Alium, page 39
Ogwold was in awe as much for the change in Hesgruvia—for he had never beheld one of the purple folk—as for the notion that any race of beings might be more horribly persecuted than his own. At once he was ashamed for thinking that his own troubles had been special, that there were not others in the world that suffered more greatly, for of course there were. He was blessed to have found at last a place where Novare like Solena would speak with him as an equal, but even here in a place that professed proudly its tolerance of otherness there was an unsquashable seed of hate.
“I can hardly imagine what that must be like,” he said finally. “I thought it was oppressive to be Nogofod, but we were paid and kept alive at least. Now I see what war really is. But why come here, Hesgruvia? How difficult it must be to obscure your identity from the people you care for.”
The witch nodded knowingly. “I left my people because I could no longer abide their treatment of the trees. They dominate them, you see, as I’d will you not treat your new arm. The forests of Efvla become each day more black and rigid, so that each great tree dies and becomes like a tower of metal, mouldable matter for the housing and weaponry of the Empire. The Empress and her ancestors are so afraid of losing the trees either to age, or, now, to the Lucetalians that invade their land, that they immortalize them as unfeeling statues of their former glory. It is a sick and depraved thing, and I could live among it no longer.”
Ogwold sat thinking, his green hand held fast to the living wood of the old tree in which they rested. “But not all Xol think as the Empress does?”
“Many disagree, as I do, with the way of things, but many more are aligned with the will of the ancestors, and there is, of course, the curse. The blackening of the trees, it is a natural consequence of our being, imbued in our blood long ago by our eldest mothers.”
“But this tree seems quite all right, yes?”
Hesgruvia smiled. “I have overcome the curse. It was the only reason I allowed myself to live among the true trees of Altum. I wish one day to return to Xoldra and share what I have learned, but…” Her countenance wilted. “I will be struck down if I am seen again among those branches. I am enemy as much as the King of Lucetal to Fozlest now.” She looked up to Ogwold. “However, your coming to me creates an interesting opportunity. Already I’ve given you guidance in the nurturing of your Fonsolis, and as well I have an idea as to how you might achieve Zenidow in time, but do me one favour in return, Ogwold.”
“Of course! I’m happy to help!” The ogre beamed.
Hesgruvia smiled solemnly once more. “It is these Zefloz, the group of sorcerers whom you race to the great mountain, whom your friend is hunting. The Zefloz are the Empress’ elite, her personal squadron. They will have little trouble with mountain Novare, or mutants or any other monsters here. And that is why they are far ahead of you in the journey. They came through Fonslad a long time ago, and have long left the marshes behind.”
“And must we outpace them? I know not the true reason for my journey, though I perceive easily that the sphere goes in haste.”
“I fear that the heart of Zenidow holds a great power, and that the Zefloz will take it by any means. This would not be so terrible a thing if it were not for Zelor.”
“Zelor! I know that word!” Ogwold shot up. “My partner; he comes with me to Zenidow in pursuit of that name.”
Hesgruvia raised her silver eyebrows, and the deeps of her purple eyes glinted. “Now that is most peculiar,” she said. “Zelor I know little of personally, divorced as I’ve been from the Xol, but I know he is new to the Zefloz, and I know that he is possessed of a great and terrible fear that goes ever before him. When he came through this place I felt that he walked not alone, for a great black shadow was cast about his presence, and it came from beyond the world. I sense that his reaching Zenidow will hold only calamity for all races of Altum. For I sensed also his power; it is far greater than any I have ever known, and by a tremendous margin.”
“I wonder how Byron knows him,” thought Ogwold aloud. “But I see now, if he’s so evil, why Byron has such hatred for him.”
Hesgruvia nodded. “Zelor will be the greatest threat to your quest, in time. But he is not the Xol wrapped up in my favour. Though they are powerful and extremely dangerous, the Zefloz are also quite different from most Xol, each of them with their unique interests in their journey. From the start there were some among their number who already disagreed with the ways of the Empire. Zelor has broken the minds of them all but for one. Her name is Elts.”
The syllable of the name echoed through Ogwold as though it were some discreet and subtle necessity in such a song as his mother’s which he so often recited in his mind and heart, yet he knew it was some part of a different song, some other portentous structure of verse from another path, a greater song, perhaps, or equal in importance to his own, and so the name of Elts crystallized in his memory like the single shard of a great work one day to be fully realized.
“She was the student of my oldest friend and greatest ally, Xirell, though he has fallen,” the witch went on. “But she will certainly be interested in defeating the curse of our ancestors, as working against that weave was her master’s greatest dream.” Hesgruvia opened her palm, and in a turn of light there appeared a lone seed, slender like a teardrop and brown as the rich soil of the forest. “I wish, Ogwold, for you to deliver this seed to her. It can be the salvation of Efvla, if it is protected, and planted deep in the black forest Xoldra whence this all began.”
Ogwold held out his hand. “I will gladly aid you, Hesgruvia. If there is a way for Byron and I to catch up with the Zefloz then I will make as great an effort as I do in fulfilling the wishes of this sphere in fulfilling your own. Elts will have the seed!”
Hesgruvia smiled and placed the seed into the ogre’s palm. He stowed it in his bag, safely cinched in the pouch which once had contained his stock of dried tutum skins.
“They are very near to the Great Mountain even now. I know not what stands between them and Zenidow yet, but there is a way for you to overtake them.”
“That sounds impossible!” Ogwold laughed nervously. “We’d have to fly through the air!”
“Indeed,” said Hesgruvia. “You require the friendship of a Euphran. Only such a creature could bear you that far and over so many perils.” She stood up. “I know of only one near to this place. She is called Wygram, and she is ancient and very lazy, but could do this thing for you if you can earn her trust.”
“A real Euphran?”
“There are many in the mountains, for they are the greatest lovers of Caelare and this place is closest to her in all Altum.”
Ogwold was silent, thinking of all the dangers he had so far weathered, of the Eyeless and the guards of Occultash, of the evil Zelor waiting for him at his goal, and now of the Euphran. But again his heart gladdened, and he was reminded of Byron and his bravery. He looked up determinedly, and she saw the resolve in his eyes.
“Wygram,” she said, “is trapped, actually. You will need to free her. That should perhaps indebt her to you, but even so she will not at all want to be flying to Zenidow. She is kept in the deepest darkest dungeon of the Sanguar Lord Azanak, who has his great stronghold at the centre of the marshland. Azanak is millions of years old, and has roosted here sucking the blood of all life for that time in its fullness. Now that Novare have come they are frequently farmed in his dungeons like cattle, though the people of Fonslad blame most of his murder on the Eyeless.”
“What is a Sanguar?”
“It is a cursed thing, a dead thing that walks and takes only to the night with vigour. It must drink blood and blood only, from any vein it can tap. And Euphran blood is the most delicious of all. Azanak keeps Wygram deep, deeper than the Novare prisoners of which there may be hundreds, and deeper even than the other rare creatures which he keeps half alive there.”
“But how do I stop something which is already dead? Cut off his head?”
“No, that will accomplish little more than a brief respite while it is reattached. He does not quite have corporeal form, and can change his shape at will. There is only one way to kill a Sanguar, and that is sunshine. Even fire won’t do the trick, nor puncturing its heart, nor obliterating it. The sun is its only enemy. Azanak will have many defences against it, though I suspect a creature so ancient will be prideful and reveal some chink in that strategy if you stay at it long enough.” She leered at Ogwold here as if making a cruel joke. “But, I’m sorry, I’m scaring you on purpose.” She suddenly leapt up and came to him. “I must tell you another property of the Fonsolis.” She grasped his wrist and held the arm before her. “Ah, it is like no other plant,” she marvelled, her eyes swimming with awe. “To think I would ever even touch such a thing in my long life.”
“This can help me defeat the Sanguar?”
She peered at him circumspectly. “Tell me Ogwold, how do plants grow?”
“They need water and sunlight.”
“Right you are, and so does your arm, Ogwold. You may have noticed this.”
“It does love water, and feels more sturdy and hearty when I am out in the light. But it is still useful even in complete darkness. I was trapped by the Eyeless for a long time, and stuck in the pitch black fighting my way out for I don’t know how long. I relied on its power throughout, and it never failed me.”
“Trapped by the Eyeless! That is terrible!” Hesgruvia’s tails swished and wrapped around each other. “Thank Caelare that you escaped. The Fonsolis alone can’t be so powerful?”
“I had help. The sphere lit the way, and my partner Byron is a near unstoppable force.” Ogwold grinned sheepishly, embarrassed for having been at all in such a dire situation.
Hesgruvia stared at him before slowly beginning to laugh. “Ogwold, you will accomplish great things. I’m glad to hear you have some experience fighting. Perhaps you noticed some weakness in the limb though?”
“I suppose towards the end of our escape, and then, now that I think about it, when we came out into the light again I felt as if I’d awoken from an endless sleep.”
“Amazing. That is even a greater power than I expected. You see, Ogwold, the Fonsolis absorbs sunlight like any other plant, and it also stores that sunlight, like a desert plant stores water, and much of that light remains unconverted.”
“Unconverted?”
“Pure sunlight, stored within the systems of the Fountain Seed until it necessarily becomes energy for the plant. But before that process begins, it can be released in as many ways as the flesh itself can change its form. If you learn to release it when Azanak is vulnerable, the Sanguar will stand no chance.”
Ogwold looked at his hand and thought of the great day star itself. “How do I do it?”
“I have no idea,” said Hesgruvia, going back to her seat, tails flicking. “That’s for you to figure out. Now, as for finding his awful fortress, it is as I said in the heart of the mire, where the four lakes meet, and it is ever shrouded in dark clouds. If you head straight north of my tree, you will encounter Lake Lumus. Circumnavigate it until you come to one of the four land bridges. Such will lead you straight to the centre of things.”
Ogwold sat long on Hesgruvia’s floor, pondering the quest she had set before him. But at long last he stood and bade her farewell, thanking her for all she had shared. “Hesgruvia, I cannot thank you enough for your guidance. I promise to deliver the seed to Elts. I won’t fail you!”
“Farewell, Ogwold. Xeléd be with you.” The witch nodded, smiling, and with a weaving of tails the entry-seam again formed the bark of her tree-house.
*
The ogre took his leave, sliding down the ropy vines to the forest floor, passing through the thick weave of mist. Notch to notch he made his way back to the crumpled outskirts of the city, wandering through the overgrown ruins, walking along the fringes of the first cobbled roads as if Videre might suddenly appear from the wood to join him. Still, there was no sign of the great cat. Returning to the inn he could not find Byron either, though surely the mercenary could not still be swinging his sword somewhere. By this time any other day they should have long been on their way. And then it occurred to him that there was a tavern.
At the back of the inn, in the large barnish room, the dark loft twinkling with liquors, at one of the many small circular tables stood about there was Byron, face darkened and glowering in shadow, a great mug set before him, and that tremendous slab of a sword lying beneath his feet where none could lay even an eye upon it without a glare from its owner.
“Where were you?” grumbled the mercenary as Ogwold pulled up a seemingly tiny chair across from him. The wood creaked dangerously, but held the ogre’s weight.
“Finding a path for us. And you?”
Byron’s eye flashed. “Most guards just laugh. But I met an old fisherman; he says there should be trails far beyond the lakes.”
Ogwold tapped his huge fingers upon the wood. “I went into the wood to meet the witch Hesgruvia; Solena spoke of her.” He looked around the room, but the guard was not present. “Turns out she is a Xol just like your enemy, but she pretends to be Novare. Apparently the Xol are just as hated here as they are in Epherem.”
“Makes sense. That hatred has become a great unifying force for most Novare.”
“I was surprised,” Ogwold murmured. “She helps them with the Eyeless.”
“The cavelings are monsters, easy to hate as they are to think about.” Byron slugged his drink. “But the Xol, thanks to the rhetoric of Lucetal, are a much more intellectual enemy, almost a religious one. It’s something that’s taught from a young age. You don’t need to tell someone twice that the cavelings are dangerous, but the Xol, you have to make someone believe it, feel it, trust in it as they pass it down to their children. That’s not just fear; that’s real hate.”
Ogwold stared at the mercenary who had spoken with the beginnings of passion. His eyes fell on the drink which again seemed to have inspired this strange openness in the man. “I knew that kind of hate,” he said. “Or, at least I thought I did. We Nogofod are raised thinking we are lesser beings. But meeting Hesgruvia today, or, that is, her name is Hesflet—”
“Hesflet, a beautiful name.” Byron raised his mug. “Call her so then.”
“You’re right,” said Ogwold. “Meeting Hesflet, I glimpsed what it really means to fear one’s own identity. It is a horrible thing.”
Byron nodded; the bustle of the tavern dulled, rose in volume as several new men came in at the threshold. “You are honourable to place the suffering of the Xol above your own, for theirs is great, but that does not detract from what the Lucetalians have done to your people.”
Saying this the mercenary went swiftly to the bar, as if to escape again the sentiment of the moment, returning with his mug full and foaming, and the expression of solemnity again upon his brow. “More importantly: if you met one of the Xol,” he said, “we are in great luck. She must have sensed Zelor if he passed through here.”
“She did,” said Ogwold. “She knows him and his whole company by name. And they came into Fonslad, yes, but a very long time ago. Zelor is far ahead of us, and apparently seeks some great powerful thing stored in Zenidow.”
“Yes. Zelor was sent by the Empress of Xoldra to retrieve a great weapon. They call it Alium.”
“Hesflet told me that Zelor is evil, and will use this thing to conquer the world. But she said that there are other Xol with him who are good of heart. Well, there were, but now there is only one who has not fallen to him.” Ogwold took out the pouch with the seed and opened it over the table.
Byron’s green eye peered circumspectly into the leathery dark. “What is it?”
“A cure. I’m to give it to the one called Elts who goes with Zelor. If she can bring it to the black forest and plant it there, it will reverse the process that changes the trees.”
Now Byron was shocked. His lip seemed even to drop, and there was little mystery in the passion of his gaze. Quickly he cinched the pouch and pushed Ogwold’s hand back into his bag. “We must reach them as soon as possible,” he said. “If this is true, the races may reunite.”
“Well, they are very close now to this Alium, perhaps even at its doorstep. Hesflet believes that if Zelor achieves his goal he will become unstoppable. Even now he may be too powerful. She told me that she has never known a Xol so strong.”
“It was not always so,” said Byron, and he took a long draft from his mug. Foam flecked his mouth when he slammed it to the table. Several heads throughout the room turned to the noise, but quickly resumed their own business. “Zelor and I grew up together like brothers. We were weak, but both of us came through the life of the sword into our own strengths. He was mocked by all Xol for his impotence when it came to magic. But together we were formidable, and he became even a great hero in the tales of my people.”
“The Xol were not always the enemy of Novare?”
“To Lucetal they have always been evil, but I come from a different Kingdom of Novare called Molavor, which had its home in Efvla beside the purple folk long before any contact was made over the great sea. We lived in harmony with the Xol for many ages. But that time is lost to the deeds of Zelor.” Byron set his empty glass upon the wood with surprising delicacy.
“He changed,” he said finally. “The Zelor I knew was gone, and in his place was a monster. A red-eyed creature of darkness wielding a magic that awed even the mightiest sorcerers, so mighty even that it brought fear into the heart of his very Empress. But she is hungry for power as any, and so he was elevated to the highest of her ranks, and sent now upon this mission which, it seems, he has already taken over for his own purposes.”
Byron had spoken a great deal, and the two sat in almost stunned silence as the words washed between them. Ogwold at last could see how difficult was the task before the mercenary, to hunt down and kill one whom he had loved.
“Well,” began the ogre, “I don’t think these paths beyond the lakes are going to get us to Zelor fast enough.”
