Into the Raging Mountains Read online

  Those brief encounters were some of the most powerful of his young life. He always knew he would find answers to his most stubborn questions. Looking at the careworn face, Ilion respected and revered that man. In its creases and worry lines, Ilion always saw concern, comfort, and hope, even though no words were ever offered. A nod or a lifted eyebrow, a turning of the gaze, the priest's opinions could be clearly read without verbal cues.

  Why can't I be like that? To make others feel included with so little effort was the mark of a master of a different kind.

  His meandering thoughts returned to the crisis at hand. He fervently hoped Alizarin was more capable of expressing empathy, sympathy, and comfort than he knew he was.

  Ilion's stomach percolated merrily, working on the stone-ground wheat crackers and the warmth of the parsimint tea. Although he felt safe and at ease for the moment, he knew the time was only fleeting. After all, there was still the mighty, fearsome creature found in the employ of Rethendrel, lurking somewhere in the shadows. It had not been able to see him as he had trailed behind the cart and merchant on the journey to this cursed place. Perhaps I can simply take Alizarin's hand and we could walk out of here, cloaked in that power?

  It was apparent that the time for him to reveal himself was quickly coming. Although he was content to wait gathered in outside the farm, his ears brought him the distant, distinct sound of a cart approaching. And there was only one cart that had that particular series of squeaks and grumbles. Making an instinctive decision, Ilion stepped into the darkened shadows of the farmhouse's kitchen just as the soft gray muzzle of a tired donkey and the cart trudged into view. He walked into the shadows.

  Heading softly down the main hallway, taking care not to startle the remaining occupants unnecessarily, Ilion's ears were open to the slightest sounds. He listened intently behind him for the unwelcomed return of Rethendrel to the common house and searched the silence ahead for Alizarin's voice, cajoling and comforting her shocked friend.

  Let the Gods guide me. Hopefully, there would be a few moments to talk to her before her “friend” made his appearance. Thinking of the best and briefest explanations of all that had transpired since their parting at the traveler's rest point, his concentration was intense. Looking into each room he passed, not wanting to inadvertently miss her and this opportunity to escape with her from a distinctly hazardous situation, Ilion searched onward.

  Every corner of his eyesight filled with an odd sense of lurking darkness, waiting to pounce. Though not a particularly brave man, neither was Ilion one to shy away from a fight, even against a superior adversary such as these formidable monsters appeared to be. Softly placing his feet, he walked on.

  Carefully, not wanting to be surprised, he took light and silent steps. Have to keep every advantage I can. A sprawling house built to accommodate the flow of seasonal hands as well as extended family, the farmhouse opened up to more and more rooms as he sought for Alizarin's voice. Finally, he reached a dead end. There was no more hallway, and there were no more rooms beyond. He had heard nothing from either the women or the baby, which was odd. They could not have vanished.

  Backtracking several rooms, Ilion paused, listening intently, focused on any revealing sound. He gathered in and opened his mind to all options, holding the staff and concentrating. Almost out of hearing, there was a low droning sound, a word repeating, a pitch of bass, like the deep rumble of a purring housecat. Odd, he would have expected to hear Alizarin talking soothingly to her friend. Perhaps she is rocking the baby? Cautiously, he moved toward the sound, eyes bright, wide open in the semi-darkness of the interior light.

  Following the low buzzing through a side door and down two steps, he reached a longer hallway. Relatively certain no one could see him if he did not wish it, Ilion did not think to stop and proceed slowly, investigating the situation. Surely, right ahead I will find Alizarin and the other girl?

  At first, Ilion's eyes tried to attribute the murkiness at the end of the hallway to a trick of light, though the waning sun's beams seemed far from this portion of the farmhouse As he walked assuredly down the hallway, the mass of gloomy darkness obscuring the end of the path coalesced. He could then discern that a large lump lay on the ground, an obsidian rock that obstructed the pathway beyond. It seemed the buzzing was coming from the rock. No. No!

  Not a rock. A person was encased in a jet-black, slick, and shiny substance. Not even a lock of hair escaped. Even as he watched, a thread of black drifted from beyond the broken doorway, emerged from the hidden room and wrapped itself with its brothers around the pitch cocoon. What new monstrosity was this?

  He approached in horror. Ilion's concern for Alizarin was the only motivation to move forward when all his senses and reason screamed to flee. Layer upon layer of living darkness spilled into the hallway through the battered opening and mercilessly continued to encapsulate their prey in a living death.

  Not one room's distance from the oozing doorway, Ilion finally saw its victim clearly. He looked at the pile of glassy blackness and for just that one slim moment, her face reflected back at him. Alizarin! Running with outrage, barreling down into the grip of unceasing darkness, Ilion practically flew the five steps to her unconscious body.

  Lifting his staff, Ilion brandished his weapon with the grace and knowledge of his training. He drove the head with determination and fierceness in a mighty arc, sweeping down. Without knowing exactly why, at the last moment before contact, Ilion turned his eyes away from the point of impact.

  Shattered shards of obsidian flew through the air, ricocheting off of the doorjamb, the eaves, and the opposite wall. They stayed, protruding where they landed, sharp and dangerous: a battlefield of broken glass. The force of the impact had smashed their collective grip on Alizarin's body, but even as he watched, the disbursed bits of hard, glassy blackness began to ooze, soften and fall to the floor. Worried more about his friend, he ignored them for a moment.

  Searching her sleeping face for signs of injury, he saw nothing. Alizarin did not breathe or show any sign of life. It is as if her spirit is suspended! Gathering her in his arms, he wept.

  My brave baker! As he held her to him, her cloaked face was revealed, her brown hair falling across his shoulder and back. She did not move of her own accord.

  The foulness that had attacked her was regrouping. Though initially dispelled by the sheer impact of his staff, the vines began to creep back towards them. From both the open doorway and the scattered directions, the tendrils searched for their prey.

  With no time left to fight for Alizarin's life and no understanding of the darkness that sought her, Ilion decided the best course was to run. His earlier idea was the best one; take Alizarin and run from this hole of blackness and despair. He didn't know what was wrong with her but was determined to escape first and examine later.

  Kneeling beside her, he scooped her comatose body upwards in his arms, lifting her away from the shards of living death that had crept within a handsbreadth of her collapse. As he pulled her upright, sheltering her in his arms, Ilion got his first glimpse inside the broken door.

  He saw the back of a living woman, cloaked in a cape of pitch-black leeches, moving tendrils of death. Her arms were outstretched toward the top of a dresser. Some kind of altar seemed to be assembled there. In the center, one substantial blood candle was lit with a flame.

  From that burning flame of pitch swirled new phantoms of those blasted tendrils, solidifying as they traveled from their source. Was this Alizarin's friend? Clearly, she is a woman of many unknown, untapped talents. Whatever power she had presently summoned to the farmhouse was no simple thing for Ilion to subdue or fight.

  With that quick glance into the interior room, Ilion's survival instinct was clear. We must leave! And he had better do it soon. Standing there, holding his friend in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, Ilion felt his world shrink down to that hallway and the terrible magic being summoned. Not good, he thought dourly. Not good at all.

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sp; No sign of an attack was forthcoming. From the moment he had raised her body from the ground, the hunting blackness had lost its tracking scent or whatever it used to find her. Instead of moving towards Ilion and Alizarin, the vines seemed to spin in place, almost dormant. Thanking the powers that be for their mercy and the cloaking abilities of the Staff of Thenta for its shelter, Ilion wasted no time.

  Without a backward glance, he walked away from the room of despair and darkness, heading back down the hallway, eager to be clear of the clutches of vaporous doom. Turning the corner, Ilion breathed a sigh of relief and felt the terror pounding in his heart lessen a little. Nothing followed them yet.

  Looking down at his friend, his worried eyes could see no sign of life. Alizarin did not appear hurt. Indeed, she did not seem to feel anything. A black film still covered parts of her face and throat.

  Another four doorways passed in rapid succession. Alizarin started to tremble uncontrollably. Shouldering a door open, Ilion's first instinct was to lay her on the vacant bed and evaluate the situation. He pulled the doorhandle closed behind him and pushed an area rug over to the slight airway under the door. It was a moment to regroup, a moment of privacy. Pulling her cloak off of her shoulders, he checked her eyes, listened for her breath, and felt for the push of her heart's blood on the inside of her wrist. Nothing. Yet, she did not turn blue. Whatever had captured her, whatever unseen force held her, she had not yet perished.

  Her farthest hand fell open as he searched. A small purse of leather with a corded pullstring escaped her unconscious grasp, rolling onto the bed. Picking it up, Ilion immediately unknotted and opened it, searching for answers to her peril or ways to fight the monsters that would shortly be upon them. Why had she held onto this so tightly?

  Pouring out the contents on the bedcover, he watched the bounce and sparkle of light as two gemstones fell onto the fabric. Part of Ilion's particular profession demanded he be able to distinguish quality cuts and stones from inferior ones, and there was no doubt, these two stones were of the highest color and definition. Looking quizzically at Alizarin's face, he thought in wonder, Where did she get these? They were very valuable, even the smaller topaz. Both were far above the reach of a working baker without family connections.

  There would be time to find out later, if they survived. Placing the purse beside the two stones, Ilion searched Alizarin's body, looking for bite marks, visible wounds, or indication of life. After a while, he was forced to conclude that while she was not dead, neither did she live. And, although he was sure he could carry her for a while, the Corded Family Farm was in the middle of the country. The Green Lady was out there searching for him and he had no home to flee to. If she could be mended, awakened, or shocked into regaining her trapped senses, it had to happen here and soon.

  He heard footsteps, not shy ones by the pattern of their fall. Someone was coming from the main kitchen and living areas toward them. The sound grew louder. Occasionally the floorboards protested, creaking in response. Ilion could only listen and wait. By the approaching echoes, someone walked right to them.

  No, right past the room where they hid, continuing on. Only a few moments later the footfall ceased, placing the arriving person squarely in front of the broken door and the room of heavy, hunting despair. The droning song that had ridden as an undercurrent throughout Alizarin's discovery and rescue abruptly stopped. Ilion could easily hear the buzzing of a monstrous communication.

  “What do you do here, Gretsel? What do you call?” came a voice, grating and ingratiating at the same time.

  “I call on your master. He has broken his promise!” was Gretsel's reply, petulant and demanding.

  “Broken a promise? Broken a promise? It is not possible. The Darkness is not bound by promises. You know that. The best you can hope for is a trade.”

  The voice spoke on imperiously. “What do you want from us and what do you have left to trade? Tsk, tsk. Silly, silly girl. Tears won't pay the price, nor hope, nor sorrow. Only flesh will do, you know that.”

  “I do have flesh to offer, I do.” she said insistently. “I offer Alizarin as payment. You can have her.”

  After what had transpired in the hallway, Ilion could not doubt Gretsel's intentions or her willingness to trade her friendship with Alizarin for the return of her family.

  Gretsel's voice continued in a rush, pleading, “I want Londer back! I want him back. It's not my fault that she destroyed them all.” Her voice was thick with regret, sorrow over deepest loss. Defiantly, she said, “My agreement was for my husband, whole and sound. I want him back!”

  “He is gone, Child of the Lost. You know that. And, having died the second death there is no way of return. We do not have the power to make something from nothing. His body has left. He will not be returned to you.” The buzzing voice was pitiless and bullying. “Besides, where is Alizarin that you can offer her?”

  Collapsing now, Gretsel screamed, “I was promised my husband and a father for my child! Everything is in ruins!”

  A sound filled the air, a keening of deepest grief. It continued like the calling of a lost mourning dove. Finally, it lowered in pitch and subsided. A few moments later, Ilion heard Gretsel continuing to talk, although all fight was gone from her voice. “As to Alizarin, I know not. I stung her in the heart with the Knife of Darkness you gave me. She fell right there in front of the door.”

  The second voice mocked and cajoled, “Cry some more tears, Gretsel. Cry for the lost love of yours. And, when you are done crying, make a new plan. You still have power. You still have the baby, his baby.” Almost encouraging in its advice, utterly self-serving in its use of the girl's overwhelming grief.

  “I cannot petition for Londer again?” Gretsel's voice was almost childlike in its insistence.

  “No. That is done.” It was concisely said, empty of sympathy.

  There was quiet for a few moments passage. “Then, I do not know what to do. What is it I want, with Londer gone? I do not wish to live without him.” Obviously, Ilion thought. Apparently, she was willing to live with a poor copy of her husband rather than be alone.

  High buzzing swelled across the empty space. Ilion could hear clearly the second voice as it insistently asked, “Well, Gretsel? Once again, you must make a choice, life or death. What do you choose?”

  “I don't know. I just don't know.” Her voice was filled with grief, irresolution, and pain. “It hurts so, so much. It hurts losing him again. It hurts too much. Make it stop! Make it end! Make it g—” Her plea ended abruptly, mid-sentence.

  Slurping and crunching sounds audible from the distant room sickened him. Ilion was tempted to think the end of that conversation was golden, was blessed. Some prices are just too high. Some trades should never be made.

  A few moments passed, although for the gruesome deed accomplished, not that great a span of time at all. The sounds of mastication and feeding ceased.

  Ilion's heart was sickened, but his main concern was for his own life and for Alizarin's. Hidden in the nearby room, their safety was precarious. Knife of Darkness? She had been struck by a knife of some kind. Unbuttoning her dress, pushing aside her vest, he looked on her chest for the wound. On her breasts, her ribs, and her collar bone there was nothing, no mark to indicate damage. Gretsel's aim, like her intentions, was a bit off center. Then Ilion found it: foulness in a dart point.

  Sticking out of her shoulder, clinging to the fleshy side, a barb-like stinger protruded. It did not appear devastating, indeed it was almost benign in its delicacy. It was a tiny object, no longer than his first finger's joint, its point secured beneath the skin's surface. From its penetration, a purple and green colored inflammation spread across Alizarin's arm, sending tendrils of poison inside her body, searching for and stealing her life force.

  Wrapping his hand in several layers of clothing, and pulling his pouch knife from his belt, Ilion prepared to remove the source of the infection. Touching the blade of his knife to the barb of darkness, the desperate man attemp
ted to separate the weapon from its resting place.

  It would not move. It did not respond to touch, neither from the fabric-covered hand, nor from the iron of the knife blade.

  Ilion felt a zapping sensation, almost a painful tickle. Withdrawing his hands with instinctive speed, he was not surprised to see corrosion covering the blade of his knife. Corrosion caused by a venom so powerful that it easily dissolved metal.

  Sitting on the bed next to his unconscious, bespelled friend, he was at a loss. Gathering wasn't going to help. This time, the answer did not lay inside of his own mind, but in an uncertain world of undefinable powers, magic that he had only the most limited experience with. Fight fire with fire, his priest teacher had said such a long time ago. Fight fire with fire, fight darkness with light.

  Although the Staff of Thenta had never given him any light, Alizarin told him of her encounter with Ronnit and his wife and the flash of blinding light that had emanated from the honey-white wood. Not an aspect of power that he had seen, yet it was light against the growing darkness in Alizarin's body.

  Taking the staff in both hands, Ilion held it in front of him, slowly moving it across her still body. As the elaborate carving of the white spindle head neared the jutting black weapon, the staff itself began to vibrate. It made a low hum, a tremble at first, but as Ilion brought the staff's wood into contact with the darkened knife blade, the staff bucked in his hands, leaping from his grasp. With a loud clatter it fell to the floor, beyond his immediate grip.

  It called immediate attention to anyone nearby to their presence in the room. Without the staff's protection, he was a rabbit caught in a trap. Outside, he heard the dreaded footfall softly approaching.