Regret's Shadow (Sins of Earth Trilogy) (7 page)

With that, the shade walked its vessel back to a waiting position near the door.  As the image of Drejth faded, his voice could be heard echoing above the hum of the engine.

“The time of my return is nigh.  Do not fail me.”

As the thrall resumed its dull form and posture, Leodyne bowed
its rotten head.  After a moment, it rose, and turned to Reynolt.

I hope you are aware of the importance of this moment, whelp.

Reynolt turned his face to the lych, but his eyes were unfocused.  Falkshire didn’t notice.  Deep inside, Dramus began to manipulate the ARC engine’s power signature.  He tuned out all but the most basic of sensory data.

History will mark this day as the beginning of the end for the
Van Uther line.  The Realm of Men will kneel before its new master!

The lych punctuated this statement by placing its cadaverous hands upon Reynolt’s chest.

Immediately Reynolt was assaulted by a blaze of freezing pain.  He nearly lost his connection to the ARC engine as the agony ripped into him.  The icy touch of the lych spread through his chest, deepening into his very being as the thing fed upon his life-force.

Tendrils of power swelled from the engine to fill the void of negative energy created by the lych.  As it began to pass through him, Reynolt used his gift to transform its positive energy into hungry negative energy – even as it threatened to consume him.

Leodyne lurched at the first eddies of negative energy rippled into his hands.  It had been high on power; the taste of this young wizard’s life-force was intoxicating.  Combined with the magical essence coursing from the ARC engine, the sensation had been overwhelming.

Now
, its skull jerked down to look into the blazing red eyes of the man it had underestimated.  Reynolt allowed a grim smile to form on his lips, before using the Arcane to lend unnatural strength to his limbs.

As Falkshire
realized what was happening, it tried to withdraw.  Steely hands broke from their shackles and gripped its forearms.  The dry bones cracked and shattered, but still it could not pull away.  Reynolt leaned forward, continuing to use his power to unleash a brutal assault on the lcyh.

NOOOOOOOO
, was all Leodyne could moan, as the negative energy that granted it immortality began to erode its existence.  The lyche’s only hope was to outlast the young wizard.

The exchange was taking its toll on Reynolt.  While he used his gift
- which allowed him to manipulate forms of energy - to deplete the lych, its effects were draining him badly.

His jet hair began to thin and tendrils of white shot through it.  The skin around his eyes and mouth wrinkled, his cheeks became sallow.  If he held on much longer, the energy
would continue to prematurely age him, eventually killing him.

After what seemed an et
ernity, the lych succumbed.  Its skeletal body withered and cracked to dust, while swirling motes of blackness erupted from its skull.  A keening howl escaped from the shattered cage of its torso, nearly eclipsed by the whining of the ARC engine.

Spots formed in Reynolt
’s vision as he held on, waiting for the final traces of the undead wizard to be obliterated.  He slumped to the floor and nearly lost consciousness.

As his vision returned, he let the last bits of dust from Leodyne’s bones slip through his fingers.  He
lifted his head, an effort that raised protests in his enfeebled muscles.

All around him the laboratory was in chaos.  Vibrations from the still-
pulsing engine were rippling through the room.  Books, vials, and other arcane paraphernalia were toppling to the floor. 

Windows were cracking as the magic Leodyne had used to strengthen them fled.  Reynolt knew that the tower would not withstand much more of the ARC engine’s power.

As he stood, he noticed the crumpled forms of the lyche’s thralls.  It was then that he felt the energy of the ARC engine growing out of control. 

Despite the danger, he took a chance and reached out to draw some of its energy to him.  He used his gift to manipulate the magical em
anations, bending them, twisting them again into positive energy.

He straitened sharply as the power flowed into him.  Aches and pains caused by the premature aging process began to fade.  Some semblance of youth began to return to his ravaged features.

Before he could fully restore himself, however, the stones below the engine buckled, and he realized he had no more time. 

Lamenting the artifacts and knowledge that he would have to leave behind in the tower, he broke for the door.

The flight down the decrepit staircase was a blur.  As he burst through the exit, Reynolt wondered how he’d been able to keep his feet all the way down the steps.  He took no time to ponder it, however, and continued to run down the rocky path toward town, as the tower cracked and crumbled.

He stopped several hundred yards down the slope, puffing in the salty air.  He turned and watched as the tower folded in on itself, blazing light flowing from the cracks in the stone.

The ARC engine’s whine reached a crescendo, and the rubble erupted in a brilliant flash.  Reynolt raised an arm to cover his eyes.

As silence descended, he chanced a look.  Through the clouds of dust and drifting debris that were caught on the sea breeze, he saw only a smoking crater where the tower had been.  He stood a moment, gathering his breath and his thoughts.

Letting out a resigned sigh, he turned and resumed his descent into Mord’s Casting.  It wasn’t until he began to see the stricken faces of the villagers that he began to wonder how he’d explain everything.

Moonlight streamed through the window of his small bedchamber, but Erick wasn’t awake to appreciate it.  He tossed fitfully in his bed, sweat beading on his brow even with the cool, early spring temperature.  The young acolyte in the Temple of the Sacred Scroll was tightly held in the grip of a nightmare.

Erick stood
upon the granite steps that led up to the massive double doors which lead into the temple.  The sky was the color of rust, with bruise-colored clouds racing across it.  His shadow was unnaturally long as it climbed the steps, even though he couldn’t find the sun.

One of the double doors was hanging oddly from
a hinge, and a small crimson splash adorned the lower left hand corner.  The granite of the steps had taken on a dull, almost coal hue.  The entire scene gave the young acolyte a horrible feeling of dread.  Despite this, he felt drawn toward the yawning darkness beyond the doors.

He thought he heard a voice, dry as burning leaves, calling him from within.  He wanted to turn away, to run from the blood, his shadow, from the entire surreal scene.  Instead, he began to ascend the steps.

As his sandal touched the stone of the step he heard a hoarse scream echo from nowhere and ice ran up his spine.  Just the same, he continued.  Weaker sounds of pain and suffering accompanied each step, and he began to weep, unable to turn away.

A trembling hand reached out to push open the door which remained on both of its
hinges, and nearly recoiled at the corpse-like flesh that hung from his arm.  Still, he pushed on.  The door screeched as if in pain, and Erick stood on the threshold.  He gazed into the impenetrable darkness, and saw two eyes emerge.

Like two white moons they blazed from the ink, with irises as deep and black as the space between the stars.  Erick heard high-pitched wailing in his ears and as he began to feel a malevolence flow from the doorway he tried to back away.

He tripped over his long robes and began to fall backward.  His hands flew wide, attempting to grab at the doors to stop his descent. 

Cold fire blazed in his wrists and he gasped at the titanic grip pressing the bones in his forearm together.

Snapping his eyes down to his wrists, he saw white hands holding him steady.  Hands incredibly emaciated to the point that Erick would have thought they were skeletal if he hadn’t noticed the desiccated flesh cracked and stretched thin across the bones.

He tried to recoil, revulsion roiling up in his gut, but the grip was too strong.  His eyes flicked up to meet those of the darkness
, and then those massive orbs blinked.

“Errriiiiccckkkkk…”

The fathomless depths contained in the voice sent his mind spinning and he woke up screaming.

He sat up in bed and gulped down the cool air of his room.  His eyes rolled wildly as he tried to bring his reason to bear on his surroundings.  Finally
, he began to realize where he was and that it had all been a dream.

Still, he rubbed his wrists where the dream-hands had gripped them.  He thought they still throbbed, but chalked it up to his imagination.  The familiar
details that he began to register in the moonlight brought him a little closer to calming down.

Twisting, he reached out and found the ceramic mug he kept on his plain nightstand and brought it to his lips, drinking deep of the cool water.  He let out a gasp as the last of it was drained, an
d set the cup down.  He lay on his back, and stared at the ceiling.

This was the second time he’d had the dream, and the horror was becoming more intense.  He wasn’t sure what the dream meant, if anything, but he was afraid to shut his eyes, afraid he’d end up looking too deeply into those midnight orbs.

Frustrated, he whipped the covers off and spun to put his feet on the floor.  The stones were like ice and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.  Still, it was strangely reassuring to him and he stood, rather than withdraw his soles.

He moved across the small chamber to a desk beneath the window.  He struck a long, slender match and lit several candles there.  Cupping a hand around the tiny flame, he turned and moved to the modest hearth built into the corner of the outside wall.

After sever points of light bloomed on the kindling, he dropped the matchstick in the flames and turned to the small woodbin that he kept stocked daily.  In moments a cheery fire was rippling in the hearth, and he warmed his hands over it.  He could feel the heat creeping through his robes and along the floor to his toes.

He allowed himself several minutes of gazing into the flames, hoping to erase the last vestiges of the dream.  Finally
, feeling more like himself, he moved to slip on his sandals and take his seat at the desk.

He’d lain awake after the last time he’d had this dream and waited for dawn.  This
time he wouldn’t waste the hours that he knew he wouldn’t use for sleeping.

Erick was an assistant to the
headmaster, and not a terribly proficient one at that.  His writing was often sloppy and took him too much time, but he was dogged in his work ethic and unquestioning of the headmaster’s authority.  Thus, he was a valued member of Colius’s retinue.

Unfortunately for Erick, it meant he was also always behind in his work.  He supposed in a small way he could be thankful for the nightmare, in that when it was done he had some time to get caught up.

He went to work on copying a letter that Colius wanted sent to several destinations.  The work, while taxing, helped the young man forget the dream and relax a bit.  Time slipped away in which the only sounds that could be heard were the merry crackling of the fire and the soft scratching of the quill on parchment.

Erick woke with his head on
the desk and immediately sat up.  He hadn’t been aware he’d fallen asleep.  The letter he’d been working on was stuck to his face with the drool that had leaked from his open mouth.  He peeled it away and as he moved to set it down on the desk he groaned in dismay.

His inkpot had been spilled across the pile of blank pages and ink had dripped into his lap.  He stood, placing the letter off to the side of the desk and moved to his small wardrobe.

He donned fresh attire and set the soiled robes next to the door.  He supposed he was lucky the robes were black.  Perhaps in their infinite wisdom, the founders of the temple had planned that.

Realizing that he was still quite drowsy, he made his way back to bed.  The nightmare mostly forgotten, he drifted off and woke late.

On the desk, the spilled ink had formed into the twin spots of blackness of those nightmare eyes.

In the absolute darkness of the ruined tower’s basement, Hade felt about, hoping to get a sense of the room.  It must have been some sort of root cellar, as the floor was cool earth, and the ceiling was only four feet above.  He could crouch, but for the moment he stayed on his knees.

He lay down his bow, unhooked his scabbard from his belt, and slung his quiver from his back, laying the weapons within easy reach.  Next, he began to feel about on his hands and knees, taking it slow; he didn’t want to fall into a hole or bumble into a wall and cry out.  No doubt the goblins were crawling through the woods outside, hungry for man flesh.

After several minutes, he was satisfied that he was alone in the small chamber, as he found no signs of an animal’s nest.  All he could feel were dirt, stones, and some rotted wood that may have been crates of some kind.  He briefly contemplated trying to light a fire with the wood by striking a stone with an arrowhead, but quickly discounted the idea.

Not only would it be exceptionally hard for him to find the right kind of stone in the dark, but the wood probably wouldn’t light. 

Even if it did, the smell of smoke drifting up through the trapdoor would surely alert the goblins to his presence.  He was forced to content himself with curling up among some of the broken crates, shivering in the cold.  It didn’t help that his clothes were damp, but he supposed he should be thankful that he’d found a place that was out of the wind and
rain, and offered the best chance of escaping detection.

Eventually, what little adrenaline he’d been running on faded and exhaustion overtook him.  He slept fitfully for a few hours, starting awake here and there, a
lerted by a furtive noise, a crack of twig, or the rumble of thunder.  Just before dawn he fell into a more restful sleep that was unbroken for more than an hour.

When he woke the last time, lying on his back, he was completely disoriented and gripped with fear.  He lay in the darkness, heart thumping in his chest while he tried to sort his confused thoughts.  With his other senses returning, he gradually became aware of his surroundings and remembered.

The previous day’s events came storming back into his mind and he blew out a harsh sigh.  Goblins.  The giant.  Everyone dead or lost.  For a short time, despair overtook him. 

He was incredibly tired, sore, and heartsick.  It was all so dreadful that it threatened to paralyze him.  The storm soon subsided, though, as Orin Hade was not one for bouts of self-pity.

He rolled to his side and immediately regretted it.  His joints screamed in protest, and the dull flame flickering in his left arm burst into an inferno.  He let out an involuntary groan.  Inwardly he cursed at the noise, but it couldn’t be helped.  He sagged onto his back once more and blew out a low hiss.

His body definitely wasn’t what it had been when he’d first joined the army.  Years of fighting, wounds, and constant activity had begun to wear
on his frame.  He was frequently forced to remind himself to take things slower, to take on tasks that he’d normally have leapt blindly into with a bit more of a measured approach.

He began to flex his fingers and arms, while at the same time rolling his ankles.  After a few moments of popping and cracking, the complaining in his joints dulled to a weak protest.  He began to move his legs and welcomed the slow return of warmth to his body.

This time, as he rolled to his hands and knees, the pain was less immediate.  Frowning at his infirmity, he crept toward the trapdoor, now a square of soft light in the gloom.  As he reached the area where he’d dropped his weapons, he stopped and held his breath, listening.

The rain had stopped.  He could hear sounds of the forest changing shifts
, from nocturnal duties to the work of the day.  He strained, but could hear nothing that belied the presence of goblins nearby.  He gave himself another good two minutes before he collected his sword, stomach rumbling.  He slowly drew the blade from its scabbard and then moved to crouch below the opening.

Taking a breath, he rose to his full height.  The tower ruin was cloaked in gray light, the stones and rubble showing no signs of having been disturbed in the night.  He could see through the broken opening in the wall, to the mist-shrouded forest beyond.

Nothing moved in the gray.  A few saplings stood like black bones spreading into scorched skeletal fingers as they rose, but no figures moved through the stands.  Again, he strained to hear anything that would tell him that goblins (or worse) were still in the vicinity. 

Nothing.  The normal sounds of the forest in spring comprised the total of his detection.

He eased himself out of the basement, and crept forward over the moss-covered cobbles to peer out through the gap.  His fingers tightened around the grip of his sword, and his breath came quickly.  If there was a goblin or two waiting for him, he’d go down in a lake of black blood.

It was silly, of course.  If any of the goblin horde had suspected that he was hiding in the ruin, they’d have rooted him out and gnawed on his flesh.  Still, a warrior’s training was not an easy thing to dismiss.

Eventually he’d made a full circuit of the tower, and, having found nothing other than signs that several goblins had stopped by in the night, he returned to retrieve his bow and arrows.  Once he’d donned and adjusted all of his weaponry, he sat on the ruined stair and thought about his way forward.

He figured that his best course was to make for the trail, and head back to the ‘Folly.  It seemed, as best that he could reckon, that the goblins were making in the same general direction, which did nothing for his anxiety.  If the horde came upon the small outpost with
no warning, the men of the fort and the folk in its small village were as good as dead.

There was a possibility that the savages would continue past the fortification, but it would be due to pure luck, and after the day he’d just had, Hade wasn’t keen on trusting to such a fickle force.

The only other option would be to strike for elven lands to the north.  Their Realm was many leagues, but rumor had it that they ranged into human lands with impunity; their magic made them nearly invisible to the eyes of men.

If he did meet a band of elves, h
e might be shot on sight, but then again, he might be able to take advantage of the tenuous truce that existed between the two kingdoms and, if not gain immediate support against the goblins, perhaps use some of their magic to help get word to the king.  It was the longest of shots, but some part of him entertained the idea.

In the end, his loyalty to the men
and women of Kelleran’s Folly won out.  He couldn’t, in good conscience turn his back without knowing what had befallen them.  Perhaps he wouldn’t be too late.

He headed right out of the tower’s gaping hole, striking in a generally northward direction.  He’d left the path last night to reach the ruin, hoping it was far enough out of the way that the goblins wouldn’t even bother with it.  He knew this area quite well, having ranged it for years.

As he drew closer to the path, the enormity of the goblin army became more apparent.  The underbrush became trampled more and more, with hundreds, and then thousands of booted and bare footprints stamped into the mud.  Saplings were bent over and here and there trees had chunks hacked out of their bark, as if in gleeful, gratuitous violence.

He nearly missed the trail
; so much of the brush to either side had been driven into the mud.  Still, once he found it he picked up his pace.  The sun was fully up and his tired body had loosened-up considerably.  Even his arrow wound throbbed less urgently than normal.  He’d always had a hearty constitution.

He thought of what he’d do when he reached the fort, but it all seemed fruitless at this point.  There was no way to know exactly what had happened, but as time went on and the general bulk of the horde seemed to follow the path, his heart sank lower.  There was no doubt the beasts had made for the ‘Folly.

He broke into a loping jog as he neared the final slope that would lead to the valley in which the fort had been built.  He thought he smelled smoke, and now and again the weak breeze carried what could have been roars of glee and shouts of rage.

He came to the lip of the ravine and stopped cold.  Below was a scene out of his wo
rst fears.  Smoke roiled up from the burning wall of the fort.  Green-skinned forms clad in rags swarmed through the gaps in the flames, slaughtering anyone in their way.  A token defense was firing from the watchtowers mounted at the four corners of the wall, but it was for naught.  The village itself lay in ruin.

Hade had never before witnessed nor heard of a goblin force of such size.  There had to be ten thousand or more of the beasts down there, with larger, more twisted forms sprinkled throughout the throng.  He saw the giant, which gave his stomach a lurch, before he saw the hulking forms of several more.

Screams of the townsfolk were intermittently drifting up.  Hade’s tortured heart wanted to rush to their defense, while his mind knew there was no way he could help them alone.  Hopelessness and shock held him in place. 

He was nearly set upon by the goblin scouts before he’d even sensed their presence.  His mind reeled as two greenskins flanked him from behind, shocked that the savages had even thought to post a rear guard.  Just the same, his sword flashed free of its sheath and he immediately dropped into battle-readiness.

The slavering monsters came at him as he shifted so as to try and keep them from coming at him from both sides.  They grinned through jagged teeth as they waved their notched blades in slow circles.  Stopping just out of reach, they feinted and jabbed at him, while jeering in their crude tongue.

Hade was pressed.  Behind him the trail descended sharply, and the goblins cut off any chance of withdrawal.  He decided to see just how cunning the bastards really were.

He slipped in the mud.  It was just a slight jerk, but he lowered his blade in order to balance and the goblin to his left laughed as it came in for a killing blow.  Having braced on a rock, Hade was able to pivot past the clumsy strike, reverse grip on his blade, and plunge it with a backward stroke through the goblin’s torso.

Its yellow eyes widened in surprise as Hade used its momentum to heave it behind him and down the slope where it bounced and crumpled like a rag doll.

The other monster simply stared as its stupid grin faltered.  Obviously the quick and easy kill it had been envisioning was going to be neither quick nor easy.  It began to second-guess its course of action.

Hade let the gears turn, however slowly, in the beast’s mind.  He needed a chance to recover and the thing’s disbelief allowed him to situate in a more stable spot and get his blade
in a better defensive position.  It was then that he noticed the horn dangling from its belt.

A bitter rage shone in his green eyes as he thought of the foul creature sullying the sergeant’s prized possession.

Something in his countenance struck the goblin, and it thought better of engaging this human.  It slipped only slightly in the mud as it turn to run, dropping its crude axe.  Hade smiled, stabbed his blade into the ground, and hauled out his longbow.

He
nocked and drew, blowing a long breath through his moustache.  The thing was trying to zigzag through the muck, but was really only stumbling from fear.  As it finally had the thought to grip the horn at its waist, hoping to warn the horde, Hade loosed.

The arrow sunk home in the goblin’s black heart, killing it instantly.  It dropped sharply to the mud and twitched comically.

Hade was not ashamed of the grim satisfaction he took as he strode forward to retrieve the ram’s horn.  He had to roll the still-twitching corpse onto its back to reach it, and it was then that he noticed the strange symbol for the first time.

Emblazoned upon its ragged tunic was a black rune, with green trim.  It was exceptional work for a goblin, and Hade guessed that it had been sewn by finer hands.  It resembled a stylized skull with horns and wicked fangs.  It immediately engendered a feeling of unreasoned dread in the man.

Why was this goblin wearing such a patch?  Come to think of it, he must have seen it on the others he’d fought.  Flashes of memory were jumping forward in his mind.

Yes, there had been others with this symbol sewn into their rags.  A cold feeling spread into the pit of his stomach.

No one had heard of the disparate goblin tribes gathering under any uniformity.  Even within the individual tribes themselves, rarely was such iconography used.  If someone, or something, had found a way to unify the unwashed masses of blackbloods into a driven force, as seemed evident by the past day’s events, then the Realm of Men was in great peril.

Tying the horn off to his belt, he started away, hoping to skirt the rim of the valley to link up with a trail that would lead him toward elven lands.  The nation of the fey folk held the closest
military outpost, a fact that often rankled the human army, but it was Hade’s best shot at making a difference.

He stopped, and as an afterthought, went back to the corpse.  He took the crude knife from its belt and cut a swath out of its tunic which contained the symbol.  He wadded it up and stuffed it down the neck of his tunic
and slid the blade through his belt.  His own knife he’d left in the eye socket of some goblin during the previous night.  He grinned at the memory.