Lorelle of the Dark, page 14
Khyven felt a chill. Memories flashed unbidden through his mind. The giant raven leaning over him, his glistening black eyes watching Khyven, his chillingly lucid speech issuing forth from that long, sharp beak.
Rauvelos.
“Yes,” Khyven said. “Yes, we do.”
Chapter Eighteen
Khyven
Khyven, Vohn, and Slayter stopped before the tumbledown gate of the towering nuraghi’s courtyard. He hitched his pack—filled with foodstuffs and other useful things for a long journey—higher on his shoulders.
The Mavric iron sword whined in his mind.
Khyven didn’t like that one bit. The sword had begun talking to him the moment he’d stepped into the noktum. That was new, and Khyven suspected it had everything to do with the Giant’s blood Slayter had pumped into him. The sword whined like an insistent hound ready for the hunt. There weren’t any words, though it “felt” like the sword was talking as Khyven understood the meaning exactly. The blade longed to be unleashed, and somehow Khyven could now hear its desires.
While Khyven had slept after the Battle of the Queen’s Return, Slayter had occupied himself with studying the Mavric iron sword. To protect himself, he’d created a magical, protective sheath that would contain the melting, destructive effects of the Mavric iron—at least as long as the user didn’t draw the blade. It was quite an amazing accomplishment. The magical sheath also made the unwieldy sword easy to draw. While the sword was six feet long, the sheath itself was only three feet, easily worn over Khyven’s shoulder, yet the enormous sword could be sheathed to the hilt without the point bursting through the end.
Magic. Khyven was beginning to see the appeal.
So Khyven could wear the thing across his back without encumbering himself, but the insistent whine was new. It felt… intimate, like some kind of secret bond.
He had considered asking the mage about this new aspect of the sword, but in the rush to chase Lorelle, he hadn’t wanted to stop and take the time. He knew Slayter well enough at this point to know the mage would want to study the effects immediately.
Of course, Khyven could have left the blade behind, but they were walking into a magical noktum to brace magical beings. The Mavric iron sword was the most potent weapon he had. The thing could cut through just about anything. It weighed less than a small dagger and it became one with his hand when he used it. In short, it was dominating in a fight. That was something they would likely need.
Wielding it could kill him, but that was a risk he was willing to run. Of course, he didn’t intend to use it unless at utmost need. He’d brought his other swords—one of steel and the other of wood—to be used in normal situations. He only planned to draw the Mavric iron sword if an altercation got weird.
Khyven shoved the whine to the bottom of his mind and stared at the Giant’s castle with Vohn and Slayter. This was the third time he’d come here, and the enormous thing still staggered his imagination. It dwarfed the Usaran palace—the largest building Khyven had seen before coming here—its worn and crumbling towers vanishing upward into the dark gray sky.
The first time Khyven had set foot in this forbidding place, he’d almost been eaten by a huge raven named Rauvelos.
The second time Khyven had come here, he’d returned to ask a favor. He’d been certain Rauvelos would take offense and kill him. But the raven had given him the Helm of Darkness instead, an artifact that could control the minds of the monsters in the noktum. It had been key to defeating Vamreth and helping Rhenn retake her throne.
The creature’s behavior was mystifying, but it apparently hinged on Khyven’s Amulet of Noksonon. After a single glimpse at the back of the amulet the raven had changed from polite murderer to reluctant host. From what Khyven could piece together, the amulet gave its wearer the protection of Rauvelos’s master, a Giant called Nhevalos, whose name was suspiciously similar to Khyven’s adopted brother, Nhevaz.
Nhevaz was the one who had spirited Rhenn away through the Thuros.
Khyven couldn’t see the big picture yet. None of them could, though Khyven had told them everything he knew about Nhevaz and the old man.
Slayter suspected Nhevaz was a descendant of Nhevalos—or perhaps even the legendary Giant himself. Apparently, Giants lived for thousands of years.
Either way, Nhevaz’s favor seemed to carry absolute authority with Rauvelos, and since Khyven’s amulet had been a gift from Nhevaz, Khyven could walk the noktum unmolested.
But even though Rauvelos had told Khyven he was safe here, he’d never felt it. Rauvelos had never indicated that he served Khyven. The raven did what he did for his own inscrutable reasons, his own internal code. Khyven felt there were secret protocols being observed, and if he unknowingly crossed some unseen line his protections would vanish and the noktum would turn from sanctuary to nightmare.
Now he was returning to make another request, and he felt that unseen line out there somewhere, more acutely than ever before. The giant bird might welcome him and help, accepting Khyven’s requests as part of his oath to Nhevalos.
Or he might not.
Khyven pulled himself from his grim doubts and back to the present. He glanced at his companions. Slayter’s eyes were wider than Khyven had ever seen them as he looked all around. In the Usaran palace, nothing fazed Slayter. Not Lorelle’s soul-bond. Not the sudden appearance of a Nox. He’d even shrugged off the loss off his leg.
But during their walk through the noktum, it became clear that Slayter, while amazingly knowledgeable about just about everything, had never actually been inside a noktum.
At first, he hadn’t been in favor of Slayter coming along. Khyven had worried they’d have to turn back after fifteen minutes and return the hobbling Slayter to the palace. Khyven had known two fighters in the Night Ring who’d had peg legs. They were not fast, nor did they have a great deal of stamina for staying on that false leg. He was sure the one-legged mage would only slow them down.
But while Slayter walked with a slight limp, he’d crossed the distance as fast as Vohn. The prosthetic leg Vohn had crafted was, apparently, far more sophisticated than a peg leg. The bottom was actually in the shape of a flat foot with a clever spring and hinge at the ankle. Whatever mechanism they’d used to secure it to Slayter’s leg seemed quite solid. It hadn’t fallen off yet, and it certainly hadn’t slowed the mage down.
Vohn’s attitude toward Slayter had changed since they’d entered the noktum. Vohn was constantly snapping at Slayter in the queen’s meeting room for his lengthy tangents, but the Shadowvar started acting like a mother hen the moment they’d stepped into the darkness.
Both Slayter and Vohn stopped when they reached the top of the rubble pile of the gate, breathing hard. Slayter reached out a hand and Vohn moved closer so Slayter could set it on Vohn’s shoulder to steady himself.
“Well, that’s just… so different,” the wide-eyed mage huffed.
“Different from what?” Khyven asked.
“My imagination. The drawings. I mean, I’ve seen depictions of this very nuraghi. But…”
“It is big,” Vohn said.
“It’s… mind-bending,” Slayter breathed. “A monolithic testament to eldritch beings beyond the scope of Human imagination—”
“Let’s write nuraghi poetry later,” Khyven interjected. “The amulets got us this far, but they don’t have enough to get us all the way back to Usara. If this goes badly, we’re going to have to run for Rhenn’s old camp.”
He made his way down the stones between the gates and into the courtyard. Vohn and Slayter followed more awkwardly.
“Badly? How could it go badly?” Vohn asked.
“So many ways,” Khyven murmured.
Rauvelos was hardly predictable. Khyven still didn’t know exactly why the bird had lent him the Helm of Darkness. In fact, while Khyven had been asleep, the Helm of Darkness had vanished, as had the similar helm Vamreth had used in their final battle.
Slayter had locked both helms and the Mavric iron sword—when he wasn’t experimenting on it—safely in a vault. When Khyven and his friends had decided to visit Rauvelos, Khyven thought it would be prudent to return the magical items to Rauvelos. So last night, Slayter had taken Khyven to his laboratory where he’d secured the deadly treasures.
Neither helm was there, though the Mavric iron sword remained.
Slayter had found that fascinating, of course. That vault had a heavy lock and three spells protecting it. The lock was still locked. The spells were still intact. Yet the helms were gone.
It had to be Rauvelos. The raven had somehow retrieved the items.
Khyven hadn’t been sure if the remaining Mavric iron sword was a sign of favor from the giant bird or not.
“Wait. Badly? How could it go badly? I thought you said you knew this creature,” Vohn said.
“Rauvelos,” Slayter said reverently.
“Rauvelos,” Vohn corrected.
“Steward of the realm of Nhevalos the Betrayer,” Slayter said.
Vohn flashed an irritated look at Slayter.
“Nhevalos the Betrayer?” Khyven said, feeling a chill scamper up his spine. That name didn’t bode well for Rauvelos’s predictability. “You called him Nhevalos the Savior before.”
“Well, he’s both, depending on which side of the war you were on. Nhevalos is a fascinating historical figure. The idea that he might still be alive, still orchestrating events in the world…”
“I thought you said he was on our side.”
“I said he fought for Humans in the Human-Giant War.”
“That’s our side,” Vohn growled.
“In point of fact, it’s the side of the mortal rebels who rose up against Giant rule seventeen hundred years ago,” Slayter said. “Strictly speaking, that’s not us.”
“How is that not us?”
“Well, seventeen hundred years is a long time.”
“You’re saying he’s not on our side?”
Slayter shrugged as he gingerly stepped onto the ground. “What I’ve read indicates he was a cunning Giant who was always a step ahead of his enemies. Who can say what Nhevalos is thinking.” He gave Vohn a sidelong glance. “That’s what makes it so fascinating. Are we his friends or his foes?”
“He stole Rhenn,” Vohn said.
“Yes, he did. But to help us or hurt us?”
“How could that help—”
“All right,” Khyven interrupted. “Discuss later. Keep your eyes open now. Slayter, whatever attack spells you have, have them ready.”
“Of course, Sir Knight,” Slayter said.
They marched across the long, flat courtyard. Khyven kept his gaze forward and did not look at the eerie statue that had frightened him last time. It was only when he and Vohn reached the enormous steps that he realized they’d lost Slayter.
Khyven whirled, his hand going to his sword, but the mage was in plain sight a hundred feet behind them, standing next to, and staring up at, the same statue that had tortured Khyven’s mind.
“Slayter!” Khyven whispered harshly. When the mage didn’t move, he cursed softly and jogged back. Vohn stayed at his heels.
Slayter seemed mesmerized. Khyven gripped the mage’s arm, intending to pull him away.
“Khyven,” Slayter said excitedly. “Do you know what this is?”
“A damned eerie statue,” Khyven said, tugging Slayter’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Slayter gently dislodged his arm from Khyven’s grip. “This is…” he trailed off, his face alight with wonder. “This is alive.”
A chill ran up Khyven’s back. “It’s a statue.”
“No,” Slayter said. “I think he’s still alive, still in there. Khyven, this could be a real Giant!”
“Impossible.” Khyven looked up at the statue’s face. It began to change almost instantly, just like it had before. The haughty, noble brow creased in anger, folds in the forehead deepened to a frightening parody of rage. Khyven forced himself to look away.
“Slayter…” Vohn approached.
“Miraculous,” the mage said, awed.
“This isn’t your laboratory, Slayter. Almost everything in the noktum can kill you. Stop looking at it.” Vohn took Slayter’s other arm and tried to pull him away, but the mage shook his head and wriggled out of his grip.
“Imagine what we could learn…” Slayter whispered.
Khyven was tempted to pick up the skinny mage and carry him away, but he hesitated.
“Just… give me a second,” Slayter said as he flipped open the cylindrical pouch at his side. His deft, slender fingers clicked through the stack of meticulously made clay disks and he pulled one out. “Ah,” he lamented. “I wish I had more time. I should really craft a spell specifically for—”
“Slayter, we can’t just stay here,” Vohn said. “We don’t have the time.”
Slayter’s head came up and he looked around as though just realizing they were in the middle of the noktum. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be quick.”
Vohn sighed and glanced around, but Khyven was intrigued despite himself. In the past, mysteries like the shifting expression of the statue were simply mysteries, unable to be solved. There were some things that mortal men simply couldn’t know.
But Slayter seemed to look at mysteries like annoying masks to be removed. And he actually had the ability to pull those masks away, to discover the secrets beneath. His well of knowledge was so deep he could unravel mysteries no one else could.
Khyven had taken one look at the statue and run away like a wild animal running from fire, but Slayter wanted to understand it. Maybe Slayter couldn’t wield a sword or lift a person and carry them away, but he could look past the inscrutable and see the workings of the world. That was amazing to Khyven.
“Give him a moment,” he murmured.
Vohn raised his eyebrows, surprised.
Slayter placed the clay disk on the flat surface of the pedestal, which came up to his chest, then he hesitated.
“What?” Vohn asked nervously.
“I can’t just…” He pressed his lips into a line, then glanced down at the charcoal dirt and black grass at his feet. “Yes. This.” He knelt, managing his prosthetic awkwardly, and scooped up a handful of dirt. Vohn helped him stand, all the while looking worriedly at Khyven, perhaps hoping he would do something to stop this, but Khyven was fascinated.
Slayter scattered the dirt across the pedestal, up to the shiny black feet of the statue. He took out his little metal scratcher, a twin to the one he’d given Khyven when he’d first been sent to spy on the Queen-in-Exile.
“It won’t be strong,” Slayter murmured to himself, “but it’ll do. I have to know.”
The mage began his spell.
Chapter Nineteen
Khyven
Slayter took a deep breath and slowly let it out. With steady hands, he scratched a line through the scattered dirt, carefully building a symmetrical symbol that meant nothing to Khyven. The mage’s hands moved economically and confidently like he had done this a thousand times. He never raised the scratcher from the dirt. It took him less than a minute and the symbol looked complete except for one little line.
Slayter let out another slow breath, careful not to disturb his creation.
Khyven had never seen Slayter at work before. He’d never noticed how deft the man’s hands were, his fingers long and agile. They seemed almost to have a life of their own as they handled the first scratcher, then produced a second from some pocket in his robes.
Even Khyven, who had relied on his reflexes and his sense of his body to save his life over and over again, didn’t have the kind of manual dexterity Slayter now displayed. Every motion was intentional, every move through the air, every single shift of the scratcher in his hand, they all seemed to have a ritualistic purpose and Slayter was aware of each tiny movement.
“Slayter—” Vohn began, but the mage gave a curt shake of his head.
Khyven put a hand on Vohn’s shoulder. The muscles in Vohn’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything else.
“Vohn, hold this for me please,” Slayter murmured, nodding at the coin resting on the pedestal.
“This is a bad idea,” Vohn said.
Slayter remained completely focused on his dirt drawing and the coin beside it, never looking at Vohn, but his forehead wrinkled a little in frustration. Khyven moved forward and carefully touched the clay coin without moving it, holding it firm.
Slayter nodded, closed his eyes, and drew a breath, then opened them again. He lowered both hands simultaneously. The tip of each scratcher touched their respective symbols, one on the coin and the other on the dirt drawing. Slayter drew two lines at the same time, one an eighth of an inch long through the clay and the other two inches long on the dirt. He finished each symbol at exactly the same moment.
Blue light flared from the lines of the dirt drawing and orange light from the coin. The sudden color in the otherwise gray-and-black landscape was shocking. Khyven started, though he kept the coin pressed firmly against the black marble.
“Let go,” Slayter murmured, and Khyven lifted his hand away.
“Lotura!” Vohn whispered harshly. “No light! You can’t make light in here!”
Slayter ignored him.
The orange light from the coin slithered up the legs of the statue, circling around and around until it reached his waist. The blue light chased it like a little brother trying to catch up.
Slayter held his breath. He held both scratchers at shoulder level.
The statue moved!
Its hands clenched into fists, making a grinding noise. Vohn stepped back and Khyven drew his sword. The statue craned its neck, making the same grinding noise, and it looked down at them. The rage-filled expression hit Khyven like a blow. The statue opened its mouth as though he was yelling, but no sound came out.
Then the blue light caught up with the orange, wrapping around the Giant’s throat, and a roar exploded from its mouth, shattering the silence.
