesse?”
“My enemy—”
“I know your enemy.” The demon raised its face towards the sky and inhaled. “I smell them even now.”
“Yes, they are growing near.”
“But I am curious, great king, … why does your enemy smell so much like you?”
Ergyfel looked aside. “There is one among them who shares in the royal bloodline.”
“I see. And you would have me show this one special care.”
“Above all others, he must die! I know how fond you are of trophies, so you will understand I want the ring he bears. You will bring it back to me.”
“I am no house servant, to come and go by your leave. One of your predecessors made that mistake. And though I was still bound under the pact, he paid dearly. I give you this warning: I have appetites that will be fed.”
In Ergyfel’s mind, he saw Orgulous: strewn with bodies, not a soul left alive, a giant reeking tomb, a feasting hall for Deimog. Even his beloved Maeven sat dead upon her throne.
Ergyfel shook the vision from his head and took a moment to calm his heart. “Then you shall send the ring back with Sir Feolaghe, the commander of my army.”
“As you say, but surely there is more.”
“Indeed. Feolaghe has orders in hand to wait for you on the field of battle, at a place called Rowmeadow, beyond the high pass. The very sight of you will likely send the enemy running home, especially if you first thin their ranks. However, should there be an opportunity to treat with them, allow Feolaghe to negotiate, with one exception: our first demand is that the prince of my bloodline be handed over. In return, their lives shall be spared. If they refuse, kill the prince. Do this much, send me his ring, and I shall consider your part of the bargain complete.”
“What of the others?” The demon stretched out its hand.
“Kill them all, save the Prince of Gwythia. He shall fetch a considerable ransom. Send him back alive with my other trophy.”
“As you say.”
“The battle will be in—”
“Worry not, dark king. I never miss a feast. I shall know when it is time. Until then, I shall gather my power.”
Deimog bowed his head. “All as you say.” He then shrugged, making the fur of his bearskin stand on end. Black feathers protruded through the fur. A strange breeze picked up from behind him, causing his thin shroud to flutter. The breeze grew to a strong gust. A clap resounded, and Deimog transformed into a jumbled, cawing murder of crows that flew past Ergyfel and disappeared into the night.
Ergyfel looked across the cold, dead fire and saw that scattered bones were all that remained of Reiver. He fell back to the ground, exhausted. The energy of dealing with the demon had been more than he’d expected.
***
“My king, my king!” Maeven dropped from her horse and ran to her husband’s side. Tears streamed from her eyes as she examined his body. “My love! My Love!”
Ergyfel lay unmoving on the stony ground.
Now kneeling beside her love, Queen Maeven put her ear to his chest. A moment later, royal guardsmen surrounded the queen and king. Each man eyed the other and the eerie surroundings, with their hands on their weapons.
At last, the queen sat up. “Thank the gods, he still lives!”
At that moment, she noticed the sleeve of Ergyfel’s left arm was soaked in blood and a yellowish fluid. “Bring a light.”
One of the six royal guards grabbed a lamp from his mount and brought it to her. He placed it on the stones, and then turned to the others. “Fan out. Set a perimeter. Protect the king and queen.”
While the guards did as ordered, Maeven tore open the king’s sleeve. She gasped and bit the back of her hand when she saw that the strange wound, once only affecting his hand, now enveloped his entire arm. Tears ran down her trembling cheeks as she reached down to touch the flesh, which now had the bizarre appearance of charred wood. At first, it felt quite firm to her, but then she went to touch another spot farther up the arm and the entire outer shell crumbled like ash to the ground.
The queen stared in shock and horror at the arm beneath. She opened her mouth to scream, and then fainted over her husband’s body.
***
The king awoke, and seeing his wife asleep on his belly, reached up to brush away a lock of hair from her face. But it was a dark, ugly hand with long, black claws that reached towards her face. He stopped and stared at the hideous troghoul hand frozen before him. Of course, he had seen troghoul hands before, dozens of them. He tried to seize it, but it moved as he moved, and he saw that the monstrous hand was his own. He reached up toward the sky and saw that his entire arm had transformed.
Ergyfel shot up to his elbow and examined his other hand, then the rest of his body. He fell back to the ground, reached up with his trembling right hand, and touched his face. He let out a sigh when it felt normal, and then he let his hand into his tunic and felt the smooth skin of his chest. He kept moving left until he came to the wound that circled his shoulder. Beyond the wound’s boundary, coarse, hairy, leathery hide supplanted the smooth skin.
Ergyfel sat up fully, raised his new beastly fist, and shouted at the sky, “A curse on you, faeries!”
“Your Majesty!”
The king looked to his right to see the leader of the royal guard coming towards him. Quickly, he hid his left arm and scanned the area to see the other men standing guard in a large circle around them.
“Stay back! Return to your posts.”
The first guard came to a stop. “Your Majesty?”
“Stay back. The queen has fainted.”
“Then, perhaps, I should—”
“No. I shall attend her.”
“Are you not injured, Your Majesty?”
“No, I’m—I fell from my mount, but I am well. Toss me ...” He scanned the area and saw that they had recovered his horse. “Toss me that large sack and the wineskin from the back of my mount, then return to the line.”
The guard followed his orders. Ergyfel put his left arm inside the sack and tied the drawstrings up to sling around his neck. He took a sip of wine, and then placed the wineskin to Maeven’s lips. He allowed just a few drops to fall into her mouth.
“Wake up, beloved.”
He patted her face. When this had no result, he bent over and kissed her on the forehead, then the nose, and then the lips. At last, she responded, and he sat up.
Maeven’s eyes fluttered open and she looked up at her king. “I had the most horrible dream.”
“I know, my love, but it’s over.”
She sat up, and Ergyfel shifted to hide his left arm from her in the shadows of his robes. He then sat behind her and supported her back.
“It seemed so real.” She smiled, then giggled. “I’m such a silly girl.”
“So, tell me, my silly girl: Why is it you have come all the way up here to find me?”
She spun around onto her knees and faced her husband, then grabbed him by the shoulders and stared into his face. “I thought someone might have killed you.”
