If you're in the writer's guild, go no further, I plan on reading this Saturday night. This is a direct follow up to the previous post, so read that first.
RW Nance
The Dragunhawk set down in the windless valley of Dauc Mareau, and Heath slid from its back, running quickly through the shadowed dead grasses to the tower Dar Nord.
The tower was just that, a tower on a hill, one of four around the valley, and by far the best of them. It was bleak, blasted smooth on the side facing the valley and the chasm therein. The sense of foreboding that covered the tower pervaded the valley as well, emanating from the black, scar-like, chasm from which the valley took its name.
Auburn clouds hung overhead, as they did at all times, hiding the valley from the sight of the sky. The wind never blew here, not a breath of stirring air. Gloom hung on the place like a blanket, but Heath preferred his abode in the tower, far from any kingdom, or, indeed, any land men dared tread.
He mounted the stone steps past the empty rooms all the way up the tower until he reached the uppermost. The one window in the room faced to the west, letting in a shaft of light into the dusty chamber. A trapdoor was fixed into the ceiling, allowing access to the lookout, a place Heath rarely went, and his bed looked as though no one had slept there for weeks. It was, in fact, so, Heath hadn’t been here in weeks, and so he slumped onto his bed without removing his cloak.
Drifting in and out of a semi consciousness, the man rested as best he could. He was awoken by a loud squawk after a few minutes. Looking up at the desk below his window, Heath’s gaze rested on a hideous bird-like beast. Only at the very last moment did he remember not to meet its eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked the bird.
“Greetings, Sadlin-al-emre-yiterra,” is said with a slight whistling accent, “I bear a letter for you.”
“A letter from who?” Heath asked, staring at the desktop.
“Cudro.” it stated.
Heath sighed, “Leave it on the desk, and go, so I can read it without turning to stone.”
The bird thing cackled, and jumped off the desk, waddling into the room, “Cudro asked that I watch to you read it. He said it was rather important.”
Heath growled, and pulled out the chair at his desk, removing his hood and face covering as he sat. The bird thing coughed, with a sort of disgusted tone, as he did this, and Heath made himself not turn around.
Dear Sadlin,
A dinner of state has arisen, the king of the Wood Elves, and the Grey Sprite chief have forgone their fears, and come to our palace to talk of an alliance in the waning days of peace.
Legionarior, as you of all peoples should know, has gained massive holdings in the North, and has once again pressed South.
The king and the chief would take kindly to your presence, It would give them a sense of ease among our people, and you have no dearth of experience with the so-called dark lord.
~ Cudro
Heath set the letter on the desk, “There’s more. Isn’t there?”
“Of course,” The bird thing gagged, “Cudro wouldn’t put it in a letter, though, you know that.”
Frowning, Heath pulled his face mask back up, “Go tell Cudro I read the letter, and that I’ll be there tomorrow.”
The bird thing hopped back up on the desk, and out the narrow window without a word.
The man didn’t watch it go, stupid creature, he thought to himself as he took a long, pink, silk scarf out of a chest, and bound it around his eyes. He stood at the door, and swept over the room, leaving it much as he’d found it less than an hour earlier.
Pulling his hood up, he passed under the doorway inscribed Dar Nord, and strode through the hip-high listless grasses away to the southwest.
Once the sight of his tower home was gone, the clouds dissipated, exposing him to the sun, and the harsh winds that ripped across these plain. A Dragunhawk alighted silently behind him, and again in a language unintelligible, comprised more of growls and clicks than of syllables, spoke to him.
“I would have need of you to bear me.” Heath explained to the beast, “If I were going anywhere you would bear me.”
The Dragunhawk tilted its head to the side, and gave a small growl.
“Am I right in remembering that you and your kin have no dealings with the Gorgons?”
The Dragunhawk gave what seemed to be a frown, and a growl.
Heath bowed his head for a moment, “Then I’m afraid you may only bear me to the farmhouse 4 miles ahead, though I think it best that you not, the farmer is not used to the sight of you.”
The beast nodded, and took to the sky, driving itself beyond Heath’s sight. Heath, however, continued plodding along at his brisk, tireless pace. Until at last he came to the farmhouse as the sun began its hiding.
The farmer stepped out onto the porch of his small cottage-like home, an axe held slack in one hand, “What’s yer biznis here?” he asked.
“Horse, Eatel, I need my horse.”
“Heath?” the farmer asked.
Heath nodded in reply as he stood at the foot of the bottom step.
“You ass.” the farmer continued, “I’m not watching yer horse fer free.”
Heath didn’t answer, but threw a small sack at the farmer’s face, “That should more than cover it, now, where’s my horse?”
The farmer’s eyes grew as he emptied the sack, several gold coins and diamonds fell into his hand, “This way.”
The enamored farmer led Heath around to his stable, where two horses stood under a small overhang. Heath nodded to the farmer, and stepped up to the darker of the two. He caressed its face, speaking to it in a slow-syllabled tongue. Mounting bareback, Heath kicked open the gate, walked his horse up to the farmer, and kicked him in the face.
“You take care of him next time.”
The farmer nodded from the ground, stunned, and bleeding, and watched Heath gallop off into the south.
* * *
Riding all night was not Heath’s idea of restful, nor of enjoyment, but it had to be done. He entered Gorgon lands with the rising sun, and left his horse at the border.
“You don’t know enough to survive here.” He told it, before letting it loose, and turning towards some distant spires.
Scrub brush adorned this countryside, dotted about with stone figures, here a weathered elf, or a lion-like form. Some so old they were little but a mound of rock under a bush.
Heath shuddered, he despised this part of the journey, every step reminding him that his friends the Gorgons were far from safe, and one movement in error could cost him his very soul.
Two of the snake-headed peoples stood at the gate as Heath walked up, making no attempt to not meet his gaze. The man, however, refused to meet theirs, even with his silken scarf tied across his eyes.
“What brings you here, man?” they asked in unison.
“The Lord Cudro has summoned me.”
“Your name?”
“Your people call me Sadlin.”
At the name they both stiffened, and signaled the gate to be opened. Heath walked through, he knew the power this name had over the Gorgons, but he hadn’t a clue what the influence was about, or why it worked on them like it did.
The buildings beyond the gate were magnificent, arches abounded among the various multitude of colors. The people, however, were, at least to Heath, hideous, their skin was graying from a bronze color like a sailor, to a sickly paleness. Most stood at his height, and their flattened noses gave them a more rounded head. But the most prominent feature was their hair, comprised entirely of snakes, hissing and snapping. Snakes of all variety and color, Heath kept his distance from the people, and avoided meeting any gaze, he was still distrusting of his only shield.
There was no one to guide the man through the dizzying and deadly streets, but from the few times he’d been here he remembered how to find Cudro’s home.
It too was gated, a spacious mansion, built more into the air than across the ground. Heath called at the gate, and was allowed in, led by a thin Gorgon who acted as Cudro’s servant.
The servant announced the man, and he was shown to Cudro’s office, a curious room, full of stone figures, again Heath shuddered.
“Thank you for coming, Sadlin.” Cudro said, “How have you been?”
Heath stood for a moment, “I’ve been well, not gotten much rest.”
“Busy…” Cudro mused, “What have you been doing?”
“I tracked Legionarior to the desert temple, he had the Cedrin Rammor, but I stole it from him and destroyed it.”
Cudro’s face bore a shocked expression for a moment, not that Heath saw, “You destroyed the Cedrin Rammor?”
“Yes, Cudro, I did, burnt it to ashes and left it to be buried with the temple.”
The Gorgon closed his eyes for a moment, and Heath chanced a look, “Sadlin, that was a powerful book, and many secrets lived in its pages. But now…”
“For the best, I stopped Legionarior from getting those secrets.”
“Sadlin…” the Gorgon started, his voice thick with anger, and a hint of lust.
“What does it mean?” Heath asked, “Sadlin-al-emre-yiterra.”
“That too was in the book.”
Heath glared at the wall beside Cudro’s head, “What does it mean?”
Cudro sat quietly for a moment, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Where may I rest?” Heath asked, straining his words to show his unhappiness.
“My servant will show you the way.”
As though beckoned, the servant entered the room, and Heath followed him, at a distance, out. Up to a small room, where the man locked the door from the inside, and, without removing a thing, collapsed onto the bed.
Copyright © 2009 Robert W. A. Nance
All rights reserved
