ability.
Lightning struck once, very close, followed on the heels of the blinding flash by thunder which shook the entire fortress with an ear-shattering rumble.
And then she was gone.
Narskap sat very still for a moment or two, counting his heartbeats. It might have been raining outside, he was not certain, for his ears still rang with the boom of the thunder, and the heated smell of lightning filled his nostrils. When he recovered, he reached forward, sweeping over four of the clay jugs, revealing four very sharp arrowheads chiseled and struck from a jewel of red-gold.
“Interesting. She did not sense me.” Quendius stepped forth from the tower shadows at Narskap’s back.
“Indeed, Master.” He picked up an arrowhead, cradling it carefully. “An important bit of knowledge. As for the omnipotence of godliness, she is wrong on several counts.”
Quendius reached his side. He wore his long ivory fleece vest over dark leather pants, as supple as the well-muscled legs they covered, his ash-gray skin looking as though he had been dusted lightly by the fires of the forge he commanded. His dark eyes narrowed as his gaze examined the object Narskap held up for him. “Well shaped.”
“Cerat cannot leave the planes whole. But his essence, quartered, can. We have achieved what he wished, even under the nose of the River Goddess. She came to advise us of triumph, already too late to know she had been defeated.” Narskap tapped each of the four arrowheads. “He has already imbued that which I have shaped for him.” A loud hum began from the arrowheads as if awakened to his thump. Quendius knew that hum, knew the impatient song of a Demon whining for obedience.
“And what now to finish them?”
“Aryn wood for the shaft.” Narskap looked into his master’s face. “If you would procure that for me, you will have an arrow that armor cannot turn aside. Even flesh and bone will not stop it, until it has taken the blood and soul it wishes, and then it will return to the archer’s hand. Your quiver will never be empty as long as Cerat is thirsty, and he is never sated.”
Quendius smiled briefly. He shifted his weight to bow over the arrowheads. “Aryn wood.”
“Bistel Vantane guards his aryns as a Kernan guards his daughters. But I have faith that you can secure wood for the shafts and a matching longbow. Once I’ve strung the longbow, all you need is to be bonded to it.”
“And yet you call me master.” Quendius put a fingertip to the arrowhead held by Narskap. He could feel the heat within it, hear the buzz like that of an angry hornet. He trusted that all was as Narskap told him, and that Cerat had divided himself to enter the plane of mortals which fed him so well before. “It will return to the archer,” he repeated.
“Once the bow is made and strung and initiated, yes. It will drill through flesh like a hot dagger through freshly churned butter.”
He grunted in satisfaction before remarking. “I will presume the ritual involves blood.”
“With Cerat, there can be no other way.”
Quendius removed his finger from the arrowhead. “I’ll see to it.” He withdrew to the door, unlocking the four locks which secured it, each a thick and heavy dead bolt. As ramshackle as the tower looked, it was not. The timber shaping it was thick and solid. Its cracks might let the elements in, but it would never allow its occupants out.
Narskap heard him leave. He did not for a moment wonder how his master had gotten into a tower locked from the inside nor why the Goddess had not sensed him. Had Quendius even been there? Perhaps not; his master had left days ago on another mission. He knew, better than Quendius even, that the weaponsmith could step through dark spots in the otherwise bright firmament of Kerith. He’d been at Quendius’ side when it happened. A day or more might have been lost or gained, but shadow swallowed Quendius even as madness swallowed Narskap. Or perhaps it was only his madness that
Lightning struck once, very close, followed on the heels of the blinding flash by thunder which shook the entire fortress with an ear-shattering rumble.
And then she was gone.
Narskap sat very still for a moment or two, counting his heartbeats. It might have been raining outside, he was not certain, for his ears still rang with the boom of the thunder, and the heated smell of lightning filled his nostrils. When he recovered, he reached forward, sweeping over four of the clay jugs, revealing four very sharp arrowheads chiseled and struck from a jewel of red-gold.
“Interesting. She did not sense me.” Quendius stepped forth from the tower shadows at Narskap’s back.
“Indeed, Master.” He picked up an arrowhead, cradling it carefully. “An important bit of knowledge. As for the omnipotence of godliness, she is wrong on several counts.”
Quendius reached his side. He wore his long ivory fleece vest over dark leather pants, as supple as the well-muscled legs they covered, his ash-gray skin looking as though he had been dusted lightly by the fires of the forge he commanded. His dark eyes narrowed as his gaze examined the object Narskap held up for him. “Well shaped.”
“Cerat cannot leave the planes whole. But his essence, quartered, can. We have achieved what he wished, even under the nose of the River Goddess. She came to advise us of triumph, already too late to know she had been defeated.” Narskap tapped each of the four arrowheads. “He has already imbued that which I have shaped for him.” A loud hum began from the arrowheads as if awakened to his thump. Quendius knew that hum, knew the impatient song of a Demon whining for obedience.
“And what now to finish them?”
“Aryn wood for the shaft.” Narskap looked into his master’s face. “If you would procure that for me, you will have an arrow that armor cannot turn aside. Even flesh and bone will not stop it, until it has taken the blood and soul it wishes, and then it will return to the archer’s hand. Your quiver will never be empty as long as Cerat is thirsty, and he is never sated.”
Quendius smiled briefly. He shifted his weight to bow over the arrowheads. “Aryn wood.”
“Bistel Vantane guards his aryns as a Kernan guards his daughters. But I have faith that you can secure wood for the shafts and a matching longbow. Once I’ve strung the longbow, all you need is to be bonded to it.”
“And yet you call me master.” Quendius put a fingertip to the arrowhead held by Narskap. He could feel the heat within it, hear the buzz like that of an angry hornet. He trusted that all was as Narskap told him, and that Cerat had divided himself to enter the plane of mortals which fed him so well before. “It will return to the archer,” he repeated.
“Once the bow is made and strung and initiated, yes. It will drill through flesh like a hot dagger through freshly churned butter.”
He grunted in satisfaction before remarking. “I will presume the ritual involves blood.”
“With Cerat, there can be no other way.”
Quendius removed his finger from the arrowhead. “I’ll see to it.” He withdrew to the door, unlocking the four locks which secured it, each a thick and heavy dead bolt. As ramshackle as the tower looked, it was not. The timber shaping it was thick and solid. Its cracks might let the elements in, but it would never allow its occupants out.
Narskap heard him leave. He did not for a moment wonder how his master had gotten into a tower locked from the inside nor why the Goddess had not sensed him. Had Quendius even been there? Perhaps not; his master had left days ago on another mission. He knew, better than Quendius even, that the weaponsmith could step through dark spots in the otherwise bright firmament of Kerith. He’d been at Quendius’ side when it happened. A day or more might have been lost or gained, but shadow swallowed Quendius even as madness swallowed Narskap. Or perhaps it was only his madness that
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