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AFTER A BLESSED GOOD number of wise moves, Ifhrd heard the sounds of a female giggling on the other side of the door and she being hushed. His concentration faded again, and he put his hands up in despair. What persons, as the sound had it, should be within this tower? Was it Jorlon who had found a lover?
Ifhrd could not believe Jorlon had a secret lover. Yet could it not be? Such passions don’t last for a wizard, but in youth, they are as manifest as to anyone else. How else could an intruder slip past Ethrail unnoticed? Or had Jorlon gone too far this time, and tricked the old soul into an enchanted sleep, allowing someone to pass through into the tower? But why would they dare intrude here, and so noisily, when Jorlon knew this game would be played throughout the night? It was close to dawn. The caravan raid should be over and everyone asleep.
He checked his racing thoughts and said, “Astocath, my apologies. This is not a good night.”
“What is the matter?” The reply inside his head sounded gentle. It was perhaps apprehensive, aware of potential disappointment, for they had both practised and played many challenges of the game for this title, and neither wanted to abandon the challenge. There was certainly a degree of genuine concern.
Ifhrd spoke quickly to Astocath. “Is there anything you can sense untoward?”
“No,” replied his opponent.
“I have a great feeling of foreboding ... Now I am interrupted!”
The door opened slowly, and Ifhrd felt Astocath gasp as he saved the dwindling cord that linked their minds. Ifhrd’s spine chilled. The cold froze his very shoulder blades, and all the muscles in his back seized rigid. The door opened. A force of icy air loomed over this fortress of Sylvyndene: an all-enshrouding presence, strong and not of this world.
Ifhrd suddenly felt breathless and found he could neither speak nor cry warning as a young man’s face peered around from behind the door. Ifhrd felt a growing malign spiritual power interweaving through the cord, affecting him spiritually and mentally.
“Mage Ifhrd?” A stranger, a young man, asked innocently.
Ifhrd gagged. It was not this young man clutching at every string of his magical essence. This malaise was wicked of a spiritual nature, not from the netherworld of Niflheim—but if not, from Faerie?
“Mage Ifhrd?” the young man said again. He stepped into the room, followed by a young lady. Now Ifhrd felt himself overshadowed. A beast seemed to be feeding off his soul, and he shook his head in fear for himself and this couple. His voice failed him; he could neither speak nor cry out loud. His throat was impotent as he felt his mouth and tongue manipulate soundless words: “Be gone! Go now!” What evil chance! What mischief was afoot?
Tentatively, the girl stepped further into the room. They peered at him, and he had given only cause for concern. She asked, “Are you all right?”
Ifhrd’s stomach was in knots, and his mind cried out to Astocath for help. This growing power was greater than he thought. He thrust his hands out, gesturing wildly at the couple to flee. He could not understand why they would not obey. They were surely not part of the malaise—but were becoming subjected to it ...
His fear grew for them all. He perceived a shrieking banshee arising from a pit. It disarmed the mental wall that had been shielding his link with Astocath. He fought to rebuild it. His ears were filled with the noise of thunder, and his mind began to slip and collapse.
“Gods, Ifhrd! What in creation—?” screamed Astocath within his enfeebled mind.
Then Ifhrd felt momentarily light-headed and free, the last moments of befuddlement shattered.
The spirit spoke into Ifhrd’s mind, its voice harsh and cruel and most desolate. “Gethrond wants your soul!”
“Gethrond!” Ifhrd gasped. A renegade wizard had struck out against him; but why? What had he to do with Mage Gethrond?
“Ifhrd!” Power between the two magi failed ... and the voice of Astocath was gone.
The room turned frigid and appearing before all three was an obscene visage of an ancient, wizened, naked old man. He was not human, but a beastly parody. With him came a stench of carrion; nauseating, gorging, abominable. He stood a height and a half of Ifhrd, who himself was taller than the intruding man, although not so broadly built.
The smell became no less as the room’s temperature fell. The young woman gasped in horror at the sight of the creature, and she pressed against her companion’s arm crying out, “Mordrak ...?”
Ifhrd began to utter an incantation, at which the ancient one laughed and rubbed his phallus with an eye to the lady. Sweat glistened upon her fearful brow; her eyes were wide with horror. With the temperature rapidly falling, colder than the harshest of winters, the sweat on the backs of them all would soon freeze.
Slowly, and almost taut with ice and fear, Mordrak pointed to Adriselle to get to the door. It banged shut before her hand and must have barely missed her fingers. Unarmed, Mordrak looked about him for a weapon, but there was none, and so taking a torch from a wall sconce, he moved between her and the monstrous form.
The ancient man grinned at Adriselle in a parody of lust and hatred. “I have come to take what I want!” he shouted and then cursed them with spewing words of venom.
Mordrak clutched at his head as the wraiths screeched at him, promising him frozen labyrinths to wander ever aimlessly in search of escape.
Ifhrd yelled out arcane words, forcefully conjuring with his hands. The room throbbed with an overbearing power, and everyone fell silent.
The troglodyte stood in confusion, then flexed its claws again. “Ha! Foolish wizard! You will not banish me!” the creature gloated. As if he had won the victory already, the beast stood to enjoy the moment in serenity. Pus dribbled from every orifice of its body, and gasses belched through the excretions. It raised its head, and its eyes peered down at Mordrak, transfixing him into rabbit-scared stillness.
“Mordrak?” gasped Adriselle, concerned that her brother was rigid with fear. She hoped somehow to restore him to action.
The creature gurgled from the pit of his stomach. With its head held high and the sound of fat spitting upon an open fire, it sent an issue of vomit into the air. The grunge rose, gushing above the troglodyte, then fell, smothering and cloaking its body. Its flesh glistened with putrid effervescence where maggots crawled within the muck.
Adriselle retched; Mordrak’s stomach heaved. The ancient creature laughed, callous and loud. Adriselle struggled with the door, pulling at the handle, but it was jammed in some way. She tore her nails as she scrabbled to grip the edges of the door, and feared her bleeding fingers would freeze.
Ifhrd was apparently matched as his spells appeared to have no effect. However, the room sometimes blazed with flashes of colour, presumably the effects of incantations between him and the creature.
Then she imagined a multitude of hands crawling over her, groping and fondling her most intimate parts. She clawed again at the handle of the door, desperately choking back tears of horror and revulsion.
The beastly man-image drew in a deep breath. It sounded like hail driven by a windstorm. True to the sound, a vortex of air caught at her and pulled her towards the beast. Adriselle had no more control than she had of falling down a mountainside.
The troglodyte gasped out with the screech of a banshee. Shards of ice tore through the air with its charnel breath. In the next few moments, the beast had drawn her to himself, then ejected her. She found herself hurtled away from it through the air. She tumbled and skated across the pentagram. Ifhrd had tried to step aside, but her legs caught against his feet. She broke the protection the circle afforded Ifhrd from physical harm, though it had not protected him from mental or spiritual attack.
As Ifhrd fell over Adriselle, the troglodyte embraced him. The talons clawed and gripped at his throat.
Meanwhile, the garish stench of blood ripped at Mordrak’s nostrils as Adriselle crawled away. Dread filled them all as it seemed this spirit would overcome Ifhrd, and that very quickly they all would receive their death wounds. Mordrak was helpless without so much as a dagger or a sword.
The cold had sapped the strength from all their muscles. Ifhrd, however, drew his sword, but with it in hand, he waved it feebly without much skill. Dancing lights emanated from the blade: runes, but they were of no avail. The beastly troglodyte increasingly crushed Ifhrd and forced the sword from his hand where it fell to the floor. The wizard's arms were pinned uselessly against his chest. Ifhrd had fought in vain against this ancient one. He was helpless, like a young boy defending all of Sylvyndene. They were sure to die.
Mordrak was moving now, slipping across the floor, struggling to reach for the enchanted blade.
Adriselle screamed, “Get him, Mordrak! Get him!”
Ifhrd cried out against a sudden rush of searing cold. The creature’s fetid body turned a blue pallor and was like a sack of ice from the farthest reaches of Niflheim. Ifhrd’s robe was speckled with shards of ice and frost.
Mordrak felt even his innards begin to freeze. With the sword somehow moving away from his reach, he instead leaped for the beast. It grasped Ifhrd in a neck-lock and swung the mage. Ifhrd’s legs flailed through the air, hitting Mordrak full in the stomach. The knight staggered with the breath knocked out of him, slipped and fell near his sister. Quickly taking stock, he regained his footing and saw Ifhrd’s sword close by. The runes upon it seemed to run madly up and down the blade like warrior ants. He moved quickly towards it.
Ifhrd and the monstrous form buffeted and struggled with one another in every direction. Ifhrd had somehow survived this far. Mordrak picked up the longsword—he somehow found the blade firmly measured in his hand, as if it was crafted for him. The hilt was warm and comfortable to the touch. Indeed, it seemed the sword warmed his whole body.
The struggle between Ifhrd and the beast was fierce. Ifhrd was disadvantaged but was fighting back. Their fight was an eerie vision. Light flashed about them, and they would disappear into blackness, their images alternating between pitch dark and evening light. Now it appeared that Ifhrd was free from the beast's clutches, no longer pinned. Even so, the beast bit and clawed at Ifhrd. Unabated, its bony arms slashed at his every extremities, until Ifhrd was unrecognisable, soaked in his own blood mixed with the gore of the beast’s putrid excretions.
As another scathing frost swept across the room, Ifhrd was bowled along the floor. Rolling head over feet, he crashed against a wall with tremendous force. In the light that changed with every spell, a sheen of frost barely illuminated the silhouette of a man’s figure standing by Adriselle—who or what was indiscernible. The wind whistled more and more fiercely, pinning everyone except this silhouette and the beast to the floor. Only Adriselle was within reach of the figure, who pulled her up against the wind. With a shout of anger, the beast broke away from Ifhrd and made a grab for the couple, but they were gone from the room almost before anyone saw anything of it.
“Adriselle!” Mordrak cried out against the maelstrom. “Sister!” He was sobbing now. His every nerve felt like an icicle. The warmth of the sword could barely compete against this renewed cold. The knight crawled on all fours, hilt in hand, towards the beast. In a frenzy, the windstorm tore at Ifhrd and Mordrak’s clothes. Mordrak continued relentlessly towards the nexus with a will for vengeance burning away at his heart, although he could barely grip the sword with much strength.
Before he could quite reach the beast, the creature lunged for the mage, again unleashing a deep screech over the wind. Ice-cold particles of frosted vomit fell away from its body. Ifhrd grappled against the fearsome troglodyte. The melee began anew.
Ifhrd was spiritually, physically and mentally bound by the beast. He was going to lose his life, if not his very soul. Ifhrd's ordinarily great strength was nullified. He had long since felt his substance diminish, and the troglodyte’s powers grow. It took all his will to incant even basic spells, the power in every one of them drained away. It was as if he were matching himself in fighting this creature. He began to panic. He felt the disgusting phallus begin to pierce into his stomach, could feel its sickening poison begin to gel with his blood. A terrible heat surged throughout his abdomen.
Mordrak stood behind the creature and thrust the sword into it. The beast released its grip on Ifhrd, and with an ear-piercing screech that carried beyond its passing, the troglodyte disappeared with a blink of an eye. The room lay silent, cold and still. Ifhrd looked at the horrified young man, then stared down at his foul fortune. He found himself gripping his rune-blade, which had passed through the troglodyte and into his belly. He had been twice run through.
For a moment, Ifhrd stood in dumb despair, then finally tottered without a sound. He felt his body heaped like the corpse of any dead man. But his eyes blinked with every rasping breath. Looking up with horror-filled eyes, he saw the grotesque image of seven naked youths dance around a fire. He heard them sing a rhyme of hateful scorn towards the living:
The troglodyte lives!
The troglodyte lives!
You’ve done and died
Kissed by the troglodyte’s lips!
He kisses lip smack kiss
Lip smack, kiss smack lip slap bliss
He loves to embrace your life!
Ifhrd was barely alive. He feared he would be helpless in their evil midst in only a few moments to come. He knew his life was rushing from him as warm liquid rose from his throat and out of his mouth. “Astocath, Ge-ron,” he blubbered against the risen blood. He was stripped of all his energy, his thoughts sufficient only to fear the unknown. What lay beyond the fringes of his life? What it was to be, he would soon discover. He shuddered and lay slowly dying. Painfully twitching and gasping for the last of his breath, he wheezed: “Geggh-thand,” and died.
***
FROM A SLEEP THAT WAS restless with nonsense dreams, Jorlon awoke with a start. All was quiet, and he wondered what had woken him now the storm had surely passed—he had heard it whistle whilst it interfered with his dreams. It was strange, for that night had given no indication of bad weather. He lay clothed on top of his pallet, having been too tired to undress. Now with a yawn, he attempted to assemble his thoughts. Why Ifhrd—of course! Had he called?
Without consideration for the cold, he pulled himself from his bed and hastened upstairs. As he went, he became increasingly alarmed by the unnatural silence. The stillness had a smug quality of its own—and the chill! Reaching the games room, he listened at the door for a moment. Here he could smell the taint of rotting flesh. His skin crawled and he felt terrified by the hushed presence. There was a distinct lack of movement, not so much as a breath stirred the air.
Carefully, Jorlon opened the door having to give it a solid shoulder, and gasped as the foul odour in the room hit him in the face. Horrified by the frigid gloom that was broken only by the glow of the early morning sun casting an eerie light through the windows. For some reason the window sashes were pulled open.
Jorlon first noted the strewn playing pieces about the floor. Then he saw Ifhrd lying coiled, bloody and surely wrecked.
Someone sat against the wall close by the mage. He sat with his head in his hands, and Ifhrd’s sword stood supported between his uplifted knees. There was a small puddle of blood upon the floor where the tip of the blade rested.
The stranger looked up. Even in the gloom, Jorlon could see he was Mordrak; his face was filled with grief. Jorlon looked dumbly at the shattered table and the scuffed and smudged pentagram. He did not want to look upon the corpse of Ifhrd; he did not want to accept the mage might be dead. Jorlon knew it to be so, but by the hand of this man?
He looked at Mordrak in bewilderment. Judging by the man’s posture and face, he was not in immediate danger, which confused him all the more. Wondering if he should kill or attempt to kill him before at least finding out what had happened, he picked his way about the room, looking at the icy slime.
“Curse you, Mordred, for ever having come here!” he finally hissed. He wondered if he should light any of the torches. If nothing else, the torches might bring a little warmth and rid the room of the stench. He felt quite faint with the smell. A fury brewed within him that his master, Ifhrd above all magi, should be beyond help. ‘And this malediction seems oblivious to it all!’
With verbal anger, his words rich with foulness towards Mordrak, Jorlon strode across the room and knelt beside Ifhrd’s body. He took a hand in his. It was limp and almost frozen to the core.
“What've you done?” he shrieked. Had Mordrak warmed Ifhrd, the mage would be alive now. Or had the wounds been attended he would be alive. Mordrak looked up at him.
“Why haven’t you helped him!”
“He was dead, Jorlon. An evil spirit killed him ...”
“And not you?”
In his heart, Jorlon fervently wished he had the nerve to kill this man, but he needed to know all the facts. He would wring the truth out of him—torture him by mechanics and by magic until he pleaded for death. And death would never be granted him.
It was a rare thing indeed that a mage could bring back life, and he was not sure even then that it would be possible to restore another to completeness. Apprentice rumours were unproven. Even less were there such things as wishes in reality. He felt helpless and hopelessly insignificant. Ifhrd had been the only soul to care for him. He bowed his head, fearful for Ifhrd and the horrors that might confound the dead. The wizard was beyond his help. Death was a chasm away, the path of life wandering precariously close to its edge. Ifhrd had been pushed off the road. Jorlon felt empty. Perhaps nothing mattered anymore.
The uninterrupted silence greatly agitated his nerves. He felt his full remorse turn to silent wrath against this stranger—this stranger who now dared to look up! ‘Why doesn’t he do something?’
Frost matted the knight’s hair, and he mumbled something. Probably some inanity, Jorlon thought angrily. The apprentice dismissed the notion that he ought to have found out far more upon their meeting of the last night—how much of a threat Mordrak was, and certainly exactly what he wanted. But it was unlikely he had come to assassinate Ifhrd. His venom settled distastefully upon his tongue. Nothing made sense.
“I-I’m sorry.” His whisper was croaked, and his voice was cracked. “For us both. There was nothing I could do.”
Jorlon’s mind reeled, and he flared back to anger: senseless pity! He felt his throat tighten and choke with rage. “What’s the meaning of sorrow?” Bitterness ejaculated with such overwhelming force that his heart raced at a dangerous pace. “You’ve done this. You! Intruder! Creep and meddler. Fool! You!” he screeched. “You fool! You idiot! What were you doing? Just sat staring? You never helped him ...” He gulped. “Didn’t try ... Just—sat ...” His voice faded away. He cast about in his mind for words and found that no profanity would suffice. Then he said, “You did kill him.” But the apprentice could not fathom how it were possible.
Mordrak slowly shook his head, and he continued to stare down the fateful blade of this rune-sword. Jorlon would likely not care to hear any excuse—that everything seemed to happen so quickly he could make no sense of it at all. He clutched the blade, feeling the sharp, warm steel; and as he ran his hand gently down its edges, he watched Jorlon. Jorlon was looking at him in bewilderment, perhaps even hoped he would cut his hand.
But Mordrak didn’t cut himself. “I-I don’t know. There was an evil spirit or something. I-I stabbed it. Ifhrd took wounds. I don’t know what happened—nothing, nothing at all.” His knees locked against the blade and he shivered. Again, his hands supported his forehead. "And my sister—my sister, she is gone." He did not care if Jorlon killed him. Everything had evaporated with the sunrise.
Then even Jorlon heard youthful voices chanting from somewhere as he heard Mordrak’s hollow voice speak. “We’ve both lost one we loved...”
The children’s chants were barely discernible to Jorlon, but they were real. It was as if they were playing ring-around-ring; holding hands and skipping around and around. He and Mordrak were both helpless in their centre.
Ha, ha, ha!
Hee, hee, hee,
You don’t know that we all know
Where your sister be!
Ha, ha, ha!
Hee, hee, hee,
We’ve found our sisters,
But you lost she!
Ha, ha, ha!
Hee, hee, hee,
We have a wizard,
And he’ll ne’er be free!
Jorlon screamed with frustrated anger. He kicked a playing piece at Mordrak, who was wringing his hands over his head. The goblin bounced away from the knight’s boot and ricocheted with a loud crack against the wall before it shattered. With fists clenched tightly as he flexed his arm muscles, Jorlon threw open a window after a struggle, for it had frozen to the sill. Then leaning out as far as he dared, he howled as loud as he could force his breath: “Ethrail! You fool’s marionette! Where are you?”