Turnings
By Keith Slawson [Author Info]Drums throb in the black depths of the earth. The labyrinthine corridors of black stone echo with the battering of the distant rhythm. Eyes, the color of topaz, glitter in the dark as the faint flicker of like-colored flame dances about the sable-skinned form of a dark elf. A figure glides like a wraith through the cavern. No trace of footfall or clatter of loosed stone betray its passage. The drumbeats resolve into a discernable pattern. Signals woven into the rhythm speak to the keen ears of the dark elf and she smiles faintly -- a sneer, really -- as she hears news of the ongoing rout. Deep below, at the Ring of Fire, the Citadel is falling again.
The chitter of chainmail links dragged across exposed stone sounds nearby. The dark elf tenses. With a thought she dims the topaz aura about herself and draws the black-bladed scimitar from its sheath. The the blade's metal is forged of meteor-fall, named "galvorn" in the speech of the Moriquendi. It sings faintly as it slides free and the sound echoes across the gulf of night.
"Hold!" The voice a near-desperate hiss in the void. "Fëamegil?"
"Aye." Her reply is followed by a series of carefully drawn breaths, a subtle signal that is answered in kind by the other. The two dark elves know themselves to be of the same House and they embrace in silent celebration of the events below.
"All is well, Swordsister." She laughs softly, a tear of joy leaving its obsidian track across the matte black of her cheek. "Cuvengûl is risen!" A fierce clasp at the other's shoulder and the topaz aura flares anew about her, revealing the other in its light.
"Indeed. Cuvengûl is risen. And where goes the Sorceress, the Swordhand will surely follow."
"Hail then, Dûriel, Swordhand of Fëamegil!" The one called Thanguriel made her aura flicker in salute of the other, and topaz flame danced about the chamber.
Dûriel allowed herself a laugh of relief. For the years of planning and careful research had proven worthwhile. House Naryandur had fallen, and with them, the Citadel itself. Her first campaign of the Cycle would grace the Hall of Lore, immortalized in black stone, to be read by generations of eager fingers passing through the darkness, sweeping across the tale that is history. Before her, bathed in golden fire, stood a Swordsister of her House, Thanguriel, whose blade had helped buy the victory below. A surge of pride welled within her and tears filled her eyes, matching those of her dark companion. Amethyst orbs flickered beneath the tears, and ghostly violet flames intertwined with the golden fires unconsciously conjured by Thanguriel's joy. She raised her blade aloft in salute, and the flames raged soundlessly up its length to flower outward like great branches, diverted by the stone ceiling. "Fëamegil!" she cried.
"Fëamegil!" Thanguriel replied, matching her salute with a pillar of topaz light.
* * *
The Matriarch rose from the throne of twisted, black iron. Robes of saffron, edged with black plates of steel billowed and clattered against the stone, stirred by conjured currents of air. She turned her gaze, eyes blazing like rubies, to the assembly arrayed before her and, with a wave of her gaunt sable-skinned hand, silenced the joyous murmurs that filled the great hall of Cuvengûl. At her right, banners of saffron silk with the black star of Cuvengûl embroidered upon them, stirred faintly as the portals of the chamber were drawn shut. The metallic clankings of ancient locks and hinges sounded clearly, reflected by the stone vault above. Silence and darkness descended.
"My children, my House," the Matriarch began, "We ascend today the great stair of the Citadel! Cuvengûl is risen!"
"Cuvengûl is risen!" A chorus, a thousand voices strong, shouted in triumph.
Topaz-lensed lamps flared to life the length of the great hall and the murmur rose with the flames. The Matriarch turned from the throng and slipped silently through a portal of hewn-stone, disguised as the cavern wall.
In the chamber beyond, a lone figure stood, clad in the black-steel mail favored by the Moriquendi. Amethysts glittered at his throat, and his ivory hair was bound in four braids, wrapped in black wire. His sharp-featured face, cast in shadow, turned to meet the incoming Matriarch and he knelt silently, saluting with an upraised fist.
"Hail, Cuvenil Cuvengûl, Matriarch of the Citadel!" The warrior's tone was triumphant.
"Well met, Kuluvinar, Swordhand of Cuvengûl," The Matriarch motioned him to rise, ruby eyes glittering with hidden amusement. "Your House has acquitted itself well, as ever, Fëamegil."
"My thanks, Lady. You do us great honor."
"The blades of the Fëamegil have delivered many a Great House unto the Citadel. Doubtless the warning I am about to give has been voiced before..."
"Warning, Matriarch?" Kuluvinar hissed.
"Aye, Fëamegil. Warning." The Matriarch's wry smile split the shadow of her features with teeth of blazing white. "Do not think that Cuvengûl will allow the Cycle to turn quickly. We intend to make the Citadel our home for a time."
Kuluvinar nodded silently in response. "As you say, Matriarch, so shall it be. As long as I am your Swordhand, the Citadel is yours."
"Lofty proclamation, Fëamegil. Do you think a mere blade enough to sever Cuvengûl from its rightful conquest?"
"I meant no such thing."
"See to it that the delusion is driven from your mind. It shall not be so."
"As you say, Matriarch." Kuluvinar bowed low and slipped into the shadows, disappearing through one of many accesses to the chamber amidst the labyrinth of Cuvengûl.
* * *
The black passageway was clogged with survivors, crimson wounds bright against their black skin. They slumped against the walls or lay upon the narrow floor, exhausted by their flight and the recent battle. The scent of blood and steel hung in the heavy air. A single Moriquendi, seemingly untouched, strode through the morass. His long, white hair hung loosely about his shoulders, and a ragged sweep of it crossed one of his amethyst eyes, obscuring its bright gaze. He was clad in a black cuirass of polished leather set with amethysts and studded with dark steel. A hooded cape hung about his shoulders like a swirling shadow and boots of soft leather stepped soundlessly from stone to stone. In one sable fist he held a torch, the other hovered near the hilt of a long knife glittering at his belt. The torch guttered once and a maimed warrior slumped away from it, screaming. His tattered sleeve burned brightly. With a sweep of his open hand, Fëadûr willed the fire dead and marched on, leaving the cursing warrior behind. The sounds of a heated interrogation came from just ahead, and he realized that their guide had faltered again.
"I know not, Lady!" the nameless dark elf whined, cringing before the upraised palm of a champion of Palanruin. "This passage is an outlet, but I know not where it leads."
The champion raked his black-skinned face with razor-sharp, ivory nails. A crimson rain stung Fëadûr's eyes. The nameless one screamed.
"Cur!" the champion spat, "You debase your House with your snivelling!"
She turned away from him and knelt to examine the rough-hewn stone door with its rusted lock. Metal had fused to stone through ages of oxidation. The steady drip of water from above and the guttering of the torch were the only sounds. "Where is that Sorcerer, cur?" her voice low with menace.
With topaz eyes a turmoil of hate and frustration, the dark elf turned to Fëadûr and then back to the champion. "He is here, Lady." Fëadûr stepped forward. The flame of his torch flickered and hissed against the low, damp ceiling.
"Open it, Mage." She did not spare him a glance, but stared fixedly at the door as if to open it by will alone. Fëadûr's amethyst gaze swept across the portal, his mind reading the ancient mechanism of the lock as subtle mental pressures eased generations of corrosion from its delicate parts. With a wave and a murmured verbalization the door opened soundlessly as if on well-oiled hinges. The champion looked at him with half of a sneer -- all the thanks he would get -- and turned to the yawning blackness beyond the door. Her blue-steel chainmail glittered with sapphires winking like stars, which Fëadûr followed into the depths. "Douse the torch, Mage. We will use the gifts of the Demon Queen from this point." It was a note of challenge in the stifling corridor. "I have no further use of your 'talents'." She snickered softly. The laugh was echoed from behind by the nameless dark elf.
Fëadûr paused. The flame died in a spasm of sparks, hissing. He waited a moment, allowing his eyes to register the delicate subtleties of heat that illuminated the passage. Behind him, an approaching shuffle of feet as their guide sought to continue in his service. As he passed, Fëadûr's black hand leapt to his throat, pinning him to the wall. A faint whine became a moist, strangled gurgle. The sharp snap of his spine echoed down the hall. Fëadûr let the corpse slide to the floor and moved on as the stench of its voided life mingled with the battle-smells that hung over the ragged troop.
"My thanks, Mage," the champion laughed, "That is the second time today you have proven your worth."
* * *
The thunder of the drums echoed loud amidst the high vaults of the massive chamber. Pillars of hewn stone hung with rags of red silk, edges burned by vengeful torches. Corpses littered the hall, their red blood bright against sable skin. The smells of burnt silk, rotting flesh, and oiled steel wafted from the room, teasing the senses of a Moriquendi in a breastplate of black steel. The great tachi of meteoric steel he held in a two-fisted grip before him dripped with the blood of a score of Naryandur's finest warriors. A feral grin peeled black lips backward from teeth unnaturally sharp. The ruby-red glow of the warrior's eyes flickered against his black skin, lit by an inner glow of hatred.
"Cuvengûl!" His hoarse shout rang over the drums. From the shadows a hundred voices roared their triumphant response. At the warrior's feet, a figure writhed, lying in a pool of blood.
"Glory now, Farothûr Cuvengûl, but your House is weak and will soon fall." The dying dark elf spat a mixture of blood and saliva at the warrior's booted feet.
"Weak?" The warrior's shout became a laugh. "Teach me, oh master of weakness, the art of a fallen House." The black sword snapped downward with a sickening rip that tore out the throat of the protester. The laughter boomed in the blackness, as the warrior threw back his head and roared, shaking a blood-stained mane of white hair. He raised the blade on high, and a ghostly flicker of ruby fire danced along the steel edge, burning away the viscera.
* * *
"Brother," Kuluvinar nodded.
"Ill met, Kulu," Fëadûr replied. "Come to gloat, Swordhand? It doesn't become one of your station."
"Our House stands allied with House Cuvengûl," Kuluvinar's sable brow furrowed. "Your renegade ways will be the death of you little brother." The warrior turned his back on the mage. "Even now your Matriarch, Dûriel, stands before the throne making excuses for you. For that disgrace alone I should kill you."
Fëadûr's grin was lit by the pale amethyst glow of the spirit-blade that gave House Fëamegil its name. The black sword hung in the air between them; the circular chamber at the House's heart open only to the blood of the Matriarch.
"It was Palanruin I served, brother," Fëadûr shrugged. "Their politics were certainly flawed. Who knew that they would throw in with Naryandur even as she fell?"
"You hide behind politicians and panderers, little brother. It ill-becomes one of your heritage..."
"Ours is a lesser House, Kulu. Don't delude yourself. We will ever be servants."
"What nobler service?" Kuluvinar hissed as he spun about, black-steel wrapped braids flying, his talon-like fingers closed over the hilt of the blade at his shoulder and he drew to guard with deadly fluidity.
Fëadûr frowned and formed the runes in his mind for a shield between them. A voice hissed in his skull with steel-sibilance: "Son of Dûriel, there is no honor in the art you invoke. I forbid it here." The amethyst light from the spirit-blade flickered in cadence. The spell died.
Kuluvinar laughed aloud. "That is judgement enough for me, little brother. The Fëamegil itself speaks against you!"
Fëadûr drew the long knife from his belt. He had no illusions about its effectiveness in the face of the blade of a Swordhand. It seemed the politics of Palanruin would indeed be his bane. "And what of Farothûr Cuvengûl?" Fëadûr circled, distancing himself and keeping the glowing Fëamegil between them. "Will he stand by and applaud your victory? Honor his Swordhand?"
Kuluvinar lowered the point of his blade to stomach level. "He is a beast, easily slain." A swift cross-step brought him parallel to the Fëamegil and he thrust mid-sentence. "The art of steel will ever triumph over such crude claws!" Fëadûr caught the incoming blade with his knife point lowered. Stepping in, he parried it wide and released it to riposte: A slash aimed across Kuluvinar's face.
The Swordhand retreated quickly, raising the sword back to guard. Again he dropped the point of the sword toward Fëadûr's abdomen, feinted the thrust, and cut over the parry to catch the mage's temple with flat steel.
The chamber shattered into red-rimmed shards of swirling chaos. The echo of steel slapping against the side of Fëadûr's skull resounded ominously even as the edge of the same blade bit deeply into the sinewy flesh of his arm.
Through a bloody haze Fëadûr saw his knife blade rise, seemingly of its own volition. Steel screamed against steel. Blades met in desperate strokes and a crimson splash arced across his vision. He did not feel the pain. The rush of dark water, flowing swift, sounded in his ears. His own blood ran like tears across his black cheeks, hideously bright.
"Too many books, sorcerer," Kuluvinar taunted. "The blade is ever the destiny of a true Fëamegil."
"The blade is not enough," Fëadûr whispered through clenched teeth. No sorcery now, but the darkness cultivated by the Moriquendi came at his blood's bidding, and he wrapped himself in shadows and steel.
Kuluvinar redoubled his lunge and found only the shadows. Though Fëadûr's sidestep had cleared the line, the Swordhand's recovery was punctuated by an arc of swinging steel, skull-bound again. Even as he did so, Kuluvinar felt the cold slipping of steel between his ribs. In the moment, his heart shuddered as metal ground against bone. A faint ripping sound, like a sail bursting in heavy wind, whispered in the distance. Kuluvinar's blade landed, the tremor of impact crawling up his arm, even as the mage's knife sought his heart. The shadows that he had thought dispelled closed about him and he knew no more.
Fëadûr fell away from his brother's blade. His vision black, and filled with stars. Ethereal song drowned the clamor of battle from his ears. And the ground greeted him with its hard embrace, dashing light and sound from his experience.
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Copyright © 1999 by Keith Slawson. This material may be distributed only subject to the terms and conditions set forth in the Open Publication License, v.04 1998 or later (the latest version is presently available at http://www.opencontent.org/openpub/).
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