Hella would be in Helene’s lap tonight.
Eclipses portent significant events in the relationship between the human world and the Folke world. Even an alchemist, whose study lies almost exclusively in the human world, knew that much. The position of the moons and stars were key predictors of shifts in the boundaries between the two realms. Some commoners believed that the position of the stars and the moons could be used to predict future events belonging solely to the human world, but they were wrong. A closer examination, by somebody with the ability to do so, would usually unearth the tie to the Chimera that triggered the said events.
Dormu-lilies, Garakul had finally shared. Seek out the Crown.
Rakana’s dreams revealed the crown as a place, not a person, and the dormu-lilies were present during an eclipse.
Tonight.
If Garakul didn’t already have the flowers, Dargon would do everything in his power to get them. His claim to divine right depended on it. Rakana saw the flowers in the presence of a royal Anduiri family. That was tricky business. They would not part with such a powerful thing, so would Dargon kill them?
Wars were started for less. Much less.
And if Dargon seized possession of the flowers, Eles knew what came next. He would be expected to harness its perilous power to produce an Elixir of Seasons. Could he do it? Eles had been asking that question ever since he first saw Dargon’s aged face. An Elixir of Seasons. Only the most balanced, gifted, and well-resourced alchemist could hope to execute such a transmutation.
Elestran the Base envisaged nothing but failure after failure, as his deeply-feared suspicions of inadequacy threatened to overwhelm him.
Elestran the Phoenix sought the opportunity to flaunt his triumphs in the face of his brother Ke’Van and the rest of the sneering guild.
But today, it was simply Elestran’s voice that conquered the others. He had finally realized that he wanted to create for no other purpose than for the act of creating itself. These ingredients existed to be mixed. And the mixture was art. Eles wanted to experience the joy and satisfaction that came with the creation of something beautiful and mighty from things that, alone, were quite ordinary.
Dormu-lilies.
What did they look like? Smell like? Feel like? He would know tonight.
* * * *
The morning’s march found the group moving from muck and mud to increasingly more solid ground. Dargon directed their boat expertly through the marsh water of the swamps, pushing through lily pads for most of the swamp’s span before needing to tackle the western edge on foot. Cattails, brilliant bromeliads, and drooping cypress trees gradually gave way to maples and elms. The oppressive humidity dried. The clouds of bloodsuckers thinned mercifully, and by midday, it started to feel as if they had left the Skull Marsh behind as they crossed the threshold of the northern border of the White Owl Wood.
Dargon kept a brutal pace; always aware time was running out. No rests. Eat while you march. He walked alone at the front of the party, occasionally looking up at the sky, or consulting his map, before determining the group’s path.
Eles dragged along at the back of the party, just behind Nadja and Rakana, watching their backs (the only sufferable part of the journey, if truth be told). Nadja had him on edge though, with the way she walked, tense like a cat, spinning her head at every noise. She had made it clear that once they reached the thick of the White Owl, she and Rakana would split away and head south, and Eles suspected she counted the minutes until they would change course. “Only a fool with a death wish would have interest in fey flowers to be found at the Crown, and the dangers that inevitably come attached to such things,” she had muttered. “There is safety in numbers, but only for so long.”
At midday, the party stumbled onto a wide swath of charred ground, acres of woods that had fallen victim to fire some months ago, by the looks of it. The ash-crusted branches of the surviving trees cast a crisscross web of shadows across their path, and the sounds of the forest hushed noticeably here. After a short argument about the wisdom of skirting the edges of such an area to keep the cover of woods, Dargon would not be swayed from his most direct route to the Crown, and they marched ahead.
Frustrated, Nadja fell back to Rakana and dropped her voice to a whisper, “It is time. We must go.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? Travel alone?” Rakana looked at her old friend, unsure.
“Yes. Say your farewells.”
“Nadja. Is anger clouding your judgement?” Rakana asked gently.
Nadja stiffened, “Trust me. We must leave now.”
Rakana took Nadja’s hand. “Before you throw us into the wild unattended, I must share something. I had sworn secrecy, but… we can’t walk away without you knowing.”
Nadja made a noise of disbelief with her tongue, “Is this to do with Kelshar?”
“Yes.”
“Well? Speak,” Nadja commanded, impatiently.
“You’ve been a sister to me…”
“This is true.”
“And I love you for that,” Rakana cooed. “But I did swear secrecy when I believed it would mean no harm to you.”
“Betrayal always harms,” Nadja muttered.
“That ill time, when I suffered under the cruelty of Master Saleesie… and then his murder at the hand of his son…”
“Yes?”
“It was not his son. You had sent a request to Dargon, a plea to help me, and you believe your request went ignored. It didn’t. Dargon sent Kelshar. Kelshar found me in what I will only describe as a deplorable state. She rescued me, and, in a… complicated series of events, killed Master Saleesie.”
“Forgeries.”
“Saleesie’s notes handing over The Pleasure House to Parini. The deed…”
“Forgeries.”
Because Nadja had stopped, Eles was in a quandary. If he kept walking, he risked missing the rest of the conversation. He stooped and pretended to adjust his boot. No doubt juvenile, but his curiosity outweighed his shame at such an awkward and obvious pretense.
Nadja paced, reeling. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Two reasons,” Rakana said softly. “First, if anyone found out that Kelshar was responsible for the murder of such a powerful Venaisin merchant-lord…”
“You didn’t trust-?”
“-and second, Kelshar told me that Dargon didn’t want you knowing.”
“Why?” Nadja demanded, irate.
“He thought it would be easier for you. To move on. To go on hating him. Despite how much the thought of that would torture him.”
“Lies,” Nadja hissed.
“Why, Nadja? What does he gain by not telling you?”
Nadja was silent; she seemed to be studying Rakana’s face, or maybe she was giving herself time to process. When someone has had some act of betrayal to pour hate into for so many years, it must be jarring to suddenly lose that, Eles thought.
By now, Kelshar had noticed that the women had stopped and fallen too far behind. She called forward to Dargon to stop.
Dargon pivoted. “We have to keep moving,” he called back in that voice of his that seemed incapable of anything but commands.
Nadja yelled forward, “You sent Kelshar to rescue Rakana?”
Finally, something that stopped Dargon’s interminable march. He stood still for several seconds and then called out without turning. “You weren’t supposed to know that.”
Nadja pressed, “Why did you send her? What did you hope to gain?”
“We should keep moving.”
“What did you hope to gain?”
“Nothing,” Dargon answered looking straight ahead.
“Then why?”
Finally, he turned. “Because you asked.”
They stood at least twenty feet apart, but it seemed to Eles only inches, as Nadja stared, speechless. The tension drained out of her face and her jaw went soft for the first time since Eles first met her. “I never knew…”
“At the time, I thought that best. Now I’m not so sure.”
Eles and the others became acutely aware that they stood right in the middle of an intimate moment. The Base looked down at his toes, meaning to afford Dargon and Nadja some semblance of privacy.
“Just like you to think I needed protection.” Condemning words, but spoken softly, unsure, as Nadja appeared to be struggling with dozens of emotions in conflict.
If Dargon had a reply, it would never come. He quickly pulled a hood up to hide his face.
The Order of the Silver Chain. Could some of these men, Eles thought, be the same men he had seen at the Blotto Eel in The Bluffs? It was impossible to know.
There were six Order members, with their thigh-high, chestnut-dyed, leather boots and their snout masks wrapped around their noses and mouths. Eles thought he counted two women among them. But the Order were only the first wave. Behind them came six more figures – Darkbridge soldiers, clad in tunics emblazoned with the crossed sword and axe. Their leader came striding out of the woods, thick as the surrounding oaks.
The Maul.
He held his massive hammer with two hands across his chest, an impenetrable barrier.
“What is the meaning of this?” Kelshar demanded, “What business have you in these foreign woods?”
“Lord Lodern,” the Maul directed his booming but measured voice in Dargon’s direction, “Count Volans’ sources informed him that you travelled alone, unprotected, in hostile territory.”
Kelshar drew dual blades, so slowly it somehow made the gesture all the more intimidating. “I assure you; he’s not unprotected.”
A smile crept across The Maul’s face at Kelshar’s suggestion. Still, he turned his attention back to Dargon. “The tip that you would be approaching the Crown, this far away from Ghault, without an army of men, seemed implausible. However, Count Volans’ source has always been very reliable.” He turned his gaze to Nadja. “Count Volans passes along his gratitude Nadja Kavital. Your payment will be made.”
Kelshar and Rakana swiveled to gape at Nadja, incredulity on their faces, but she only pulled Rakana behind her, wary as a hare surrounded by predators.
“Count Volans had no other explanation, but that you were brought here against your will. A prisoner,” The Maul boomed, delighting in the inference of the message.
“Like usual,” Dargon shot back, “Malus has misread the situation. Go back and tell your lord that his concern, while touching, is misplaced.”
“So you say, or, more likely, you’re being forced to say.” The Maul cocked his great bearded head to shoot a suspicious look at Kelshar. “Still, I have strict orders to return you, unharmed, to Greyarch, and if Kelshar tries to stop me, she’ll have proven herself a Rhoanish dog of a traitor… and I’m to kill her.”
He relished that last bit, Eles sensed. The Maul knew his master had put him in position to crush Kelshar. She would never allow them to drag Dargon away. So, The Maul and his men get to kill Kelshar, Dargon never makes it to The Crown, and Volans protects himself from treason under the guise of seeking to save Dargon, who has no sensible reason for being in the White Owl Wood alone. Eles could picture Volans’ smug grin as he explained it to The Maul. He wondered what his role was in this fabrication. Fellow prisoner, or accomplice to Kelshar, to be killed in the skirmish? Elestran the Base would have bet a hundred silvers on the latter.
Kelshar tried to move up to Dargon’s flank, but the Darkbridge soldiers cut her off. There were thirteen enemies, all told, and they were positioning themselves all around her and Dargon.
“You’re the traitor here,” Dargon assured him, “and if you and your men don’t stand down, I’ll have you all hanged for treason!”
His voice was so sure. Even now, Eles thought, his voice shook your core.
The Maul stepped closer to Kelshar, as if guaranteeing at least one blow before the Rhoanin succumbed to a dozen others. “You are still considered Lord of Ghault, its true, but we all know only the favored rule. You will have no authority to order my hanging, once you are revealed. Kelshar, drop your blades, now, or die.”
“This is your last chance!” Dargon demanded. “Fall back!”
“Don’t be a fool!” Nadja cried out, “Let them escort you back! They’ll kill her!”
“They might, but I’ll bring half of them with me,” Kelshar warned with a hiss, causing the men to slow their approach.
The Maul positioned himself face-to-face with Kelshar and barked orders, “If Lord Lodern resists, The Order will restrain him. I will engage Kelshar first, then the rest of you move in and kill her.”
Kelshar looked to Dargon for some sign. She grimaced when she saw what he intended.
Dargon reached for his ring finger and intoned in a rushed whisper.
“May ancient bloodlines hold. Emerge Nagu,
And fulfill your charge.”
A massive cloud of ash and brimstone exploded amidst Dargon’s enemies. Everyone turned in rueful anticipation as a terrible shape emerged from the cloud. A wolf, standing on its hind legs, eight feet tall and black as tar. Wisps of ebon smoke streamed from its body, as if its body were made of some demonic coal, coming into contact with a foreign element. Only its eyes contained any color, encased in chalky darkness. They sparked silver as they took in the scene, the very world, around them.
Dargon didn’t wait for it to ask. “Destroy my enemies, Nagu! Spare that one, surrounded, wielding the twin blades.”
The abomination turned to survey the mass of humans backing away and opened its charred maw to unleash a hiss of scalding steam, straight from an unknown layer of the Underworld that Eles prayed he would never know.
Flesh hissed and burned as screams of pain filled the battleground.
“Brothers!” one of The Order screamed, staring at the wolf-demon with a mix of horror and excitement, “Our purpose has been awakened!”
“Kill them!” The Maul boomed from behind his massive beard that seemed closer to grey than black, now juxtaposed against Nagu.
Chaos erupted.