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NiDemon: Chapter 1: What Comes LaterYou may also download this chapter in Microsoft Word format by right-clicking here.
The old man ran onward, leaping over rooty obstacles and stones with a speed that belied his age. Tripping now would mean certain death, or worse. His soiled gray cloak trailed behind him as he raced through the dense forest maze, and his breath came in ragged gasps. A branch snagged his flailing garment, ripping it from his body. He sped on without looking back. Looking back would be a dire mistake. Looking back would only confirm his fears. And yes, he was afraid, even him. His legs ached and his chest pounded. How long had he been running? He had escaped at sunrise, and it was nearing sunset now. At first he was able to use his powers, but it was tiring to do so and he grew weary fast. There were too many hunting him, and they had a Nephalim with them, or more rightly the Nephalim had company. Defending against twenty men was one thing-defending against twenty men and a Nephalim was another. In his present condition, the Nephalim would be enough. Better to escape. He knew where to go. It wasn't far now. He knew because he had the map, the map his pursuers so desperately wanted. It was the map they were after, not him. He was just its legs. And to cut him down was their only way to recapture the map. So he ran on, concentrating only upon shoving one foot in front of the other. It was close. He could feel its tug within him, pulling him along, drawing him eagerly forward and filling him with renewed vigor. The Crossing was near! Soon he would be safe, and so too the map, and all the wondrous worlds it touched. With that thought, he redoubled his speed. But his mind was too far ahead of his body, and he faltered, stumbled and fell headlong to the ground. A hulking shadow moved with determination through the thick forest. Behind it trudged twenty black-garbed men wearing metal masks over their down-turned faces. The huge leader stopped and two red wings probed outward, wrapping around its giant frame like a well-tailored, red velvet suit. Its face lay hidden in shadow, but a smile was just visible through the gloom. Swinging ponderously on a branch hung a soiled, grey cloak. The old man's cloak. The men in the rear grew anxious and shuffled their booted feet. Their leader raised a clawed hand, and the men fell instantly silent. The Nephalim sniffed the air, wagging its head from side to side. The men nearest looked quickly away as the shifting light revealed the creature's face. The men were not fooled by what they saw. Although they knew no mortal creature more beautiful and fair, they also knew none as deadly. Golden hair, broad-set eyes, angled jaw-a man's face so handsome and noble, yet so deceiving. The Nephalim's wings folded back to reveal a muscular body clothed in the finest silks of green and gold. At its belt hung a sword, thin as a whip, with a black hilt like polished onyx. If not for the wings and clawed hands one would swear to be gazing upon a prince. But Nephalim it was, a shadow, a spirit creature of the ether, spawned in the Darkness before the Light. With a signal, they continued at a faster pace. As they raced along, the Nephalim cursed the weakness of the flesh around it, these men who moved so slowly, who tired so easily. It longed to leap to the air and fly, but it would need the twenty men if it were to wrest the map from the old man. It wasn't one to be fooled by appearances either. This old man was anything but ordinary. Nomadin were never as they looked. Created before Light, not visible in any accepted sense of the word, they assumed whatever appearance they chose, casting their image into the mind of lessers. Like myself, thought the Nephalim with a perverse smile. No. The Nephalim would need the twenty well-trained fighting men. So it was necessary to tuck its wings away and run with this pack of humans. It surely had taken much longer to overtake the old man this way, but the fighters would prove their worth. Not that it was afraid of a Nomadin. But a Nomadin could readily defend itself, even against a shadow of such rank and power as itself. A prolonged battle was not what it was after. It wanted the map. "I sense our hunt is drawing to an end," said one of the masked men as he jogged along beside the Nephalim. "I trust you will live up to your end of the deal." "You may be foolish to place your trust in one such as me, sir," replied the Nephalim, its voice deep and clear. The man fell silent as he struggled to keep up with the faster pace kept by his winged leader. "But you may be certain of our bargain," said the Nephalim. "They will be yours as promised." The man nodded and dropped back to run with the others. The Nephalim smiled again, its handsome features flashing white teeth. Yes. The man was a fool to make a deal with a shadow. They all were. The Nephalim sniffed the air. The stench of the Nomadin was overpowering. Soon it would kill. Soon it would kill them all. The forest gathered gloom as the sun began to set. The trees they ran beneath, mainly oak and elm, hung wearily over them as they struggled to keep up their breakneck pace. This wood, in this world, was know as the Damp Oaks for a reason. The tangle of boughs overhead rarely let sunlight down to the forest floor, leaving it perpetually damp underfoot. But it was just that which made tracking the Nomadin so easy. It had been much more difficult to track the old man while he had been running through the hard, dry surrounding fields. Then suddenly he had swung east and had crossed into the forest, making tracking that much easier. The Nephalim knew there had to be a reason for the Nomadin's change of course, but it couldn't see one. Nomadin were seldom so foolish. No matter, it thought. His foolishness will cost him. Without warning, they came upon their prey. The old man stood before them, his back turned to a moss covered tree. The men stopped short and waited behind their winged leader. They had been warned about the dangers of underestimating a Nomadin. They would hold back until commanded otherwise. The Nephalim's velvety wings snapped outward to remind them of their peril, and forty boots shuffled backwards, as if afraid those red wings might reach out and grab them. Good, thought the Nephalim. Fear in front. Fear behind. Let them all be afraid. As if on cue, the Nomadin shed its shape. The old man disappeared. The forest air exploded with the hiss of high-pressured steam and the Nomadin's new form sprang forward, its long reptilian neck lancing out toward the men in the rear. A Gorgul, mused the Nephalim. A steam dragon. Clever. The men nearly fled, but the Nephalim knew they wouldn't. Their fear of shadows ran deeper than their fear of Gorguls. Much deeper. "Hold the line!" shouted one of the men. "Hold the line!" Twenty swords jumped from their scabbards, creating a deadly picket in the air. The Gorgul drew back, gathering its neck behind it like a spring. Steam vented from its gills. Its dragon-like wings beat the air, shredding the bark from the surrounding trees. But the men held their ground, and to their surprise the Gorgul did not attack. It wouldn't, the Nephalim knew. The Gorgul was nothing more than an illusion, as was the image of the old man. Beneath both was the Nomadin, and if the Nomadin meant to scare off the fighting men with this image, then he chose poorly. The men waited patiently behind their winged leader. "Give me the map, and I'll spare you," said the Nephalim. The Gorgul hissed and blew steam. "You leave me no choice then." The Nephalim reached for its sword, folding its wings onto its back. "You truly are a fool. The Breaching Arts are useless against so many. And your Nomadin magic holds little sway over the Nephalim. You cannot win." The Gorgul hissed and blew steam. The Nephalim regarded the steam-dragon curiously. Something wasn't right. This Nomadin defied everything it knew about the accursed True Language lovers. First by allowing himself to be tracked, then by giving himself away so easily, now by refusing to give up an obviously flawed charade. He had to be touched. The fighting men advanced through the shrouded air, their swords held ready. "Wait!" cried the Nephalim. So much steam. Why is there so much steam? The Nephalim's wings jumped outward in anger. "No!" It waved a clawed hand through the heavy air and cried, "Borgata callatum!" calling forth its powers for the first time since the chase began. The Gorgul disappeared, so too the steam. The bark on the trees returned to normal. The Nomadin was nowhere to be seen. "Clever. Very Clever." The Nomadin was not the fool after all. The image of the Gorgul had been a trick, an illusion to occupy them while the old man made his escape. No matter. They would hunt him down again. And when they caught him, their attack would be swift and deadly. Then the map will be mine, thought the Nephalim. It turned to the baffled men. "He's on the run! Have ready with your swords. He isn't far." The men stood suddenly stiff. They shuffled back uneasily as a cloud of steam billowed past the Nephalim's head. The Nephalim spun about. The Gorgul had returned. "You cannot fool me twice," said the shadow, raising a hand to dispel the ruse immediately. "Borgata callatum!" But this Gorgul remained. Behind it, with arms raised high, stood the Nomadin. With a sweep of the old man's hand the Nephalim fell back, beset by a cloud of sparkling lights like a swarm of fireflies rising from the ground about its feet. Tiny sparks roiled around its head, clinging to its shoulders, covering its bright red wings, dimming their brilliance. Still more lights rose from the earth, attaching to its legs. The Nephalim remained unruffled and sheathed its thin black sword. A clawed hand reached out toward the Nomadin, palm raised. A smile split the shadow's lips. White teeth flashed in the gloom. "Gillium borhai," it whispered. The magical lights brightened in reaction to the softly spoken spell. But quickly they dimmed, and their movement slowed. "Borhai barak," the Nephalim said louder. To the Nomadin's astonishment, the lights began to gather, collecting in the Nephalim's open hand, pooling like shimmering water. Freed of the spell, the red velvet of the shadow's wings shone like blood again, stretching outward in a lazy yawn. Still more of the magical lights gathered in the Nephalim's palm until but a few remained, smoking like spilled embers upon its boots. Soon, its clawed hand held a blazing ball of white-hot fire. "You see!" cried the Nephalim, drawing its sword again, its handsome face illuminated by the magical orb. "Your magic holds no sway over me! Now you will pay for your ignorance!" It drew back its arm. The Gorgul's neck thrust suddenly outward. The Nephalim spun around, its wings rising up to block the attack. A jet of scalding vapor struck its back. The plume of steam swirled upward, deflected by the shadow's wings, filling the air and obscuring the trees all around. The Nephalim waited patiently for the assault to end, safe from the boiling storm that would have scoured the skin from a mortal man, safe and on guard, for it could sense the Nomadin approaching through the misty air. Though its vision was obscured, it didn't need eyes to know that the Nomadin stood within striking distance, defenseless, confused. Sword in one hand, white hot magic in the other, it turned and waited a breath longer, then thrust its sword forward. The steam blew back, revealing its prize. The Nomadin clutched at his chest, fingering the blade that impaled him. The color drained from his face and he released a silent cry. "The witch should have let me finish you when I first had the chance," said the Nephalim, pulling its sword from the old man's chest. It raised the burning orb up high. "But then again, I would have missed all the fun." The Nomadin crumpled to the ground. The Nephalim reached out. The pouch at the old man's waist flew into its clawed hand. "Poor fool," said the Nephalim. "You've lost everything now. Your life. The map-your son, too." The Nomadin's eyes flew wide in surprise. "Oh. You didn't know? Yes. Your son. He died at Drexhage Hollow. I slew him myself." The Nomadin struggled to his knees. "Now I will finish you with your own True Language," said the Nephalim, holding aloft the fireball. "How fitting-that the truth should set you free." The Gorgul roared in fury as the fighting men leapt to attack, cutting its front legs out from under it. The Nephalim's laughter rose above the din as it hurled the blazing fireball down upon its hapless foe. Chapter II: The GorgulIlien jumped in his sleep. "Gallund!" he cried. "Gallund, no!" The Swan raised her wing, peering under it at Ilien. It was the third nightmare in as many nights. What had the boy suffered at Greattower? What had he seen? And what had she done-sending him alone to face the NiDemon, to rescue the princess and retrieve the key? How could she have been so careless? The price of her vision was often heavy, she knew. But seldom was her vision so muddled and so costly. So many men and Giants slain. The Nomadin wizards revealed as the ones who sent the Groll to hunt down Ilien. And Ilien himself-a twelve-year-old boy left to grapple with what he'd witnessed, what he'd learned about the Nomadin, the NiDemon, and himself. Ilien still hadn't spoken about what had happened. Where was the book? Where was the key? What exactly happened at Greattower? He still writhed about in his sleep, fighting off visions of God knows what. The Swan shook her feathered head. One thing was certain. She lifted her other wing, revealing the sleeping figure of Windy. The Prophesied Child was safe. Ilien stirred and sat up in the dark. The predawn sky stretched black and cold around him, his bed for the night a shelf of rock high up on one of the towering peaks of the Midland Mountains, his blanket a feathery wing. Three days of clinging to the Swan's back had brought him and Windy this far. How many more days of flight were ahead of them? The Swan refused to tell them where they were going. She'd spoken little since whisking them off on her back to rescue Gallund. No one said much since Greattower, really. Windy seemed lost in a perpetual daze, leading Ilien to wonder if she hadn't fully recovered from her ordeal with the NiDemon. There had been so little time to deal with anything since their escape from the Nomadin. As for Ilien, he wasn't ready to tell anyone what he had learned. Not yet, at least. Maybe not ever. What good would it do to tell them that he might not be the Prophesied Child, that the Book was already open, that the Necromancer was free, that he might be- It didn't make sense. Nothing made any sense. He was no more the Necromancer than Windy was the Chosen One. Regardless, the book was open. Reknamarken, the Necromancer, was free. Free to raise his army of spirits again, free to conquer Nadae once and for all. But Genten, the NiDemon, had said Reknamarken wasn't evil at all. He was the Creator. He wanted all creation to live under his rule in paradise, as it was meant to be. It was the Nomadin who were evil. They were the ones who imprisoned the Creator, who, as Genten had put it, prized freedom for freedom's sake, prized it above all else. If it wasn't for the Nomadin, evil wouldn't exist at all. Ilien peered up at the Swan. Her eyes shone in the darkness. And what about her? She had told him that the Necromancer was to blame for all of Nadae's woes, yet it was the Nomadin who had destroyed the Drowsy Wood, not Reknamarken. And it was the Nomadin who had sent the Groll to kill him. The Swan remained silent. Her glassy black eyes seemed to hold some sort of sorrow, or regret. Wasn't it she who had been more interested in retrieving the key than in rescuing Windy? And what of this nightmare he'd endured for three nights in a row? So real. As in the past, it felt less like a dream and more like a prophesy. Were the dreams meant to show him something? He remembered the others. The first one, being swallowed by the ground itself, the whisper in his ear. Ilien Woodhill, I know you. That very day, Gallund fell in the marsh, was devoured by the earth itself, his fate the same as in his dream. The second dream, seeing himself as someone else, clothed all in black, and the Groll finding him. Again the dream seemed to come true, for the Groll did find him, and Kink had been killed. Now this dream, so vivid like all the others, so vivid that he knew for certain that both the Nephalim and the Gorgul, creatures he had neither seen or heard of before, existed outside his nightmare. So vivid that he knew what everyone in his dream had been thinking, could feel what they were feeling. The Nephalim has spoken of a witch. Was Gallund the captive of a witch? It seemed unlikely. The three witches they had met in the forest outside Southford proved easy opponents for the wizard. Regardless of what it all meant, there was one thing he knew for certain-the map was important. It was the map that mattered. But a map of what? And what about the Nephalim's final words to Gallund? Your son. He died at Drexhage Hollow. I slew him myself. A darkness passed before Ilien's eyes, and a cold weight filled his heart. If his dreams were prophetic . . . Ilien flopped back down to the cold rock beneath him and shuttered. It didn't make any sense. None of it did. He needed answers. He needed to know. More than anything he needed to know the truth. Who was he really? He lay in the darkness feeling more lonely than ever. The wriggle from his back pocket gave him a measure of comfort, and he pulled out his pencil, his wand, the wand Gallund had made for him. He had grown fond of the mischievous little pencil after what they'd gone through together. "At least I still have you," he said. The pencil didn't answer, but it didn't matter. He pulled the Swan's warm wing down around him and fell back into a fitful slumber, his wand clasped tightly to his chest. "Rise and shine my chickadees!" sang the Swan, lifting her wings, letting the morning sun and cold breeze fall upon her sleeping brood. Windy rolled over and flopped an arm across her face. Ilien blinked and sat up. "Head 'em up, move 'em out!" she cried. "You really are a bit too cheery in the morning," said Ilien, hugging himself against the cold. Their perch of a campsite clung high upon the tallest peak around. The early morning sun hung just above the horizon and lit the tips of the world below them. Dim valleys between bright ridges stretched dark and misty into the distance, some of the deeper crevices still filled with night. "I suppose we're still not privy to where we're going today, are we?" said Ilien. He tucked his wand back into his pocket. "And hey! I'm hungry!" The Swan lifted her wing higher above Ilien, revealing a leather pouch strapped beneath it. "No more Awefull!" cried Ilien, referring to the off-smelling and perpetually damp grey loaves of bread the Swan carried with her. Ilien didn't care that they were made from the rye grasses of the Drowsy Wood. As far as he was concerned, plain old moldy bread was better than freshly made magical bread any day of the week. "Keep it down," moaned Windy. She reached up and tried to pull the Swan's wing back down. "It's too early for breakfast anyhow." The Swan stood and shook her tail feathers, folding her wings upon her back. "You're right. It is too early for breakfast. And besides, Ilien, you can't possibly be hungry. You ate two days ago and Awefull goes an awfully long way. And yes, you will find out where we are going today." Windy sat up and rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. Ilien slid next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Temper clement," he whispered. Windy looked suddenly wide-eyed, as if afraid she'd be turned into a toad, or something worse. Then she smiled. The air grew warm around them. "How-" Ilien shrugged. "I don't know. Spells just seem to pop into my head lately." "How about conjuring up some coffee then?" said Windy. "Cream, one sugar please." "Will you stop? It's not funny." "Touchy, aren't we?" Truth be told, he was touchy lately, especially about magic. Having spells spill from his mouth without warning was unnerving. The heat was appreciated; he just wished he felt like the one responsible for it. "So where are we going?" he asked, ignoring Windy's inquisitive gaze. "I'm not at liberty to say," replied the Swan. "Not at liberty to say! But you just said you'd tell us!" "No. I said you'd find out. And as with any trip, Ilien Woodhill, you will find out where you are going when you get there." Ilien flexed his fingers. "I could force it out of you, you know," he said with a sly smile. "I could use the Truth Sear Em spell." The Swan smiled back. "The Truth Sear Em spell burns the hands of those not telling the truth, Ilien." "I know." The Swan flapped her wings in the air. Windy laughed. Ilien didn't get it. "She has no hands, Ilien," said Windy. "I will tell you this," said the Swan. "Our journey is nearly at its end." "And then we'll rescue Gallund?" asked Ilien. "No. Then your journey begins." Both Ilien and Windy stared blankly at her. "I am bringing you to someone who will help you on your quest." "A friend?" questioned Ilien. "Not a friend of mine, but perhaps a friend of yours. I will tell you only this. Not all appearances are as they seem. Remember what you have learned. Now hop up. It's time to fly." Ilien took a sharp breath. He usually enjoyed flying, once the initial horror of takeoff had passed. But he felt more anxious than usual. Truth be told, he was homesick. And though he would soon fulfill his childhood dream of crossing the Midland Mountains, he knew that each mile of their journey took him that much farther from home, and his mother. She's probably worried sick, he thought. It had been a week since he left home that early morning on horseback, headed for Evernden. His mother would have arrived back from Dell three or four days ago. The note he had left explained that he'd be staying in Evernden for several days with Gallund, but those several days had passed. And the smoke from Evernden's burning towers might bring news to Southford of the wierwulf attack. She would think the worst. He had to get word to her somehow. He had to get word to her that he was alright. "I suppose Anselm won't be joining us for breakfast this morning," said Windy, climbing to her feet and looking down on the grim land below. The Giant had somehow been able to catch up with them every day near sunrise. He'd usually jog into camp just before breakfast, not that anyone but him ate it, and finish off a nauseating amount of Awefull in the brief time they had before the Swan drove them onward. But their previous campsites had been laid at the foot of the mountains, never so high up as now, and this morning was the first morning Anselm had not caught up with them. The Swan seemed unconcerned, yet something in her mannerisms told she felt otherwise. "Don't be worrying about Anselm," she said. "A fourteen-foot Giant has little to fear west of the Midland Mountains. He'll be fine." Ilien looked sideways at her. "You don't want him to follow us, do you? That's why you had us camp so high." The Swan craned her long neck to trim a wayward feather from her wing. "Nonsense," she answered. Her beak chattered as she clipped a few more. "Anselm has more important things to do than chase after you." Satisfied with her work, she speared Ilien with a sharp glance. "He'll no doubt be joining us for dinner in a day or two." "How can you be so sure?" asked Windy. "Because he has a fondness for Awefull, that's how. And besides, he knows where we're going." With that she refused to answer any further questions regarding Anselm, or their destination. "Now climb aboard before the morning winds pick up. It's hard enough carrying both of you on my back even when the currents are fair." Ilien looked down over the land below. The dizzying height of their campsite made his head swim. He regarded their small ledge with sudden horror. "How are we going to take off from here?" he asked. "Don't you need a running start?" "Don't worry. There's plenty of room," replied the Swan, as she ushered them onto her back. Soon Windy and Ilien perched between the Swan's broad wings, their legs sunk deep into her downy feathers. "Plenty of room?" Windy wrapped her arms tightly around Ilien's waist. "There's barely ten feet in front of us!" The Swan jumped forward without warning. "But there's over a thousand feet below us!" she cried, and with that she leapt from the ledge. Windy and Ilien screamed in unison as their stomachs rushed to their mouths. The Swan dove downward, her wings angled back, her long neck stretched forth. The wind whistled around them. The sheer face of the cliff rushed past in a blur as they skimmed over its vertical surface. Still the Swan dove, picking up speed. They passed into the shadows cast by the mountain tops above them. The air grew colder, but the warmth from Ilien's unsummoned spell still held. "Here we go!" shouted the Swan. Her wings snapped outward to capture the force of the wind. Up they rose. The sudden change in direction pinned Windy and Ilien to the Swan's back, but the feathers around their legs held them firmly in place and their screams soon turned to giddy laughter as they realized the worst was over. "That was actually sort of fun!" yelled Windy. But Ilien found himself in a grim mood. Though the cheery morning sunlight returned as the Swan climbed above the mountain tops again, Ilien's thoughts turned to the task ahead of him. Below, the jagged spires of the Midland Mountains reached up at him like the pointed claws of some terrible monster, a monster who guarded the mysterious land beyond its reach. Was it a monster meant to keep people out, or keep other monsters in? The Eastland was a land of kings, that much Ilien knew. He recalled Thessien's words to King Alan of Evernden. My country knows not the squalid splendor of peace. What the Eastland Prince had meant by that Ilien could only guess, and he shivered despite the warmth of the spell around him. He clung to the Swan's feathers and shut his eyes against the sights below. So much had changed in so little time, and the adjustment was beginning to catch up with him. Only a month ago he would have been laying out by the small, meandering stream behind his house, putting off the day's chores until his mother came calling for him. Now he wielded uncontrollable magic, magic the Swan thought could help rescue Gallund, a Nomadin, his father. But rescue him from whom? Or what? He had no idea what he was getting into. He clung to the back of a giant talking bird, the Princess of Evernden clinging to him in return, all of them heading off to meet a mysterious stranger that the Swan obviously didn't like. Not a friend of mine. But perhaps a friend of yours. And he still had no idea what or who he was supposed to be. He opened his eyes with a sigh. The bright blue sky stretched close overhead, so close it seemed he could touch it if only he had the nerve to let go of the Swan and try. The land beneath him was all shining points and dim hollows. Looking ahead he could see where the distant clouds touched the last of the mountains. Beyond lay the dim plains, blue and green at their nearest edge. He tried his best to block out his doubts. Windy's arms around him gave him a measure of courage, and he settled in for the days ride and their final destination, wherever it might be. "Tell me something about Gilindilin," said Ilien after a while. Gilindilin, his true mother. It felt strange to think of someone other than his mother back home as being his mother, but he couldn't hide from the fact that his mother back in Southford, though she gave birth to him, was not his biological mother. He was the child of two Nomadin, Gallund and Gilindilin. He knew much about Gallund, from his history in the wars against the Necromancer, to his fondness of ale, to his favorite annoying sayings. Gilindilin, on the other hand, was a mystery. "Who's Gilindilin?" asked Windy. Ilien had nearly forgotten that Windy knew nothing of the prophesy, nothing of his heritage. He drew a sharp breath and bit his lip. He wasn't ready to tell her yet. "What would you like to know?" asked the Swan. She peered back at her left wing as if it held an instrument panel and she was checking the gauges. He had to be careful what he said. "Well, for one, why wasn't she at Greattower with the other Nomadin?" "None of the Nomadin wizardesses were there," said the Swan. "There are others?" "Of course," laughed the Swan. Windy chimed in from the rear. "Why is it that men always assume women aren't just as capable as men?" "I didn't say that!" cried Ilien over his shoulder. "The fact that you think there are more male Nomadin than female Nomadin proves that you do." "Point well taken," said the Swan. "There are an equal number of Nomadin wizards and wizardesses on Nadae, for balance is the key to everything." "If balance is the key to everything, then why is there so little of it?" asked Windy, poking Ilien in the back. Ilien fell silent. If balance was the key to everything, he suddenly realized it was lacking at that very moment. A thousand feet above the earth, it was two to one in favor of the women! Silence seemed prudent. Besides, he had dodged the issue of his heritage for the time being. He was happy to let the conversation turn in another direction. "Balance is a hard thing to see," said the Swan. "It's there in the world today, though not as abundant as in days gone by. Thank God it's an adjustable thing." "When you say God you mean the Creator," said Ilien. He remembered the NiDemon had said that the Necromancer was actually the Creator, bound and imprisoned by the Nomadin. "It's a figure of speech, Ilien. But yes, I guess you could call one the other." "Then where is the Creator now?" pressed Ilien. "If balance is so important to him-" "There you go again!" said Windy. "Why does the Creator have to be a he?" Ilien shook his head, took a deep breath, and started again. "If balance is so important to the Creator-" He paused for the expected commentary from Windy, but she only smiled behind his back. "-then why isn't the Creator here to keep everything balanced?" "What makes you think balance is important to the Creator?" answered the Swan. "You said-" "I said, thank God that balance is an adjustable thing." The wind suddenly lashed across the Swan's wings, threatening to unseat her passengers. "Hold on! Just a moment!" She tipped her wings and turned into the wind. "My point exactly," she said after a pause. "You see, it's up to creation to choose, to make adjustments. Good and evil, right and wrong. The choice is ours to make, as individuals. Our choices adjust the balance one way or the other." "But who's to say what's good and what's evil?" asked Windy. "The Creator, of course. Good and evil are both creations, after all." "You haven't answered my question," said Ilien. "Where is the Creator now? If God makes the rules, then why isn't God here to enforce them?" The Swan stretched her wings out wide, and they swept upwards on the rising air currents. The sudden climb filled Ilien's stomach with butterflies. "Some believe that the Creator is within us all, Ilien. And that makes our choices that much more important, doesn't it?" God within me? thought Ilien, and he said no more. By mid afternoon, Ilien found it difficult to cling to his precarious perch on the back of a giant bird a thousand feet above the earth. The weariness of the last four days settled over him like a smothering blanket. The head that rested on his back told him Windy too was exhausted. Below them the mountains sailed past, but the highest of the peaks had long since vanished behind them. Ahead, the valleys stretched longer and gentler into the distance. The monster's claws had given way to tall, rounded hills of stone, not so menacing, and in his exhaustion, even somewhat comforting. He longed to set down and make camp, to let a long night's sleep take away his worries for a while. As if in answer to his wish, they began to descend. They circled in the air, the turns of their descent breathing life into Windy behind him. "Are we there?" asked the princess. "Nearly," answered the Swan, sounding tired herself. Ilien surveyed the twisting landscape below. They spiraled down toward a wide, grassy valley filled with bright patches of green between steep, grey slopes. He looked for signs of a town, or roads, but saw nothing that indicated civilization, not even a solitary house. "Hang on!" shouted the Swan as she dove sharply downward. A cold wind buffeted them as they descended, so cold it even breached the warm barrier of Ilien's spell. Windy held tight around Ilien's waist, and Ilien shut his eyes to the tilting landscape. Soon they would be down on the ground. An icy blast drove under them. Windy cried out and pitched sideways, dragging Ilien with her. Ilien clutched at the Swan's thick feathers, pulling clumps out as he slid toward the open sky. "Hang on!" The Swan tipped her wings to keep her riders from falling. "It might get worse!" Another powerful gust rocked them in the opposite direction. Still another struck them from beneath. The Swan tucked her wings in close, trying to cut through the wind that fought their descent. "What's happening?" cried Ilien. The Swan couldn't answer. She had all she could do to keep from being blown upside down. Windy and Ilien held on as if riding a wild, feathered stallion. Ilien felt the tingle of an unsummoned spell spread through his body, but before any magical words could spring from his mouth, the wind died as suddenly as it had risen. The Swan rocked to a steady glide. She looked about as if she could see the air currents around her, watching for another attack. "What was that all about?" asked Ilien. They were still far above the green valley. The Swan tucked her wings again, and they plummeted toward the ground like a stone. "What are you doing?" shouted Ilien. Windy clung in silence to his waist with a grip that nearly squeezed the breath from him. "Slow down! You're going to crash!" They careened toward the rocky slopes, the ground a blur of grey and green. A gale force wind ripped away the last shreds of warmth and protection that Ilien's spell had offered. The cold whistled painfully in their ears. The ground lurched closer. "Stop!" cried Ilien. And they did. The Swan's massive wings shot outward. The force of their deceleration crushed Windy and Ilien onto her back. Her downy feathers plumed around them, stopping their free fall like an inflatable air bag. "Quickly! Jump off!" shouted the Swan. They had landed halfway up a green, rocky slope littered with large boulders. An icy wind eddied around them, and the Swan's breath steamed the air. "Make haste before it comes! Quickly, behind the rocks!" "Before what comes?" asked Ilien. Windy was already off and running for the nearest boulder. "The watcher, that's what! Now go!" "The watcher?" mumbled Ilien as he climbed down from his perch on the Swan's back. "What's it watching? This?" He regarded the bleak landscape with raised brows. "Quit your grumbling and come on!" shouted Windy from behind a rock. Something caught her eye and she looked skyward. She seemed puzzled. "That's odd. Look!" The sky stretched overhead like a blue glass dome, unbroken save for a single cloud in the distance. But the cloud didn't just hover as it should have. It streaked through the blue expanse at an amazing speed, trailing a thin white tail of vapor. "It's here!" cried the Swan. "Now get behind that boulder with Windy. Let me handle this." "What do you think it is?" asked Ilien as he ran toward Windy. "It's a dragon," marveled Windy, her eyes still trained upward. "It is nothing of the sort! Now get down," shouted the Swan, shaking her head. Ilien reached the boulder and turned back. The cloud still sped across the sky, directly toward them, but within it he could just make out the form of a winged creature. Yes! A dragon! Smoke poured from its mouth, engulfing it in a billowing white cloud. "Get down!" shouted the Swan, trying not to look in their direction. "I'll talk to it and explain why we're here. Don't come out until I say it's okay." "Talk to a dragon?" said Ilien. "No," replied the Swan. "A Gorgul. And yes, talk to one." "A what?" asked Ilien. "Never mind! Just stay down!" "What's a Gorgul?" asked Windy, shielding her eyes and squinting skyward. "A steam dragon," said Ilien, suddenly remembering his dream. "It breathes steam instead of fire. At least I think it does." The Swan turned on Ilien. "Wherever did you get that idea? A Gorgul might breathe steam, but it is not nearly a dragon. Dragons are rather rude and stupid, regardless of what the old tales say. So don't ever call a Gorgul one if you know what's good for you. Now get down!" Windy grabbed Ilien's arm and dragged him behind the boulder. The sound of a steam engine crashing off its tracks split the air around them. Billowing clouds of vapor and dust drove past their hiding place, swallowing them in a plume of white-hot mist. Ilien expected an unconjured spell to race to his mind, but none did. Though the situation seemed perilous enough, he felt they weren't in any danger. Strangely, he knew they were safe, he just knew, and he pushed his way past Windy to get a better look at the Gorgul. "Ilien, get back here!" demanded Windy. "Come on," he called to her. "It's okay." The sight that met him, though, nearly made him race back to the safety of the boulder. Perched upon a steam-shrouded boulder stood the Gorgul. Ilien blinked. It was straight from out of his dream. It thrust its long, reptilian neck into the air, its open mouth like a chimney spouting forth roiling smoke. Two leathery wings flexed outward twenty feet to a side, then curled slowly inward to wrap around its scaled body. A gurgling hiss sounded in its throat as vapor shot forth from a pair of red, fleshy gills, like slitted wounds just beneath its pointed ears. On seeing Ilien, the Gorgul swung its head around and sucked in air, its chest bulging like a giant tea kettle ready to sing. Ilien froze in the steamy air. The Gorgul's inward breath ceased and its gills closed tight. Its eyes narrowed as it sized up its target. Suddenly, the boulder on which it stood shouted, "Will you get off me, you flying steam iron!" Ilien blinked twice. Once to clear his eyes, and once to clear his wits. The steam shrouded boulder was the Swan. "Get off! Now!" demanded the Swan. "Will you never learn? Look before you leap! It's me, you leaky, near-sighted, rusting radiator! It's me, Penelope!" The Gorgul squinted hard at the Swan beneath it, then let loose its mouthful of steam, bathing her in a cloud of thick white vapor. "What are you doing under there?" it asked. It turned a weak gaze on Ilien as Windy stepped cautiously from behind her boulder. "And why didn't you tell us you were coming today? We weren't expecting you for a couple of days. You know how careful we are nowadays." It craned its long, scaly neck toward Ilien, trying to determine if what it saw was really there at all. "Get off!" shrieked the Swan, struggling violently. Two leathery wings flapped twice and the Gorgul lifted from the Swan, sending clouds of dust into the air. Its great neck turned and its steaming body followed. It set itself down beside the prostrate, and very annoyed, Swan, and sniffed the air warily in Ilien's direction. "By all that is real!" exclaimed the Swan. She rolled to her feet with all the dignity she could impart to a bad situation. "There's no reason for such poor eyesight. You live with a NiDemon! Fixing sight for him should be as easy as blinding a bat, for pity's sake." Ilien stepped back. A NiDemon! It couldn't be! He must have heard wrong. But from the look on Windy's face, he evidently had hear correctly. The Swan had tricked him. The mysterious stranger she was taking him to was a NiDemon! "No!" he cried. He stumbled backward and fell to the ground. "No!" Panicked thoughts raced through his mind, but he was too shocked to say anything else. Windy darted back to her boulder and crouched there in fear. The Swan looked crossly at Ilien and shook her tail feathers. "Gather your wits. I am no traitor. I am no bringer of doom. Think Ilien! Think of all you have seen and learned." The Gorgul's gill flaps squeezed tight and steam hissed between them. "Did you not listen to what you were told?" asked the Swan. Ilien did think hard for a moment as he sat in the dirt, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess. All he knew was that another whom he trusted had betrayed him. The Swan had led him to a NiDemon, all the while soothing him with promises of help at the journey's end. How could she have done such a thing? His throat felt suddenly thick, and he struggled to fight back tears. His pencil wriggled in his pocket. The Gorgul shifted its feet and squinted at Ilien. Its huge scaled head leaned in close. One pale eye opened wide, examining the quaking boy. "What in the world did you bring me, Penelope?" It reared back and cast a distressed look at the Swan. "Don't tell me this is the boy you told me about." "The one and only," said the Swan. "A rather poor specimen, if you ask me," replied the Gorgul. Windy stood up, cleared her throat and stepped out from her hiding place. Both Gorgul and Swan flapped their wings in surprise, sending her scampering back, fleeing dust and debris. But when she saw Ilien sitting all alone in the dirt, broken and dismayed, she plucked up her courage and walked forward again. "I'll have you know that this boy has more courage than the both of you combined! Look at you two-ten times his size and bullying him like schoolyard animals! Ilien alone faced the NiDemon under Greattower. He alone rescued me. Where I come from there are songs sung about such deeds. Poor specimen indeed!" The Swan smiled, her eyes shining like black marbles in the sunlight. "My apologies to you both, your highness." She turned her long neck and lowered her feathery head to Ilien. "I would have told you, but then you would not have come. Remember what I said, that I was taking you to a friend, not a friend of mine, but perhaps a friend of yours? Do not be afraid. I am no traitor." Ilien felt his face flush in anger and embarrassment. He climbed to his feet. "I will not make friends with a NiDemon," he said. "I've met one NiDemon already, and I didn't like him very much." The Gorgul chuckled, relaxing its gills and breathing out steam. It bared its fangs in a sorry attempt at a smile. "Soften your heart. Not all NiDemon are alike, just as not all Nomadin are alike. You will find my master-different." The Gorgul planted its clawed feet firmly before Ilien. "Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Pedustil, and I am the personal body guard of Bulcrist, the NiDemon whose aid you seek." Pedustil lowered his head in a bow, but his eyes never strayed from Ilien's. "Whose aid I seek?" questioned Ilien, glancing at the Swan. "We're out to rescue Gallund, a Nomadin. Why would a NiDemon choose to help me rescue a Nomadin?" "Bulcrist will help you with many things," replied the Swan, lowering her wing to the ground so Ilien and Windy could again climb aboard her back. "Now get on. I will tell you more later." Ilien looked suspiciously at the proffered wing. "Get on. Ilien. It's getting late, we've a ways to go, and I don't want to be caught flying in the dark, especially along side a nearsighted Gorgul with leaky gill vents." Windy and Ilien reluctantly climbed up to their perch upon her back. Pedustil thrust out his great leathery wings and with a heave lifted into the air. Sand and debris flew in all directions, especially theirs. Once he was fully out of the way, the Swan took a few quick steps, flapped twice, and followed behind the Gorgul as they climbed above the valley floor. Chapter III: Tannon BulcristThe sun sat glowing on the horizon, and the land below was touched with shades of blue when they finally began their descent. They spiraled down toward rolling hills crowned with spiky evergreens. Rivers and streams snaked their way between the hills, bright silver ribbons twisting and turning on themselves, meandering through the shallow, rocky valleys. Ilien had spent the two hour flight trying not to think about where they were going, but it was no use. He couldn't put it out of his mind any longer. A NiDemon. The Swan was taking him to see a NiDemon. And though he knew now that the NiDemon looked nothing like the hideously twisted monsters described in childhood tales, he vowed to be cautious. The fact that they resembled the Nomadin didn't mean they weren't monsters. The last NiDemon he'd met, Genten, had been cruel, and Ilien had been caught off his guard, surprised by the NiDemon's appearance. This time he'd be ready for anything. "Hold on," called the Swan. "There's some bumpy air below us." With that the three weary travelers descended rapidly toward the pine-topped hills. Windy wrapped her arms around Ilien's waist. "Look there, to the left," she said in his ear. Ilien peered in the direction she indicated and could see nothing peculiar, just another forested hilltop with here and there grey outcroppings of rock. "Your other left," said the princess. Ilien blushed and turned. There, on his actual left side, Ilien saw a tall stone cliff jutting from the side of an enormous hill prickly with dense pines. The cliff rose from the valley floor beside a tumbling river, and climbed several hundred feet to end at the hill's crown. There, a flat expanse of rock formed a roof of sorts, a ledge extending from the hill so that the entire cliff resembled the outline of a cunningly built castle, nestled into the steep hillside. The Swan angled her wings and they slowed. As they approached the massive outcropping, Ilien blinked in surprise. A single light twinkled on the cliff's side, a hundred feet above the ground. Was a climber stranded on the cliff? A lone traveler signaling for help with his torch? "We'll land by the river, near the base of the hill," shouted the Swan over the rush of the wind. No. The light was a torch, but there was no climber. The torch burned brightly in a single, small window, carved from the stone face of the cliff. A single, out of place, perfectly square window. The rest of the cliff showed no sign of excavation. But there it was-a window, two hundred feet up, peering out over the river below. "That is the watch light of Bulcrist, a guide for those who are expected," said the Swan in answer to Ilien's questioning gaze. "Is the entire hill a castle?" asked Windy. "Of sorts," replied the Swan. "It was meant to be a fortress, and no better hidden fortress is there in all Nadae." Ilien was silent. A fortress? A fortress against what, or whom? This was obviously the NiDemon's lair, hidden several hundred miles in the middle of nowhere in a perfectly concealed castle of impenetrable rock. But how did the Swan come to know about this place? In all his thinking over the last few days, Ilien rarely stopped to consider her role in all this. She knew far too much and said far too little for his liking. They landed a stone's throw from the river. Its dull roar attracted Ilien's attention. Compared to the mighty Quinebog which cut through the Far Plains, this river paled in both size and strength. Wider, but more shallow and rocky, the quick water tumbled over small boulders and fell into churning pools. Beyond the river, past the far sandy bank, rose another round hill dark with pines. A stiff breeze tousled the distant treetops. "That's amazing!" marveled Windy beside him. Ilien turned to see what she was talking about. Pedustil stood with his tail toward the towering cliff. Beside him, carved from the hard rock, rose two massive pillars on either side of a double-wide door of golden colored wood. The door itself could easily fit five men abreast. The pillars stood another five men high and were intricately etched from top to bottom with a spiraling design that shimmered in the half-light of the dying day. Ilien's mouth dropped open. The door! Was that what he thought it was? He had seen the golden wood only once before, in only one other place-at Hemlock in the Drowsy Wood. The door was carved from two imposing slabs of golden marrow from the enormous trees of the last mystical place in all Nadae! "That's incredible," he said. "Yes. Amazing, isn't it," replied Pedustil. "And quite a useful skill, I might add, for getting into tight spots." Ilien snapped his head up to look at the Gorgul, confused. "What did you say?" he asked. Pedustil smiled, obviously pleased with himself, but slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself. He stretched his long, leathery wings out wide. "Let me show you again," he said. "Pay attention this time. It's not easy to do." Before Ilien could react, Pedustil closed his eyes in concentration, folded his massive wings back horizontally, slid them downwards, inwards, upwards and downwards again, and then as if on hinges they folded yet again, directly in two. With a final effort he tucked them away behind his back and they disappeared completely. Standing before Ilien he looked like a giant fat snake with feet. Ilien was amazed how much smaller Pedustil appeared with his wings missing. Pedustil opened his eyes and smiled. "Retractable wings," he said proudly. Ilien's confusion deepened, and he stood dumbfounded for a moment. He shook his head, and ignoring the Gorgul's obvious cry for attention, gestured to the golden doors. "I thought this place was supposed to be well-hidden." "What are you talking about?" said Windy. "It's not that big, and Pedustil was just showing you how he can retract his wings so he can fit through." "Fit through?" Ilien pointed at the magnificent double doors again. "He could fly through those!" "Fly through what? Solid rock? I don't know what you're talking about, Ilien, but I'm talking about the cave." Windy pointed away to the right. "If you call that huge, then I think all that high altitude flying has finally caught up with you." Ilien looked to where she pointed. A hundred feet to the right of the massive doors yawned a small cave, large enough for a man to walk upright, but clearly too small for Pedustil, unless he retracted his wings. "And I'm talking about the double doors right in front of you!" said Ilien. Windy gave Ilien a sideways glance. "Ilien. There are no doors in front of me." Pedustil gave a start. "What did you say?" He was so surprised that one of his wings popped out of its hiding place upon his back and flopped to the ground. "Don't tell me you can see them too," said Windy. The Gorgul turned to Ilien, a strange look of wonder in his pale eyes. "No," he replied. "I've never been able to see them, though I know they are there." The Swan rattled her tail feathers. She approached the cliff side, inspecting it as if for defects. She turned to Pedustil. "Are you saying that there are doors here that only Ilien can see? How is that possible?" "There is only one other who can see the front gate to Ledge Hall, as it is called. Only master Bulcrist, for it is he who cast the spell to hide them." Pedustil's eyes grew wide. "It is a Nihilic spell which masks them from all others. And only one who is as skilled in Nihilic could ever see them." "That's impossible!" said Ilien, as if he'd been accused of a crime. "I would never learn that evil tongue! And I never have!" All stood in silence. The silence was broken by a laugh, and everyone turned to see a young man issue from the mouth of the cave. Tall, with streaming black hair, he wore a long black cloak that billowed behind him as he walked. His legs were long and lean, clothed in tight-fitting black pants, and his feet were shod in heavy black boots. He smiled warmly as he approached, and gestured in greeting. Ilien nearly jumped, for he recognized him immediately. This was the man from one of his dreams. The man he dreamed he had become. The man he had assumed, somehow, that he was. This must be Bulcrist, he thought. "My friends," called the man. "My friends, you are here!" He navigated the rocky ground with ease to stand beaming before the Swan. "Penelope, so good to see you, though it's been a while to be sure." The Swan nodded curtly, her expression uncomfortable. Pedustil quickly tucked away his errant wing and cleared his throat in a sort of hissing cough. "May I present-" he began. "Enough of the pleasantries," said Bulcrist, cutting Pedustil short with a wave of his hand. "We all know who we are and why we're here." Bulcrist peered hard at Ilien, his dark eyes narrowing without losing their good humor. Ilien stared back, his own eyes devoid of friendly favor. The air fell silent as the two sized each other up, Ilien clutching his pencil in his pocket, Bulcrist gathering his long robes around him. As Ilien tried his best not to blink, he began to feel as though there was more than the normal wariness of strangers between them. There was something else, something concealed in Bulcrist's gaze. Something he felt himself. There was recognition. Bulcrist somehow knew him as well. Windy shuffled her feet and Bulcrist blinked and turned away. "Where are my manners?" he said as he laid eyes on the princess. He bowed slightly, smiling. "I have yet to introduce myself to the one person I do not know. Tannon Bulcrist, at your service, though everyone just calls me Bulcrist. Everyone meaning my faithful Pedustil, of course. I don't get many visitors, as you can imagine." He straightened and winked, laughing lightheartedly. Windy returned a cold stare. It was evident she didn't like the man's demeanor, or his wink. Ilien smiled. Good old Windy, he thought. Bulcrist was undaunted. "I was unaware that King Allen of Evernden had raised a princess befitting the throne of Nadae itself." He bowed again, this time lower, and cast a glance at Ilien. "I thought you said you didn't know me," replied Windy. Bulcrist winked again. "Now that I have met you, I know all there is to know." Ilien's pencil twisted in his pocket. I don't like him, it whispered in his mind. Bulcrist stood straight. He raised an eyebrow and regarded Ilien again. "Ilien Woodhill, it's my pleasure to finally meet you." He offered a lean, hard hand. "Forgive my flippant welcome. I'm unaccustomed to guests who are thought of so highly." He nodded his head, waiting for Ilien to repay the formality. Ilien shook the proffered hand. Careful. I don't trust him, thought his pencil. "Please trust me," said Bulcrist, and a smile played on his lips. "I meant no disrespect." No doubt Bulcrist could read his thoughts, and those of his pencil as well. "I've overheard that you can see through even the mightiest of Nihilic spells," continued the NiDemon. Windy leaned over to Ilien. "Is there really a door there?" "Yes. Great double doors. They're right-" But as he pointed to where they were, they disappeared before his eyes. He turned to Bulcrist, who smiled coyly. "Interesting," mumbled the NiDemon. "I bet you could have sworn they were there a moment ago. Two golden doors surrounded by massive, carved stone pillars. Doors so large that even old Pedustil here could fit through them." Since no one else had seen the doors, they understood little of what was happening. Ilien understood. Bulcrist was toying with him. "Since you insist that they are there, I will make it so." The NiDemon stepped back. Raising his hand, he traced a pattern in the air. To Ilien's surprise, Bulcrist's fingers left a phantom image behind, a rune that quickly faded and disappeared. He turned to Windy, wondering if she'd seen the rune as well, but she looked at Bulcrist with fear in her eyes. The space around them grew hot, and the sharp odor of struck flint filled the air. A loud crack echoed off the towering stone face, and the sound of falling rocks sent everyone scurrying from the cliff. And just in time. Debris rained down behind them. Pedustil beat his wings so hard that a great plume of dust roiled upwards, obscuring their vision. Ilien grabbed Windy's arm and pulled her farther from the cliff side. They stumbled blindly toward the river, choking and coughing. The crash of falling rocks slowly died away. "Is everyone alright?" cried the Swan through the thick air. "Ilien! Windy!" "We're here!" shouted Windy. "We're fine!" A moment later a cool breeze, borne from the river's edge, swept the air clean. There, for all of them to behold, stood the two golden doors, their towering pillars glittering in the slanting sunlight. Curiously enough, the rock slide had left no debris behind. An illusion, thought Ilien. Show-off. Pedustil let out a hissing whistle of surprise. "So that's what they look like," he marveled. He stretched his great wings in awe. Windy and the Swan stepped forward. The Swan's tail feathers stood on end. Windy silently wiped the dust from her eyes. Ilien, though, looked at Bulcrist. "The gates of Ledge Hall," said the NiDemon, raising his hands in reverence. "Hidden for the last part of five centuries, only now revealed for the sake of a child." Bulcrist let his comment stand for a moment, then added, "Young man, I mean." Pedustil regarded the broad double doors, then looked at his wings. "No more folding them like pretzels," he said with a distant smile. Before anyone could say anything else, Bulcrist strode forward, his black cloak wrapped tightly about his lean frame. "Come!" he cried. "Enter and be welcome! Ledge Hall is at you service." One by one they filed up to the golden gates. As Ilien passed Bulcrist, the NiDemon's thoughts whispered in his mind. I have seen you in my dreams as well, young Nomadin. We have much to discuss.
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