Spirits of Shadow

[oldgrayrogue]

Tars was having trouble understanding these westerners and their ways. The elven ranger appeared honorable. His knowledge of the land and air of command testament to his character. Tars wanted to get to know this ranger better. He and Zylja seemed destined to dwell in these northlands for a time, and it was wise to forge alliances with such men. Berendil had fought well against the shambling dead in the caverns. Bows have their uses after all, thought Tars. Yet, when the battle ended, Berendil and the others turned to depart the tomb without a backward glance. The battle seemingly forgotten. The spirits of the place, whose presence he felt like a shroud pulled tight over him, unassuaged. He would make proper offering. To their credit the westerners stood solemn as he piled the bones to form a tomb to hold the restless dead, his chant echoing through the now silent chamber. Perhaps these men of the west were not so unwise.

After leaving the tomb Tars' doubts took stronger hold. The other elven and their companions stood idly chatting of hats and cloaks, laughing like children. Did they not know what even Rashemi children know? The spirits always demand a price. He prayed his offering had been accepted.

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As the stout dwarven warrior clanked up the road to the town Tars could not help but feel admiration. His eyes ran over the weapons, well worn hilts and sharp edges. Perhaps these men of the west were not all soft. He noted the hillman's stride as the dwarven warrior stomped off to the bridge, the strange spirit fire still dancing in his eyes. This was a warrior to be reckoned with. Tars followed him to the bridge.

*************

As he laid the maiden down upon the bench he saw here eyelids flicker. Her blank staring swoon was an ill omen. The spirits had rejected his offering he feared. He wished Zylja were with him. Would the spirits punish them further? Only she could say. As he left the temple, the girl chattering about shadows and dark circles, his dread grew. These men did not see the circle closing. They made no offerings. His voice had not been heard. The spirits would not heed him.

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The shadows they fought on the long road from High Hold seemed to grow stronger as they grew closer to the Moonwood. Berendil was correct. That must be the source of their power. Fighting them was like swimming in an icy lake. With each stroke of his sword his limbs seemed to grow cold and numb. Zylja would have had him turn back, and leave these westerners to their fate. How could he? The dwarven warrior and the tall spirit maiden, for so she seemed, fought as fiercly as his own father in his prime. The other, Tahir, whirled his poleaxe like a dervish, felling foes like wheat before a scythe. Almost did he turn when they would have left the slaughtered dead violated and untended by the lonely tower. Would they leave him forgotten in the dust if the shadows felled him? His hasty pyre was not enough he knew. The spirits would demand more. Yet, Berendil had aided him in his attempt to honor their fall. He like the others had honor, and lacked only wisdom. They have no Hathran to guide them, the fault is not theirs, thought Tars. He would not dishonor his lodge and name by leaving such warriors, misguided though they might be, to their doom alone. As a weakness born of the cold touch of death gripped him, he followed after them.

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The black shape that wheeled across the cloud shrouded moon presaged death. He needed to regain his strength, he knew, as did the others, but Berendil did not heed him. He offered counsel but his words were tossed awy. The die had been cast. The lure of the spirits too strong. Did the elf even know the dishonor he showed them all as he bade them stay behind to lick their wounds? No Rashemi would expect another to do that which he himself will not consider. No Rashemi would seek battle while counseling those who had fought at his side to turn away. The omens were dark and foreboding. As he told Berendil he would follow, if only to drag the fallen away, he wondered whether the spirits would guide Zylja to his body. Whether she would ever return to Rashemen to tell of his end?

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The shadows and their hounds were more powerful here. The night belonged to them. Their few sorties seemed half hearted. Were they meant to make them careless? To draw them forward with small victories to a swift death? As he followed Berendil down into the valley floor Tars new the time had come. "We must seek the higher ground!" he shouted, and then the spirits unleashed their fury.

Kors had told him of such battles, when all before you becomes a red haze of blood, sweat and pain. Darkness, the sweep of his blade, shouts, the crushing contact of blows was all he could remember of it. A dark winged shadow hovered over all, fire and boiling pitch spewing forth from its fanged maw. Several times Tars found himself on the ground, lying in blood and dirt. The strength of the spirits entering him, reviving him, the acrid taste of the healing draughts he brought to his bloody lips. He remembered too the fall of he called Tahir: poleaxe raised in defiance, a wind of fury following its every sweep. The dwarven warrior also, axe and glowing hammer striking like a thunderbolt, legs planted wide against hell's fury. And the spirit woman: her voiced raised like a herald of the gods, spirit fire flashing from her eyes and blade. When he saw the dwarf fall Tars knew his time had come. With a surge of will he dragged himself forward. He would do as he had pledged. This warrior would not be forgotten. As Alyra dragged the dwarf away from horror weeping, Tars grabbed the dwarf and added his strength to hers. She seemed not to notice him, her faced burned almost half away on the side that faced him. He then heard Berendil cry retreat, others running past him. Finally the elf had found both honor and wisdom. Tars ran side by side with Alyra, the dwarf's still form bouncing like a cracked and broken stone as they dragged him behind.

At the burnt out town he stood beside the spirit warrior as she cradled the fallen dwarf like a child. One of the other women wept. Tars sought to comfort the brave warrior: "My sons and daughters shall sing the praises of his name," he told her. Anger flashed in the spirit maiden's eyes: "He yet lives" she hissed, tears streaking her bloodstained raw face. As the hairs of the dwarf's beard flickered with breath Tars sank finally to the earth. How they seemed like the maiden's eyes opening from her trance in the temple, he thought. An omen missed. His mind fading to darkness he thought "Not enough, not enough, but not in vain."