chapter 5
“Varkhuls. A great many of them.”
Amric nodded, though he did not need Bellimar’s words to recognize the tracks covering the ravaged floor, or the deep furrows left by their claws in almost every surface of the barn. He and Valkarr were familiar enough with the repulsive creatures.
“They relish digging their prey out from entrenched positions,” Bellimar continued, “and they quite excel at it.”
Amric knelt in the blackened section of the barn to pluck a mangled knot of metal from the floor with his forefinger and thumb, and he held it up for inspection. An oil lamp, he realized. That explained the meager plume of smoke they had seen from the main road, and the several charred varkhul corpses they had found here in the barn. He pictured the vile fiends running about ablaze, feeling the terror they so relished inflicting on others, and he bared his teeth in a grim smile.
The swordsman turned away, and his gaze slid over a broken pike and an old saber, taking in the scene they framed. Scraps of clothing and fur were scattered about, and splinters of bone and flesh jutted from the deeply churned, blood-soaked mud. From the remains, it was impossible to tell how many creatures the varkhuls had overwhelmed here, but nothing living remained on the farm now. They had already searched the house, and though the spiny creatures had violated that as well, there were no signs of a struggle there.
Bellimar stepped up beside him. “Whoever they were, they did not go quietly,” he said, inclining his head toward two more varkhul corpses, hacked apart but untouched by flame. The bodies gave off a sharp putrescent odor that somehow registered above the rest of the stench. It was the ichor, Amric knew; devilish hard to cleanse from one’s weapons and armor, as well.
“Died facing the enemy with blade in hand,” Valkarr said from the open doorway in a voice like shifting gravel. “All one can ask.” The words echoed the Sil’ath ethos, but Amric read the seething anger behind them in the way his comrade’s tail lashed and his breath huffed through narrowed nostrils.
“At the risk of sounding greedy, I can think to ask for more,” Amric said with a rueful smile. He walked past Valkarr, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. “Come, my friend. We have learned all we can, and can do no further good here.”
The swordsman stepped out into the long daybreak shadow of the barn and kept walking. He drew several deep breaths when he reached the quickening sunlight, allowing the crisp morning air to cleanse and rejuvenate him.
Thirty yards from the barn, Halthak stood with the horses, and Amric watched him as he approached. Despite the pall hanging over the morning, he had to smother a chuckle as Halthak skipped away to avoid a nip from the bay gelding and fixed the animal with a reproachful glare. Amric and Valkarr were only fair riders themselves, for the Sil’ath seldom used mounts for travel or in combat, but the Half-Ork sat the saddle with all the grace of a sack of rocks. Whether indignant at his lack of skill or reacting to his anxiety, more than one of the horses had taken to goading the hapless healer at every opportunity.
Amric sobered. It was a measure of how shaken and saddened Halthak had been by the slaughter within that he had elected to remain outside with the animals.
Amric accepted the bay gelding’s reins from a grateful Halthak, speaking soothing words to the horse and patting its neck before vaulting into the saddle. It was a beautiful animal, swift and strong; Bellimar had proven his resourcefulness again by calling in another favor to procure these fine mounts. With a firm hand, Amric guided the gelding in a circle and to a stop again, to continue accustoming it to his control. The time might come very soon when their mutual familiarity and trust would mean the difference between life and death for them both.
Valkarr arrived a moment later, and swung into the saddle of a blue dun gelding. Bellimar approached, and all but one of the horses grew restive. They were no fonder of the old man than they were of Halthak, and it had in fact taken some searching to find a horse that would tolerate him. Bellimar had at last found an elderly sway-backed dun mare, and though Amric was skeptical of its endurance and speed, they had exhausted their available options. In any event, it would outpace their walking speed. Bellimar took the reins for his horse, which stood still, either placid or oblivious, and he mounted as well. Halthak was left with the reins for his chestnut mare, a steadfast creature that endured his fumbling attempts to climb into the saddle without a ripple to its serenity.
“Are you well, Bellimar?” Amric asked. The old man’s cheeks held a slight flush and his eyes were fever bright.
“As well as can be expected,” Bellimar responded with a tight-lipped smile. “It was stifling in that barn, and I am pondering the implications of what we have just seen. This is not the first reported presence of varkhuls in the region, but it is the closest known occurrence to the city, and in no small numbers. This gives credence to the accounts from the wall-watch of larger things approaching within bow shot of the city at night. Frequency, proximity and numbers; it all portends the city itself under siege within mere weeks.”
Amric nodded. “That is how I read the situation as well. And of more immediate import to us, the danger is rumored to increase as one continues east. We have almost three days’ ride ahead of us in that direction, and if things have progressed this far, how much worse will they be a day or two hence?”
He squinted to the east, looking into the rising sun as it spread a mantle of gold over the primordial forests that eventually engulfed the main road from the city. It would take a full day’s ride without incident to reach the edge of that forest, and their objective lay deep within it. He turned in the saddle to study Keldrin’s Landing to the west, lustrous in the morning light and unspoiled, from this distance. The four of them had ridden out in the pre-dawn darkness and past the abandoned cottages outside the city, all silent as the grave. They had crossed a broad bridge spanning a river inlet from the sea, and were on the road past this, the closest farm to the city, when they spotted a thin tendril of smoke from one of its buildings. Amric had decided to check on the residents, since public opinion in the city held that the countryside was entirely deserted. Upon arrival, the riders had been greeted by the bloodshed inside the barn.
“Having second thoughts, warrior?” Bellimar asked.
Amric swung back to his companions and shook his head. “Valkarr and I are resolute on the path ahead, but no one else need be. We have fought varkhuls before, and while they are deadly in numbers, they are far from the most dangerous things we may encounter. We will seek to remain beneath notice and to avoid what we can, but it will not always be possible. The varkhuls and other creatures out there can smell the very blood in our veins, and may well pursue us with such speed and determination that we have to stand and fight. Let us not mince words here; there may well be no more perilous path in all the lands than into the forest ahead.”
He paused and met each of their stares in turn, then raised his arm to point at Keldrin’s Landing in the distance. “The city still lies within sight, and the ride back is still safe. Past this point, that will not be the case. You see now the least of what we face ahead, but Valkarr and I will not turn back until we are successful, even to escort. Now is the time to reconsider your involvement, and we will take no offense if you wish to return to the city and await us there.”
Halthak’s gnarled hands knotted about the pommel of his saddle, but he jerked his head to the side in terse negation and murmured, “You will have need of my skills, out there.”
“Let us hope not,” Amric said, smiling. “But your company is welcome.”
Bellimar cleared his throat. “Have you considered that your friends may be dead?”
Valkarr bristled, an angry hiss escaping him.
“Incessantly,” Amric said. “But I presume you are courting a point?”
“The party you are following consisted of how many?” the old man pressed.
“Five.”
“Tales of Sil’ath battle prowess are legend, and those tales enjoy a strong basis in truth,” Bellimar continued. “As skilled as your warriors undoubtedly are, however, they have journeyed into the teeth of what amounts to an advancing dark army. And now you choose to follow them down its gullet.”
“I sense that point nearby,” the swordsman said in a wry tone, “but I grow weary of the chase.”
Bellimar sighed. “A party of five Sil’ath warriors of consummate skill, and they have not returned. You are now two more such warriors. Even with the considerable talents of an old man and a half-breed healer, how can you hope to prevail where they did not?”
“There is something you should understand,” Amric said. “The Sil’ath are feared not just for their skill in battle, but also because they cannot be deterred. They will sacrifice themselves to the last man to defend or avenge one of their own, and even rival families or entire tribes will put aside their hostilities to band together over this racial principle. Call it loyalty or call it pragmatism if you wish, but no one wrongs a Sil’ath lightly. I sent my warriors here to determine the source of the corruption that has spread so far as to assail our home to the south as well. Their task needs completing, even if they can no longer do it. Defense alone is a losing strategy, as the spread is increasing unabated. We must find the source.”
Amric paused, and when he spoke again, his grey eyes were shards of ice and his words rang with an iron conviction. “I will know what became of my warriors. I will find them alive, or I will avenge their deaths. But with them or without them, I will find the source of this darkness. It must be found and understood, so that forces can be united against it. If it is not stopped, I fear this remote region will be but the first of many to fall. I do not ask you to follow me, but I will not turn aside.”
Valkarr grunted assent, his lifted gaze a challenge. Bellimar regarded Amric for a long moment, and then broke into a sudden grin. “I came here to study this mystery as well, so what better way than at its root? And I still wish to unravel the riddle of your aura. After all,” he said, spreading his hands, “what have I to fear of death? Let us proceed.”
Amric looked over them all, and found each unwavering. Bellimar seemed relaxed and even amused, while Halthak sat taller in his saddle and stared back with increased resolve. Valkarr fidgeted at the reins, impatient to be off. Amric gave a grave nod and swept his gaze over the house and barn one last time before guiding his bay gelding onto the road that joined the farm to the main thoroughfare that ran from the city to the eastern forest. They passed between expanses of fallow field, and Valkarr rode ahead while Halthak fell a dozen paces behind, struggling to provide direction to his mount. Bellimar, appearing well accustomed to riding, guided his sway-backed dun alongside Amric’s horse. The old man had raised the cowl of his cloak and kept his head tilted against the morning sun, still cresting the horizon to the east, so that his face was in shadow. Peering back at the healer, he spoke to Amric in a confidential tone.
“You mask it well, swordsman, but every time you turn to check on our hapless Half-Ork rider back there, your eyes linger overlong on the city in the distance. What do you see there?”
Amric chuckled. “Those old eyes miss very little. I thought I saw a lone rider departing the city long after we did, but it vanished from sight in a valley of the road and has not reappeared.”
“How curious,” Bellimar mused. “Traveling alone out here would be folly.”
“My thoughts as well.”
“Surely not following us, since the price on your heads has been suspended.”
“Hard to unfire a bow,” Amric muttered. “It could be that word did not have time to spread before we departed.”
“Perhaps it is merely someone retrieving possessions from the abandoned residences outside the city’s walls,” Bellimar suggested.
“Perhaps,” Amric said. “In any event, we have ground to cover, so there is little we can do except continue onward and wait on his intent.”
The four travelers reached the wide eastern road and rode into the embrace of the new sun.
Night had long fallen when at last they found a suitable place to camp.
The rolling plains had risen in altitude as they traveled, and finally gave way to a more stern landscape as they neared the forests. From the maps Amric knew that, to the north, great cliffs fell away to the Vellayen Sea. Their destination was more east and southward, however. Here the gradual rise of the plains met the spare and rocky foothills which climbed further into the mountain range cradling the desert to the south. It had been a long, hard day of travel, and Halthak was swaying with fatigue such that Amric feared he would soon tumble from the saddle. Camping in the open was a dangerous proposition, for they would be exposed and visible from a distance, and then a fire would be out of the question.
So they pressed on in the hopes of finding a more defensible location, and at last Valkarr’s keen eyes picked out a cave set into a large hillock and high up the slope of the foothills. Its only visible approach was a narrow, winding trail. They scouted the cave and found evidence that it had once been a large animal’s burrow, but the faded scent and spoor indicated it was long unused. It had no other entrances, was deep enough to house them all and the horses as well, and the slope of the ceiling would permit the smoke to escape if they built a fire. All in all, Amric decided, a very fortuitous find.
They cooled and watered the horses, and while the animals grazed the travelers gathered dry wood for a fire and cut brush and saplings for the mouth of the cave; this would both mask the glow from the fire and help disperse the smoke rolling from the entrance so that it would be less visible against the night sky. Then they brought the horses up the treacherous trail with great care, and once deep within the cave, gave them their feed bags and hobbled them. Without a word, Valkarr brought his meal with him to the cave entrance to take the first watch, while Amric and Halthak ate around the fire. Bellimar waved off all offers of food, citing delicate digestion and asserting that he had partaken often of his travel rations as they rode. The old man showed no signs of fatigue, and Amric marveled at his constitution despite his age.
They ate in silence for a time, except for the staccato snap and crackle of the fire, and the occasional snort from the horses. Amric sat cross-legged, lost in thought, watching the flames writhe and dance. It was Bellimar’s voice that finally roused him from his reverie.
“Valkarr is not much for conversation, is he?” he said.
“He is more comfortable in the Sil’ath language,” Amric admitted. “But even then, he will not share much until he knows and trusts you well. I suppose that makes me the talkative one.”
Bellimar smiled. “I would know more of the Sil’ath party you seek. What caused you to send them here?”
“You have most of the pieces by now, but I imagine the story bears repeating in order, and in more detail.”
Amric sighed and leaned back against his bedroll. “Strange as it may seem, I am the warmaster, the military leader, of a large Sil’ath tribe. They are my family, the only one I have ever known, and I would die for them just as any of them would for me. I would have you know this, so you may understand I did not lightly send them into harm’s way. We live to the southwest, near the human city of Lyden. We are allies with the people of Lyden, enjoying a relationship of trade and mutual respect that was built over years, and that both sides now strive to maintain.
“Months ago, the residents of the countryside around Lyden began disappearing. Only a few at first, but more over time, and there was no explanation. Speculation and rumor soon filled that void, and there were some among the citizenry that feared their Sil’ath neighbors were responsible, for vaporous reasons that only made sense to a fearful populace. A number of rural Lydenites were found brutally slaughtered one day, and our carefully wrought alliance was nearly undone in that moment. Tensions exploded, and there were cries for the blood of my tribe as atonement. We were baffled that they would look to us as the source of these atrocities after so many years of peaceful coexistence, but that would not have prevented us from raising our blades to defend ourselves against the attack so many were urging.
“To their credit, the leaders of Lyden remained rational, recognizing that we lacked motivation for the crimes and that the evidence did not support it either; the attacks were too savage, too bestial, and too chaotic to have been done by Sil’ath. We met with their leaders, and agreed to help them patrol outside the city to search for the attackers, though we were further southwest from the city and as yet unaffected by whatever plagued the city’s outskirts.”
Amric paused, staring into the fire as images rose unbidden in his head.
“It did not take long,” he continued after a moment. “Our patrols, and Lyden’s as well, encountered dark and unfamiliar creatures hunting the deep countryside at night. For every nightmare we dispatched, another would take its place after a few nights. After a few months of this, it became evident that the number and variety of the creatures was increasing. Our patrols fought skirmishes almost every night by then, against varkhuls and viles, against greels and wights and more. It was costing precious lives to learn the tricks and weaknesses of each new creature. Lyden lost far more, for our warriors were much more capable, but we also had fewer to lose. It did not take a seer to forecast a future when our forces would be too few or too exhausted to protect us all any longer. And it was only a matter of time before something slipped through our patrol net and reached our homes.
“We met again with Lyden’s city council. It is not the Sil’ath way to fight a losing defensive battle, and we desired to mount an offensive, if we could but determine the source to target. Lyden, with a standing military that outnumbered ours a hundred to one, was more inclined to debate the matter endlessly while fortifying their defenses.”
Amric heard the bitterness behind his own words and took a calming breath before resuming.
“Lyden was helpful in one respect, however. It was through them that we learned of the plight of Keldrin’s Landing, and how the countryside here was overrun even as our own was fast becoming. The realm’s scholars maintained that the source was in this region somewhere, for here the troubles had been seen first and remained most concentrated. Embattled Lyden could spare no forces to aid in the defense of Keldrin’s Landing, however. Neither could we, for that matter, as our tribe was too small to contribute and still protect itself.
“For us, the decision was to withstand and wait, or to abandon our homes and stay ahead of the spreading wave, or to attack the problem at its source. We lacked enough information to make that decision, and the flow of news from Keldrin’s Landing was maddeningly slow. As Lyden was mired in indecision, Keldrin’s Landing appeared mired in politics and greed. So we sent five of our most capable warriors to this region, to travel quickly and gather what knowledge they could to aid in the larger effort. They were to bring that knowledge back to the tribe, knowledge that would help us select the best course of action.”
He glanced up from the fire and found Bellimar and Halthak leaning forward, engrossed, intent on his every word.
“As you know,” Amric said, “my warriors did not return. The attacks were increasing, we still needed answers, and we refused to abandon our warriors to unknown fates. I urged the tribal leaders to relocate the tribe further south, out of harm’s way for a time. Then Valkarr and I delegated our command duties and traveled here.”
“A warmaster is not the tribal leader, then?” Halthak asked.
Amric shook his head. “Among the Sil’ath, the warmaster is the final authority on military matters only. For other matters, the warmaster is but one member of the tribal council.”
“Did your tribe leave their homes, as you advised?” Bellimar asked.
“I hope so. The decision was made, but Valkarr and I left before preparations were fully underway. It is no easy thing to leave one’s home, even for a people with a nomadic history, like the Sil’ath.”
Amric sighed and pushed a hand through his brown-blonde hair. “Come, friends, I am feeling expansive, and we who may be fighting back to back in the coming days should have few secrets. What else would you know?”
Bellimar’s response was immediate. “How did you, a human, come to live among the Sil’ath and become their warmaster?”
“Not much to tell there,” Amric said with a shrug. “I was too young to remember, but I am told I was found as a child, abandoned and alone, by a Sil’ath hunting party. The tribe gave me a home, and held me to the same standards as any Sil’ath youth. Eventually, I assumed duties in their warrior ranks to contribute to the tribe.”
“Bah,” Bellimar protested. “You have nothing of the bard in you, swordsman. You could drain all the color from an epic tale, with such a bland retelling.”
“As I said, there is not much to tell,” Amric said with a shrug.
Bellimar snorted. “I see you would make me work for it. So be it.”
He leaned forward until the firelight danced in his eyes and shimmered upon his silver hair, and began firing questions. “Where were you found, just lying about under the open sky somewhere? The Sil’ath are known for their pragmatism, often seen as cold-hearted by other races. Why would they bother to save a helpless human child, given their generally low opinion of that race, much less adopt one? And how did you become warmaster, a rank reserved for the greatest warrior in the tribe, among a people born, bred and renowned for their martial skill?”
Amric chuckled. “You attempt to spin epic drama from nothing. Very well, my friend, I will answer your questions in order. I was found in an otherwise empty dwelling in the forest, many miles from any human city, though members of the hunting party were not able to lead me to it years later. Nay, spare me your theatrical looks, Bellimar; this was many years later, the forests were vast, and that strange cottage may not have stood so long. Why did they take me in? I do not know, but I am eternally grateful. Had they been friendlier with Lyden at the time, I am certain they would have taken me there and been rid of me. Had I proven unworthy, they would have done it anyway, regardless of their distaste for contact with human society. Instead, however, I set myself to vindicating their choice in saving my life. Why did I become warmaster? Every member of Sil’ath society contributes in some way to the greater good, and I was better with weapons than with crafting or other skills.”
Bellimar had opened his mouth to object when Valkarr’s voice echoed back from the mouth of the cave. His words were low and sibilant, spoken in the Sil’ath language, and followed by a dry chuckle. Amric laughed and, plucking a pebble from the cave floor, threw it at his friend.
“What did he say?” Halthak asked.
Amric grinned. “He said they felt pity for my stupendous ugliness, and that he had been begging his father for a pet anyway. Valkarr’s father led the hunting party that found me, and it was Valkarr’s parents who gave me a home.”
Valkarr rose and padded into the cave on silent feet. He stood above Amric, looking down at him, and put his fists on his hips in a very human gesture. He spoke in the human tongue this time, with frequent halts to enunciate and choose his words.
“Amric is too modest,” he said. “We are sword-brothers, closer than blood, raised together. To our tribe’s great honor, he became our most skilled warrior. Even new weapons he picks up and they speak to him, and he is fearsome with them. He is a great strategist and leader, finding victory where others see only ruin. This is why he is warmaster. It was our fortune to find him in the forest that day, long ago. He will always be my finest friend.” He cocked his head down at Amric. “Is ‘finest’ correct word? What is correct word?”
“Ugliest,” Amric replied with a grin. He reached up to clasp wrists with his comrade. Valkarr then turned on his heel and returned to the cave mouth to resume his watch.
Bellimar was tapping one slender finger against his chin. “You raise as many questions as you resolve, swordsman, but it appears you may not know the answers yourself. And it brings me no closer to understanding your peculiar lack of aura.”
Amric spread his hands. “Perhaps magic recognizes my aversion for it, and has forsaken me in return.”
“I know you jest,” Bellimar said, “as I have already explained that it does not work that way. You cannot simply secede from the laws of nature.”
“I am confident you will solve the riddle, old man, and we will both be edified in the process.”
“Now you mock me,” Bellimar accused, a sardonic smile twisting his features. “Your aura may yet show itself, and I will be there to observe it if so. Even if it does not, an explanation will come to me in time.”
“I am not certain whether to wish you luck or not,” the warrior said with his own smile. “So I will instead wish you enjoyment in the search. In the meantime, given the many faults in my storytelling, perhaps you would favor us with a proper example.”
“And what challenge would you lay before me? Am I to spin a fable to speed you to your dreams?”
“Nothing so grandiose,” Amric laughed. “I would know the origin of your name. Morland reacted as if it held meaning to him. It seems familiar to me as well, but hangs just beyond my recollection.”
“Ah,” Bellimar said. “A true telling of that tale would carry us through to the morning light, but I will try to do justice to a drastically shortened version.”
He leaned back and the shadows folded about him, leaving only the faint outline of his features and the luminous glow of the firelight from his eyes. His voice, sepulchral of a sudden, slid from the darkness to encircle them, and Amric felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as he listened.
“Centuries ago, so many centuries ago that written histories of the era are lost to the fogs of time, a mighty human sorcerer walked this world. Obsessed with the arcane from his youth, he advanced his knowledge with single-minded determination. When he surpassed his masters, he abandoned them to find more. Eventually, so rapid was his learning, he exhausted the mentors who were willing to teach him. The few who had knowledge he did not became reluctant to share it, alarmed by his unchecked increase in power and his continual lust for more. But the sorcerer would not be thwarted, and his tenuous grasp on morals fell before his drive. He captured those who would not willingly aid him and wrested away their secrets, and he stole the artifacts others sought to keep from him. When he had reached the boundaries of mortal knowledge, still he was not content. He reached into the dark energies beyond, probing, experimenting, mastering. Other masters panicked at the path he was traversing, but he was beyond reason and had grown too powerful for them to prevent his progress. Some tried to combine their forces against him, but aided by his new dark powers, he repelled them with ease.
“He grew older, and became concerned that he would reach the limit of his mortal lifespan before he had mastered all things arcane, and furthermore became increasingly convinced that he should not be subject at all to that most mundane of limits on lesser beings. His research became focused on this goal above all others, and at any cost, for achieving it would enable an eternity of further advancement. Here his dark mastery offered tantalizing possibilities, and he pursued them with fervor. Eventually he succeeded, and achieved immortality at the cost of his remaining humanity. A bargain price, some would argue, as he had little enough of that to begin with. He supplanted his own spark of life, his very soul if you will, with the wicked energy of Unlife, and became even more formidable as undead than he was when living. And if certain sacrifices were required to sustain his infinite life, well, then such actions were assuredly justified when weighing the fleeting, impotent lives of lesser beings to the needs of a titan such as himself.
“His foul deeds did not go unnoticed, however, and the populace rose against him in increasing numbers. To defend himself the sorcerer reared his own forces, pressing savage races into service and raising his slain foes as undead to swell his ranks. Enraged at the audacity of the common vermin, he unleashed his vengeance in the form of veritable seas of dark forces guided by his potent mind and arcane might. City after city fell before him, razed to the ground, and entire nations followed. Historians hold that at one point his armies had conquered a third or more of all known civilization, and his thirst for blood was still not slaked.
“Putting aside their differences, the remaining lands united against him as one, realizing that he was on the brink of sweeping them all from the map. They called themselves the White Alliance, a pompous name if ever I have heard one, but nevertheless they assembled numbers not seen before or since on this world. The opposing forces amassed to face each other, blackening the earth from horizon to horizon, from the Valley of Souls to the Talus mountain range. The White Alliance pressed its foe on all sides with its greater numbers, but the sorcerer’s war magic and necromancy were rapidly turning the tide. The Alliance leaders knew they could not be victorious in a direct clash, when mortal men faced pit creatures and undying troops, and their own dead rose against them under control of the foe. But they had a different strategy from the beginning. In a cunning series of multi-pronged attacks, they coordinated all of their forces to spear deep into the sorcerer’s territory, with the goal of severing the head from the snake. It was their fervent hope that his unearthly forces would follow him into oblivion.
“As you may have guessed, the name of the dark sorcerer was Bellimar. Bellimar the Black, the Vile, the Vampire King, Lord of the Night. Branded with countless such epithets, he came nearest to subjugating the known world of any conqueror in history. The holy city of Tar Mora is said to have begun as a desert monument to the fallen in this cataclysm. If, that is, the ancient tales are to be believed.”
Bellimar lapsed into silence, his eyes twin pinpoints of amber in the shadows.
“I remember where I have heard the name,” Amric said. “I studied military tactics and logistics for a time at the Academy in Lyden, seeking to supplement what I had learned in practice among the Sil’ath. The name ‘Bellimar’ was associated with some of the military maneuvers we studied; he was considered a brilliant tactical mind, though his origins were obscured.”
“I imagine they would be,” Bellimar agreed.
“He was defeated by this White Alliance, then?” Halthak asked.
“That depends on how much of the old tales you believe,” Bellimar replied. “Legend maintains that the sorcerer trapped and smashed their offensive, but as he moved to wipe them all out and gain unfettered access to all the lands, the gods themselves intervened.”
“The gods?” Amric said, cocking an eyebrow.
“They struck him down and dissolved his forces, and his reign of terror was ended.” The gleam of Bellimar’s smile was visible even in the shadows. “I sense you doubt the story, swordsman?”
“Assuming he ever existed, I find it far more likely that he was slain by this White Alliance, and that some amount of embellishment has bolstered most elements of the story over the many centuries.”
“Aye,” said Bellimar. “That is the way of such things, to grow in the retelling, and ample enough years have intervened for it to do so.”
“That explains why Morland commented on the name being inauspicious,” Amric said. “How were you given it?”
Bellimar barked a laugh. “How else? My mother gave it to me. She was no student of history, and it simply held no meaning to her when she bequeathed it.”
“You could have changed your name, to avoid the stigma. Why keep it?”
“Discard the first gift I was given after life and breath? How supremely ungrateful that would be,” Bellimar chided. “And if, as some believe, one grows into one’s given name over a lifetime, at least mine is linked with ambition and accomplishment, however misdirected. Regardless, while it may have once been an appellation spoken only in hushed whispers or used to frighten children, it is all but forgotten now.”
They fell silent, and the sputtering fire reigned once more as each dwelled on private thoughts.
“Bellimar,” Halthak said at last with a stifled yawn, “I must admit two things. First, you are indeed a captivating storyteller. Second, you may have found the way to prevent me from sleeping tonight, despite my fatigue.”
The old man laughed and leaned forward into the ring of light, his face appearing rosy flushed. “No bard could ask for a more rapt audience. Do not let some dusty old fable thwart your sleep, healer, for I suspect tonight we enjoy the calm before the storm.”
Amric nodded agreement, studying Bellimar for a long moment before stretching out on his bedroll. He had a few hours to rest before he would relieve Valkarr to take his turn at watch.
Twice when drifting into slumber did he start awake, banishing the wisps of a striking image: a dark and terrible warrior-sorcerer astride a towering nightmare steed, flaming hooves pounding a battlefield thick with twisted corpses as the rider wove foul, colossal magics against his foes. Each time the black horned helm turned toward him and blazing crimson orbs fix upon him, draining his will and drawing him in…. And then his eyes would flare open to find his companions lying undisturbed in the dank cave, their breathing deep and even, as the fire sank to embers. When sleep claimed him at last, it was with one hand curled about his sword hilt.