| |
THEY STEPPED OUT INTO glaring sunshine, which pleased Astocath immensely because not only was it early in the day but summer as well. “It is so good!” he exclaimed. “It isn’t winter, for the Seelie are in the ascendant.” He made a satisfied noise.
“Well, let’s get rid of these winter furs, then,” suggested Mordrak.
“Just pack them away, we’ll maybe need ‘em yet for our return. We must be quick in all we do,” said Astocath as he frowned. “Bear in mind every eight hours here often passes about a year in Escavia.”
“That is ridiculous!” cried Mordrak in horror. “Evenar said no such thing. You’d better know what we’re doing! My lands could be overrun by goblins right now!”
“I do, and can hope for some control. So let’s get cracking. Now, to find Math. He won't have been here for long because of the time.” He closed his eyes and then said, “That way,” as he cast a hand in some direction. He closed his eyes again in further concentration. For a moment he frowned, and then smiled as he opened his eyes, now sparkling. “This is good! You must go that way. Eastward.” He pointed about forty-five degrees to the right from Math’s direction. “We’ll join you later—don’t get into trouble!”
“Who’s we?” asked Tulan. “Please explain.”
“I’m off to find Mage Math. You, Jorlon, go on with Mordrak. I'll say it briefly now: If you want to find someone or something, think on it, and you can get a general idea of the direction if you’re clever. Name it. Sense it. But so can the other. So go, and speak with care. Bear in mind there is greater strength in the spoken word here. Now our enemy has probably sensed us from my efforts.” He cast a knowing look at Jorlon, and the apprentice remembered Astocath advising him that Mordrak knew the name of Ifhrd’s true killer. In time he would have to ask, and he hoped Mordrak would be able to recall the secret since Astocath did not wish to name him now.
“Hurry up and join us,” he urged his master.
“I hope it’s a fast horse,” said Mordrak, looking dubiously at the enchanted stallion. The mage was taking off the saddle and reigns as he spoke. The horses had not yet been put to the test.
“Believe me, this one can fly.” He mumbled a word, and the creature bloated as if his entrails were about to spill out. As its flanks bulged, it staggered, trying to balance upon its shifting legs. Mordrak stood bewildered, his face revealing as much shock as surely the creature felt as wings began to form on each side of its middle. Finally, Quest stood obediently, so that Astocath could mount him, and having done so, the mage looked very uncomfortably poised. His legs had little room to swing, for the stem of Quest’s wings were barely behind his knees. “Wish I had a saddle and reins for this,” he said. “See you later!”
The horse moved forward, first at a trot, then a canter, and finally a gallop to build up to the speed of a charge across the green grass. The wings started to beat, and they took to flight, flying higher than the nearby rolling hills, leaving the company to stare dumbfounded. Quest flew gracefully with the small figure of Astocath crouched over his head.
Flying upon Quest, Astocath felt exhilarated. It had been a long time since he had last flown. It was not something wizards wanted to draw attention to, but for the present, he wished he could enjoy this moment at more leisure. He sensed Math and his company to be not far away, and he hoped they would be amenable to restoring the Circle. During the recent visit, Evenar had hinted to him that some would take this opportunity to splinter and create new sects. He and Astocath doubted Math would take part in undoing the Medeanites, and would like as well to help the situation now. Astocath was not confident of his own powers being sufficient to defeat the enemy, and so it was his hope that Math would assist them. In his heart, he prayed for the name of their hidden enemy to come to mind. He had been barely able to hear Ifhrd’s dying gasps, but it certainly sounded like he was giving a name to the felon. Presently he could only make an educated guess of the wizard he’d heard, who was cast out from the Circle a long time since. The gasp had sounded a chord in his mind to such a one. ‘Ge, Ge, Ge, Ge—what was it?’ Furthermore, from time to time, he felt his mind bend under the thoughts of others who seemed to be meditating on him—it was more than being conscious of him, it was a deliberate act of debilitation, something that could only occur from a concerted effort with the right spells. He even heard a voice mutter his name, which cut through his skull like a cold steel skewer. He cleared all idle thoughts and notions and braced his intellect to block his mind from being sought.
Yet Astocath suddenly felt confident of the name, Gethrond, that literally rang bells in his mind.
Everywhere beneath him were brightly coloured forests, their leaves arrayed in splendid shades of gold and copper. Silvery rivers cut through fields and rich green heaths. Everything seemed idyllic, at least on the surface. Every newlywed dream of cottage and garden was here in reality.
Faerie was close to being heaven on a fallen world of elves, dwarves, gnomes and man, all alike; and Faerie was like a bastion of hell too, armed by dark elves and dark gnomes and dwarves, all their souls seeking vengeance. The seeds of hatred that they had accepted and nurtured were here, within either realm. Men too, their years were long and many.
There were some renowned dragons and wyverns. Some areas were more mystical and magical than others. In addition, there were other places that were hard to find but easy to fall into where time was distorted. As Evenar had said, sometimes there was no difference in time at all, and what was more, spells could manipulate the disparity.
Astocath wondered if the entropy in such areas was the source for spells such as those of the gloom. His thoughts evaporated when he saw a small number of figures riding slowly below him across a valley, and the certainty of Math being one of the six rang sharply in his mind. Respondent to him, he saw the group stop and turn to look up at him. Happily, he guided Quest to land a short way from them, and he quickly dismounted and hurried over to meet Math.
A fierce-looking, chain-mailed henchman stood imposingly a little distance before him. One hand was upon his horse’s reins, and his two companions sat upon their mounts ready to draw their swords at the least sign of a threat to them or the magi they were guarding.
“Well met!” Astocath called out. “Allow me to introduce myself as Mage Astocath.” He beamed. “I’m searching for Mage Math here, with reference to Mage Evenar.” He politely ignored the warriors, looking instead to the four magi behind them as he recognised Math, which had taken a moment. He had expected a beard, but now Math was clean-shaven.
“Greetings,” he called to Astocath as he pushed forward through the henchmen. He wore leathers studded with metal rings thick enough to turn a hurried sword, yet Astocath reckoned it all would have enchantments to make it greater than the finest chainmail. “You look no more aged than ever I saw you. Am I right in surmising you have been thinking of me?” He did not seem pleased. However, he did look relieved as Astocath nodded.
Astocath replied in the language peculiar to magi. “I apologise if my meditations caused your discomfort, Math. Surely you recognised it as me?”
“I did. So why do you seek me, here of all places, and so quickly?”
“My need is great, as is time too,” sighed Astocath. “However, I might say we can restore the Circle, as Tell will rescind his edict! Of course, this is of interest to you?”
Math looked at his peers, and then he returned his attention to Astocath. “How is this to be? Are you sure we would not be wasting our time returning? Is it worth it?”
“Look at things this way: you’ve been a good few hours’ ride from the gate, yet when you left Laraid, I was a year younger. Surely you don’t want to gain the enmity of Faerie? We are not made for this place, for too much of our magic darkens their world. We cannot stay here.”
“We had hoped only to remain until we find a gate to another country from Escavia. And as for the Circle, only a fool or worse wants an end to it. Yet we need to work together more.”
“Why did you not just use standing stones to pass over the sea?”
Math shrugged. “Whilst our boots are on, why not look at what’s around for a while? After all, we built a damn gate to get here.”
“No one thought it wise. Anyway, there’s a renegade I seek,” Astocath continued. “Will you help me? For it is because of him that we can restore confidence in King Tell of the Circle. We need an end to the magic against him and his growing empire. We can be in on the early days and establish ourselves independent of distrust and fear. I’ve told Tell we can’t possibly act as magicians for amusement.”
“We cannot help men!” argued Mage Dubira, who stood tall next to his horse. He was middle-aged with pleasantly matured looks.
“When another mage is affecting the life around us, we can. And if he's a renegade, which our enemy indeed is,” argued Astocath. “He’s causing all manner of cities to fall under deathly spells.”
“Well now. What spells has he that is upsetting His Majesty, the King?” Math’s upper lip twisted as he spoke with a thick veneer of sarcasm.
Astocath quickly explained the events as he understood them.
“And what makes you so sure we can deal with him? He’s powerful and wily if he can attack Tell. The mage obviously hates the Circle and aims to cause us no end of problems and more besides. But how are we going to explain him away to His Majesty, the King?” Again, Math’s words of the king were filled with scorn.
“I believe we can beat him. I don’t reckon he’s all that good,” Astocath said awkwardly. “I have a fair idea who it is by the taste of his magic, although I was unable to clearly scry him.” He felt emboldened to say, “Even if there is a secret Medeanite conspiracy that has given Gethrond a mandate, it needn’t be known to the King. It is like a war of men where they are given to reparations. This wizard’s end is that reparation. But I don’t believe there is such a conspiracy, else surely one of you would know, would you not? Do we wizards want to wipe out cities full of people? Would the Circle give this renegade a mandate to harry Tell in this way?”
Math looked at him with stern grey eyes that seemed to delve deep into the heart of Astocath’s true anxiety. “You want only me, or us all?” He swept his arm around at his companions. The other two magi’s faces were grim and silent as Dubira no longer saw fit to speak. Instead, they listened like the three henchmen who could not understand the magis’ tongue.
“Ask them.” Astocath nodded at the two who did not look particularly keen to help.
Dubira asked, “Who is it you’re actually seeking?”
“It is not a name I wish to think, let alone whisper,” he replied and turned his gaze to Math, and they looked one to the other in thought.
“What do you know of him?” Math asked.
“He’s a spiritualist and something of an enchanter.”
“So, Astocath, what are your skills that’d be of much use?” Dubira asked. “Fire and air, or just hot air?”
Astocath glowered at him. “Now is not the time for nonsense.”
“Body, plants and weather, for myself,” said Math.
“I am also skilled at interceding with the spells of others,” returned Astocath the more heartily.
Math nodded respectfully. “That is always useful.” He turned to his companions. “I will help Astocath as best I can. I think you ought to come too,” he said. “But if you wish to explore instead, you might make for a diversion, or make a return to Escavia and call a meeting with our people. We can deal with the renegade between us.”
“I have a skilled knight with me,” said Astocath. “But he, even with his squire, may not be enough, given he is currently haunted by some dread spirits. Perhaps one or two of your warriors would come? Also, I have Jorlon, an apprentice alongside us; he is as able as any young mage.”
“Jorlon?” exclaimed Dubira. “My god, you do get around.”
“Have you brought the wraiths along?” Math asked Astocath sharply, ignoring his fellow.
“I could come too,” said the back-buckled Mage Fafrack as he pushed past Dubira and Math quite unexpectedly.
Astocath shuddered. He had flown into this quest like a money-spider blown by the wind and had given himself little chance to prepare along the way. “Too many of us are going to warn off this renegade, as Astocath puts it,” Math said. “I like his plan—you lot divert this mischief-maker!”
“I like the plan too,” said Fafrack after a moment’s thought.
Then Math faced the others. “What do you think?”
“It’s daft, but I’ll go with Fafrack,” said Dubira. “How do you propose we deal with him?” he asked slowly, watching the mage’s face with a studious eye.
“I think nothing better than to simply confront him. He seems to have an advantage over us with distance.” He frowned. “And he will likely have allies here who will do their best to help him keep that advantage. We have to be hasty. We can expect little more than permission to be here from King Errimiayo. Nevertheless, I suspect in his own way he will assist us discreetly if we really are blessed.”
Math sighed. “Is he far—our sorcerer, that is?” he asked.
“A couple of hours away by my reckoning.”
“So to go back a bit. Who’s your apprentice?”
“Jorlon!” snapped Dubira. “He already told us.”
“Jorlon! Ifhrd’s apprentice?” Math raised his eyebrows.
“Was, and not borrowed. Ifhrd’s dead.”
“Dead? To this ... enemy?”
Astocath nodded with a grim look upon his face. The other three magi let out a cry and spoke of their regret to each other.
Astocath nodded solemnly to Math, saying, “His luck was ill.” He looked at the other three magi who were lamenting at the sudden news.
“Then yes, it is settled. I shall most certainly come.” Math turned to his companions, and shaking his head, he said with a trembling voice, “Best you three divert and return to Evenar. We’ll get Tell sorted out. We’re going to need some luck.” Math’s face was seething with wrath. “Ifhrd died by this mage ...”
“A summoned troglodyte,” Astocath explained. “Otherwise keep your minds on Gethrond.”
“What? A mage such as this renegade should not have been able to deal with that!”
Astocath felt Math must surely be cursing Gethrond to the heart and was glad to have an incensed mage as powerful as he. His reputation was high amongst the ranks of magi.
***
“I HOPE HE REMEMBERS his horse lives only a year and a day,” said Mordrak beneath his breath as Astocath flew into the distance.
“Let’s press on,” said Jorlon in return and led the way forward.
Tulan looked around at the bright scenery. Rolling green hills broke all the tedium of vast, flat plains, and trees were healthy in leaf and trunk, bidding a memory comparable with the Great Forest. There was a sort of richness to these two worlds, he mused.
Mordrak was wary, however, for if evil was being worked from here in these lands, then they most certainly harboured the armoury of the enemy. There were stories of travellers brought into this world and taken advantage of and duped for years on end by any manner of means which raced through his mind. As if he were a feast for vicious eyes, his spine felt like an army of red ants was eating it. One happier tale told of a nobleman found in a drunken stupor in an Escavian king’s wine cellar. The tale had it that the nobleman claimed to have been abandoned from Faerie and found himself as surprised as the King. Believing in faerie kidnaps himself, the King gave the nobleman the benefit of the doubt.
“Does anyone else get the impression we’re being watched?” he asked, concealing all hint of his nervousness.
“Like I’ve never known my ears to burn before,” replied Tulan. “How about you, Jorlon?”
“Perhaps we can use it to guide us on.”
It was apparent to Mordrak that the apprentice was not inclined to be led at any great speed. He was no doubt stalling for Astocath’s return. Since he was the only wizard, and barely trained, Jorlon’s fear was well-founded if his reasoning followed that course. Mordrak considered the consequences if the enemy struck whilst Astocath was away. At best it seemed to Mordrak that Jorlon was likely not a brave sort. Was Jorlon more talk than power?
Accepting Jorlon’s pace, he wondered how much time might have passed in Escavia already. Perhaps soon enough Adriselle would give birth—all too soon—bringing into the world a child, as he could never have if the prophet was true. He had always naively assumed pregnancy was a woman’s prerogative. He had not expected his sister to end up in a relationship anything like what had occurred, and he wondered what his parents would have said. His heart sank as he wondered where he would stand with a woman if he was really sterile. Surely she would have to know.
His heart turned to ice when a voice jeered at him and took his thoughts by surprise: You’re only half a man! You cannot replace the young lives you’ve stolen!
“Shut up!” he cried into the air. “Shut up!”
Tulan reached out his hand to his master. “Take it easy, take it easy. Don’t let them get to you now,” he urged sympathetically. “They can’t touch you, truly.”
Despite the encouragement, Mordrak was not convinced. He drew a breath and gathered his nerves together. Colour returned to his face with Tulan’s words. Mordrak replied, “Not physically, perhaps, though that would be a pain I would willingly bear. My head feels like it’s writhing with maggots; voices talking about me. Barely an hour will go by without their niggling and gnawing attacks. Oh Tulan, I’m not sure I can hold out much longer!” His voice had become desperate.
Mordrak felt his arms ache with a weakening pain, his fingers wearing to the bone for the need to cling to hope as if he were high upon a cliff face. He knew not whether to suffer and give his all to try and survive, or drop and have all the agony over with ... then his death! Where would that leave his soul? In the spirit world with these wraiths? What then? He could not even ride straight, moving first to the left and then to the right without any prediction of which direction next.
“Ridicule them! Snipe at them!” snapped Jorlon. “They’ll get to all of us otherwise.”
Mordrak twisted around in his saddle to arraign him.
Tulan said quickly, “No! They have nothing—they are simply barking dogs in a desperate fix!” He looked at Jorlon in disbelief of the foolishness of the apprentice. Now was not the time for falling out with one another. “Jorlon doesn’t understand.”
It was clearly apparent that the apprentice was enjoying Mordrak’s misery. “Who would?” Mordrak whispered glumly.
“They’ll do their best to divide us, I suppose,” continued Jorlon, “so now we must make allowances for each other.” He hoped in time that he would have a grand opportunity to make Mordrak suffer ten-fold for this. And if the wraiths were aware of such thoughts and built up further distrust in Mordrak, so much the better. Mordrak was necessary for the moment, he had to concede, or he supposed he would have taken advantage of the pits in the ether as they crossed worlds.
About half an hour after they had set off, the company crested a hill and looked down below, where two lines of knights faced each other in a battle array. The nearest were in shining white armour. The air about them was radiant. The gloom that was about the others was in total contrast to the banner of gold and red and colour. The line of knights who opposed them were so dark it was as if their very shadows swallowed them. Their pitch banner of a red crescent moon was surrounded by flying bat-like creatures A horn blew out, and a defiant voice cried in excited anticipation, “Let battle commence!”
The battlefield was not more than a quarter of a mile away from the company, and as they eased themselves along the hillcrest, they watched the scene below that defied all belief. The silvery horses of the white knights surged forward against the swarthy counter-charge. The sound of the pounding hooves beat through the air with the rattling of armour in melody; added to this, howled war cries screamed for blood. Horses whinnied, keening for death or escape. The impact was furious with the splitting of lances that skewered man and horse alike. Added to this came the resounding cries of anguish and equal roars of bravado. Neither side was granting mercy. The white line that had begun to shine iridescent over the ebony faltered and took the most losses very quickly. Their light flashed less and less in the sunlight as the cold shadow darkened more and more around the melee.
“We’ve got to get away from here!” Tulan hissed. “Or they’ll be on to us soon.”
“Where can we go?” gasped Jorlon.
“We must go on!” agreed Mordrak, wishing Astocath were here. He had great trouble steadying his horse, so trained for blood that it wanted a fight. “The enemy is going to delay us as much as possible. Days are passing us by every moment we stall. Gods, by the time we get back there’ll be a whole new generation in dotage!” He flicked his reins to urge his horse onward with speed.
“It won't be as bad as that.” Jorlon sounded as if he were making an oath. “Astocath knows how to get around that dilemma.” Trusting that Astocath would rejoin them before all was too late, Jorlon led the company away from the rapidly increasing darkness, its pitch across the field and far beyond the fallen heroes.
Mordrak cried out in fear. If the shadows spread before the dark riders gave chase, it would precede them and envelop the company. Would not the companions then befall the same ill fate of those noble knights of only moments ago? Continuing to travel in the approximate direction Astocath had pointed out to them, up and down the rolling hills, Mordrak shouted, “Surely our enemy is close?”
“I don’t know!” Jorlon cried back, spurring his horse to keep up with Mordrak and Tulan, whose beasts were more suited to this action. “You know his name!”
“I do not!” Mordrak cried back. “I cannot think of any such moment to know.”
They pushed their horses faster and faster. Jorlon could not keep up his breath to reply, and tried, with as little magic as possible, to pierce Mordrak’s mind. He realised his error as Mordrak cried out and pulled the reins up, reaching for his head. Mordrak’s horse bellowed, and if the stallion were not better trained, he would surely have thrown the knight.
Jorlon was otherwise pleased despite this, for he had cast the spell without hand or arm movements; with mere utterance the spell almost worked, and at that, he clearly had some effect. He dared to cast a glance back over his shoulder. The dark riders were surely weary and hopefully limiting their pursuit. But if he were to slow the company again by overestimating his own power, it would be he who would lose their only advantage.
“I am all hot and all cold at the same time!” Jorlon complained in outrage as they dared not slow their horses. “One minute feeling normal and in the next feeling all a mix. I want to retch my very innards right up. Astocath and all must be seeking us out.”
“There are surely ways to block off the senses?” suggested Tulan.
“Yes,” shouted Mordrak, “else how would anyone stay sane here?”
“In any case, we must keep moving. Those knights are still after us!” returned Tulan.
“I saw ‘em just now,” Jorlon warned, but the horses couldn’t keep up the pace. “And if I block Astocath out, you fool, he won’t find us!”
Mordrak said, “They are a distance, still. Let’s slow a little.” He was coming some way in learning how to block out the wraiths to a limited extent over the period of their haunting, but he would be hard put to explain how. Now either no one thought of him, or he had completely mastered the necessary skill.
Jorlon cursed. “We should all have stuck together.”
“If we panic, we’ll lose more time,” said Tulan desperately. "And Quest can fly, remember.”
“Who’s panicking?” snapped Mordrak. He looked at Jorlon. “Have you a spell to throw those riders off track?”
“I’m thinking of ways,” replied Jorlon sourly. “I can pass myself unnoticeable. Not so easy for all of us, besides the horses.”
Jorlon thought of the magical essence Astocath had given him and tried to calculate if it would be enough, or even too many moons for him to control. He reckoned that somehow he had to create an aura about them that gave impressions of their identity. Astocath knew the taste of his magic since the trick he learned to return his purse, but the enemy did not know and might well not recognise his enchantment as such.
Tulan laughed suddenly. “No bets that those knights are actually after us. Just a feeling.” Tulan cowered at the grumbles from the others that assumed his turn of phrase was mischievous. Then he shouted: “Come on!” He kicked his horse onward, and they followed him at his renewed pace.
Jorlon could not think what to do, and until they came to a stop for a rest, he could do nothing. It was hard enough to think properly whilst the dark fey kept gaining pace. He shuddered, for it was now evident that the enemy they sought was concentrating on him. With this awareness now predominant, Jorlon quickly proposed his spell.
“We need to go a little deeper into Faerie,” he said. “If we do that it will lessen the strain on our sanity. I can manipulate the area to take us deeper. Do you agree?”
They all agreed.
The knight looked nervous as Jorlon recited the words while despondently looking at the darkness that loomed above the hills behind them. When he cast the spell, he did not execute his gesticulations with much confidence either, but the light around them seemed to brighten, and the shadow in the distance lifted a little, so he supposed the spell had worked. It did not take much to realise Mordrak sensed the insecurity in his words, as he cast his spell.
Jorlon could not be sure the spell worked the way he wanted, but he sensed the others were as relieved as he that there was no apparent ill effect as if they were lit up like lanterns which was quite to the contrary. Behind them, the shadows loomed slightly more grey than pitch, so everyone was harder to see, and the company rode onwards the more quickly and a little less fearfully.
It seemed that the knights had lost the sense of their track, or were at least confused, for they certainly seemed to have fallen back to some extent. As the company sped past tangled woodland, they rode along the shore of a lagoon that spread away from them. They paused to take a good look at the place. In the centre of the waters stood a tall, light-grey castle, set with donjons towering over the bailey. A causeway above the lake gave access to the castle from the shore, and on the shore was a small bastion that stood arching the foot of the bridge.
Flags of white unicorns fluttered in the light breeze, and behind the benevolent creatures were red and gold patterns that made the images wholesome. The heraldry was evidently outstanding. “Are these banners the side of the Seelie we saw slaughtered, or are these trophies to mark their slaughter?” asked Tulan.
“Look ahead of the lagoon,” Jorlon cried. “Look, the land there is like autumn! We’re on the borders of the Unseelie. Expect the worst if we go on.” And he glowered at Tulan, restraining himself from saying, ‘a feeling indeed.’
“How will Astocath find us if we enter here?” the squire asked, looking above Jorlon’s head towards the encroaching darkness that loomed above the hill they had last crossed.
Unable to answer his question, they quickly rode to the bastion and cursed the portcullis, for it seemed to be as unmanned as it was closed. But soon enough an elf peered through the grill at them and gruffly asked their business.
“Poor news, sir!” cried Mordrak. “Your sortie is slain by Unseelie knights, and now they’re in pursuit.”
“We know! You cannot come in, there’s too much magic about you. You’re not welcome here for your own good!”
“What? You would leave us out to the wolves?” cried Mordrak in great alarm.
“What? We should give shelter to jackals? In here you would lose all affinity with Escavia. You’d not seek to return to your world. You may fight with us. I’ll alert the garrison.” The elf slipped away.
Mordrak shook his head with an uncanny feeling. The elf, who looked no different to those in the Great Forest, had moved elsewhere instantaneously. He shook his head in disbelief. It could not be, except the elf was as lithe as any he had seen.
Helplessly, the company looked to the hills and gasped with relief. There seemed to be no sign at all of a continuing pursuit. With this thought a further surprise, Mordrak trotted his horse back to where they had last seen the Unseelie riders, to get a proper view; and here, as he could view the Unseelie forest, the riders were approaching there. Perhaps they were too weak to attack this castle. Even so, he believed he should treat the situation warily. He rode back to the group.
“We can’t ride with these people,” hissed Jorlon, pointing at the castle once Mordrak had rejoined him. “I’m sure you know tales of faerie enchantments as well as anyone.” The apprentice paused as if for emphasis, and added thickly, “Even when they’re supposedly helping. They like to bind us here so we never leave. They have gone wrong.”
“No,” replied Tulan, “that’s the Unseelie. They make slaves.”
“But do we have any idea of our direction now?” Mordrak argued. “I don’t think we’re going to succeed without help, even if he’s brought every mage from that accursed tower and elsewhere.”
Jorlon thought desperately, wondering if he should prompt Mordrak to remember the name Astocath said Ifhrd had gasped. He did not want to cut into the man’s mind again, but he reckoned on perhaps some magic to assist the memory. Now was the time, he decided, even if after all Astocath had been able to search out the name by other means. “Mordrak. There’s something you must remember: a name. Ifhrd cried out a name to you. It won’t hurt much to speak of it.”
Mordrak shook his head. “He cried out lots of things.” He was loath to recall the time. “It’s too much to remember just now.”
“Oh think, Mordrak, think!” Jorlon pleaded with a measurably growing, hateful resentment that Mordrak should be depended upon at all.
“Yes, he shouted out something—what though? How should I know? He called out to Astocath, that’s for sure. But you already know that.” Then with those words, he realised somehow that he did know the name of the villain, after all. He could see Ifhrd torn and his bloody face, his very cheek half ripped off, and ice hung from it with venom dripping from the ice. His hair and beard were frozen solid. And as much as he would like to have believed otherwise, it was a name he had tried to shout to anyone, surely anyone with ears to hear, and he had no ears to hear very much at the time. The picture of the struggle was all too real in his mind; with the troglodyte’s immense strength, it pulled and threw Ifhrd in every direction. He could see the pus and blood eating away at the wizard’s clothes. At the same time, he and his sister were struggling in their own sweat that was freezing to their very clothes. Ifhrd had certainly shouted—mostly spells, he had assumed. However, there was something, but it was after his sister had disappeared.
“Astocath!” His memory brought forth Ifhrd’s desperate cry as the mage had fallen backwards.
But what was it? Nastrond, surely it was Nastrond, given the freezing cold that had seared throughout the chamber. Nastrond was the world of Hel, a freezing wasteland of mist and ice.
“I think he’d been trying to say the troglodyte was from Nastrond,” Mordrak said at length.
“It couldn’t have been Nastrond he said, I’m certain of it. Troglodytes are from there as Ifhrd would know,” Jorlon said quietly, checking his anger. “I have a spell that might help?” he offered.
Mordrak snapped back at him, “You’re not putting any mind spell on me! Not for any reason! You’ll just have to think of every wizard you’ve ever heard of. And I tell you more: the half dozen I’ve heard of are too many in number!”
Jorlon swallowed and looked at him with his brown eyes. Mordrak wondered if he might dare think his gentle, brown, beagle-eyed gaze seemed to care for him. Mordrak held his breath for a moment. It was clear Jorlon could not bring himself to say, “Come now, you can trust me.”
Mordrak looked down at the hilt of his rune-sword and put his hand upon it. Could he dare trust Jorlon? Did Jorlon believe he merited trust? He looked to Tulan who barely, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.
“When Astocath returns,” he said, then at length added, “maybe.”