A Paladin's Journey Ch. 15

Smythe had made it clear in no uncertain terms how important it was that Ostin refrain from making love until he had more of a grasp of his vala, else he would have a much more difficult time of his training, as was Kedron's current burden to bear.

Aran's vala pulsed and surged like a living thing. Smythe wondered just how much of the world Aran was feeling right now, and how much of the world was feeling him. Smythe hoped the man knew what he was doing. A vala of this scale could shift the tides of the world into a new direction. That could be a wondrous thing, or a terrible one.

"Take care of yourself, my friend," he said quietly. "And be safe."

***

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CHAPTER 15.3: Morgai

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Deep beneath Laefandell, in a warren of dusty catacombs that most of the Tar'elda had probably forgotten, Shenla stood facing Torvin in a cavern no more than twenty paces across. The brawny Mor'tirith waited patiently for her instructions, as he well should. She was in no mood for foolishness, even from her beloved ahk'sheth.

Barrog, Caeledrin and Peldin were standing guard in a three-man circle around Shenla and Torvin, watching all directions for spies or attackers. All four of her ahk'sheth were fully clothed, today, and all except Torvin were armed and armoured to some degree. Even Barrog, who turned his nose up at armour whenever it was suggested to him, wore a stout steel breastplate, gauntlets and greaves. Where these pieces large enough to fit an Orc had come from - especially in an Elvish city - was beyond Shenla, but it didn't matter.

As for Shenla, she was garbed as conservatively as she could force herself to, in a snug - and halfway unlaced - blouse and tunic and a pair of leather breeches she'd had to wriggle into with some force. It was worth the effort; even in her current circumstances, good clothes made her feel better. Heeled boots completed the outfit, lifting her bottom and shaping her calves for maximum effect.

Just behind Torvin stood two of his Risen; a male and female Tar'elda - much to Caeledrin's irritation. The two had been nobles that Maloth had recently ordered executed. Kreya had passed them over, which left Torvin as the next Mor'tirith in line to choose. Wisely, Torvin had jumped at the chance to raise them.

The woman was tall and beautiful - perhaps even more so as a Risen than she had been in life, though it was now an ethereal beauty rather than the celestial quality the Elves displayed - and she was probably of an age with Peldin judging by her figure, which was somewhere between slender and buxom, not quite one or the other. The man was older; deep in the chest and broad across the shoulders and pleasingly well-endowed below the waist.

Both Risen were nude and standing with their hands clasped obediently behind their backs. Torvin was a harsh taskmaster with his Risen, and he kept them well in hand.

It was pitch-black down here, so far from the surface, but all present possessed excellent dark vision. Shenla trusted no one bar these men. Not even Maloth, she thought with a pang of sadness that she quickly strangled. There is no time for weakness. Now is the time for strength. She felt ashamed and foolish for not seeing it before; Maloth had never cared for her. He had only seen her as a tool to be used where he saw fit.

The more she played the incident on the balcony over in her mind, the more certain she became. In the days since, Maloth had been distant and brooding, and his moods were even darker than usual. If Shenla knew her brother at all, she would say he was worried, though she knew better than to say it.

The chances that Maloth was having her followed was almost a certainty, which is why she'd chosen this place, revealed to her by Caeledrin when she'd asked for the most secluded area in the entire city. Still, she felt compelled to check again; the thought of Maloth finding her down here made her stomach turn.

"You're sure no one comes down here?" Shenla asked Caeledrin, who was standing a few paces away to her right. He stood straight-backed and proud, wearing a full suit - bar a helm - of finely crafted armour worked in gold. His straight golden hair was loose and fell down to his lower back.

Shenla often admired him; he was a beautiful creature to behold. Peldin was handsome, too, in the way of Elves, but Caeledrin was a masterpiece, physically perfect in every way. The former king of Laefandell turned briefly to answer her before resuming his vigilance.

"This place is remembered by only a bare few," he said softly. "These are the tunnels that once hid us from Orc or Mor'elda attacks. Before we grew too strong for them." That last comment had a barb in it, and Peldin and Barrog stiffened, if posts could be said to stiffen.

"Your imagination runs away with you, Elf," Barrog rumbled from where he stood to Shenla's rear.

At the same time, Peldin said; "The Mor'elda took pity on you, Onor'isil. That is why your city still stands."

Peldin and Barrog often bickered when Shenla allowed it - a remnant of the animosity their people held for each other - and with the addition of Caeledrin to her stable it had only escalated. It never went beyond bickering, though. "Quiet!" she hissed. They immediately fell silent.

"Do you remember how it was done, my Lady?" Torvin asked politely. The cowl of his heavy black robe was pulled back to show his pale, bald head. The tops of the tattoos on his neck were just visible. They served two purposes, the tattoos of the Mor'tirith; the first was as a symbol of accomplishment. Tattoos were earned through deeds that were deemed worthy of the ink. The second was magical. Each tattoo was imbued with a spell that served a certain function. Torvin had shown Shenla several of the dozens adorning his body, and they had some surprising uses.

"Yes," Shenla replied with more confidence than she truly felt. Her voice sounded strange, down here. In a cavern such as this, there should be echoes, but instead everything sounded muffled, stifled. "You are to make the glyph that creates a Risen. That is the first step."

Torvin raised his heavily-tattooed hands and made a complex gesture. A glowing, purple light appeared, hanging in the air between him and Shenla at chest-height.

"That is good," Shenla said softly. Torvin's dark eyes shone, reflecting the light from the symbol. It was circular, with overlapping triangles pointing in different directions, which created still more, smaller triangles. Small runes filled the spaces inside the triangles, and the whole thing rotated slowly in a counter-clockwise direction. Shenla didn't know how, but she had the feeling the glyph would do something completely different were it turning the other way.

Opening herself to her own power, Shenla let it course through her and extended a finger toward the glyph. Her heart began to beat faster. If she was wrong about this, she didn't know what would happen. With her other hand, she pointed to the male Risen behind Torvin. "You. Over here," she ordered, crooking a finger.

He obeyed immediately, as per the standing order he'd been given by Torvin after being Risen; 'Obey Shenla as you would obey me.'

"My Lady?" Torvin said gently. Shenla realised she'd been hesitating. Taking a deep breath, she touched a finger of one hand to the Risen's smooth chest, and the other to the glyph.

The effect was immediate. Shenla felt something shoot through her body from the glyph and out the other side, into the Risen, who threw his head back and began to scream. Barrog was there in a heartbeat. The Orc wrapped a thick arm around the Risen's chest and put another over his mouth, stifling the bellow.

Shenla watched, entranced as the Risen's body began to shift and change. Muscles grew larger, more defined as he grew taller, broader and stronger. Sinuous black lines appeared on his grey skin and snaked their way around his limbs, his torso, his neck. Ghostly white eyes flashed bright red, once, twice, then remained the new colour.

Now standing at eight feet - only a foot shorter than Barrog - the newly-made Morgai went still for a moment before moving with shocking speed. Reaching up a hand to grab Barrog's arm, he twisted and tossed the larger Orc away like a ragdoll. Shenla tensed as Barrog crashed into the rock wall, but relaxed as he got to his feet. He looked ready to fight, but Shenla held out a hand and shook her head, forestalling him.

Peldin and Caeledrin had turned to look, and they both watched the Morgai warily, ready to defend Shenla if necessary.

It had actually worked! She had created her very own Morgai! Torvin's eyes were wide as he studied the impressive creature. "He's huge!" The Mor'tirith breathed. "Taller than Lord Maloth's! And more powerful, too, I'll wager!"

The Morgai looked down at Torvin. There was an air of arrogance about him, much like Baelor, Maloth's Morgai. "I am Sharik," he said in a voice as bass as Barrog's. It had something of that same echoing quality that all Risen possessed. From the slightly forward tilt of Sharik's head, Shenla got the impression he was studying her cleavage. His dark lips were curved a little at the corners in appreciation.

Lower down, his body was responding to what he was seeing, but Shenla was not ready to indulge him, just yet. "Who do you serve, Sharik?" She asked the Morgai in a level voice. Barrog, Peldin and Caeledrin closed in a little, hands on hilts in case things went sour. Her ahk'sheth were very capable fighters, but Shenla found herself wondering if they could best her new creation, even three against one. She couldn't see Torvin behind the Morgai, but she was willing to bet he had a few nasty spells prepared.

To Shenla's relief, Sharik knelt before her. "I serve you, Lady Shenla," he replied. "For eternity in death."

"Good," Shenla said curtly, hoping she didn't sound as relieved as she felt. "Rise, Sharik, and help the others stand watch." Obediently, the Morgai stood and walked off a short distance. His stride was smooth and powerful, and Shenla admired the way his thighs and buttocks flexed with his movement.

"What were your observations?" Shenla asked when her gaze returned to Torvin's face. "It appears we were successful. Were we in truth?"

The Mor'tirith nodded. "For all intents and purposes, my Lady, I believe we were. I feel great power from him, though he will most likely need sustenance in a short time, if he is like Lord Maloth's Morgai."

Shenla's eyes briefly cut to Sharik's broad, patterned back where he stood still as a statue with his thick arms folded, staring off into the darkness of the catacombs. "That will not be an issue," she murmured. "Now, let us create the female."

A flutter of excitement rose in Shenla's belly as the female Elf-Risen stepped up when beckoned. With two Morgai at her command, her opportunities had increased significantly. By the day, her sadness and grief at knowing her brother loved her not was being slowly replaced by anger, hot and sharp.

As the Risen's screams began, Shenla felt a dark smile cross her lips.

***

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CHAPTER 15.4: An Audience

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Aran stood patiently in the throne room of Dun'Arghol, hands clasped behind his back. Massive, square stone columns that stretched upward until their tops were lost lined the wide red-and-gold carpet that ran the length of the long chamber, creating a corridor that connected the high, arched entryway to the dais, upon which a robust, angular throne sat.

The throne was occupied by a most irate Burin. His titles included Keeper of the Eastern Gates, Lord of the Lost Tombs, and, of course, King of Dun'Arghol. Dressed in fine grey silks and a long, silvery robe that rested on the wide arms of the throne, Burin also wore a fine crown of gold set with a multitude of jewels in a combination of colours Aran had never seen before. Well, not in this lifetime, anyway. His dark beard was long and ornately banded in several places with clasps of jewelled silver.

Beside Aran stood Elaina. His amatharn had adopted a look of serene patience, but the melda seethed with irritation, probably because Burin was currently unloading a tirade at the two arohim. The Dwarven king was leaning forward and pointing a thick finger as he ranted, every now and then slipping from the common tongue and speaking Dwarvish until changing back again. Aran minded not; he understood both, now.

The reason for Burin's current mood was the thousands of Dwarves crowding the throne room, filling every spare inch of space. Guards, servants, visitors, nobles, all crammed cheek-by-jowl, pulled here as one by Aran's vala. When Burin had ordered them out, they had silently refused. With no guards to call on, the king had had little choice but to wait for Aran and Elaina to arrive.

"This is my city!" Burin roared in his smooth, bass voice. His dark eyes flashed dangerously beneath his crown. "I command my people, not you!"

He appeared to be finished, but Aran waited a few extra seconds before speaking. "I ask your forgiveness for my methods, your Highness," he said politely. He dropped to one knee, giving Burin the respect he deserved. Elaina followed suit, albeit reluctantly. Earlier, Aran had made it clear to Elaina that he did not want her to align with the king in order to shift his mood, and so she remained passive, though the melda boiled with annoyance.

Whispers from the onlookers rippled through the crowds as Aran knelt. None of them even knew who or what Aran was, yet. All they knew is that they were here because of him.

Aran's vala had told him at first glance that Burin was a good king; his current demeanour was simply a result of his frustrations, which Aran's actions had done nothing to soothe. Aran wished there had been a less extreme method of getting Burin's complete attention, but with time growing shorter by the day, sacrifices must sometimes be made.

Burin's anger would ebb, and his embarrassment wane, with time. "But I was driven by necessity as you would not see us when we arrived," Aran continued. "Time is short, my King, for we arohim and for the world." The surrounding whispers from the crowd grew louder at that.

Burin's gaze was hard as he regarded Aran, but it did soften some when it passed to Elaina. Even when she wasn't trying to entice, she was beautiful and alluring. "We care not for the world, or the arohim!" Burin spat. "The world cares not for the troubles of the Dwarves, and the arohim left us all in darkness a millennium ago! You should have died out, as you were supposed to!"

The words stung, but Aran bore them graciously. "You are right, King Burin," he said quietly. "The arohim did indeed leave the world in darkness. Or rather, one of us did. I and my kin are the ones who will right the balance once again."

Burin rose from his throne and began to descend the stone steps of the dais. He said nothing until he stood before Aran and Elaina, looking down at them. Long moments passed before he finally spoke. "You come offering hope where there is none," he said softly, almost sombrely. "That is why I did not receive you at your coming to Dun'Arghol. I did not wish to let false belief into my heart. Nor my people's."

Dead silence lay over the massive chamber. You could have heard a mouse's heartbeat. To Aran it felt like the whole city had just taken a deep breath.

Looking Burin in the eye, Aran stood. "I would not offer pretences, your Highness. Your people deserve the truth, and I speak it." He turned and regarded the crowd, raising his voice. "Storms wrack the land! The earth shakes with frightening regularity! And this is just the beginning! I have been to Maralon and seen the fear in the eyes of the people there, the same as yours! I have met with the Eryn'elda, and they, too, are wary of the darkening days. You have no love for the Elves, nor they you, but a greater threat rises, one that will crush us to dust or turn our own hearts against us if we do not rise to meet it!"

Turning back to Burin, Aran continued in a quieter voice. "The offspring of Morgeth survived the War, your Highness. Two of them, twins. They gather their power in Palistair as we speak. Vasuda has woken from his slumber, and the weather suggests Rava surely has as well. The Titans remember their allegiance to Maharad, who is surely pulling the strings of Maloth's heart, as he did his mother's."

"Glinda is gone," Burin mumbled sadly as he turned to ascend the dais once again. His ferocity seemed to drain out of him like water through a hole in the bottom of a bucket. "The kingdom weeps for her soul, and my heart cannot be put back together."

Aran felt a stab of agitation at Burin's lack of spirit. The anger he was showing earlier was better than this. "I think you'll find you are mistaken about that, Burin." He left the honorific out deliberately, wanting to stir some of the king's former ire. "She lives. I've seen her."

Burin, having just reached the top of the dais, froze mid-step. "Where? How?" He demanded, whirling around. "If you are lying about this, Paladin, I swear to the Stonelord that I will hang you both from the battlements!"

Again, Aran bore the threat with no grudge. Words were one thing, actions another. The man was hurting, and Aran could tell he didn't really mean what he said. Still, it would not kill him to temper his tongue, some.

"She is with the Mor'ion," Aran explained. "I believe he has taken her under some spell of the mind. She appeared well and healthy when I saw her, though it seems her will is not her own, at present."

"And how did you see her, if she is on Palistair?" Burin asked, almost in a whisper. It reminded Aran of a blade being softly drawn.

Aran saw no other alternative than to continue telling the truth, no matter how difficult it might make things. "I have a connection to Maloth," he said. "Through fate and the twisting of lives, he and I share a bond through common blood. It is both my curse and the key to ridding the world of him permanently. I saw Glinda in a vision of him recently."

Startlingly, Burin threw his head back and bellowed a laugh. "You truly are arrogant! Or perhaps mad as a spring rabbit! Not only do you claim to be the saviour of our world, but also that you are kin to its greatest threat?"

Elaine shot Aran a brief look, but it spoke volumes. She wanted Aran to let her use her vala on Burin, to influence him to side with their cause. Aran gave the slightest shake of his head. With a man like Burin, Aran wanted no doubt in the king's mind that he was choosing of his own free will. This would have to be done the conventional way.

"What would you have me do, arohim?" Burin sneered. The man's moods were fluctuating alarmingly. He must be feeling under great pressure, indeed. "Send my legions marching north because of some mystical vision you claim to have experienced? Leave my kingdom undefended from attack? The Eryn'elda would be upon us before we reached the borders of the Emerin!"

It was Elaina who answered the question. "The Eryn'elda march for the Sorral Plain, HIghness," she said loud enough for all to hear. "They take aim at the Heralds of Dawn, our most immediate enemy."

"Then let them march to their deaths!" Burin snapped. "I have no quarrel with the Heralds of Dawn. They stay out of Dwarven lands, and we out of theirs."

"They may be marching to their deaths," Elaine shot back. "And if that is true, where do you think the Heralds will turn next? They have Maralon and Ironshire in their grasp, now. The Council is dead, replaced by an all-Herald Council under the command of Rodric Eames. They are mobilising in ways not seen for hundreds of years. The world is boiling like a kicked anthill! Where will the mighty kingdom of Dun'Arghol point its sword?