Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [115]
The big man nodded. "Good," he said. "I'll go first so that you will trust me."
With that, the man grabbed his knife and yanked it down, opening a deep gash across his palm. Fresh blood poured down his forearm, mingling with the older blood and mud dried there.
He reached for Jalan's hand, but Jalan flinched.
"Trust me, Jalan," said the man.
Jalan could feel the cold pressing in again, could hear his mother crying.
"Trust me."
Trust, Jalan. Be not afraid.
Jalan extended his right hand. The big man brought the edge of the blade across his open palm-Jalan winced-then brought their open palms together in a tight grip. Jalan could feel their blood mingling. It seemed hot and cold at the same time, soothing and biting.
A large drop of their blood fell onto the root of the great tree. Jalan watched, his eyes going even wider, as the iron-hard wood of the long-dead tree drank it in, like dry earth soaking up spring rain.
The cold pressing upon them faltered, and in his deepest heart Jalan could feel cracks running through the dark power at work. Beyond it all was the sweet singing he remembered from his childhood dreams-and it was growing stronger.
"No!" came a shout below them, and in the back of his mind Jalan recognized the voice of the sorcerer who had taken him, who had dragged him across the Endless Wastes, tormenting him all the way. A smile crept across Jalan's face, for he heard something new in the voice: despair.
A pale flutter overhead caught Jalan's eye, and he looked up. There, just at the limit of his reach, was a pale bud, fluttering in the gale. Even as he watched, the bud opened into a full blossom, white petals round a gold center.
Grab it! said Vyaidelon's song inside him.
He did.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Isle of Witness
"Father!"
The cry went out, echoing into realms beyond the paths of mortal men, and Vyaidelon answered.
Arantar, his son, his only son born to him of a mortal woman, stood beneath the Witness Tree. Weariness hung upon him, and the light in his eyes was dim. Five sorcerers, clad in the royal gray of Raumathar, surrounded him. Vyaidelon could look beyond the scope of mortal eyes, and he saw the cold, hungry darknesses writhing within them, giving them great strength even as the darknesses consumed them.
Vyaidelon merged with Arantar, combining their spirits and lending his strength to his son.
The five sorcerers howled in fury and struck, calling upon every spell they knew as they charged.
Arantar and Vyaidelon, two beings sharing one body, struck back, pouring holy light and life into the never-ending hunger that filled the sorcerers. The five screamed, and four of them fell. The dark infusion, the thousands of tendrils of unlife burrowing into their souls, twisted and frayed.
The leader, the one that had been Khasoreth, fell to his hands and knees upon the ice-slick steps and looked up at Arantar. The shadow lifted from Khasoreth's face, and his eyes cleared. "Master… please. Remember. Remember… mercy."
The words hit Arantar stronger than any of their spells had. They cut to his very heart, for they were ideals by which he had tried to live his entire life, as a servant to the people of the steppes, as a husband and father, and most of all as a man.
In that moment of hesitation Khasoreth struck, sending a thick arm of darkness crashing into Arantar. The thing within Khasoreth shrieked in unholy delight, and Vyaidelon's song faltered.
Arantar stumbled against the tree, and the thing that had been Khasoreth leaped, falling upon him with fist, tooth, and spell.
Vyaidelon concentrated his strength to strike.
No! said Arantar, calling to his father in the mind they shared. Mercy.
He began to lift away, but the thing that had been Khasoreth struck, its great arm of darkness seizing Vyaidelon, grasping and tearing at him. Darkness warred with light, but this time Vyaidelon did not fight it. There would be another way. Another day when justice and mercy could meet as one.
Do not fear, Vyaidelon told his son. You have planted