Chapter 7
A Loud Cry

hrough a narrow rocky valley, the travelling party were compelled to dismount and lead their horses on foot. The ground was broken and uneven and had become slippery with ice and snow. Swirling above them the sky was dark and gloomy. Their heads bowed against the stinging wind they trudged on. Éomus had given Daenara an elven-made cloak, which kept her body exceptionally warm, but her heart was cold with despair.

The arctic breeze was restless. It did not only affect Daenara, but the entire party of men. The horses, too, were restless, tossing their manes, their breath misting as they whined with unease. Daenara and Éomus suddenly stopped, which in turn halted the rest of the party. They both felt the effects of evil.

Several small grey rocks tumbled down the side of the left wall, drawing everyone’s attention up toward the cluster of large rocks. A shrill wail pierced the icy air and rang sharp in their ears. Daenara’s horse reared so violently his reins were wrested from her hands. She tried in vain to calm the beast by clutching at his reins and speaking kindly. The men drew their swords in a state of readiness. Daenara sufficiently calmed the distressed animal to retrieve her sword, a gift from her brother that would not have been given in vain.

“Be not far from me,” Éomus said hurriedly to Daenara. His silvery blade shone like sharp light on ice, drawn and ready. The words had only just fallen, when from high up on the walls came descending down on them, like a great flood, a mass of hideous brutes that bore grotesque resemblances to men. A brilliant burst of sheer energy erupted from the readied Imperial Guardians with the power of their collective will and blew apart the first descending wave, like an explosion.

Pooling down from both walls came these wretches, their leathery grey skin almost as thick as armour. They were relentlessly hideous. It seemed impossible that they should have the intelligence to wield swords. Nevertheless, they did each have a menacing-looking blade, and they rushed forth with a great thirst for blood.

The Guardians struck many down before the brutes could even reach them, throwing liquid-like spheres of energy that shattered bones and blew off limbs. A protective wall of force was also established, which slowed the Wreavers’ advancement as though they were running underwater or against great winds. It was not long, however, before the narrow valley was flooded and a fierce battle raged between the two opposing forces. The monsters had the greater number, but the Guardians fought with the ferocity of the gods against the ferocity of the devil.

In the midst of it all, Aéoden drew on an immense amount of energy, fuelled by the fever of battle that burned in his chest and propelled a dozen Wreavers violently through the air. The vicinity round him was cleared briefly before he was again assailed. With a slash of his blade, Aéoden cut deep into a brute’s exposed chest, then followed the stroke with another from his metal gauntlet, striking the wretch full in the face, mangling it into a blur of bloody flesh. Not far from him, Thedred hurled a shaft of heat which pierced the shoulder of another like a spear. His action prevented Aéoden from being struck from behind, and both men exchanged a brief acknowledgement of kinship.

Éomus was a fierce fighter. He cut down many foes, leaping over one to get to the next. Because of his lightness, speed and nimbleness, he was not easily matched. More than once he shouldered and slashed a foe attacking Daenara. She drew blood with the swing of her own blade with clean and precise strokes.

Man and monster fell without discrimination in one confused, bloody mass. The cold flash of magic along with the clashing of steel was chaos round Daenara. Love, anger, hate, all rose in a storm within her, and a strong wind, which her own being seemed to conjure from an unconscious source, began to gather, becoming so fierce her own hair lashed and stung her face.

Her eyes were as dark as the storm that raged round her and showed great penetration. For a moment she stood motionless, this volatile atmosphere tearing about her imposing form. Its tremendous gusts scattered the brutes in her path like leaves in a gale. Soon the destructive winds spent themselves; her body suddenly depleted of strength, she staggered backwards a little and found her back against the rock wall.

She started violently as one of her comrades suddenly slammed against it, very near to her, his blood staining the cold rock as he slumped, broken, to the ground at her feet. Frozen in terror, Daenara saw the monstrous thing that had tossed the unfortunate man gaze up hideously in her direction.

The hulking mass of advancing force, that seemed to crush all in its path, covered the short distance between them in an instant. Daenara cried out as the sharp pain of its embedded claw stabbed into her shoulder and spread down her arm like a thousand shards of ice through her veins. Seized by its vice-like claw, Daenara sank to her knees, panting, like a wounded lamb in the clutches of a beast. Her sword dropped from her hand and clanged to the stone.

The sounds of battle were far off and distant as she looked up into the abominable face of her captor. The smile that twisted its lips was the smile one wears when he has securely fastened his victim and relishes the moment of victory, before he savagely ends the torment. The brute raised its bloody sword over Daenara’s head, ready to strike; then suddenly the hideous features contorted with pain and a wail of rage. Daenara’s gaze fell to where a sharp blade was stuck through its belly from behind. She was released, and its claw having been the only thing holding her up, collapsed with a breathless gasp to the icy ground. Aéoden wrenched his blade from the monster, and before it could turn, lopped its hideous head clean off the rest of its form.

“Éomus!” he called wildly as he knelt at the fallen woman’s side, the sleeve of her dress drenched in her own blood. Her glassy eyes strayed about without focus, looking upward to the grey sky swirling above with gloomy malice. High above her she saw a single drop of rain fall. Slowly it fell—and seemed to fall and fall—like a silver bead streaming down, before she felt it cold upon her face. The single droplet ran down the side of her marble cheek before many more fell. The cold drizzle she could not feel, nor any pain, save for the pain of knowledge. She had failed Deacon. He would be alone.

Even as she lay there with the rain on her face, the battled continued fiercely. Through her haze she saw vaguely a figure bent above her. The brightness of his countenance seemed to blind her; she closed her eyes against it, yet still through closed lids could she see that brilliant white. It engulfed her in its serene brilliance and a warm light suffused her, surely, softly, beautifully.

When her wet eyelids fluttered open, her lashes heavy with rain, Éomus was kneeling over her. She saw fading from his hands the effulgence that transfused life from himself into her. His face was solemn and grave; to heal one must give something of oneself, though it is always replenished a thousand-fold. Looking up into his face, Daenara opened her pale and trembling lips, but not a word came. He gathered her into his arms and took her to his horse, where he assisted her up into the saddle and quickly eased himself behind her. He spoke words to his horse and the beautiful beast started off with clean, easy strides, leaving the battle behind.

Save for the last few determined brutes, most of the Wreavers lay in a bloody mess over the wet, rocky floor of the valley, stinking and putrefying the atmosphere. It was not long before they were slain, and the victorious party caught up with Éomus and Daenara.

They stopped at a village situated snugly in the hollow of cold mountains. The village was composed of a small number of sturdy stone cottages, with slate roofs powdered with snow. In a cosy tavern that smelt of smoke and burning wood, they took rest and food. The hot little room was packed full. The few locals here seemed pushed up against the wall, holding their mugs of ale with looks of displeasure, eyeing the well-dressed intruders, who were overwhelming in their uniformity and proud militant air. Few travellers ever came this way and the locals enjoyed their solitude.

Daenara shrank close to the fire, her face pale and clammy. Éomus, sitting next to her, took her cold hands between his own.

“You will carry that wound for the rest of your life,” he said. His face was untouched by the harsh conditions, but his eyes were full of care and unhappiness.

“Better to have let her die,” Daenara heard one of the men say in a hushed voice to one of his comrades, in tones of pity and fellow feeling, sympathetic with the knowledge of her inevitable death.

Aéoden leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, looking at her with compressed lips. Without addressing her, as though she were already dead, he spoke to Éomus. “We cannot take her further; she’ll have to stay here until we return. She can be of no more assistance at this point in any case and would be a hindrance,” he said, not unkindly. “One of the men will stay behind with her until our return.”

Éomus was not difficult to convince. It was his preference that she stay here and be safe. Thedred volunteered for this. Daenara was not entirely comfortable with him but had hardly the strength to object, and although she would have preferred Éomus to stay, she knew he would be greatly needed in fulfilling their task, since he was the only healer among them. Éomus and Daenara parted with a brief farewell; with an evanescent whisper of his devotion and a promise of his returning not alone.

Alone in her room, Daenara fastened the door. She stood a moment with her arms clasped round her body. It was night, and she was exhausted, but she could not sleep nor lie down. She was pervaded by a vast fear as she thought of Deacon in the clutches of dark mages, helpless against the perverse dealings of black hands. Thedred stood posted outside her door in the hallway. She could hear him pace restlessly.

Thedred was in the clutches of his own hell. His mind was hot with confused thoughts. He felt he could not bring himself to take her life and paced violently as he struggled with himself. He was used to witnessing the most gruesome of deaths and tortures, but this was all too close to home. He thought of his own young wife and child who awaited him. Goran, he knew, would not be suffering the same restlessness as he waited to extinguish the life of the child. Thedred knew the wretch would find some perverse pleasure in the task that he himself had assigned. The thought made him ill, yet he had a fierce sense of duty he could not ignore.

Daenara soon heard the heavy tread stop dead. She could almost feel his presence standing directly outside the door. The silence and the intense stillness was somehow more unsettling than the restless steps. The pulse in her neck seemed to pause as her gaze fastened onto the handle of the door, waiting, a sense of anxiety rising within her. But there was nothing.

A feeling of weariness took her, and she sank down on the edge of the bed. She sat there for a good moment with her face buried in her hands, and then slowly she raised her eyes. She had heard a gentle scraping noise at the door, a drawing of bolts. The latch to her door slid slowly across. She rose cautiously as the door quietly opened. There Thedred stood, pale and haggard, like a man who was suffering greatly.

“What is it?” she asked nervously. “What is wrong?”

For a moment he did not answer but held her fixed with eyes that were intent and feverish. A bead of sweat gathered on his brow. His strangeness filled her with a sense of dread and urgency. His presence seemed to take up every space in the room, so that she felt she had nowhere to move. She remained perfectly still, feeling any sudden movement would provoke him and seal her fate.

“Forgive me,” he said breathlessly.

“Thedred,” she implored, retreating a step.

In a stride or two he had seized her. He grasped her firmly behind the neck.

“What are you doing?” she cried. “Let me go!”

She struggled against him with palms, elbows, and fists, but he held her close as one might restrain an hysterical lover. A strange tingling emitted from his hand behind her neck, and a sensation of numbness invaded her body. It was as though her very blood had run cold. She was helpless in his embrace and would have sunk to the floor but for the powerful arms that still held her close. Silently her pleading eyes held his with an unswerving steadiness, willing him to stop, but he closed his eyes against her and rested his forehead upon her deathly face as though he might weep.

Frozen and staring, she was unable to move, but inwardly she was desperate. She could feel her lungs closing and gasped for air through numb lips. It was almost done when the candles suddenly died, and all became dark. She felt the strange hold on her relinquish and his body stiffen. She searched frantically for his face. There was just sufficient light for her to see him, ghastly and unrecognisable, his mouth gaping open in a silent cry. His eyes had shrivelled in their sockets until they were but two black holes, and the skin on his face had become tight-drawn, so that it was almost skeletal.

He released her and crumpled at her feet, nothing more than a ghastly corpse. Behind where he had been standing, Daenara saw in the shadows a shape of blackness. She choked and gagged, stooped over. The dark figure advanced from the shadows like a ghost from her past. Black robes completely draped his pale body.

“Luseph,” she gasped, as though she had not used her voice in a long time, her body trembling in pitiful weakness. “What have you done?”

He laid his thin fingers on her, and they were as ice upon her flesh. “You need not fear me,” he said in his pale voice. It was the last thing she heard before the world went silent and she felt herself sinking into a vacant blackness, an incredible gulf of emptiness.