In the High Pass

by Alcuin Fromm

Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

part 7

Bracing his foot against the dying man’s chest, Doustian withdrew his sword from the enemy’s side and readied himself for the next attacker. The mysterious horn sounded again. Turning to face the gate, he saw, to his complete surprise, that no one came through. He looked at the handful of fellow Ælliri survivors. Everyone seemed equally baffled.

Screams, clashes of steel, and a barrage of deep twangs echoed from beyond the palisade. Suddenly, the men along the wall began climbing down the other side into the enemy’s territory, using the very ladders of the besiegers. Other Ælliri cheered and descended into the camp only to run through the gate and straight onto the killing field.

Bewildered, Doustian motioned a nearby soldier towards the gate to investigate, then he hobbled up a ramp along the palisade wall. Doustian looked out over the battlefield and nearly collapsed in shock.

Scores of creatures had streamed down the northern mountainside and slammed into the right flank of the enemy. At first, Doustian thought he was seeing giant spiders but, after a few seconds, to overcome his astonishment, the undeniable reality dawned on him. The Fmoi had come.

Though they had eight limbs, there was nothing insectoid or arachnid about the Fmoi. They had four legs, two in front and two in back, each ending in huge ten-fingered hands. Unlike other quadrupeds, however, the legs of the Fmoi were not jointed for merely forward and backward motion, but also lateral. They galloped at amazing speeds between the attackers, shifting suddenly to the left or the right. Humanoid torsos with four arms and human heads, topped with wild, uncropped curls, rose out of the center of their abdomens. The lower set of arms carried heavy arbalests that sprayed deadly bolts in all directions, while their upper arms held shields and swords for close combat.

The viscount’s men scattered in all directions, unorganized and panicked. The remaining Ælliri, fewer than a few dozen it seemed to Doustian, had gathered outside the breached gate and begun a forward push into the broken lines of the enemy, driving them further from the wall. Meanwhile, the Fmoi tore through the enemy soldiers hacking and shooting in a blur of destruction. Farther down the valley, large numbers of men fled in a rout.

Doustian noticed some of the Fmoi carried human riders who clung to the creatures’ torsos with one arm and swung long, bloody swords with the other.

Then Doustian saw him. He was unmistakable. Duke Rikkon of Ælliri, with his bright, griffon-winged helm shining in the sun, slashed at his foes from the back of a battle-enraged Fmos. Joy welled in Doustian’s chest. Cenn had been right, and Doustian’s faith had been rewarded. Their father had returned and had somehow brought with him an ally out of the oldest myths and legends. Tears welled in Doustian’s eyes.

“This is indeed unfortunate,” said a deep, male voice.

“Well, who could have expected that the Mountain Dwellers actually still existed?” replied a woman.

Doustian turned his head to see Læynolde and the Guildsman standing next to him on the palisade wall.

* * *

Emter Noon collapsed to the ground in a heap, knocked from his horse by Pavill’s pike blow. His plumed helm tumbled from his head and rolled into the underbrush. Emter scrambled to his feet and drew his sword as Pavill dropped the pike and unsheathed his own blade.

The infamous reputation of Emter Noon hinged upon his skill with the bow and the merciless violence of his followers. As a lone swordsman, his abilities lacked sorely. Fatigued though he was, Pavill felt renewed energy, recognizing his overwhelming advantage.

Emter parried Pavill’s first, mighty blow but nearly lost his balance in the movement. Emter swung once, then again, as he retreated into the forest. Pavill easily deflected the attacks and drove his opponent backwards. Twenty paces into the woods, Pavill prepared himself for a killing strike.

In desperation, Emter reached into a satchel hanging from his belt and hurled an object that struck Pavill’s chest plate. A flash of blue light followed and suddenly Pavill sensed intense burning. The metal of his chest plate turned orange, then red, then white as it became hotter and hotter. Pavill screamed in pain as he fumbled for the latches to remove the armor afflicted by the enchantment. Emter fled into the woods.

It took a few seconds for Pavill to remove the chest plate, hurling it to the ground with a final yell. The armor smoked and began to singe the twigs and leaves around it. Ignoring the burns along his shoulders and sides, Pavill bounded into the woods after his quarry.

Emter fled deeper into the forest, but with each stride, his pursuer gained ground. Pavill had become a man obsessed, losing all track of time and position. He saw only Emter’s scurrying form drawing closer. Finally, Emter caught his foot on a log. He tumbled forward, rolled, and sprang back to his feet. In the process, however, he lost his sword. Emter turned to face Pavill and threw up his hands, backing away slowly.

“Mercy, my lord, things are not as they seem,” he said with a quivering smile, then suddenly winced and pressed his palms against his temples.

Pavill advanced slowly. “You killed my brother, and now I will kill you. That is not how things seem. That is how they are.”

“No, no, no, no, your brother? No, this was... there was... one of my idiot archers thought there was a rich nobleman passing by... he had... and—”

Pavill shook his head. “Tell me one thing before you die. What did the warlock say? Did he threaten you? Flatter you? Pay you?”

“The what? The... yes! Yes, he threatened me with torture and death! I had no choice. I—”

Emter suddenly choked and fell silent. A change swept over his face. His head cocked sharply to one side with a violent, unnatural movement and a sickening crack. Pavill stopped, gripped by the visceral sense of some inhuman evil. Emter dropped his arms and his head slumped forward. His body began to fall to the ground but froze then levitated into the air.

Pavill took long strides backwards, his wide eyes scanning all about him. Emter’s mouth began to move, but the deep, gurgling voice did not belong to him. “We are watching you, Pavill of Ælliri. Soon you will have to make a choice.”

Emter’s body burst into bright, blue flames that engulfed and coiled around the corpse, quickly consuming it. After a short time, there was no more body at all, but only a floating conflagration, whose intense brightness and heat drove Pavill stumbling further backwards as he shielded his eyes.

The otherworldly voice rang out again, no longer emanating from the body of Emter or any other visible source but resounding inside Pavill’s own head. “Choose... wisely...”

The mass of flames expanded and burst outwards in a final, exploding ball of heat and flame. The blast threw Pavill off his feet and sent him crashing backwards against a tree trunk.

He lay motionless on the ground for a long time, drifting in and out of consciousness. When he finally came to his senses, he felt no satisfaction about the demise of the hapless puppet, Emter Noon, but only crushing emptiness from the knowledge of how futile his effort had been. What had he accomplished? What could anyone do against the Art? It would have been better to die at the side of his soldiers, he thought. Black despair washed over his heart.

Pavill realized that he had allowed Emter to lure him into the forest. He slowly got to his feet and looked around, seeing only burnt and blackened trees. He listened carefully and heard distant noises of battle, but the faint sound echoed off the tree trunks, seemingly from no direction at all. Through the thick canopy above him, he could not see the position of the sun. He had completely lost his sense of orientation.

He trudged through the trees for endless minutes. Stopping, he listened again and could no longer hear even the faint sounds of fighting anymore. He turned and moved in a new direction.

Time dragged on and Pavill became more and more desperate. Finally, he sensed that the light through the woods to his left shone brighter than elsewhere. He moved towards it, and not long after, noticed the trees thinning. In the distance, he could see the edge of the forest and open ground. He heard a yell from the same direction. Moving as fast as he could, he hobbled past the final trees and burst out into the open air.

Pavill halted and fell to his knees.

Everywhere before him lay hundreds of dead and dying Ælliri. Moans and screams echoed off the nearby hills. A handful of soldiers wove between the men, searching for those that might be saved, offering consoling words to those that could not. The enemy had departed, but not before utterly decimating the Second Ducal Ælliri army. His army, thought Pavill. This was his decimation. This was his fault.

Stupefied and too shocked to even feel any emotions, he mechanically stood up and began to assist the few survivors in their morbid tasks.

* * *

Doustian did not hesitate. He swung his sword wildly with both hands and all his might. Before the weapon reached its target, Læynolde and the Guildsman vanished in a grey mist, only to rematerialize behind Doustian. He stumbled to the ground, his blade slashing through empty air and hacking into the wooden floor of the platform. As he fell, the stuck blade snapped under Doustian’s weight. He scrambled to his feet and turned to face the magicians, still clutching the griffon hilt tightly in his hand.

“What is this madness?” said Doustian. “What does any of this achieve?”

The Guildsman laughed and waved an arm over the dispersed skirmishes that remained of the siege.

“This? This is nothing, pathetic boy. We have taken but the minuscule first step in a long, long journey. But a necessary step. The age of men is finished. You are witness to the birth of a new age. The age of the wielders of the Art.”

Doustian shook his head in disbelief. “You’ll unite the entire Empire against you. This useless battle here could cause a war, the likes of which no one has ever seen.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” said the Guildsman. “But I’m afraid you won’t be around to see it.”

The Guildsman nodded his head towards Læynolde, who closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Doustian straightened his back and peered into the Guildsman’s eyes.

“There is something more profound than your Art, Master Guildsman. Someone. And you can’t escape him. Not in the end.”

The Guildsman’s smile turned to a snarl. He leaned in toward Doustian. “Greet him for me, you superstitious fool.”

The Guildsman nodded again to Læynolde. In an instant, hundreds of tiny lacerations sliced through the inside of Doustian’s body at the same time. Capillaries, veins, and arteries were suddenly severed by Læynolde’s Art. No cut was deep or long, none broke his skin, but the overall effect created a cataclysmic, internal dismantling of his entire circulatory system.

The Guildsman closed his eyes and leaned his head back, using his Art to examine the work of his protégée. His eyes popped back open in surprise. “My dear, I’m not sure whether to be impressed or frightened.”

Læynolde smiled. “Be both,” she said, then swooned into the Guildsman’s arms, losing consciousness after the monstrous exertion her Art had required for the gruesome task.

Doustian merely blinked. His body went into shock. His skin turned blue as he bled internally from a hundred different, unseen wounds. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he began reciting a prayer in his mind, turning his final thoughts to eternity. As he careened sideways off the platform, the last thing he saw before he struck the ground and darkness overtook him was a grey, dispersing mist.

* * *

Proceed to part 8...

Copyright © 2022 by Alcuin Fromm

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