Chapter Thirteen Ruhlin #2
Any doubt he harboured regarding this man’s identity vanished when he shook his head, scorn writ large upon his features. “How can you be so ignorant after this? Surely the fragment you carry has provided some enlightenment?”
When Ruhlin replied only with a scowl of annoyance, the younger Moyirn sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“This is my dream, yet you are here.” Ruhlin peered at a small vortex of smoke, its ephemeral spirals laced with glowing specks of fire. “The knot, it lets you into my mind.”
“Yes,” Moyirn said, fixing Ruhlin with a reproachful eye. “And you waited a long time to follow my instructions. Perhaps too long.”
“I know you not. And what I’ve seen of you raises little but doubt and distrust in my heart.”
“And yet here we both are. Was it the slaves’ arrival? Yes, I imagine that would focus your mind. Tell me, how many do you think your monster will be able to kill? Fifty? A hundred? Perhaps every single one of them.”
“It will not kill any. I won’t let it.”
“Mere lies you tell yourself, boy. Assail me not with your comforting delusions, for they mean nothing.”
The dream shifted then, the Vikra-sah abruptly displaced by another bad place.
Ruhlin looked upon the bars of his cell in Aerling Eldryk’s mountain holdfast. Pain rippled across his chest provoked by a series of swift, hot jabs into his skin.
“Stop twitching,” Aleida said as she wielded her tattooist’s needle.
He sat on a stool as she did her work, Achela seated outside, silent and watchful as ever.
The Morvek woman afforded no notice to Moyirn standing at her side, head cocked as he subjected Aleida to a prolonged scrutiny Ruhlin found he didn’t like at all.
“Stop looking at her,” he said.
Aleida paused in her work, frowning up at him. “I wasn’t…” Her words stopped as she froze, her needle still embedded in his chest.
“She has power,” Moyirn said, narrowing his gaze as he continued his appraisal of Aleida.
“I find it curious her father never revealed it to the Vortigurn, as was his duty. She would have been taken to the Kelvengyr, destined to be Ventra, or a corpse, as events dictated.” He issued a soft, derisive snort. “Parental sentiment, I suppose.”
“Whatever his reason,” Ruhlin said, “it wasn’t sentiment. And I told you to stop looking at her.”
Moyirn grinned, but consented to shift his gaze to the neighbouring cage, whereupon all humour slipped from his face.
The sight of Tuhlan, crouched in the centre of his prison, as was his habit in between bouts in the practice arena, brought a lurch to Ruhlin’s chest. It also appeared to greatly interest Moyirn.
“What was the name of this Caerith?” he demanded, moving closer to peer through the bars of the cage.
“Tuhlan,” Ruhlin said. “He was my friend. Silvahk killed him.”
Moyirn moved closer to Tuhlan’s cage, gripping the bars as he continued to stare at its occupant. “Did he speak of his homeland?”
“At times. Not often. But I knew he yearned to return there.” Ruhlin decided not to share the nascent plan he had agreed with his slain friend; together they would travel to Caerith lands to consult with the fabled Eithlisch.
Instinct warned against imparting more information to Moyirn than strictly necessary.
“Did he ever make mention of…” Moyirn paused, another spasm passing across his handsome features. This time, Ruhlin recognised it as fear rather than anger. “Of the Doenlisch?”
The hushed and hurried way he spoke this name bespoke a dread of Ruhlin’s answer.
He considered lying, concocting some story to torment this untrustworthy soul.
Perhaps Tuhlan had been dispatched to Nihlvar by this Doenlisch, a mighty Caerith hunter sent in search of an ancient villain.
Tempting though it was, Moyirn struck Ruhlin as a soul not easily gulled.
Also, his resentment would likely have dire consequences for their fledgling alliance.
“No,” Ruhlin said. “Who is that?”
Moyirn’s reply came in a soft mutter, “If you are fortunate, you will never find out.”
Casting a final glance at Tuhlan, he moved away from his cage to turn his attention to the circle of sand where a group of Eldryk’s captives were at practice.
Radylf, tall and threatening, stalked the edge of the arena with whip in hand while prisoners assailed each other with their wooden weapons.
Ruhlin shuddered in grief once again at seeing Julette among them, expertly fending off Sygurn’s blows, teeth revealed in that blazing smile of hers.
“So few of them left, now,” Moyirn observed.
Blinking in surprise, Ruhlin found himself standing alongside Moyirn. A glance back at the cage revealed Aleida still crouched with needle in hand alongside an empty stool. The realisation that this man could bend another’s dreams to his will was highly disturbing.
“Do you think they’ll all be gone by the time this is over?” Moyirn enquired.
Ruhlin lowered his gaze from the sight of his battling friends, knowing it to be a deliberate distraction.
This master of dreams sought to employ grief as a weapon, rendering his victim into a desperate soul easily twisted to another’s will.
“I think,” Ruhlin said, “we’ve arrived at the moment where you tell me how to prevent that happening.
So enough of your games and just tell me. ”
Moyirn’s response came with a growl of anger. “Do you know how much I risk in aiding you, boy?”
“I don’t know what you’re planning, old man. But I know one thing for certain: you are not aiding me. Your only thought is for yourself.”
“If your insight is so keen, then apply it now. To survive the Meidvang, you will have to kill a great many of those slaves you saw today. You know this, yet you pretend otherwise.”
“I will not turn myself into the monster your Vortigurn wants me to be.”
“Do you truly have a choice? Is the remnant within you so accommodating to your conscience.”
Remnant. Twice now he had referred to the monster as such. The creature Ruhlin had vanquished in the Vikra-sah had done the same. “Why do you call it that?” he asked. “You know what it is? Where it comes from?”
“I do.” Moyirn was either unpractised in guarding his emotions, or didn’t care what Ruhlin might divine from the calculation evident in his gaze. “Perhaps I’ll tell you, if the tree we plant together bears the right fruit.”
Such naked manipulation stirred a faint heat within Ruhlin, one that built quickly.
The monster had never woken in a dream before, and he wondered what might happen if it did.
“Or perhaps I’ll wring it from you,” Ruhlin said.
Although his form remained unchanged, the heat continued to build, and as it did so, the dream began to fracture around them.
The arena and the cages blinked into formless mist, the huge cavern becoming a featureless grey plain without obvious end.
The only recognisable facet to remain was Moyirn, now regarding Ruhlin with resentful, and grudging respect. “Best calm that thing, boy,” he warned. “Or this is the last time we ever speak, and all hope you have of escaping the Kelvengyr will be gone.”
Ruhlin let his anger fade, finding it an easier task in a dream. He felt the monster’s presence recede, slipping back into slumber with a pulse of annoyance at the interruption. “You talk of escape,” he said. “But offer no means of how it can be done.”
“There is more than one form of escape,” Moyirn replied.
“You should know that this Meidvang will be different. For the first time the Vortigurn’s subjects will be permitted to watch.
He has even allowed them to travel for the spectacle.
Already, the Citadel is swollen with the common dregs of this realm, a mob hungry for blood. ”
“And if I don’t provide it?” Ruhlin asked.
“You will,” Moyirn stated simply. “It is the nature of a fire blood to fight when faced with death. But, to win escape, you must resist that instinct, cage the thing that lives inside you.” He stepped closer to Ruhlin, gaze harsh and unblinking.
“Heed my words, for I speak a terrible truth. The only escape you can win here is in death. And die you must, unless you wish to see his plan fulfilled…”
Ruhlin staggered as a sudden, heavy gale swept across the featureless plain. Turning, he saw a dark bruise forming in the sky.
“I told you to control that thing,” Moyirn said.
“This isn’t him,” Ruhlin replied. He could sense no stirring from the monster and the growing blemish on the sky was clearly not the work of his companion. “What is that?” he demanded.
Moyirn didn’t answer, his face once again twitching in anger.
But this time, every spasm was accompanied by a change in form.
For a fraction of a second, his younger self was replaced by his old, decrepit form.
“That,” he said, his voice wavering in concert with his rapidly altered state, “is an unwelcome visitor. Leave now, as I teach them the value of courtesy.”
A flick of his wavering hand then Ruhlin was back on his bed, chest heaving as he clutched the silver knot.
Unclenching his hand, he found the trinket pressed deep into his skin, almost hard enough to draw blood.
He dropped it on the floor and strove to recall all he had learned, trying to sort truth from lies in Moyirn’s words.
The only statement that seemed to carry a convincing weight of sincerity had been the old man’s instruction: The only escape you can win here is in death.