The Ascent (Book 2) (15 page)

“Mmmph!” the man protested.

“Quiet,” Garret whispered. “I am not going to hurt you.”

He dragged the man backward into what little shadows there were and dropped him face down in the weeds.

“What’s the meaning o’ this?” the man asked as he rolled over. His eyes widened as he saw Garret’s clothing, recognizing the robes and the types of weapons that the assassin carried.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Garret apologized. “I am not ready to show myself here just yet.”

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Scorpion,” Garret replied. “What is your name, friend?”

The man sat up, brushing twigs and dirt from his tunic. “Hargis,” he said. “Hargis the Mad, they call me.”

Garret chuckled. “Why do they call you Hargis the Mad?”

“Because me name is Hargis, and I be mad.”

“Interesting. Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

“What do you want?” Hargis asked.

“I need to know if the Jindala are here regularly or if they are just passing by from a nearby post.”

“Well,” Hargis said. “There’s always four o’ ‘em at any given time. But ne’er the same ones. Those four have been ‘ere before.”

“How many different groups have you seen here? And do they sleep here?”

Hargis scrunched up his face, trying to think. “I think three different ones. They rotate, like city guards. Two days on, two days off, two days back, an extra day...or something like that. And aye, they do sleep here.”

“Which rooms do they use?”

“They use the suite on the north side o’ the inn. Sometimes they take women folk up there. Sometimes those women folk come out wrapped in sheets.”

Garret sighed. He would have to kill them. But, with a regular rotation of guards, killing them right away would not be a good idea. He would have to think of something else.

“Who else comes here besides you?” he asked.

“Mostly merchants and travelers,” Hargis said. “Sometimes the local farmers will come ‘ere to sell meat or grain to Jax, and stay for a few pints...but...”

“What?” Garret asked.

“There was a man ‘ere yesterday. A strange Jindala man, dressed in fancy robes with gold and jewels on ‘em. He looked like somebody important, and carried a jeweled sword. He took Jax’s daughter and left north with her in a big wagon.”

“He took the innkeeper’s daughter?”

“Took one look at ‘er and his eyes twinkled like...like...a thief seeing a diamond the size o’ his fist.”

Garret saw sadness in the man’s eyes. Apparently he was a regular and had gotten to know Jax’s daughter; as a patron, or a friend. Either way, Hargis cared for her, and her plight was not pleasant for him.

“How old is she?” Garret asked. “And what is her name?”

“Oh, twenty four, maybe,” Hargis answered. “And ‘er name is Twyla. Pretty thing. Nice as could be. If I was twenty years younger...”

“I get it,” Garret said, nodding. “Where do you think they were heading when they took her?”

“I don’t know, friend,” Hargis replied, halfheartedly. “All I know is that Jax is beside ‘imself with grief. He knows what this fancy pants is probably doing to her.”

“I will find her,” Garret promised. “And I will bring her back.”

Hargis’ eyes narrowed. He sat forward, bringing his face close to Garret’s. His breath smelled of ale and peanuts. “You do that,” he whispered. “And do it soon, before he kills her.”

“I will,” Garret replied. “Tell Jax that he will see his daughter soon. But do it quietly and without arousing any suspicion. When I return, I will kill the guards.”

“Good,” Hargis said, standing up. Garret joined him and started to shake Hargis’ hand. He then remembered what the man had been doing and changed his mind.

“North, you say?”

“North,” Hargis answered, unbuckling his pants once more. “Gotta go again. Sorry, sir. Good luck to ya.”

Garret shook his head, chuckling as he moved swiftly across the path and around the rear of the inn. From his vantage point, he could see the trail winding around the inn and down the hill behind it. After about one hundred yards, the path narrowed and straightened, disappearing into the forest. Somewhere to the north, an innocent young woman lay captive in an enemy camp. Garret would not allow her to suffer. This was his road now. Queen Maebh could wait.

Farouk had felt the odd presence near the tower since the night before. He could not put his finger on it, but something felt out of place. With Jodocus off doing whatever it was Jodocus did, the former Jindala captain was left alone to meditate on his upcoming journey, and care for the tower. This new disturbance, though not immediately dangerous, warranted his attention, and he was determined to find out what it was.

Farouk had dressed in his earth toned robes and leather boots, armed with his new staff, and his sword. He hoped the sword wasn’t necessary, but he, nonetheless, felt the need for its comfort. He hesitantly exited the tower through its cottage below, stepping out into the misty morning. The fog was thick in the area, as it was lower than the rest of the forest, and visibility was low. He could only make out the dark shapes of the surrounding trees against the gray wall that enveloped the grounds, and the usual sounds of the morning birds were missing.

It was too quiet.

Swallowing, Farouk stepped forward, his staff held before him. He breathed deeply, summoning the Earth’s power of wind. Slowly, the breeze picked up, clearing a pathway through the mist that allowed him to see. He picked up his pace, following his instincts to find the direction of the anomaly. It seemed that the feeling was stronger straight south, only slightly to the west. He knew that the banshee’s lair was in that direction, and though he was not particularly happy about heading there, he could not just let the anomaly disturb the balance.

Boldly, he strode forward through the parting mist and followed the trail through the forest to the lair of the creature of myth. He knew that the banshee had been destroyed by the Defiler, and was unwilling to believe she was the source of his odd feeling, but some small part of him was open to the possibility. The undead were unpredictable. They were undead, after all, and they could never truly be destroyed. Not completely.

As he got deeper into the forest, he noted the trees were less and less vibrant. They were more withered the closer he got to the banshee’s lair, and their trunks were more barren and ghostly white. Even in the light of the morning, the forest here was frightening and smelled of death.

He let loose small amounts of healing energy as he passed, allowing the trees to absorb some life from him. Small buds began to form on them, struggling to gain purchase in dead wood. But when Farouk had passed, they all withered once again, dropping off onto the ground below. His innate, passive power was not strong enough to heal them, but he dared not waste his energy just yet. It was best to save it just in case.

Farouk,
a familiar voice spoke in his head.

Farouk crouched, scanning the forest around him. The underbrush rustled lightly, parting as the small figure of a Druaga emerged.

“Ah, my friend,” Farouk whispered. “It is good to see you again.”

And you as well. I was hoping you would come.

“What is out here in the forest?” Farouk asked. “I felt it last night, and it was much stronger this morning.”

The void has returned to feed on the banshee’s energy.

“The Defiler?”

Yes. It is lost and alone. And frightened.

“Frightened?” Farouk asked, skeptically. “Why would such a creature be frightened?”

The warrior destroyed it a Taryn, but somehow it was able to return. It does not know why, and is now seeking the warrior.

“For what reason?”

So the warrior can kill it. It does not want to be in this world any longer.

“Strange,” Farouk remarked. “I would never have guessed that the creature would have fear or any other feelings at all. Where is it?”

It is in the lair, hiding. It sensed my presence, and now yours. It is afraid.

Farouk squinted into the haze, barely able to make out the twisted mound of trunks and branches that the banshee had called home. “Is it dangerous?” he asked.

I do not think so. But do not underestimate it. It is nothing more than an animal, and it is cornered. Be wary. I will accompany you.

“No,” Farouk insisted. “Remain here. I will leave my sword with you as well. I do not want to frighten it any further.”

Very well.

Farouk unstrapped his sword, handing it to the Druaga. The small creature laid the sword on the ground behind him, and squatted in the brush as Farouk slowly made his way deeper into the gloom. He hoped that the Defiler would not attack his friend, but also hoped that the banshee would not reawaken. Perhaps the Defiler had sapped all of the strength the banshee had regained over the past weeks. He could only hope it was enough to keep her dormant.

Ahead, Farouk crept toward the barrow, his staff still emitting enough energy to part the mist. Eventually, the lair came into view. It was a sight that filled his heart with gloom. Hundreds of trees were bent down and twisted to form an interlocking mesh of ghostly dead wood. It was almost skeletal in appearance, and smelled of rotting flesh and mildew. Farouk closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and headed toward the opening.

The lair was dark inside, with only the faint glow of the sun filtering in from the trees above. It was one large room, with hundreds upon hundreds of bones and withered limbs covering the floor. Many bones hung from the ceiling, tied together to form grisly wind chimes that sent chills up his spine as they rattled together.

He grasped his staff with both hands, concentrating his thoughts on its tip. A blue light appeared there from nowhere, growing to the size of his fist. He held the staff into the gloom to light his way, carefully stepping around the shards of bone that littered the floor. The faint blue light cast an eerie g
low on the contents of the lair; making it appear even more ghostly.

In the center of the room, crouched down and seemingly dormant, was the Defiler. Its four skeletal tentacles were coiled around it, giving it the appearance of some ghastly snake awaiting its prey. It sat motionless, seemingly unaware of Farouk’s presence. Farouk’s heart pounded as he gazed upon its supernatural form, his breathing labored at the thought of his last encounter with such a creature.

Nevertheless, he approached.

The creature began to stir. Its coils slowly unwinding around its body in alternating directions. Its head began to rise, and the Druid could hear its raspy breathing as it awakened. He slowed his pace, reaching for the hilt of his sword, and grasping his staff tightly. He remembered, however, that he had left his sword behind.

The Defiler continued unveiling itself, its tentacles uncoiling fully and slowly waving around its body. Farouk could see its eyes now—or what would be its eyes. The empty sockets were black, with no inner glow as he had seen before. Its mouth was closed but lipless, allowing its razor sharp and tightly overlapping fangs to gleam in the blue light.

Unlike the Defilers Farouk had previously seen, this one was black. Pitch black, with a dull sheen that reflected very little of the light. It appeared like a great shadowy demon of darkness, threatening to pounce and devour the physically inferior Farouk.

Yet Farouk continued to approach.

He swallowed hard, mustering the courage to speak. “Hello, my friend,” he whispered, unsure if the beast could even understand him. “I sensed your presence and came to investigate.”

The Defiler growled lightly, just a mere expression of curiosity, it seemed, but it did not appear aggressive.

“You are different from the others of your kind,” Farouk guessed. “You survived the battle, even though your body was destroyed.”

The Defiler relaxed its posture, leaning forward onto its clawed hands and extending its alien head to sniff the terrified man. Farouk eased down into a sitting position, careful not to make any quick movements or show fear.

“My name is Farouk,” he offered. “I am a Druid under the tutelage of the great Jodocus. I wish to commune with you and learn about your kind.”

The Defiler continued its sniffing, still showing no signs of aggression. Its tentacles relaxed more, descending onto the ground and snaking around as if in submission. Farouk held out his hand, feeling the Defiler’s essence, its dark void, in his fingers.

“Do not fear,” he said softly. “I will not harm you, and your passive powers cannot harm me as long as I wear this amulet.”

He grasped the amulet Jodocus had given him. He knew its power would protect him—at least partially—from the Defiler’s magic. Still, his heart slowed only a little, and his fear did not completely subside.

“I want to know what you are, why you are here, and how you survived.”

Farouk’s hand drew closer to the beast, trembling slightly as it fully crossed into the field of innate power that surrounded the Defiler. He felt its negative energy permeate his own body, intermingled with what he guessed to be emotion. Strong emotion. It was an ability or characteristic that the Druid had never guessed such a creature would have. It was overpowering. He knew the emotion, and he knew it well. It was fear.