Demoni Vankil, Page 3

  I know, dear, you might be wide eyed with your hand covering your beautiful mouth and maybe a bit concerned, but be assured, all is well.

  I have mastered a skill that in the past could only be described as irresponsible, muddy and volatile, that no other mägo dared to conceive in his mind. I have successfully combined three of the seven languages into one powerful language and the result is life. The runes live!

  I know that in this letter I may have said too much but in the length of time it takes to relay letters I believe my work here may be done and the entire world will know of it anyway. It is my fondest desire to return home to you and the girls before another holiday should pass beyond our reach.

  King Kimmeldell arrived today with a fresh party of stout dwarven warriors. As a representative of the neuvo-kuisa, he asked for an accounting of our progress. His comprehension surprised me as I expected to find it necessary to simplify my explanations, but it wasn’t so. Maybe having grown up in a society were rune lore was as common a folklore as any other prepared his imagination for the possibilities. He seemed exceedingly pleased with our progress and gave us all encouragement.

  I celebrated Melody’s birthday by compiling a book of sketches showing the beautiful places I have seen and the fascinating animals I have beheld. She was growing so quickly when I left, she must be getting so tall by now. Please give the girls my love and tell them I miss them. I always miss them.

  And you.

  All my love,

  Eamon

  It’s real. Rune lore actually exists. Thanks to Eamon I held in my hand literal proof that it exists, when all the world is forced to rely on the fables of mothers and drunken Kutollum. Why wouldn’t there be something written down somewhere, about this form of magic? In thirty years I have searched the archives of gnomes, humans, Evolu, the ruins of the Nocturi and interviewed my dear friends in Holääfeldi for some sign of rune lore and every time, I came up empty.

  Did the races work together to hide this knowledge from the general populace of the world?

  And if so, why?

  And who is this Hammel? A Kutollum Rune Keeper? Do the Kutollum have access to information they simply aren’t sharing with the world? King Kimmeldell wasn’t surprised with the rune progress presented by Eamon.

  I think that is quite an accomplishment for 367 days of dedicated service.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 9: Letter Eight

  (day 680)

  My Beloved Ethany,

  I am weary. My red hair has turned ashen and I am compelled to grip a cane with gnarled fingers as I walk. Will you still love me when you see me, my beloved? Will you see in my eyes the man who adores you, the same young man you fell in love with under the cottonwood trees that spring morning by the brook?

  If I had known. If only I had some way of knowing before these experiments, I would have prevented this.

  rune lore is dangerous. To be a power that can work independent of its creator a rune needs life force to function. A literal life force.

  The effects of our work were not immediately noticeable. I thought at first the change in my stature and the lightening of my beard and hair was due to the demanding rigors of this project. It was not.

  Every experiment I have participated in has taken a part of my life, Ethany. Drained it from my very soul to power the rune. I am not the only one. I see the effects on Shiro and Hammel, too. Hammel is affected least of all, the life of a Kutollum lasts hundreds of years, but he still feels the effects. Shiro and I have not been so fortunate.

  This discovery has slowed our progress a great deal, though we press onward to our goal. Mahan must be stopped.

  I find my mind often wanders back to the day we met. I hope, my beloved, that you remember my heart and devotion if not the youth of my face.

  All my love,

  Eamon

  Do people not see the importance for keeping accurate records? Another 314 days passed. Now rune lore is dangerous? I feel as if I am getting too emotionally involved in Eamon’s progress and the missing information grates on my nerves.

  I have come to the conclusion it must be the Demoni Vankil he is working on. I have no solid proof, just a gut feeling.

  Two things all the races accounts have in common is that they don’t know what the Demoni Vankil is exactly but that it is the greatest triumph in history: …the banishment of the Dark Lord! A singular event that created the Dragon’s Chasm, nearly rending Humär in two, sent the evil races scurrying back to their own lands in terror and brought peace, happiness and prosperity back into the world.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 10: Letter Nine

  (day 709)

  My Beloved Ethany,

  709 days I have been gone and I cannot see the light at the end of this path. A growing fear within me whispers that I have made a grave error in judgement.

  Have I pursued the wrong path? Have I come so far, so long, to fail?

  The draw from the runes is too strong. To work properly they require more life from a single source than I could have possibly imagined.

  The life force of Hammel has been weakened to the point that we dare not ask him to make another sacrifice. Our camp has become a community of old men, each Kutollum miner has willingly given of themselves for this cause, but to no avail. It is not enough.

  Shiro tells me he has an alternative, but the cost would be great. Greater than what we have already given? I don’t know.

  Have I failed after all this time?

  I could use your wisdom now. You always know what to say when I am confused or discouraged. I miss resting my head upon your soft breast, listening as the beat of your heart pumps warm vitality throughout your body, while you twirl your fingers in my hair and whisper your encouraging, soothing words and ideas.

  I dwell upon the memories of our picnics by the stream—the girls playing upon the grass, giggling as they chase butterflies. Life has new meaning to me. It’s more precious than I realized, now that so much of it has been consumed in this war.

  Maybe I have missed something? Surely there must be an answer. A way to reshape the flow of magic or perhaps a means of rewriting the intent within the rune…

  I will write again, soon, my beloved. Do you still pray for me?

  All my love,

  Eamon

  I did not at first make the connection. Shiro is a Gypsy. That means he’s an Iskäri—just not blue like the main colony. I may be wrong, but I don’t think so. I should have noticed this sooner—because I live among the Gypsies.

  Here in the Black Market the Gypsies rule.

  There are various predictable rules that are of little consequence. It is the penalty for disobedience that is interesting. If you are of the lighter races, such as Human, Gnome, Iskäri, Gypsy, Kutollum or Evolu—breaking the rules can get you fined, cast into the local prison to work out your sentence or banishment.

  If, however, you’re a Vallen—the penalty is paid with your life. …and it’s a horrible sight to behold.

  The Gypsies discovered how to ‘drain’ the life from another being. Can’t say I know much about it, other than having watched it first hand, once. The Gypsies are pretty public about a punishment—making sure a strong impression is made upon anyone looking to cause trouble.

  The victim ends up a dry husk…or dust. I always wondered where that life force went.

  What are Eamon and Shiro doing? and to whom are the doing it?

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 11: Letter Ten

  (day 770)

  My Beloved Ethany,

  King Kimmeldell returned 2 days back to look upon our progress and impress upon us the necessity of bringing these trials to fulfillment in haste. He brought disturbing news of the war. The darkness has spread across the coast and will soon reach Vänkiläsä. We are no longer safe. He has orders to move us quickly and as quietly as possible. Should the Vallen slaves escape, they would be our undoing.

  The talent of the Gypsies has proven to be the
salvation of our research. Shiro worked diligently through the night to capture the remaining life force of the beasts. The screams are almost unbearable, but he was unerring in this. Vallen are strong in body and spirit, and the runes don’t know the difference between good and evil. Unfortunately, we don’t possess enough crystals to store all the life force and many had to be put down by the blade. What a waste.

  Much of what I write will not make sense to you, I’m sure. I find it difficult lately to separate myself from this work. I fear it possesses me at times.

  A young human courier of the Kings has just arrived with dreadful news. Alas, Vänkiläsä is no more. She reminds me of you. It’s her green eyes, the same as yours and when she smiled in greeting, my heart stopped. It is hard at times not to let the wind here freeze your very hopes. I spend my nights sketching pictures of you and the girls and talking with them as if you were here.

  But, you are not…and in the end I miss you more.

  Do you remember I do this for you? For Saffron and my darling Melody? Have they grown much? Are they as lovely as their mother?

  We move in great haste now. They say the only safe haven left is deep within the very caves of Holääfeldi itself. I am grateful we will no longer be isolated.

  Beloved, I would give another decade of my life to a rune in exchange for a moment to hold you in my arms again. To feel the warmth of your sweet breath upon my face and taste the tender sweetness of your kiss.

  All my love,

  Eamon

  VANKILÄSÄ!!?

  I tore through my crates, searching frantically through the dates until I found a small metal container with rounded corners. Pushing the lock sequence, the lid popped open to reveal a small cloth scroll and I had to smile.

  Miracle number three. Sitting in front of me was another missing puzzle piece I’d possessed for over six years.

  Field Entry, CT-709:2-11

  I had developed strong friendships with the Kutollum Historians of the North, who share their history freely with those seeking to shine a favorable light upon the Dwarves. They are a great and noble people and when there is a shred of history which crosses their path, chances are, they’ll have a record of it in some form.

  So I had ventured north in the hopes of discovering a certain genealogy line of an famous Nethinim who had an obscure past, with claims to have been raised and taught by the Kutollum.

  With permission of Lord Coldham, the primary historian of the Kutollum, I searched the dwarve’s records for months. I could not find any trace of this human visiting, staying or learning from this stout race of warriors. After nearly a month in the north country, frustration set in—the trail had gone cold.

  What was I doing, chasing ghosts of the past that didn’t want to be found?

  The very beat of my heart told me this was more than a historical puzzle. It was a cry from the grave. A plea to be remembered for all the sacrifices made in blood.

  I decided to retrace my steps and return to Humär, where my primary records had been found.

  My travels took me down through the frozen wastelands of Ambasere, the kingdom of the noble King Borislav. It had been years since I traveled through his lands and when the people of the local village sent word that a Gnome was in their lands, I was soon invited to the palace in Glaserte to dine with the Winter Wolf himself.

  When questioned about my journey, I openly relayed the previous season of research. King Borislav seemed very interested in my quest and listened intently. When I mentioned my thoughts about the lives of warriors needing to be told, the king smiled. He then dismissed his guards from the hall, poured two glasses of his famous crystal wine and leaned forward.

  “I have much to show you,” he whispered, even though we were alone. “I must believe your plans have now changed.”

  …and he was right. The next day King Borislav met me at the castle gates with a dozen hunters, a cook, supplies and sleds roped to giant wolves. He insisted that I accompany him on an expedition: a two day ride west.

  If you’ve never ridden in a sled pulled by wolves the size of bears…I don’t recommend it. The trees and scenery whipped by as we leaped across the frozen landscape, whistles steering the wolf trains as whips cracked from the hunters hand. They had to strap my body to the sled for fear of me falling by the wayside or bouncing off and breaking my body against a tree.

  We passed the Prime Gate in the Ochra-Ruce mountains before the sun set on the first day. I’d never traveled that far west and certainly not in such a short period of time. The forests become dense and unforgiving unless you have considerable wilderness skills or wood lore, to which I had neither. Borislav and his men on the other hand, were completely at ease speaking with the predators of the forest so we were rarely disturbed.

  Food was abundant, as was strong drink so I can’t really complain. The night was loud with songs of victorious battles as fires blazed until dawn.

  Just before nightfall the next day our journey ended at the base of a sheer mountain range—a wall of ice and stone virtually impassable. The trappers and natives called them the ‘Sormi-jaa’, which means fingers of ice. The wind constantly bombarded the ridge, caking it with thick layers of ice that would never fully melt during the warm seasons.

  The men started unloading the sleds as the cook started on dinner. King Borislav then did something I never would have suspected. He transformed in front of me. I was privileged to meet Borislav when I wrote a small piece on ‘The Tracking Masters of the North’ a few years back and was shocked then to discover he was a shape shifter. I was just unprepared this time for the change when all of the sudden the Great Winter Wolf—a legend among humans, towered over me in his majesty. Brilliant grey and white fur with steel blue eyes. His red stained lips curled and gave a short growl, lifting a front leg in my direction. The command was unmistakable, ‘Get on’.

  What do you do when a giant wolf commands you to get on it’s back? You obey.

  He lept through the narrow paths as I clung tightly to his back, locking my cybernetic arm so I wouldn’t fall off completely. I made a mental note to return to Ambasere in the near future and start a book on the White Wolf.

  He brought me to the mouth of a cave…a single path etched in stone, surrounded by what resembled Kutollum stonework. Borislav transformed back into his human form, taking the lead while I popped my mechanical hand back to use my excavation light down the hole. It lead us deep into the earth where catacombs had been constructed…or at least that’s what I thought they were at first glance.

  As we descended, King Borislav rumbled softly, ‘I think you won’t soon forget Vankiläsä.’ He then shared the story of the caves discovery.

  In the early days of his fathers kingdom, villages had to deal with attacks from wolves and bears, slaughtering livestock and even carrying off the unattended young of the village. A hunting party had been tracking a beast for days and mistook the entrance for a bears cave. The party of warriors entered with spears and torches, only to discover the bones of hundreds of humans lying in rows in contorted shapes, a few decayed to the bone, but most so frozen, their flesh had been preserved after death.

  His timing was perfect. For just as he finished speaking I could look around and see for myself what they saw. It was just as King Borislav had said. But there was more. Most had a round symbol carved into the stone above their heads. These had similar symbols burned into their bodies. In the deepest reaches of the cave, the skeletons became much larger, the teeth were sharp and jagged. Vallen. …all in the same contorted shapes and lying under symbols etched in the walls.

  I had examined the carvings and brands closely, but didn’t recognize any of the symbols. I was puzzled because usually, I can identify various forms of magic…but these didn’t fit any established patterns I knew of.

  Borislav then pulled from his tunic a scroll of cloth and handed it to me. The writing was stitched, rather than stained—his peoples method of preserving older records. He said it had been rewrit
ten from scrolls found at this site. The language was Baiūmen and revealed that these were not tombs at all…but cells. A prison for the foulest of evil-doers. Men and creatures who had been sentenced to death—to be used in an experiment sanctioned by High King Gaston, when Andilain was a nation of itself.

  The bodies were abandoned by the Ambasere hunters, who reported their findings back to Borislav’s father. The cave remained a well-guarded secret, kept from any records for fear of King Alik and his people being accused of some unspeakable crime against their own race.

  As a fishis of the Gnome Nation, I documented and time stamped the ruins and ancient shackles—estimating the prison to have been constructed between 6011s and 6014s, long before Andilain was split and Borislav’s father ruled his own people.

  The cloth holds record of a human mägo and Kutollum miners using prisoners sentenced to death, to work the mines. Vankiläsä means ‘prison of the damned’.

  Setting the cloth scroll down on the table, I can’t stop staring at the letters in front of me.

  Ah-hah. I found you.

  I have walked the path of Eamon, the mägo clerk.

  I have seen the works of his hands or at least the effects of his experiments.

  And now you are going to Holääfeldi.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 12: Letter Eleven

  (day 1006)

  My Beloved Ethany,

  I have confined myself to my quarters. You cannot possibly understand the anger and disappointment I have felt. And I cannot convey it on parchment. What a waste of our time together. If all along I was to die an untimely death I would rather have spent my last years and days with you and the girls. What a waste. A cruel and pointless waste.