The Alterra Histories: The Fire King (8 page)

Every syllable was spat forth as though he would strike her with it. He meant every word. “I understand,” she said.

“Promise me you will not leave the encampment,” said Aincor, looking her firmly in the eye.

“I will stay in the encampment.”

“You won’t leave it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Faelani, her head hung in defeat.

Part Five

In the depths of his pale tower, Lord Wrothgar prepared to receive his enemy. The Fire-heart and his army would break though his defenses soon, but that did not dismay him. The most powerful and ruthless Elven warrior ever to draw breath was, in all likelihood, expecting to stand defiant before his very throne…but that was of little concern.

Not often on the eve of battle is one so certain of victory, yet Wrothgar was certain. His plans had been well laid, his armies well positioned. The Enlightened Peoples of Alterra had been lulled, beguiled, and misled, and now they fought desperately to defend themselves. Aincor, the mightiest of them all, would most certainly fail to prevent the Dark Uprising from overwhelming all the western lands. Such grand plans had a price, and Wrothgar expected to pay a heavy one—he would need to tear apart the very fabric of his own existence.

The Shadowmancer had lurked in the dark places of Alterra since the Time of Mystery. His origins were unknown; even he could not remember them. But he had practiced his evil magic for thousands of years, always in darkness, fearful of the Light. He coveted the power of Creation; hated all things positive and wholesome, despised enlightenment, tolerance, and love…love most of all. Love was the enemy of all things he valued— subjugation, fear, suppression, ignorance, loneliness, suspicion, jealousy, and pride—these things gave him power.

He knew that he could not withstand the Light of Aincor’s spirit for long. But if all went according to plan, there would be no need. He would summon forth that part of himself over which the Light had no power. This would take every scrap of skill, energy, and concentration he possessed.

Wrothgar was a creature of spirit and smoke; he only took physical form when he wished to. It was necessary in battle, as he could not wield a weapon otherwise, but it wearied him to maintain a body. It also exhilarated him—his senses were only in play as long as he maintained form—and the sights, smells, and feelings delighted him. He had learned to abandon his body if the battle turned against him; he had, in fact, done so three times before Aincor’s army in the past. But he had yet to face Aincor himself.

First, he would once again take physical form. His body slowly materialized from within the flaming house of his spirit, writhing and twisting, as bringing it into being was always painful. Wrothgar took substance from the ashes of the dead, conjuring and re-forming the flesh until it was firm and whole. Usually he would then don his fearsome armor, but not this time. There was no need. He wanted to appear vulnerable…to lure his prideful adversary within his grasp. He sat upon his throne, running his newly-formed hands over his magnificent, naked form, shivering with delight at the sensations coursing through his skin, muscles, and viscera. He lifted his terrible, horrifying face toward the heavens, snarling, and drew several deep breaths. Then he closed his eyes, dropped his strong jaw nearly to his chest, and began summoning.

Wrothgar reached into his own breast with both hands, drawing forth his beating heart. His body shuddered in agony, but did not die. Holding his own heart in his left hand, he began to conjure with his right, moving his long, powerful fingers over and around the heart, which began to beat so rapidly as to nearly burst. He was rewarded—a dark mist rose, an evil vapor that killed all light within it, swirling in malevolent ribbons and clouds. It grew larger and larger, until it enveloped Wrothgar’s entire form in darkness. There was mad, shrieking laughter, agonized moaning, and a deep, oily chuckle emanating from it. Wrothgar gasped, nearly swooning before placing his heart back into its housing.

The deed was done. The Shadow had been summoned.

~~

Aincor left Faelani in the supply wagon, along with Vathan, who had been bound to it in chains. The body of Talon, Aincor’s fallen commander, had been reverently laid there and covered with the King’s battle-flag. Aincor, who was already armored and ready to depart, spoke only a few words to Faelani. He dared not take her in his arms, nor speak of the love in his heart, for he feared his resolve would weaken.

“Stay here as you have promised, and all will be well,” he said.

Faelani tried to hold him, as she feared for him. “If the battle goes ill I may never hold you again. I don’t know if I can bear it!”

He drew back from her, but his expression softened with regret. “Do you have so little faith in me? In my decisions? I have told you before...as long as I have you, I will fear no darkness. Whatever dark fate you’re imagining will not come to pass—not as long as you are safe. I’m angry with you for putting yourself at risk, but I cannot allow you to distract me now. You must have faith in me!” He paused and looked into her eyes, waiting for an affirmation.

Faelani dropped her gaze. “I have faith in your abilities, beloved,” she said. “But...I don’t...what I mean is...”

Aincor didn’t wait for her to finish, his face expressionless, masking his disappointment. “I see how strong your faith is. Just make sure you stay here with your faithless brother.”

He turned to Vathan with a mixture of anger and contempt. “I regret that I must leave you in the presence of one so heroic and loyal as Talon, as it seems an insult to his memory.” He leaned down so that his eyes met Vathan’s, his dragon-scaled leather armor creaking, early dawn light already glinting on its polished red surface. “If I did not so love your sister, I would have struck you down already.” With those words, he was gone.

Faelani wept as she watched him go, afraid that she had seen the last of him, and wishing she had been able to proclaim absolute faith in his ability to prevail. She knew that he was walking into far worse than he expected—Léiras had foreseen it. She also knew that despite her own strength of will, regardless of Aincor’s insufferable confidence and disregard, she would die without him. Aincor was stubborn, reckless, insensitive, and self-important, yet Faelani knew of his fear, and she loved him anyway.

The war-party set forth, and it was a grand sight. The great Houses of the Èolar—the Dragon, the Raven, the Owl, and the Wolf—strode forth, silken battle-standards unfurling in the foul breeze, lifted their swords and spears to the Fire-heart. They would have followed him anywhere. They chanted as they marched toward the Pale Fortress, knowing they would soon face the great Evil within it, firm in their resolve.

Vathan heard them chanting, and he gave a great cry of frustration, pulling hard on the chains that bound him to the wagon. “I am not a traitor!” he shouted, yanking on the heavy iron manacles again and again. “Aincor! You do not know what awaits you! Release me so that I may aid you! Release me so that I may fight and die beside you!” He slumped over, knowing his struggles were futile, his long hair obscuring his face. Faelani could not see the shame in his eyes, but she knew it was there. She came nearer, placing a tender hand on her brother’s shoulder.

“I know...I know. He judged you far too harshly,” she whispered. “He really isn’t himself now—but it hurt that you did not trust his decision.” She swallowed in a dry throat, knowing that her lack of trust had hurt Aincor far more deeply. She shook it off, her tone lightening with false hope as she tried to lift her brother’s spirits. “Your disgrace will not stand, for Léiras knows of your courage in sending the wind- walkers. Aincor will see the truth of it when we return home.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew they meant nothing.

“None of us will return home, Faelani. You know it!” said Vathan, turning his stricken face toward her. “You know he is walking into something dire, along with your son and mine, but your warning—our warning—was of no help. He has made up his mind, and will not turn aside. Now my only choices are whether I will die fighting beside him or die chained to this wagon like a dog!”

“Or,” said Faelani, “you could die by the King’s hand if you try to follow him and he catches you. He will strike you dead for your disobedience this time—have no doubt of it.”

“I would rather face that dishonor than remain here, helpless to do anything but wait for Wrothgar’s minions to find me. Please, sister, if you have any solution, share it now.”

Faelani trembled, terrified by her own thoughts. She glanced over at the armored body of Talon and closed her eyes. She did, indeed, have a solution, but it would take all her courage to implement it.

~~

Wrothgar slumped on his throne, a ragged, healing scar drawn across his breast, as the Shadow loomed before him.

“Why hast thou summoned me?”

“You are here to serve Me in battle, nothing more.”

The creature laughed, a horrible, gurgling, oily sound that sent shivers even through the Shadowmancer.
“And dost thou believe I serve any but myself? How very foolish,”
it said.

“You are a part of My being. You cannot exist outside My influence. You would do well to remember it,” said Wrothgar.

“As would thou,”
the Shadow replied, swirling around Wrothgar’s throne like a veil of black silk.
“Thy strength is in me, and I hold the key to thy victory. I move at my own bidding—no one orders me.”

“Then go forth and work your art. There are bodies to break and souls to steal. When you have finished, return to He Who has Summoned you. Our reward will be great, and I will remember it. Together, we will rule this world.”

“And what if I should choose otherwise? What then? Thou hast not the strength to oppose me, and I shall be even stronger with each foe I vanquish.”

“You cannot exist without me,” said Wrothgar. “See, now, what will happen if you try!”

He took his own throat in both hands, and squeezed. His body stiffened, his black eyes bulged, but he did not relent. The Shadow’s black veil turned a sickly grey. It began to twist and roil in alarm. “
All right,”
it said.
“I understand.”

Wrothgar released his own throat at last, choking and gasping for breath, as the Shadow’s form turned black once more. “You…cannot exist…without me,” he said, still wheezing. “Remember it! Now, go.”

Once the Shadow had departed, Wrothgar readied himself for the next step in the plan. He almost wished that his success did not depend upon the Shadow, as he was so much stronger when it was housed within his own being, but he knew the risk would be worth it in the end.

~~

The Shadow lurked in the depths of the Pale Fortress, casting itself harmlessly across the walls and the floor, surrounding Wrothgar’s battle- force. Once the Enemy appeared, it would fulfill its purpose, taking the Elven host one by one until the few who remained would be forced to retreat. It would feed well…oh, yes! Because the Shadow was a part of Wrothgar, it knew of Aincor Fire-heart…how regrettable that the reverse was not true. When the High King fell, the Shadow would make certain he knew who had vanquished him.

Thousands of defenders stood waiting—Ulcas, Trolls…even two of the Night-fliers, slender, long-necked black dragons who would attack like silent, flame-spouting bats. These legions were commanded by massive, savage men who had been turned to Wrothgar’s service with promise of riches and power. Formidable warriors, they wore the scalps of their victims stitched together like gruesome capes. Hair of gold, mahogany, and raven intermingled, bearing silent testimony to the deaths of men and Elves alike. Some sat astride fierce wild pigs with enormous, sharp tusks—it was not known whether the rider or his mount was of more fearsome disposition.

Wrothgar’s defenders did not know about the Shadow. Wrothgar didn’t want to fill them with confidence—he wanted their terror to be real, to draw the Elves into his web. Those who could feel fear trembled in the darkness as the chanting and the Light of Aincor’s host drew ever closer. Then, rather abruptly, the two armies stood facing one another at last.

Aincor did not hesitate, as he saw nothing unexpected. He brandished his sword, flaring up with brilliant light, and charged forward. The defenders outnumbered the Elves by five to one, but they would not stand long before the light, and Aincor knew it. His followers knew it, too. They rushed forward on the heels of their King, and the battle was joined.

~~

Vathan had put on Talon’s armor, though he was neither as tall nor as massive and it had not fitted him as well as he would have liked. He had joined the host of Elves just as Aincor led the charge, and he drew his own sword, looking around for Aldamar. He had promised Faelani that he would watch over Asgar, as well. He found them both fighting right behind Aincor, using only their weapons, for they were neither experienced nor strong enough yet to summon their Inner Light. Still they made good progress, swinging their swords with lethal precision.