Spellwright

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Nicodemus walked into the cold autumn night.

Wind rushed through the evergreens and tore leaves of scarlet and yellow from the aspens. The crisp air smelled of damp earth, moldy leaves. Before him a steep mountain road curved down to the hamlet of Gray’s Crossing. Behind him rose Starhaven’s black silhouette.

Even though Nicodemus had seldom left the academy and never traveled this road at night, he noticed little of the dark beauty; his mind was too distracted by recent memories and new emotions.

At first he felt only exhilaration. His cacography had helped him escape! But then he turned a bend and saw a rotting log that resembled a woman’s body, curled up and facing away. A shiver ran down his body. The toppled trunk grew larger in his vision, revealing pale mushrooms scattered like warts across the wood, their roots eating into the rot.

Devin’s half-crushed face flashed before his eyes. He tried to think of the emerald, but his fear and grief would not dissipate. Devin and Kyran were dead. The demon Typhon had turned John into an unwitting killer. Far worse, the monstrous Fellwroth was still alive. The damage Kyran had done to the metal golem was of no consequence. Fellwroth might already be forming another body.

Nicodemus closed his eyes and again sought the emerald’s image, but again he failed. Fellwroth would keep coming, no matter how many times he escaped, no matter how many golems he deconstructed.

And yet, when the golem had grabbed his throat, he had heard the emerald’s voice as his own childhood voice. He had learned that the gem was the missing part of himself. He had learned that his nightmares had contained visions of Fellwroth’s living body.

But could that knowledge do him any good? He wasn’t the Halcyon. Prophecy dictated that the Halcyon would be born with a Braid-shaped keloid. Nicodemus’s keloid had been created after his birth, when his father had branded him with the emerald.

Worse, Nicodemus still had no idea where Fellwroth’s true body might be. True, he knew it was lying in a cavern with a standing stone… and inhabited by nightmare turtles? It was nonsensical.

His fear grew and the keloid began to burn again. The scars grew so hot he feared they might singe his hair. He paused to fan the back of his neck.

While he waited for the keloid to cool, he pulled the Seed of Finding from his belt-purse and tore off its encircling root. As before, part of the artifact melted and then re congealed on the back of his hand as barklike skin. Now Deirdre could find him.

However, the Fool’s Ladder had landed her on Starhaven’s eastern side. She would have to make a long hike around Starhaven to the road Nicodemus now traveled. Even if the druid had set out at once, she could not find him before morning. Until then, he needed a safe hiding place.

He started down the road again, hoping to reach Gray’s Crossing quickly.

But the night was not the same; he was not the same. The forest loomed larger and blacker. In the blue moon’s light, once familiar meadows became otherworldly landscapes. All around him lurked the loneliness of the road. He shook his head and tried to push away thoughts of Kyran and Devin.

But the night was not to be denied; it had his imagination as an ally. Everything changed. A stump took on a lycanthrope’s shape; a leafless branch opened gnarled fingers and hung ready to grab; the wind in the trees began to talk of Chthonic footsteps.

For most of his life, Nicodemus had dreamed of venturing into these woods, of battling monsters on this very road. But he never guessed that he could feel so alone, or that it could be so dark.

And then the blue moon slipped behind a cloud, leaving only the white moon in the sky. The world grew darker still.

Every falling leaf made him jump. Every snapping twig conjured images of lurking horrors. He felt as if his heart were beating an inch behind his eyes. The road seemed to shake. He dropped the Index and fell to his knees.

Behind boughs and under bushes, nightblue terrors grew legs and teeth; they slunk through the tall meadow grass and hid in the shadows. They began to chant in croaking voices, telling stories of how they had drifted among the woods as impalpable wraiths for many long years. They chanted about how Nicodemus’s long-awaited journey on the night road was making them stronger.

The night creatures congregated at the forest’s edge. And when he looked away, they darted across the road to the trees on the other side. They went mostly unseen, but every so often he glimpsed a gnarled elbow or two shining violet eyes. No two were alike, and they were all around him, muttering and spitting their low chant.

Now breathing hard, Nicodemus realized he was in mortal danger. He realized that he could go back to Starhaven. He looked up at the dark towers. If he returned, the sentinels would imprison him. But what of that? Other people would pass him in the halls, and he would know that the world was constant. He could explain about the golems. The academy would protect him. It would give him a place to lay down his language in the tracks of literary convention.

Still on his hands and knees, he turned to face uphill.

All around, the terrors whispered about their fear that he would flee back to Starhaven and deprive them of a feeding.

An endless moment passed as Nicodemus kneeled, adrift in a fantastic universe.

But then the image of the small emerald appeared before his eyes. At that moment, he decided to remain. He would rather die trying to find the missing part of himself.

The nightblue terrors burst onto the road, moaning with rapture. They circled him: a nightmarish jamboree of limbs, bellies, and teeth. He remained on his knees, frozen with fear.

Some of the monsters were strangely familiar-a small eyeless dragon; a giant insect with a human face; a troll’s three-horned head.

Others were such phantasmagoric unions of limbs and fins and fangs that they were impossible to perceive in their entirety. Some of the monsters grabbed at his clothes; others ran their claws through his hair.

But as the night terrors touched him, Nicodemus began to sense their thoughts and feelings. Somehow he knew that his choice to stay on the road had affected them in ways they did not realize.

Just then the wind brought rhythmic hoof beats up from the mountainside. The night terrors froze like stone carvings. Some put claws to batlike ears. Now they could hear the four-beat song of a galloping horse.

Every monster shuddered; they knew what was coming up from the town. They had felt the foul thing riding down this same path not an hour previous.

Suddenly and completely, the emotions in their oily hearts transformed. The monsters changed their minds. With split lips and forked tongues, they whispered around fangs and tusks, telling each other what must be done.

Fighting through his paralyzing fear, Nicodemus tried to crawl farther down the road. But dread placed too heavy a weight on his back and he collapsed. The keloid scar on his neck burned.

Having reached a decision, the nightblue terrors scooped up Nicodemus and carried him into a roadside ditch. There they piled on top of him like children rough-housing with their father. They were determined to cover his every inch with their deep-blue skin.

The horsesong slowed to the two-beat rhythm of a trot. Realizing that he had forgotten the Index on the road, a three-horned troll scampered out, picked up the codex with bony claws, and dove back into the pile of monsters just before a horse and rider came into view around the bend.

Still paralyzed, Nicodemus lay under a blanket of phantasms, all of which had become as still as death. Though a webbed hand covered his right eye, he could still see with his left.

Four white horse legs appeared as the animal trotted to within five feet of where he lay. Two tattered boots dropped into view as the rider dismounted.

The newcomer spoke with a low, gruff voice: “I know you are near, Nicodemus Weal. Your keloid calls out to me.” The boots took halting steps around the horse.

Through terror’s haze, Nicodemus recognized Fellwroth’s voice.

“Moments ago the keloid’s texts became diffuse. Something is interfering. But still, I knew I’d find you on this road. You took your sweet time, whelp. I had to wait in the miserable town until I felt you coming down the mountainside.”

The boots limped up the road as Fellwroth searched. The monster inhaled with a slight whistling sound.

“Impressive, this spell that hides you and masks the keloid’s spells,” he growled. “It must be in a language I have never encountered. You must have a new protector; we both know your retarded mind could never manage such a subtext.”

Fellwroth now stepped into the meadow on the road’s opposite side. Nicodemus, numb with terror, could do nothing but watch as the fiend’s cloaked back came into view.

The monster had donned a new white shroud, but he limped badly and his right sleeve hung lifelessly at his side.

This was the same iron golem Nicodemus had faced in the compluvium.

Apparently finding nothing in the grass, Fellwroth staggered back to the horse. “This body has known too much abuse. I have only a few moments. Likely this golem will fail before I find you.”

The creature took in another whistling breath. “You are out of Starhaven now, so the game has changed. Your power is greater than I’d supposed. Perhaps we can come to an agreement.” He paused for another difficult breath. “Whelp, you now have a choice. And it is vital that you make the right one.”

The monster stepped straight toward Nicodemus. “If you continue to run from me, you will die.”

The boots stopped not a foot from the pile. “I would rather you lived. That is why I will tell you how to recover the missing part of your mind.”

Fellwroth was so close now that Nicodemus could hear something squeaking like a rusty door hinge inside the golem’s body. The monster’s heart?

“I trust Shannon has told you about Language Prime,” Fellwroth said in a slow, metallic voice. “I trust he told you that it is the first language, the source of all magic. But your old teacher might not have known that Language Prime can be used to change a living creature’s body and mind.”

The monster’s boots shifted toward the meadow. “You should know your father was a demon-worshiper. When you were an infant, Typhon gave your father an emerald we brought across the ocean from the ancient kingdom of Aaraheuminest. But that is an archaic name. The fools of this age have contracted the name to Aarahest.”

With a gravelly crunch, the boots pivoted back to face Nicodemus. “Your father used the emerald to cut into your mind. It stole a rare talent that you inherited from your Imperial ancestry. It stole your ability to spell correctly in any language, even Language Prime.”

The boots turned downhill. “When I touched you, we both saw your father drawing your ability to spell into the emerald. I had not realized until that moment that the emerald had scarred you. If I had, I could have used the keloid to identify you. But no matter. Now anyone holding the emerald gains the Language Prime fluency that you were born with.”

Now the boots turned uphill. Apparently the monster had not given up searching for him. “But unfortunately, the gem loses strength over time. So once every four years, Typhon had to replenish the emerald by touching it to you. The gem is losing strength now. I tell you this so you will know how valuable you could be to me. I reward those I value.”

The monster paused as if to emphasize this last claim before continuing. “Who you were and how to reach you, the old monster hid from me. And when I killed the demon, I did so before learning how to find you.”

An eerie, metallic laugh filled the night as the monster moved out of Nicodemus’s view. “And maybe that is what the emerald wanted. The gem looks after itself, Nicodemus. It longs to return to you. It is insidious. It sends dreams to those near it; it tries to deceive its wielders. It betrayed Typhon. It showed me in a dream how to kill the demon when he was trying to infect a minor deity.”

Fellwroth’s footsteps halted. “The emerald is using me to find its way back to you. But its desire to be near you now betrays you.”

The golem laughed again. “The keloid on your neck is a by-product of the stone. It is not truly part of you. It grows out of proportion of your body. It is disobedient like a canker curse, and like a canker it can forge magical language. When I touched you, the scar sensed that my living body now holds the gem. And so the keloid began to forge Language Prime spells. It broadcasts them to reveal your location to the emerald.”

Through the haze of his terror, Nicodemus remembered how the keloid had become unbearably hot.

“I had hoped to follow the keloid’s signals to you,” Fellwroth added. “But this strange spell that is hiding you from my eye is also diffusing the signal.”

A few of the night terrors covering Nicodemus shifted uneasily.

“But I can sense your general proximity. I know you’re close enough to hear me. And I might find you yet.”

Gravelly footsteps sounded again. “But if I don’t catch you with this golem, I will with another. No matter where you run, the emerald will find you. It is part of you.”

Again came the eerie, echoing laugh. “Fitting that you will always find yourself.”

The footsteps were growing louder. “So there is no use running, whelp. You are one of us. Your mother too was a demon-worshiper. Typhon created you by bringing them together. Your family is vital to the Disjunction.”

The monster sniffed as if annoyed. “Ah, yes, you must understand about your family. No doubt you know an Imperial clan ruled the ancient continent. No doubt you know you are an Imperial, one who possesses royal characteristics. But you cannot know that the Imperial family mastered Language Prime. Only those of full Imperial blood could comprehend and compose primal texts. So the Imperials bred themselves carefully to keep the talent. When humanity fled across the ocean, your family was scattered. The blood ran thin and the talent was lost.”

Fellwroth’s boots came back into Nicodemus’s view as the golem hobbled back toward his horse. “Since then, there have been a few others like you, gifted in Language Prime. Typhon has been breeding Imperials since he and I crossed the ocean two hundred years ago. You are one of the products of this breeding.”

Fellwroth’s legs wobbled, causing the nearby horse to shift its feet. “Why are the demons breeding Language Prime spellwrights? Because Typhon discovered how to use Language Prime to compose a dragon. No doubt you’ve heard what the first dragon has done to Trillinon. Typhon and I wrote that wyrm using your Language Prime fluency via the emerald. It took ten long years.”

Fellwroth’s feet shuffled as if the golem was having trouble staying balanced. “But that dragon, being my first attempt, was flawed. So I set it loose on Trillinon to weaken humanity. Now I must replenish the emerald so I can compose another dragon to be stronger and more intelligent. When I have a wyrm powerful enough, I will fly across the ocean to the ancient continent. There I will revive Los and help him to initiate the War of Disjunction.”

Somewhere an owl hooted.

“When the demons enslave humanity, they will want captains among the men. If you serve me, Nicodemus, they will give back the missing part of your mind. You will be complete. You will know power, wealth, happiness beyond your ability to imagine.”

When Fellwroth spoke again, the words came out clipped, as if the creature were in pain. “So you see your choices. You can serve me and know vast reward, or you can run. I won’t kill you when I catch you. I’ve never wanted you dead. If you perish, I cannot replenish the emerald.”

The owl hooted again.

“I will distort your mind, make you more disabled than Typhon made that giant oaf. You will be a slobbering fool. The emerald will replenish itself more slowly, but I will not have to worry about your slipping from my grasp. That has been my goal all along-to find you and further cripple your mind. But now that you are free in the world, I am willing to bargain. Your resourcefulness has impressed me. Join me.”

Fellwroth drew another long, whistling breath and waited as if for Nicodemus to call out an acceptance.

“No response? Perhaps thoughts of prophecy cloud your thinking. Perhaps you think fate will save you. I must tell you then that the human prophecies are nonsense. After the Exodus, humanity longed for the return of a full-blooded Imperial so profoundly they fabricated these prophecies. They mixed facts about your family with legend and myth.”

Fellwroth began to cough-it sounded like someone striking a pot with a metal spoon. When the racket finally ended, the creature spoke again.

“Some prophecies predict only one full-blooded Imperial will arise to become a savior. The druidic nonsense about the Peregrine is an example. In the same way, the highsmiths prophesied the coming of the Oriflamme, the hierophants the coming of the Cynosure. But other magical societies imagine two Imperials will arise, one a savior, one a destroyer. Wizards are this way with their rot about the Halcyon versus the Storm Petrel. But it’s all drivel. All prophecies are equally false.”

Again Fellwroth made the clanging cough.

“The truth is that full-blood Imperials like you are only tools. Tools that might be used to impede or empower the Disjunction. And you, Nicodemus, are a tool made by demons for the Disjunction.”

Nicodemus screwed his eyes shut. He still felt dazed and numb. He could understand everything the monster was saying, but none of it seemed real.

Fellwroth was making a low, echoing growl. “If you run from me, you will face dangers about which you know nothing.”

The monster paused as if considering something. “Only a few human deities were aware of Typhon’s presence. The great gods and goddesses are too busy governing their kingdoms to notice. But a handful of lesser deities have discovered Typhon’s presence and formed an alliance to oppose him. They call themselves the Alliance of Divine Heretics, and they too have been trying to breed a Language Prime spellwright. But none of your relatives have lived past infancy.”

Fellwroth laughed once. “The ongoing war between the Disjunction and the Alliance of Heretics is a pathetic one. We slaughter all Imperials born to the Alliance, and they kill every one born to the Disjunction… everyone but you, that is. And I must give Typhon his due; it was brilliant to steal your talent rather than raise you to use it for us. And then he disguised you as a cacographer. Not in a thousand years would the Alliance suspect a retarded boy of being our Imperial.”

Fellwroth’s legs began to quake. “I’m telling you this because the instant the Alliance learns of your existence, they will assassinate you. Think on it: by killing you they would deprive the emerald of its power and hence deprive us of our Language Prime and so our ability to compose a second dragon.”

The monster’s legs now shook enough to make him stagger. “You are in more danger than you realize. No doubt the Alliance of Heretics is already aware of you. Who do you think sent Deirdre, that would-be-druid of a girl? She will kill you the instant she has the opportunity to do so without ruining the druids’ standing at the convocation. Surely you must understand now, whelp. I am your only chance at survival. You must join me.”

Suddenly Nicodemus’s keloid started to burn.

The golem’s legs quit their tremor. “I think…” the monster wheezed as he started to limp toward Nicodemus. “I think I feel your presence.”

But walking proved too difficult for Fellwroth; a white hand sank to steady the creature against the ground.

“If I could only see you,” Fellwroth grunted. “What is this mysterious language that conceals you?”

Slowly Fellwroth managed to stand. The monster’s breathing was more labored now. “Perhaps you hate the Disjunction so much, hate those who created you so much, that you would consider suicide to deprive us of the emerald. It won’t make a difference. I have already set the wheels in motion to give you a cousin. In time I will breed another Imperial. Do not sacrifice yourself for nothing.”

The monster shuffled closer; his boots were now a foot away. One of the nightblue terrors covering Nicodemus whimpered.

“Nicodemus,” Fellwroth wheezed, “bind yourself to our cause and you shall be rewarded beyond your imagination. All you need do is return to Starhaven. I will collect you there.”

The monster took another faltering half-step. His toe landed an inch from Nicodemus’s face. Two night terrors cringed.

Fellwroth started to take another step, but a night terror threw out a tentacle to strike the golem’s shin. The murderer faltered, stumbled backward and then fell to his knees.

A hood covered the monster’s face, but his scarred left hand came up to press against a maggot-white throat.

“This golem fails,” he hissed. “I leave you, Nicodemus, with a choice. Surrender to me in Starhaven and know godlike power, or resist and die.”

A violent cough wracked the monster’s chest and threw his head back. His hood slid off to reveal a long mane of pallid hair. Where there should have been smooth forehead shone a bar of flowing Numinous text. His skin was as white as paper. The features of his handsome face were delicate-thin lips, a snub nose, wide eyes.

Another violent cough wracked the creature and he fell forward, his chin striking gravel not four inches from Nicodemus’s nose.

Patches of the golem’s skin began darkening into gray iron. The thing stared straight at Nicodemus with eyes that had neither white sclera nor dark pupil. They were everywhere blood-red flecked with black.

With a violent shudder, the golem pulled his hand up as if to strike out with a spell.

But a night terror leaped off Nicodemus and onto Fellwroth’s arm. It was the three-horned troll. The squat creature pinned the golem’s arm to the dirt road.

Suddenly Nicodemus realized that he had seen the troll before. Many times before.

Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

Nicodemus’s heart beat frantically. He struggled to escape the pile of night terrors, but now bright orange flecks flew across his vision. The ground seemed to spin. He was going to faint.

All around him, the night terrors began whispering, urging him to stay still so they could keep him hidden. Before him appeared the small, eyeless dragon with tentacles growing from its chin. He recognized this night terror too; it was called Tamelkan. He had given it that name when he was fourteen years old.

Since arriving at Starhaven, Nicodemus had been imagining monsters to infest the nearby forests. Inspired by countless books of knightly romance, he had dreamed of venturing from the academy to confront his invented foes.

Now, as impossible as it seemed, his dreams had become real. The night terrors that had hidden him from Fellwroth, the creatures that now held him down, were the same monsters he had imagined as a boy.

In a confused panic, Nicodemus thrashed harder and threw off two of the blue monsters. He staggered onto his knees, but Tamelkan lunged at him. The dragon’s tentacles wound around his head.

Overcome by his own dark fantasy, Nicodemus fell backward into unconsciousness.