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| Chapter 63. Return of the Tenebrae | |
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og emerged blearily from slumber to the sounds of frantic lovemaking. On the whole he applauded mutual affection but he drew the line at being forced to listen to it. Fortunately he could not see anything in the darkness of the tent but he rolled over and faced the canvas wall, silently pleading for them to go away. “My love, how could I have doubted you,” Maziba groaned softly. Akemi hushed him. Mog shuddered at the damp sounds of kisses and rustling of blankets. “We will rebuild the temple together,” he continued, unable to contain his fervor, “and you shall be enshrined as a founding saint.” “Serving you is my only desire,” Akemi gasped between kisses, “Keep me beside you and that will be reward enough.” “I shall make you high priestess,” Maziba sighed, “Clearly you are beloved of the gods.” “Now is not the time to speak of such things,” she said urgently, “Let our brief time together be only for love.” Mog was sickened by Akemi’s lack of shame. She had to know he might awaken to their passion and he sensed her attempt to quiet Maziba had less to do with pent up ardor than with keeping Mog ignorant. He tried to block out their raucous sounds by softly chanting a mantra. At last the two expended their passions and nestled close, kissing softly as the morning chorus of birds announced the arrival of dawn. “It is better if you are not found here. The others do not trust me.” “Soon they will have reason to heed your counsel,” Maziba murmured, “I will show them that they were wrong to doubt you.” “A decisive victory against the White Mantle will convince them more than mere words.” “Then we must strike soon before I am overruled,” Maziba said, rising from the bedding, “The others arrive in three days. Is Mog Ruith ready?” “I am certain he will jump at an opportunity to serve Lyssa once he understands the gravity of the situation,” Akemi said, “We will strike tonight at the hour of revenge.” They kissed and parted. Maziba’s concern over being discovered alone with Akemi drove him not to linger. “You can stop pretending you’re asleep,” Akemi said after a long silence. “You are disgusting,” Mog snapped. “Jealous? Miss your precious goddess?” “Do everyone a favor and die.” “That’s not very nice,” Akemi snorted, kneeling behind him. Mog flinched when she touched him, preparing to be struck for his insolence. She had not been averse to striking him in the old days and she had even less reason to respect him now. To his relief, the ropes around his ankles loosened and she urged him onto his back to remove those around his wrists. “Not afraid I’ll run away?” “No, not in the least.” “I’m not going to perform the rite.” She rose and went to her bags, shuffling through them as he sat up and rubbed away the ache of captivity. She carelessly flung a pair of heavy boots on the oilskin covered floor of the tent beside him, and then turned to face him with a large silk wrapped parcel in her arms. Smiling crookedly at him, she set it down beside the boots and leaned back on her hams. “I saved these for you.” Mog stared at the boots, recognizing the fine metal work of the buckles and the shadowy black leatherwork. He had not seen them in over seven years. The color drained from his face as she unwrapped the bundle and the familiar features of a demonic mask emerged atop the leathers of his abandoned Tenebrae garb. “I’ve kept them oiled and polished,” Akemi said, her fingers brushing the hideous snarling lips of the mask, “Did you honestly think you could set aside your vows or that you could break our bonds?” “Die in Torment,” he said with a low growl, “I am not wearing those again and I am not performing that rite.” “Oh, you’ll wear them,” Akemi laughed, “Unless you like sitting in here naked. Do you think clothes that fit your ungainly frame are easily found?” “I’m hardly naked!” he replied, and then to his horror she picked up the brimming chamber pot and upended it over him and his bedding. “You’re welcome to stay here now,” she laughed as he leaped to his feet in a mad scramble to escape from the reeking filth, “Or you can come outside and bathe and put on your new clothes.” “I despise you!” Mog shouted at her, trembling with rage. “It is mutual,” she replied darkly, “now what will it be?” “I’ll kill you!” he roared after a long string of expletives. “Good to know the Tenebrae is alive and well,” she replied, her voice betraying nothing but amusement and mockery, a fact which further ignited his rage. In a white hot moment of fury a hex came to his lips. He saw a flash of alarm upon her face, and then she merely laughed. “Is that the best you can do? I’m not going to attack you, not while you are so easily manipulated.” Mog stood there trembling with anger as the filth cooled against his skin. He had to concede that he was in no position to challenge her further. His hands twitched at his sides. “I need to bathe,” he said through gritted teeth. Akemi gathered up his old Tenebrae gear and gestured for him to follow. Mog observed that the encampment had grown by several tents. There were freshly hewn logs laying beside a pair of carts. Beyond them he made out the shapes of oxen gathered in an enclosure formed from branches and ruined walls. Akemi did not deign to speak to him, nor did she bother to see that he was following. Without shoes, he picked his way carefully over the narrow track that curled down the hillside. Near the base of the hill he heard the faint chatter of water as Akemi led him to a glistening pool at the base of a fern-clad cliff. A narrow stream of water poured over the red rock. Mog stripped off the soiled garments and set about scrubbing himself clean with the fine red sand in the pool. Akemi knew that he was obsessive about bathing. It was a habit he had learned at the temple for cleansings were commonly required before major workings and rituals. He began to scrub his scalp, dipping his head underwater and then rising startled when he felt how little of his hair remained. He paused for a moment to stare at his reflection, realizing, to his horror, that his beard and most of his hair was gone. “You just can’t find enough ways to humiliate me,” he snapped at her. “It was filthy and matted. Ronan felt it necessary to remove it.” Mog snarled an oath. While it was plausible that she was telling the truth, he could sense she was amused that it irked him. He scrubbed himself clean from head to toe a third time before withdrawing from the pool to dry off on a boulder as far from Akemi as he dared. She rose and brought him a rag to dry himself and set the clothing on the sand. “Once you are dressed, I have a surprise for you.” “Is that a threat or a promise?” “I’m not all bad, Mog. Trust me, if I wanted to hurt you, I could have done so many times already.” Mog did not like the smug tone of her voice. He silently began pulling on his old gear. The leather was still supple and the metalwork had not corroded or discolored it. It had once fit him like a second skin but now it was loose in places and too tight in others. A few too many nights of revelry had widened his middle and he had lost bulk on his arms and legs. He sucked in his gut and buckled the chest guard in place, then shrugged into the deeply embossed jacket that overlaid it. Akemi clapped her hands, clearly delighted by what she saw as he sat down to cinch up the row of buckles on the heavy boots. He threw the wicked mask at her disdainfully and she captured it with a throaty laugh. “And that’s all the cooperation you’re getting out of me,” Mog said coldly. “You could leave now if you wanted to,” she replied, “and you’re right, I can’t force you to perform the rites, but I would rather that we were partners working toward a common goal, not adversaries.” “You have already promised Maziba that I will do as you ask. Pretty daring when you appear to have no leverage other than threat of violence or deprivation. And after dragging me through hell, do you think it is even remotely possible I would trust you?” “It is ironic that one of the few things I admired about you was that you never learned to trust me,” Akemi chuckled, “It is good to have a partner with strong natural instincts even if that makes you intractable and fickle.” “I am done with you, witch. Be grateful that I have no desire to kill you though you have given me just cause.” “As I see it, I have only offered minor inconvenience in exchange for an opportunity to reclaim your former glory. The goddess selected you to be her servant. Tenebrae are rare and beloved. Does it never occur to you that she might be angered that you abandoned her?” “Your actions endangered and possibly killed a lot of innocent people. You are a despicable, manipulative, selfish woman. I don’t even want to know what game you are playing here and I want no part of it. What you have done is beyond my ability to forgive and I do not believe for a moment Lyssa would approve.” “You lament for Maeve,” Akemi sighed, “That was her name? You called for her in the depths of your grief.” “Keep your phony sympathies to yourself. You insult my intelligence with this charade. You say I am free to go but I know you are still seeking to flush me into some trap. I’ve had enough, I am leaving, and so help me, if you come for me this time I will kill you.” Mog turned to leave. He was not certain where he was going, but for now it was enough to distance him from her before he gave into his murderous desires. There would be time to plan his departure once his rage had cooled but he knew that if he stayed in Akemi’s presence another moment he would become violent. “I’ll let Maeve know that you decided to abandon her again. She’ll be sad, but she has important work to do here.” His knees quaked and he halted suddenly as if her words struck him. For a few moments he was speechless. How was this possible? “Maeve is here?” Mog asked, his back still turned to her and his fists clenched at his sides, “How?” “She came for you while you were locked in the sanctum and delivered you to us on the threshold of death. Surely it is a sign from Lyssa when her own earthly manifestation appears within the most sacred center of this place.” Mog was at a loss for words. A spasm of relief and gratitude was quickly eclipsed by horror. Maeve had come here? Alone? “Where is she?” “She is perfectly safe for now.” “Don’t toy with me, you witch! Take me to her now!” In his rage he had somehow cleared the distance between them and was now holding Akemi by the throat, her back pressed against the ferny cliff. Her eyes bulged and a ragged gasp escaped from her lips. She was half his size, petite and lean, fragile as a doll as she dangled in his grasp. “Put me down or you will never see her again,” Akemi whispered. Adrenalin trembled through his body and for a moment he contemplated how easy it would be to snap her neck, to be rid of her forever. But he had to consider Maeve, he had to know what had befallen her. He could not simply abandon her, not when her life might very well be endangered by these thugs. He released Akemi and numbly watched her crumble to the ground, the smug grin replaced by fear. She had seen her death in his eyes and knew beyond a doubt that he was not only capable of murder but desired it as well. “Here are my terms,” Akemi said evenly, dropping all pretense of trying to be agreeable, “Each time you do your duty you will be rewarded an hour of her time.” “How do I even know you have her?” Akemi shrugged. “You don’t, but then again, you also know we were incapable of opening that door. I believe Maeve had certain blessings that caused all temple doors to open at her command.” “And if I still refuse?” Mog said, fearing the answer and no longer doubting that Maeve was their captive. “One of her fingers is removed and placed into your keeping.” “May the gods damn you for eternity,” he shouted, then spat in Akemi’s face, “So help me, if she is harmed in any way when I see her, I will remove all of your fingers and cram them down your throat.” “Think about it. We’ll begin preparations at dusk,” Akemi said, wiping away the spittle, “I’ll see you then.” For a long time he sat beside the pool after Akemi departed. Rage faded followed by exhaustion and grief. He thought of Maeve friendless and alone in this den of serpents, entirely at Akemi’s mercy. He had to get her out of here. Gods, why had she come for him? He should have been allowed to die and deprive Akemi of her aim. Hunger and thirst drove him to his feet and he climbed up the narrow path until he was once more at the encampment. There were now people sawing the logs and hauling wood and masonry. The central fire had a large steaming kettle resting above the flames on an ironwork frame. The only familiar face was Ronan, the monk who had been so kind to him. The man glanced up from stirring the contents of the kettle, then looked away as if ashamed. “Guess we’re even then,” Mog said as he sat down on a weathered block of masonry that had been dragged near the fire for that purpose. “I’m sorry things turned out this way,” Ronan said. He lowered his eyes and turned away to fetch a tin bowl and ladle it full of porridge. Mog thanked him for the offering and ate it numbly, hardly noticing its flavor. “Did you see her? Was she alright?” Mog asked. “Yes,” Ronan said, “and she wanted nothing more than to be with you. She saved your life.” “Did they hurt her?” “Not to my knowledge. Akemi put a sleeping draught in her food. I protested but my words fell on deaf ears. I am afraid only Akemi and a few of her most trusted people know where Maeve is right now. I have not seen her since.” “Do you know who those people are?” Ronan shook his head. “I wanted to check on her but I am not among those Akemi trusts.” Mog’s throat knotted up and he feared he would be overcome with grief. He set aside the bowl and cradled his face in his hands, willing himself to remain strong and collected. The best he could do for her now was to remain calm and avoid Akemi’s ire. “You can stay with me if you want,” Ronan offered, gesturing at one of the smaller tents, “I still have some of your bedding in there and I can probably scrounge more if need be.” “Thanks,” he said, forcing himself to breathe until he had regained some semblance of dignity, “I’ll go in there now if you don’t mind.” “Not at all. If I learn anything I’ll let you know.” Mog thanked Ronan again before withdrawing into the little tent and sitting down on the thin layer of neglected bedding. Alone, he allowed himself the luxury of tears, silently weeping after so many days and weeks of hardship. He had given up hope of seeing Maeve again but news of her miraculous survival was bittersweet. He lay down to rest but the stiff leathers of his Tenebrae garb served as a constant reminder of his devil’s bargain. Eventually he cast them off in disgust, remembering how he had done the same while staying as a guest at the Orrian temple. Mog had considered his contract with Lyssa fulfilled. He had sworn to protect her sacred places and then those places were gone. He could not have endured staying with Akemi. In the lonely hours that followed he prayed and meditated, part of him wanting to believe Lyssa heard him and had pity for his plight. He performed the proper cleansing rituals to steel him for the coming task and had Ronan help him perform the rite of absolution, asking Grenth’s forgiveness if a life was taken without his blessing. Once more he committed the sacred death curse to memory. At dusk he emerged from the tent and sat beside the fire. It was a small act of defiance, but he would not seek Akemi out. Mog did not have to wait long. Maziba found him and stood over him for a moment, studying him before speaking. “Akemi awaits us in the sanctum. It is time to prepare.” He rose in silence to follow the Elonian. Maziba seemed on the edge of speaking but words escaped him and Mog offered no assistance. He cared not what any of them had to say. They were his captors, his enemies, and the barrier between he and Maeve. Soon the dome of the sanctum emerged from the ruins. An eldritch glow emanated from its gaping doors and the strange sweet odor of the ethers drifted on the sultry evening air. He knelt at the threshold in respect to Lyssa, then entered slowly, his eyes adjusting to the strange milky glow. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Maeve standing in the shadows near the far wall facing the door. Her lithe form was shrouded in deep blue damask over which a formless black cloak had been draped. She wore a silvery mask that did no justice to the loveliness of her face. Filled with yearning, he knelt at her feet and gazed up into her sad gray eyes. Mog thought his heart would break when she made a small poignant moan. She closed her eyes, fighting tears and trying so hard to be brave for him. “O Goddess,” he breathed, “I serve you and only you. Let me fly swift as thought to the target of your ire. Let me be as a sword in your hand. Let your words of death be upon my lips.” “No harm will come to you so long as I draw breath. I will do whatever I must to protect you,” he said into her mind, reaching for her across a void of silence, searching for the warmth of her spirit. If she heard him, she did not respond. Akemi knelt beside him and recited the same prayer. They both rose and Akemi instructed Maziba to leave and sealed the doors. The three of them stood alone in the chamber. “Shouldn’t someone stay here to look after Maeve?” he asked. “Maziba has not been properly prepared. I fear he would prove more of a danger and a hindrance.” Mog was confused by this. In the past, someone always stayed with Maeve until the working was completed. In rare cases things could manifest and come back through an open portal. The thought of leaving her sealed in the chamber alone made him uneasy. “She can take care of herself. She proved that by surviving the Searing,” said Akemi bitterly. Mog glanced at Maeve but she would not meet his gaze. She seemed so fragile, stoop shouldered and silent in her despair. Akemi stood in front of Mog and placed the vile mask in his hands. She had already donned her demonic visage and in the eerie light of the ethers she was terrible to behold, a dark scuttling thing of nightmare. “The hour is upon us,” Akemi said, “It is to Luchesa Delara that we deliver death this night. Hear me, O Goddess, cast your baleful gaze upon this woman. Let her be scourged by your wrath and brought to justice for the evils she has committed against you and your servants.” Maeve did not raise her voice to rebuke them and so the ritual was sealed. Mog could not refute that she supported their mission, but he knew she must be under threat as well. What had Akemi said to her that she looked so dispirited and helpless? But he had no time to contemplate this. He donned the terrible mask and once it was upon him it was as if he had never ceased being Tenebrae. He spread wide his arms, the ancient incantation to open the way returning to his lips flawlessly. His body floated upward as Akemi clung to him, his mind sharp and focused as the daggers she bore. Slowly the ethers formed a sparkling actinic line in the air before him and with a roaring hiss parted, revealing a gaping hole into nothingness. He stepped fearlessly into the void, trusting that his working would deliver him to their target swift as thought and deadly as Lyssa’s wrath. “I don’t have to return with you,” he thought coldly, imagining how easy it would be to cast off Akemi. As if reading his thoughts her grip tightened around his chest. The perfect blackness of the void shimmered and silvery shapes emerged, taking form, solidifying until they were standing upon blankets and the thin canvas walls of a pavilion surrounded them. It was a campaign tent. The air bore the acrid taint of smoke and unwashed bodies. Mog immediately knew which of the three sleeping forms their target was. The woman lay curled on her side between a pair of men. He guessed the larger bulkier figure was a warrior. In the cramped confines of the pavilion it was nearly impossible to move without touching one of them. “They must all die,” Akemi whispered. “Only one…” “They serve her, they are equally culpable. We will pronounce the death curse on her alone. Quickly before they wake up.” Mog watched as Akemi moved lightly toward her first victim, stooping quickly and making a sharp expert motion with her dagger. She cut the larger man’s windpipe and jugular so cleanly he died without a sound or noticeable struggle. “This is wrong,” he hissed, watching as Akemi neared the smaller figure. He bore the gawky build of an adolescent and his delicate face was still several years away from sporting a beard. Mog guessed the lad was a messenger or personal servant. Moments before Akemi’s dagger found the boy’s throat his eyes flashed open and he made a frightened cry. Mog winced as Akemi thrust her clawed fist into the boy’s face with a bone-grinding crunch. Stunned but still conscious and terrified, he bleated like an animal, his fists wind milling blindly and his heels pounding against the bloody ground as Akemi leaped astride him. With serpentine grace her lead dagger plunged into his chest while her off-hand drew a scarlet line across his throat. Bringing both daggers to bear, she thrust down with all of her weight. His struggles weakened and ceased. Mog could only look on in blank disgust, hardly noticing that their intended victim had awakened. She emitted a shout of alarm followed by the sibilant chant of a spell. The odor of brimstone overpowered the rank smells of sweat and blood. Stirring from his shock, Mog was too late to stop Luchesa and could do nothing but watch as a disk of elemental flame engulfed Akemi’s thin form. The assassin vanished in a chaotic burst of shadow, escaping the searing blast only to reappear a moment later behind Luchesa. “Who are you?” the woman shrieked followed by an ear-splitting cry for help when she took in the bloody carnage that had befallen her compatriots. “Reinforcements,” Mog gasped when he heard shouts and the tramp of running feet approaching the pavilion, “We need to leave.” “You will pay for this!” Luchesa howled, her body limned with fire to match her rage. Akemi scowled at Mog and shook her head, lunging at Luchesa with daggers drawn. The elementalist snarled a swift spell and flooded the pavilion with a blistering wave of heat. Everything around her burst into flame, including their armor and what remained of Mog’s hair. He winced in agony as his skin blistered and the buckles of his armor became hot enough to sear his flesh through the leather. The pavilion blazed in smoking tatters around them and Mog saw through the smoldering rents in the canvas that there were two more tents and the first group of warriors was racing toward them with axes and swords drawn. Luchesa’s voluptuous form drifted skyward, her spine arching as she called upon the elements. This time Mog was ready and he uttered a single potent syllable. Luchesa staggered to the ground from the backlash of her shattered spell. Her dark hair whipped around her shoulders as she faced Mog. Eyes ablaze with malice, a vile laugh emerged from her throat as the first of her retinue sliced away the burning tent with long sweeps of their weapons. Akemi pounced upon Luchesa’s back, thrusting hard past cloth and bone. Luchesa’s mouth gaped in alarm and agony as blood darkened her pale shift. “Pronounce the curse!” Akemi snarled, “Do it now!” Mog hesitated no longer, his tongue giving shape to the dire incantation. Timed seemed to grind to a halt. Luchesa’s eyes rolled back in her head as the terrible hex blazed within her skull. Akemi rose up with demonic speed, lashing out with a gore-splattered dagger to catch the nearest warrior in the gut while her off-hand blow sent him reeling. Instinctively Mog hexed a second warrior just as the man shouted a vow to avenge his fallen comrades. “Run!” Akemi shouted. Mog needed no goading for he was already leaping over Luchesa’s ruined form as a warrior came at him with a sword. Bursting past the smoldering tatters of the pavilion, the two of them pelted down the grassy hill of the encampment toward the dark line of forest. Akemi grasped his arm as he caught up with her and she pulled at him, willing him to keep up as grassland gave way to tangled forest duff. His ungainly form was easily snagged by the dense undergrowth. At times he feared one of the White Mantle had caught him when a thorny cane tore at his leathers or hooked around a buckle. Behind them the calls of the warriors grew more intense. The entire camp converged upon them. “Good job,” Mog snarled at her, “Did you bother to do any research?” “How was I supposed to know she was in the field?” Akemi rasped. “You idiot.” “Save your breath for running.” The ground became soggy as they continued to descend. Swampy muck sucked at their feet as they ran mere paces ahead of the White Mantle. Immense cypresses and hunched mounds of brush beckoned across a swampy clearing but Akemi drew him away from there and forged on through tall grass and mucky scrub. Arrows zinged past them but the heavy cover sheltered them. They began climbing a low hill, scrambling like rabbits past tangled brush, boulders and immense tree trunks. The two of them gasped for air, weaving and dodging as the White Mantle pressed in around them. Mog sensed they were spreading out to flank them. “They know the terrain,” Mog gasped, barely able to talk he was so winded, “They may be trying to drive us somewhere. A cliff or draw, maybe.” Without a significant lead on their pursuers, they would be sliced to ribbons if he tried to open a portal now. Akemi nodded and drew him after her, veering sharply to the north and upward. “Pray the tide is in.” Ever upward they climbed, their pursuers undaunted by the steepness of the terrain. If anything the White Mantle had slowed to a more confident pace, knowing their prey could not escape them now. “You are insane,” Mog snarled at her as they arrived at the top of the bluff overlooking the sea. ‘Shut up and jump,” she shouted at him, “It’s our only hope.” She seized his hand and hauled him forward, the two of them running toward the lip of the cliff at a dead run. Mog had never imagined that he would die this way, dashed to pieces on rocks and feasted upon by fishes. An involuntary cry of alarm flew from his throat as they plummeted toward the spreading blackness of the sea. He made a last effort to straighten his body, his feet pointing downward as he embraced himself and closed his eyes. There was blackness and shattering pain. It was as if a hammer had struck him and his limbs were about to fly off. The sea swallowed him up and he cried out. But for the mask he might have swallowed water in his panic. Stunned, he did not fight the pull of the waves but continued violently downward until he drifted there breathless and incoherent. “Swim damn you! Get to the surface!” He kicked weakly, thrusting down with his arms against the slow sway of the heavy water. His head rang and his chest felt as if it might burst if he did not get to breathe again soon. Mog thrashed to the surface and gasped for air as his heavy boots and leathers dragged at him. He had to get to the shore quickly before his poor body gave out. By force of will alone he swam raggedly toward the cliff, praying that the foaming water at its base indicated submerged rock. Akemi emerged sputtering beside him and he felt oddly disappointed to see that she had survived. Without a word the two of them converged on a barnacle encrusted shelf and stood gasping waste deep in seawater. “The luck of the goddess shines on you still,” Akemi laughed though it was clear by her expression she was in a great deal of pain, “Can you get us out of here?” “Maybe,” Mog panted, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion. For a moment he contemplated abandoning her and returning alone to the sanctum. But then what? Maziba would know something had gone wrong. He was unlikely to let he and Maeve go and Mog was in no condition to fight or flee. “Cling to me,” he said at last, “I will try to open the portal.” And though he had not done this rite for many years, the thought of finding Maeve on the other side spurred him on, focusing his mind as nothing else. Waste deep in seething water, he forged an opening in the ethers and stepped back into nothingness. He nearly cried out in joy when the familiar shapes and sounds of the sanctum curled over him and the two of them sat gasping on the ancient stones at Maeve’s feet. “Goddess, it is done,” he breathed, “I have returned to you.” |
