Chapter Five
MORPHLING
THE TINGLING FEELING ebbed away as Dayfid set the quill back in the ink well and slid the writing over to the Mother Superior. As had become their custom, they now sat in the library for one of his daily lessons. He took a sip of the black tea and laid his hand to rest on his father’s manuscript, in case any more inspirations occurred.
Nothing is certain, not the sanctity of faith and sacrifice, or courage and valor, or even innocence and guilt. Nothing is fact or fiction, nothing is absolute. There is only energy, woven into inconceivable patterns of light and darkness.
His convulsive episodes had calmed considerably in response to the ministrations of Sorer Tamarane and the other practitioners. He had also discovered more of his inborn talent of enuncio, which included the ability to glean things from the conversations of those around him, even Mother Superior Shyla-Cann. Although he didn’t understand all of her directives, for the workings of the Sisterhood and its factions of priestesses were still a mystery to him, it was still fascinating to observe her complex interactions with the Sorers and the Adelphi, the white witches and dark sisters.
Naturally he paid close attention to the dialogue concerning his future, which had led him to believe that his stay in New Cathonia was nearing an end. Perhaps it was just as well, for the glittering walls and crystal towered courtyards in all their tiers of pristine grandeur, had come to feel like a restless prison. Each morning he awoke further from the reality he had known, the world of Talus Arna and the events that had shaped his life fading deeper into the recesses of his mind. Meanwhile, the recall he was supposed to be quickening to―his manifest memories as the progeny of the Cathonian prophet, steadfastly eluded him. Yet an undeniable power and talent had awakened within him, that of the enuncio and its perplexing intrigues, one of which was the cryptic writings, his spontaneous channeling of his father’s words.
“This is no small talent you possess, Dayfid,” said Mother Superior Shyla-Cann. “And it has become self-evident that Caer Sigrún is the best place for you to explore and develop this etheric connection with your father. Besides, now that your seizures have been stabilized, it is the safest place for you.”
“Have you visited my father’s hidden palace, Mother Superior?”
“Indeed. I am one of only three Cathonian priestesses to have had the privilege during your father’s most recent lifetime. Caer Sigrún is your birthplace, Dayfid. And I have met your mother, though I cannot say if she still resides there. Her name is Anoree and she is of another race, an ancient people of this realm known as the Fair Folk. She may have returned to them.”
Noting the Mother Superior’s tone, expression and posture and reading beyond the words, even though he did not precisely understand the growing facility of language granted by the enuncio, he asked, “The others with you. Who were they?”
“They were but acolytes at the time,” she smiled. “Why does it matter?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, the images suddenly forming in his mind. “My mother was crying and they consoled her. These acolytes were the caretakers for my brother and me when our father took us away to the Domains of the Archaeus, were they not?”
“In fact, they were! They are now priestesses, Sorers Marta and Lorene, whom you have met. How splendid! So you see, Dayfid, this is how your memories are meant to come back to you.”
“Perhaps that is so. But tell me, Mother Superior. If my father’s mysterious palace offers sanctuary from the threat of the corrupted dark sisters, why wasn’t Crystian taken there?”
“I’m afraid we were arrogant with your brother. I’m afraid . . . I was arrogant. Yet he did not possess your evolved gift of mediumship. The prospect of compiling a divine scripture, the transcendent wisdom of the prophet channeled through one of his progeny, is distinctive to your plight, Dayfid.”
“In other words, it didn’t occur to you to shelter him there.”
“Alas. Not until it was too late.”
Once again the subtle but remarkable sensation of pins and needles melded within him, focusing in the middle of his forehead and then, with each deep inhale and exhale, flowing down through his neck and into his arm and hand. He opened the manuscript, dipped the quill in the ink, and made another entry.
Understanding human frailty is the secret victory.
Mother Superior Shyla-Cann read the words and for a moment her eyes misted over, even as she broke into a radiant smile. “Thank you for that, Dayfid. This is astounding. We are on the right track!”
“I certainly hope so.”
“In the ancient dialect of the Fair Folk,” she pronounced, her voice cracking with emotion, “the word sigrùn means secret victory.”
“The name of the hidden palace,” Dayfid exclaimed, as their eyes met. He knew it was more than mere coincidence.
The Mother Superior smiled again and exercised her own proficiency with the enuncio. “There are no coincidences, Dayfid.”
“Will I just be left there alone?”
“You will not be alone. Your mother and father bore other offspring over the generations whose lifespans are indeterminate because they share the abiding lineage of the Fair Folk. Some are rumored to still live at Caer Sigrùn.”
“You mean there are others like me . . . brothers and sisters?”
“Only sisters, and not quite like you. We speak of the mixed race known as the Kindred, to which you belong. In due time you will learn of the legacy, and why you and Crystian are genetically unique, even among your own female siblings.”
Again Dayfid grasped meaning deeper than her words. “It is because the sacred flesh results from a rare, mutant gene.”
“Very good,” nodded Shyla-Cann, “one found only in the male chromosome. For a female to manifest the sacred flesh, it would require the mutant gene in a third sex chromosome, a male chromosome, which combination has never occurred to our knowledge. But regrettably, this mutant gene also causes congenital abnormalities.”
“What you are saying is that my brothers from earlier generations all died.”
“Yes Dayfid. Nonetheless, you may rest assured that your father’s hidden palace is a sanctuary for a variety of beings, some of whom are your kin. They will keep you company while you compile your divine scripture.”
“But if I am to be confined there, then Caer Sigrùn will be just another incarceration . . . like the hospice, like here!”
The Mother Superior laughed. “Nonsense, Dayfid! You’ll have complete freedom of the grounds and the palace. You’ll discover your sacred heritage. Sorer Tamarane and I will visit regularly to observe your progress. Sorers Marta and Lorene will also check in periodically and they have assured me that the Boatman will look out for your welfare―just as he did with your father. He will show you the Nah Kenna Swamp, but you must not venture forth without him, lest you invite the same ill fate as your brother.”
“What of my brother, whom Jaernyth Gray-Hawk calls a Morphling? When do I learn more of what the corrupted dark sisters did to him . . . and what they might do to me?”
“As it turns out,” replied Shyla-Cann, turning toward the dark mirror on the dais, “your brother Crystian is the subject of today’s lesson. By consecrating the sacred flesh of your father’s corpse, we were able to reestablish contact.”
Her wand flamed to life as she pointed it at the mirror, setting the beveled edges alight in a spectral shimmer. Images began to appear in the glass, faintly at first but steadily becoming stronger. The scrying was profoundly visceral and Dayfid felt drawn into the scene, which he somehow recognized as the Nah Kenna Swamp.
There . . . an icy rain enveloped everything in secrets and rumors, pouring down from dark rolling clouds off the Boreal Seas, pelting young buds on tree limbs and choking streams and ponds with rushing water and flowing mud . . . until the squall slowed to a sleeting mist, then stopped altogether. The swamp became suddenly still, waiting.
A small pond reflected through tree limbs above a stormy sky of sullen gray. An ancient oak spread its branches and limbs out over the water and to the heavens above, its bark and wood drinking in the new moisture, its massive roots reaching deep into the ground beneath ice and mud.
Under the tree stood the remains of a stone altar, which also defied the oozing earth at its feet. Like the gigantic tree, the carefully worked stone was from an age past, the color of deep crimson. Embedded upon it was a circular tablet of ancient runes and symbols.
A white rose fell from the sky and lingered a moment on the surface of the pond. Gentle waves surged from it, rippling one by one to each distant edge, until the water was once again nearly calm. A thin sheet began to freeze across the surface of the pond as the rose sank slowly in the murk, only to rise a moment later, shattering the ice covering its marshy grave. The rose was no longer white; it had faded to the brownish-yellow of sludge, the color of the swamp. Its petals strained to open against the mud and freezing water that bound it.
But the tarnished rose was hearty and grew; soon two petals reached out and became wings, spanning six feet or more that reached for branches of the great oak above; it pulled itself from the Nah Kenna. But it was no longer a flower, and the creature became difficult to see in the darkening skies of the mirror, as it faded into the shadows of the tree.
Dayfid saw it clearly enough though. It was staring back at him. The thing lowered its skulled head to the surface of the pond, its red eyes penetrating the freezing filaments of muddied water, leering through the glass at him. Then it vanished, leaving behind a single sallowed petal fluttering down from the branches above.
“The Morphling knows it is watched.” Shyla-Cann broke the spell.
♦♦♦
Issa appeared as a dark, lupine shadow against the late afternoon sky. Blacker than a moonless night with only hints of white and brown folded into the fur around his neck, the big wolf had stopped to let the cool breezes of the Cairn stroke his thick coat before descending further into the ragged Sawtoothe Pass. Standing on a granite plateau above a series of waterfalls where fast moving forks of the Timmerwood Creek gathered and emptied into the Blood River, he could see the vast passage of the red clay waters pouring down through the foothills and flowing across the Donegal Valley, which spread out for leagues before him.
Earlier a squall had gathered over the ocean and pelted the lowlands with sleet and rain. Once again winter’s wrath broke the promise of spring and, for this day, reasserted its cruel and unforgiving grasp. But there were reminders everywhere that it was coming to an end. Pale green bristled in brush and thicket and red tips budded from tree branches as the land refused to return to the long slumber from which it had just awakened.
Fields and farms were already solid enough with crops to withstand the assault without the familiar burlap coverings, and new growth seemed to crop upward visibly as it drank in the day’s moisture. Yet despite the bounty promised by an early season, the wind carried more than an ominous chill and the hint of snow in its mood.
Swirling vapors arose above the massive Nah Kenna Swamp, which was once again Issa’s focus on this fateful afternoon. A sordid creature of blood magic had come to lurk in the eerie marshland, one whose incarnation had long been foretold in the many memories Issa shared with his forefathers, a being whose presence amongst the folding mists and decaying putrefaction portended the coming of a fearful new age.
A seminal vigil had commenced for the great wolves of Saorsa. Their genus was prima hora, the sooth survivors, and Issa was their primus. Through the eons many prolific packs and several species roamed and denned freely across every region of the island, and along with the other ancient guardians they defended against the threat of their enemies from antiquity, the Shadowkind. But in recent years their numbers had been drastically reduced by the savage wolfers of the Cathonian Church and now his cabal, all of whom resided in the remote reaches of the Cairn Mountains, comprised most of the wolves that still managed existence. Alas, only several hundred remained of the thousands that once thrived in the Saorsan wilds. But they were his packs; they had evolved and stood strong―stronger than most realized. Sooth survival required them to adapt, for they were bonded with the land.
Issa had feigned an attitude of cool disregard for the momentous occasion, allowing his esteemed mate, the she-wolf Mura, to send the young ones off into the night. But in fact, any chance to keep up with them would have been lost if he had not gotten his head start. He was as proud of Fajikk and Tikka as a father could be, but he was primus; his responsibility transcended that of a parent, as did the deed of this particular evening. For it was not because they were his offspring that he prowled the watch trails of the Cairn, silently speaking to his charges who moved stealthily into their positions, descending upon the swamp. It was not because he was their father that he was now ten leagues from the cabal’s refuge and Mura’s comforts. It was because he was the great black wolf, Issa primus, who answered to the call of time and creation. The old magic spoke to him, and he listened.
The signs and events leading to this moment had been anticipated and passed down through the generations. When they were born, all the packs in the cabal knew the significance of the litter of two black pups to the primus mates, and since then Fajikk and Tikka’s emerging dominance in the cabal had simply marked time. But tonight the young wolves began their fated test of maturity, and Issa and Mura both prepared for a long trial of faith. Yet for the rest of the great cabal, all was as it would be. They did not question the quest of the young black wolves, or their own quiet gathering in the night, waiting for the signal from the primus.
♦♦♦
Toward evening the icy rains cleared and Fajikk saw the wispy moon clearly against the pastel blue of the sky. The sun emerged from the clouds just before sinking behind the jagged peaks of the Cairn Mountains, the last dazzling rays firing across the soaring western slopes. Moving with silent ease through the familiar terrain and making his way toward the appointed rendezvous, he took measure of the vista over the fells and the great valley below, carefully noting the scents and sounds filling the damp air.
Among the huge boulders and rock faces clutching the rugged terrain, a narrow trail wound through the mountains, gently ambling downward and curving through narrow crevices along the outer rim of cliffs and bluffs. Watch points and lookouts were located along the way, as well as overhangs and a few shallow caves that offered shelter from weather and wind.
The scents marking those most treacherous and oblique points belonged to the great cabal. The watch trail he followed was more than a thousand years old and no human hands cleared or maintained it, although occasionally there were those who sought passage through the Cairn by way of this route. Farther below at the point of crossing, where an immense network of beaver dams bridged the conjoining streams that poured ice and red clay sediment into the Blood River, the trail widened and wound downward, disappearing into thick forests and lowland swamps and reappearing where the woodland thinned and it crossed the mighty river. Fajikk only ventured beyond the crossing with the hunting packs of the cabal, usually to seek the wild boar that inhabited the marshy swampland. Forays into the lowlands were risky however, and for the most part the wolves kept to their familiar turf in the higher elevations.
The young black wolf moved like a shade among the knife-edged rocks. His precise stealth and acute senses were instinctive, but his fear was not. Though it served to keep him alert and aware, there had been a time when things were different. Once his kind roamed these lands with impunity, hunted with reckless abandon, ran through the fields and meadows and grasslands in packs so large they were unthreatened by anything that might come from the sky or spy them from afar. Now their territory was limited to the foothills, canyons and high passes of the Cairn, where a baleful intuition compelled them to keep a clandestine watch over the land.
Upon arriving at the familiar hollow, Fajikk curled himself snugly in the shelter of the thick pines. Farther up the mountain winter still held its frigid grip, and a random breeze ruffled his fur with its cold breath. These were traces of winds which swept down through the narrow glens and combes, some forested with evergreen and birch, some bleak and bare and still waiting for spring to breathe life into the grasses and wildflowers. Rising in the distance were broad white patches quilting cliffs and high ridges and peaks capped in snow.
In a steep and shadowed canyon on the leeward side of the ridge just above the young wolf, one he passed through along the way, drifts still covered broken monuments and partly buried forgotten ruins scattered amongst immense stands of barren oaks and somber hickories. Enormous branches reached high into the evening sky and together trees and stones stood side by side, rooted in ground still frozen, vestiges of ages past.
At this altitude there were few sounds besides the trickling mountain springs and the moans and whistles of the wind rushing through the trees and swirling over snow and stone. The mighty Cairn was vast and cruel, full of wonder and mystery and foreboding, at times both inviting and harsh, but always intimidating.
On this occasion the cool eastern winds from the Boreal Seas met the swirling mountain breezes, drawing smells and faint noises across the lowlands to the upper climbs. Fajikk sifted these scents and echoes from his hidden lookout as the stars began to rise with the waxing moon and night fell on the land.
He watched as thousands of dots began pinpointing the deepening blue above and calmly waited, thinking about the journey that lay before them. Then Tikka called and he answered, their silent speech telling each where the other was located. Mura likewise heard their calls and answered.
Sooth survival required the wolves to rely on the silent speech as a primary means of communication. Rarely did they growl, bark or howl into the night, except to strike fear into the hearts of men or prey. Instead, they used the silent speech, saving their voices for the rare occasions when it was absolutely necessary, lest they give themselves away needlessly. This had been the way for many years; still it was unnatural and required restraint.
Moments later more discipline was exercised as the animals sniffed and gently mimicked hassling and wrestling and jawing each other in the age old ritual of establishing and reinforcing hierarchy. These three held a special bond between them, having shared many happy and carefree memories. They were always glad to see one another and it was no different on this occasion. Fajikk rolled on top of Tikka, who lay submissive for a moment, neck exposed.
“I yield, but only for nor now, brother.” Tikka growled the silent speech as if his feigned challenge were real.
“For now it is,” responded Fajikk, and they shared a laugh, as wolves do.
Mura had witnessed the antics of Fajikk and Tikka on many occasions in their always competitive and instinctive manner of play, reminding her of how they were as pups. Now they were of mature age and had more than held their own in the cabal. The black wolves had grown to almost half again her size and would be larger than their father. She held the moment of brief joy close to her heart.
“Do what you must but be especially careful tonight. If you stray beyond the swamp you will be on your own. There is little cover by daylight so pace yourselves.”
Mura was never one to waste words. Fajikk and Tikka knew their mission.
The young wolves worked themselves quietly away from the outlook and the outer rim altogether to one of the streams which led down to the point of crossing. There the trail widened, and staying off to the woods on either side they slowly began making their way down into the valley.
They passed under the darkness and cover of more oak and hickory into thick forest, which at first overlapped and then almost entirely blotted out the now cloudless night sky. Tikka forged ahead, following the familiar trail as they made their way. Fajikk lay back, periodically checking behind. Each held a set, placid look and only their burning yellow eyes revealed the restless energy and excitement deep inside them. They were young to lead a great hunt such as this, yet despite the ancient legend that ran in the collective marrow of the sooth survivors—that of the mighty black wolves arising against the usurpers of the old magic, Fajikk and Tikka had earned their place; indeed, theirs was the rite of passage for the great cabal.
Because they had traveled this route more than a few times, both noticed the palpable stillness that gradually enveloped the valley as they went. The familiar chirping and buzzing of insects faded into the night higher above. Missing were the shrill cries of the birds that awoke at sunset to fly in search of food.
Half a league now separated the black wolves but they were still within eye contact. They had steadily spaced themselves farther apart and now stood perfectly still, looking at each other and listening intently. The deep quiet was unsettling.
Crossing the river in shallow rapids several times, they made their way deep into the lowland forests. Only slivers of moonlight found their way through the thick trees overhead, dimly lighting the winding path they continued to follow. Still conscious of the heavy silence, Fajikk and Tikka avoided the moonlit clearings and stayed in the shadows. For them, it was warm and damp on the forested floor of the valley, and the cooling breeze swirling about was now far above and brought no comfort.
The marshy land where the cabal hunted some of its choicest meals eventually led to the Nah Kenna Swamp, where the smells in the air grew sour and fetid and fewer animals of any kind nested or inhabited. This is where the young wolves parted with the trail, which paralleled the Blood River all the way to the village of Donegal. The great swamp was their destination and already the eerie mists illuminated the way. Quietly and steadily the young blacks pushed on into the night, their stealth and deliberate pace according to plan, and before long they entered the bilge of reflecting ponds and pools of quicksand marking the boundary.
The many memories flowed acutely in the primus pedigree and were triggered by necessity above all else, functioning intuitively in the wolves’ sensory experience of their surroundings. Hence Fajikk and Tikka knew that in a distant age before the Black Dragon, Diuul, had been sealed beneath Nios Isle by the Goliaths of the Tundra, he had come to Saorsa to conjure his wormhole to the Domains of the Archaeus. He chose the splendid tarns and ponds and brooks of the Nah Kenna, which were in turn blighted by the entropy of dark energy cast upon them by the vile vortex. The once pristine wetlands slowly devolved into pestilence and in later years became known as the Nah Kenna Swamp, a vast and despoiled quagmire that served as a haven for Horks and Trolls.
Other than the Cathonian witches and those they lured from the Archaeus, few humans trespassed into this place of temporal discord, of grayish green lights dancing in vaporous shrouds, of long lost secrets and ancient atrocities. Tombs holding muddy skeletons could be found, along with rusted armor and war machines. Forged metal, wrapped wire, vessels with wings and wheels, and various artifacts and tidbits—most of which defied understanding—were buried and regurgitated here in this reeking cesspool of the ages.
Yet curiously, the estranged prophet of the Cathonian Church had built a mysterious dwelling in the swamp, a palace veiled by powerful spells that few could find save for the Fair Folk and their cross-bred kin. Of course the wolves knew the location of this formidable stronghold, which had prevailed for generations against the inimical forces of dark energy and the banes of black sorcery. Since the creature they sought was one of the prophet’s progeny, the possibility existed that it might seek out the hidden palace or somehow be drawn there.
The shared awareness of their ancient breed tempered the alacrity of the young blacks and guided them in entraining their senses to the folding mists and sounds of shifting sand and oozing mud. The Morphling was an anomalous and unbound creature whose province defiled the old magic of creation, one whose distinctive scent could be discerned even amongst the foul stench of the Nah Kenna. And so it was that Fajikk and Tikka were more than ready when its olfactory signature came to them, like a beacon in the otherwise still night.
♦♦♦
Perched in the upper branches of a towering white cedar, the keen-eyed hawk surveyed its surroundings. The evening deepened as mists roiled over the marshes. Veins of narrow moonlit streams and rills and rivulets disappeared and reappeared as they converged into the Blood River, which ambled along its winding swath to the sea. Clusters of twinkling villages with plowed fields and new crops appeared to the south and east, weaving a patchwork of habitation through the lowlands of Cathonia. In all other directions, save for the granite rimrock of the Cairn arising in the distance behind him, only the mires and bogs were visible. Indeed, the vastness of the Nah Kenna Swamp extended to the distant Borderlands along the Ulaid River many leagues to the northwest and ranged southward all the way to the Sea Kings Highway and the harbor cities of Tailsreach, Goleta and Cyril Pindor.
The gray hawk and the wolves, both of which had ghosted down through the remote draws in the mountains, were aware of one another; on this night, theirs was a shared purpose. Jaernyth unfurled his wings and moved furtively through the trees, following the baffled otherworlders who had been loosed in the swamp, unsuspecting prey for the Morphling. The dread and troubling creature, an abomination of blood magic that was somehow capable of shapeshifting into the form of a fearsome Draagul, was on the ground waiting, biding its time.
Among the fiercest bornless beings spawned by Diuul at the dawn of creation, if Draaguls could be considered birds of prey then they were greater than all others. Possessing massive webbed pinions and vicious curved talons, they bore neither feathers nor quills from their scaled hides. No scales covered the raw bone of their skulled heads, however, which were horned but otherwise eerily human-like in appearance. They were capable of casting forth an entrancing and deadly radiance with their eyes called luciform, and of all the Shadowkind none reeked of black blood more than a Draagul.
A Morphling with the ability to assimilate this treacherous being was proof that the iniquitous practice of unbounded shapeshifting had been advanced by the dark sisters, and that the Prophecy of the Sacred Flesh was being twisted into malevolence. Moreover, the last Draaguls known to exist were confined to Innes Ein long ago by the theurgy of the Mages of Awen. Thus the means by which this nefarious transmutation had been achieved, as such a thing would require time and study even for the most gifted of magic men, begged disturbing questions.
At last the creature took flight, making a wide circle in the sky overhead. Flapping its mighty wings and gliding easily above the misty reefs over the Nah Kenna, the swamp which it had become so familiar, it searched the night and with glowing red eyes soon spied its quarry.
On the ground below, the otherworlders were totally naked and covered in mud. With the countenance of those believing they had escaped the Horks and Trolls―for every few steps they stopped and looked back at the way they had come, the two men appeared to feel more than see the giant wings cross the moon and descend like shadows. Yet upon hearing the faint rustling in the trees, they somehow sensed it was too late to run and stood frozen in the muck. The Draagul stepped into the moonlight and the baleful luciform stare held them, hypnotized and shivering in terror, urinating on themselves.
Primal shrieks of delight, shrill and terrible, were followed by the snapping and gnashing of teeth, the woeful reckoning of necks breaking, and the suckling sounds of warm blood being drawn from flesh. Then with the broken bodies clutched in its powerful talons, the Morphling again took flight, carrying its fresh sacrifices to the muddy pond and the crimson altar.
♦♦♦
Of course all the hunters of the great cabal heard and located the strident, predatory screeches that reverberated through the Nah Kenna Swamp. Swift and silent, moving along easily with long powerful strides, running on toes that turned quickly and changed directions instantly, they were sleek and graceful shadows stalking the night. Bristling with an excitement that was difficult to hold in check, they were primed for the hunt.
Fajikk and Tikka had already moved into position by the time the other wolves arrived. The many memories worked together in the minds of the young blacks, who shared the silent speech from their hiding places. In their own special way, each saw everything the other saw and heard everything the other heard. In the moments that followed, both would come to understand more of the forewarnings about the Morphling and its unnatural powers.
Issa had twenty wolves with him and Jakiin, the venerated alpha of the eastland hunters. The hunting parties from the westland and northland packs also answered the call and came down from the high reaches of the Cairn. Seemingly out of nowhere, as if they had materialized from the thick moist air of the swamp itself, more than fifty wolves appeared and quietly spread out through the folding mists and moonshadows surrounding the muddy pond.
The silent speech was a communal phenomenon among those who perceived it, which in this instance included the raptor nestled in the trees high above—the hawk that was a Shaman. So as the hawk and the primus conversed, Fajikk and Tikka and the hunters of the great cabal, each assimilating and understanding according to its unique aptitude and rank within the packs, measured the meanings of their words; for what transpired there baffled them all.
The crimson altar above which the otherworlders were hanging―face down in blood and bound to the overhanging tree branches by lengths of their own flensed flesh, torsos ripped open and viscera smeared upon the runic symbols and inscriptions―was an ancient and hallowed relic of the Mages of Awen. Formally known as the Tablet and Rose Stone, it was brazenly stolen by a traitor of their order in a bygone era. The crimson altar was eventually discovered in a secret chamber beneath the Mission of Light in Cyril Pindor, when the infamous Mischanter Priest was caught unawares and killed by a lone mage. Realizing its theurgic potentials were being used by the witches in their wicked rituals of blood magic, the mage and his trusted comrades removed the defiled platform from the mission and hid it somewhere deep in the Nah Kenna Swamp, its whereabouts a confidence they never divulged; hence the crimson altar was lost.
Fajikk and Tikka knew this account was from the Fourth War of the Hordes, when the ancient guardians and allies of the Sea Kings were defeated by the Shadowkind and the Cathonian Church came into power. They also realized the history of the crimson altar dated back to a much older time and its legacy was infinitely complex. Before them now, however, certain things were evident: the Tablet and Rose Stone had been discovered and was being catalyzed by black sorcery into a vessel to unbind evil, and another theurgic implement―a talisman capable of summoning the old magic of creation that had somehow been desecrated—was quickening the process.
What remained unclear was the purpose of this fell conjury.
The Morphling wore a pocketed leather loop around one of its fore-talons that secured the talisman, which appeared to be interwoven triangles cast in gold and centered by a cross of petrified wood, inlaid with glittering stones. Standing on its hind legs in the oozing mud and holding the implement in the air, the creature began its sibilant invocation.
“Diuul, the larva that possess, I beseech thee. I bear offerings, the nectar of life still warm in their hosts. Favor me now, for I cast creation upon your altar. Bring forth the specter of light from darkness.”
They had a much clearer view now of the Morphling’s talisman and understood at least part of how it had been desecrated, for entwined around the stem of the cross was an iridescent black worm, a tiny serpentine larva. “The Sky Pentacle,” said the gray hawk. The ominous tone of this revelation was discernible even in the silent speech. “It belonged to the last of the Paladins born in service to the Sea Kings but was lost in the razing of Old Cathonia, twenty years ago.”
The creature devoured the bloody entrails from each corpse and then hissed more sacred words. “Cast before the flame, captured in the mind’s eye, beholding to the power of the shadow, deny not thy bringer of light.”
Fissured strings of lightning reigned down through the mists from the sky overhead, fracturing the stillness with brilliant flashes and sizzling crackles of electricity. Wisps of smoke arose from the surface of the crimson altar and for a moment the Morphling’s ensorcelled yoke was visible as it shapeshifted―the transfigurations overlapping one another within its trifold forms of existence. First it became a human being, a young man with a volatile and conflicted expression on his face; then a white rose, its vibrant petals instantly fading to brown and wilting as they opened; and finally, the fierce and rapacious Draagul, its presence distinctly dominant, reemerged to subjugate the others, their aspects dissolving into horned skull, scaly hide and the pinioned wings and talons of the mutated, primordial beast.
The moments of vying for control, of the essential divisions within the Morphling’s core of being―of its ultimate vulnerability, passed quickly. The red glow of its eyes grew into molten banefire, burning with an astounding intensity and force. Rising on hind legs to its full height and rearing its skulled head into the night sky, it issued a thunderous shriek over the Nah Kenna, a challenge to all who would oppose it. Then slowly―deliberately—aware now that it was not alone, the fearsome creature turned its attention out into the swamp, sweeping its deadly luciform gaze across the muddy pond and up into the trees.
The hunters of the great cabal knew not to look directly into the mesmerizing eyes that searched them out; all the same, they were in grave danger. The events of this night, the crimson altar and its bloody sacrifices, the desecrated talisman drawing down fire from the sky, their prey suddenly being charged with voracity and power beyond their ability to leverage without putting too many at risk, had thwarted the hunt. Yet perhaps this was fortuitous, considering what they had learned. Still, the riddles of their journey into the Nah Kenna Swamp, the discovery of the long lost Tablet and Rose Stone and its ill-omened catalysis, the role of the defiled Sky Pentacle in all they had witnessed, would remain a mystery for now. They would accept the challenge of the Morphling, but not on this occasion. Sooth survival demanded their escape.
Fajikk and Tikka now needed to rely on something older even than legend or the collective wisdom of their forefathers to guide them, something spoken within the marrow of the prima hora from antiquity; an aptitude beyond the boundaries of logic or reason, or history, or language. In fact there is a word for this innate sense in the silent speech, but the young blacks had never used it and were thus unfamiliar; the primus and the gray hawk, however, understood that what spurred them into action was a fundamental dynamic, one both unfathomable and inexplicable, a manifestation of the old magic known as instinct.
Fur flashed in the moonlight as the young blacks sprang forth, howling vociferously and streaking through the swamp, fleeing from the muddy pond to the higher ground that lay beyond. The Morphling seemed startled at first by the sudden dash from cover, but with its eyes still aflame in renewed vigor the skulled bird took the bait and flapped its mighty wings, rising in the night sky to follow the wolves. The gray hawk let just a moment pass before launching from its perch in the high branches and flying away in pursuit.
Naturally the hunters from the packs of the great cabal, most of whom had been trained by Jakiin himself in the endless searching and chasing games they all played together throughout the seasons, as well as in their many joint hunts, were well disciplined in matters of predator and prey. However the alpha leader, fondly known throughout the cabal as the ‘husky hunter,’ chose just one wolf from each pack to accompany him and they set out at once to track Fajiik and Tikka.
The remaining wolves were restless and agitated, disappointed that there would be no release for the excitement and anticipation flowing in their blood and bones. At the same time, they respected the prudence of this decision―for they had all felt the threat of the Morphling, smoldering in perilous waves of luciform over their hiding places. They took solace in knowing the return trip to the Cairn would ease their frustration.
Meanwhile, Issa issued an entreaty on humans. His intent was to encourage Fajikk and Tikka, who were still in range of the silent speech. Yet the poignant words of the primus, delivered with stern conviction and the wisdom of the many memories, would find meaning for all the hunters.
“Humans project their own worst fear upon us, the fear of themselves. In so doing, they give us our greatest tool of survival. They see us with human eyes and hear us with human ears. They cannot smell us until it is too late. Our kind can never be measured by them. We know voices they shall never know.
“You have seen that at its essence, the Morphling is human. It was raised by humans, Cathonian witches, sworn enemies with whom the prima hora have cultivated an abiding legacy of fear. The witches are terrified of us. Deep within, even in the shifted shape of the Draagul, the Morphling harbors this fear. It is inbred and cannot be overcome with black sorcery or by any other means . . . except the old magic’s greatest mystery, which is love . . . the flower of life.
“The petals of the Morphling’s rose wilt because it possesses no love. There lies its greatest weakness.”
A hushed quiet ensued. There were no Draagul shrieks; no wolf howls. The wind was still. Only the tentative chirping and croaking of crickets and frogs and the occasional hooting of an owl could be heard by the hunting parties as they took leave of the muddy pond in the Nah Kenna. Each headed back in a different direction toward the mountains, vanishing into the mists and leaving behind only paw prints, many of which would be swallowed by the shifting mud of the swamp, as evidence they had ever been there at all.
♦♦♦
Dodging cattails and wading through reeds, hurdling bilges and pools and staying hidden in the thick stands of cypress and maple and willow, the young blacks were little more than passing shadows among the greensick vapors rising in the night. Making their way southward along the braided streams that flowed into the Blood River, showing their whereabouts just often enough to capture the attention of the Morphling circling in the moonlit sky above, they steadily drew the skulled bird away from the vicinity of the muddy pond so their companions could escape.
Somehow Fajikk and Tikka could sense the distance, speed and accuracy of the deadly flares of luciform being launched at them, and had thus far eluded them all. The trick involved ducking aside just before the Morphling brought them into focus; both realized, however, that at closer range they would be at a considerable disadvantage. Singed marsh grass and trees marked their passage at certain points along the way, yet the fiery bursts did not force them into the open, as the dank and mist-laden swamp refused to ignite into flames. Indeed, the Morphling’s chosen demesne of the Nah Kenna was proving to be a difficult hunting ground, at least when it came to wolves. The young blacks got the impression it was still learning to use its facilities as a Draagul; for despite its daunting ferocity and malice, the creature seemed inexperienced at times and uncertain of its predatory nature.
The black wolves came to the edge of the trees bordering an open floodplain. They were nearing a landmark known in the old tongue of the Fair Folk as Aon Chara. Across this region many tributaries joined the Blood River before it coursed into a draw through one of the rocky scarps marking the southern approach to the Cairn. Within this buttressing of slopes and bluffs that the Nah Kenna had never quite claimed, the river gently gathered amidst carved out capes and inlets and water caves to form a majestic, stepped waterfall into the lowlands. The region seemed unnatural in its surroundings―or perhaps it was Aon Chara that cast the forested mires and bogs in an anomalous light―for here the age-old enchantments of the red clay waters had held their own against the pestilence of the swamp.
Something called to Fajikk and Tikka now, for each felt an uncanny excitement mounting―a curious longing and curiosity. In the substrate of their being, a sensation both cerebral and tactile began to gestate. Some deeper purpose of their mission was waiting to be fulfilled in this place, to be realized in a way they suddenly yearned to comprehend.
The skulled bird had momentarily disappeared from sight, but their keen ears now detected other sounds in the distant marshes. They recognized the harsh commands of Hork captains spurring their charges through the rooted undergrowth and dense patches of trees, footfalls sloshing through the mud and low lying water. And emerging from the woodlands bordering the water meadow to the south was a company of Horks and Trolls on horseback, great black steeds sidling restlessly and fuming a lucent, steaming breath from their nostrils.
“He awaits you,” hailed the gray hawk, startling them as it alighted in a nearby tree. “But you must cross the plain. Go at once, while the Morphling gathers its horde.”
In spite of knowing their pursuers would see them and give chase, the young blacks sprang forth, streaking across the wide-open savanna. Even in full stride the mighty horses bearing the hulking Horks and Trolls could not catch up with them in time, nor could the Morphling, which came winging across the starlit horizon upon their abrupt dash from cover.
The skulled bird shrieked and flew lower to the ground, gaining on Fajikk and Tikka as they snarled and zig-zagged back and forth, extending their strides in increasing bursts of speed and preventing it from effectively focusing the blasts of luciform. Meanwhile, the mounted Horks and Trolls divided and began closing the distance, shouting battle cries as they thundered over the terrain and crossed the winding waterways. Already the marshy grasses began giving way before the wolves, yielding as the streams and rivulets merged and the jagged slopes of the Aon Chara loomed before them. The rocky bluffs arose stark against the night, contrasting with the surrounding acres of fens and wooded wetlands. With their flanks heaving and nostrils flaring, the young blacks stretched out even further and accelerated once more, splitting apart and sprinting toward the draw in the hills where the glittering waters flowed into the Blood River.
When the wolves came together again, passing beneath the craggy ledges and into the draw where the merged waters pooled and stilled, the Morphling had them in its sights. But just then the gray hawk undercut the creature’s pinioned wings and unsettled its flight; the skulled bird shrieked and whirled in the air, but by then the swift hawk was away and into the safety of the cliffs. Fajikk and Tikka turned long enough to witness the getaway, and to see that the steeds of the Horks and Trolls were indeed swift, for the company was quickly approaching.
The wolves plunged into the chill waters and swam around to the far shore of the first gravely inlet before the enraged Morphling flapped through the narrow mouth of the draw. With its giant wings spanning almost half the width of the opening and its skulled head twisting back and forth, eyes flashing red banefire, its chilling screeches echoed off the rocks as it searched for its prey.
For an instant, Fajikk and Tikka thought they had come to their end, for there was no clear pathway of escape; the mounted Horks and Trolls, who knew better than to enter Aon Chara, had arrived and now waited just outside. At that moment, however, a narrow wooden boat poled by a lone figure, his face hidden in a hooded cloak, emerged from one of the water caves. Silently holding up one arm and halting the skulled bird before it swooped or cast its luciform gaze upon the young blacks, the Boatman calmly navigated his craft across the softly swirling currents, coming near enough to the shoreline for Fajikk and Tikka to climb aboard.
Swinging his boat back around and poling out into deeper water, he addressed the seething skulled bird in a deep and resounding voice. “Take your horde and leave this place,” he commanded. “Do not come back.”
♦♦♦
Copyright © Shawn Quinlivan, 2019. Shawn Quinlivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All original images used by permission. Digital artistry by Shawn Quinlivan.
