Book 2 Chapter 8: Terror in the Night

It is evening of the day of Eldarien's meeting with the hæras, and Cirien walks with head bowed in the inner courtyard of the temple. He hopes that the meeting brought forth good fruit, and he is concerned also for the conversation that he encouraged Eldarien to have with Rorlain. Ever since these men arrived in Ristfand, he has felt the weight that they carry and has in some sense taken responsibility for them upon himself. He fears for them, as darkness seems to pursue them, whether they know it or not, but he also hopes ardently for their well-being. Yes, in so short a time he has come to love them deeply, almost in some way as he has come to love Elmariyë over the last two years. In particular, Eldarien and Elmariyë feel to him as if his own children, and he would without hesitation lay down his life for them, if by this he could protect them from darkness, death, or pain. But in fact, he has long allowed his heart to be led along the path of love in the likeness of the tenderness of the celestial mother to whom he has devoted his life. Thus he hopes that, if he were called upon to do so, he would willingly lay down his life for anyone in need, be they close to his heart or stranger, be they friend or foe, if only by such an act he could serve light and goodness.

The day is fading now, and darkness begins to replace light in the sky as the brilliance of the sun rests for the night and the gentle light of the stars replaces it. Suddenly a horn sounds somewhere in the distance—a horn the likes of which Cirien has not heard before, but regarding the purpose of which he has no doubt. It is a horn of war. A few moments later, it is joined by other horns sounding from different locations.

Are they at our gates already? Cirien thinks. Surely they cannot have traveled at such a speed. And if so...are they to attack under cover of night? But of course, if the druadach accompany them, then attacking at night is the best strategy. Why would they indeed do anything else?

He rushes from the courtyard and goes to Rorlain's room. Just as he reaches out his hand to knock on the door, it bursts open, and Rorlain steps out.

"Cirien! You hear the horns?" he asks. "Those do not belong to the people of Rhovas, do they?"

"No."

"It is as I feared. They must be Imperial war horns." Rorlain pulls onto each of his arms the vambraces which he had been holding and fastens them tightly. In all other respects, he is fully dressed and armed for battle, with his axe in his belt and his bow and quiver on his back. "But why," he asks, "was there no warning signal?"

"Like shadows among the trees..." Cirien whispers.

"What did you say?"

"I said 'like shadows among the trees.' It is from an ancient poem: 'Like shadows among the trees, they pass from dark into dark, to swallow the light unawares.' Make haste! I shall do all that I can within the walls. Know that any wounded or slain can be sent to the temple. We shall care for them. And let us pray that the enemy does not breach our defenses and enter the city itself!"

"May we be spared that indeed," Rorlain agrees and turns away, running down the corridor at full speed.

After watching him go, Cirien makes his way to Elmariyë's room and knocks on the door. She opens quickly and, seeing him, asks, "What are those horns? Is the enemy already here?"

"I fear so," says Cirien. "I would like you to help me gather everyone together. Ask all whom you meet to come to the great hall, where we shall take counsel together. However, if you see Finring, Gora, and Stefna, tell them to go to the north, east, and west gates respectively. There I wish for them to aid in whatever way they may. After our gathering in the great hall, if I have not the chance to ask you then, report to me in my rœdra. I wish to speak privately with you, but the immediate concord of our efforts takes priority."

"As you say," Elmariyë replies, and she too rushes down the hallway to inform her comrades.

† † †

Meanwhile Rorlain sprints through the streets of the city toward the northern gate as the Imperial horns continue to blare in the distance. It is difficult to discern from which direction they come, as they sound through the night air and echo off the walls and buildings of the city in a thousand different tenors. When he arrives, most of his company is already gathered and in fevered conversation with the guards of the night watch, who only recently came to their posts and replaced the evening watch.

"What do we know?" Rorlain asks as he approaches.

"Little, sir," one man replies, "but enough."

"What is enough?"

One of the night watch steps forward and replies, "We heard them before we saw them, to our shame. But it is almost like something was veiling them from our sight until they wished to be seen, if that is even possible. Once the horns began to sound, we saw shapes moving among the trees. And now...well, now it is better for you to look than to try to explain it to you."

With this, he leads Rorlain up to the top of the wall, and they stand on the battlements looking out over the plains to the north. The landscape is dotted with the fires of many homesteads that have been set to the flame, and in the light of these flames, the dim figures of soldiers can be seen, standing in formation facing the city, though still beyond the range of the strongest longbow.

"What are they waiting for?" Rorlain asks. "They have the advantage now, and yet they do not attack. Do they wish to wait for us to be fully armed and prepared before they attack?"

"What tactics these are, I do not know," says the guard, "unless they be ordained simply to induce fear. And in that they are proving quite effective."

"Do you truly think they shall attack tonight?" asks another man.

"Perhaps they only wish to give us a sleepless night and to attack in the morning," answers Rorlain. "An unusual tactic, but effective. But let us return to the men. I wish to address them before the battle, whenever it commences." They return to the courtyard inside the north gate and when all the members of the company are gathered together, Rorlain speaks to them in raised voice. "We know not what the night holds for us, whether conflict or expectant waiting. But for both we must be ready. Until we receive word from the captain himself, we stand in readiness. For the present I recommend that you find a sheltered place near your station to rest. Leave the vigil to the guard whose duty it is. You shall be called upon at need. Sleep, if you can. Seek peace as you may, for in that you can hope to find some strength against the trials that await us."

With these words, the members of the company take their stations on and around the battlements. Some remain standing, looking out into the fire-illumined night, and some sit leaning against the wall, talking softly with one another or trying to sleep. The moon is not yet half full, and the air is dark, both in and around the city, and the half-light of night, joined with the feeling of fearful expectation, creates an eerie and dreamlike atmosphere. Rorlain paces slowly on the top of the wall in the center of the battlements, looking out over the plains for any sign of change. Yet there is nothing but stillness from the enemy forces, as if they stand not only unmoving but without the need to move. At present it is impossible to gauge their numbers, and even the little that is seen of them soon sinks into oblivion as the fires die down to smoldering embers, sending swirls of black smoke into the air, stark against the night sky and against the even blacker silhouette of the earth. As he paces, Rorlain tries to ignore the growing sickness in the pit of his stomach and the gall that rises in his throat. He feels gripped by fear, but he does not wish to reveal this fear to his comrades and those under his command.

He finds himself longing for the solidity of Eldarien's presence, for his weathered and war-torn insecurity that feels more secure and safe than almost anything that Rorlain has ever known. For a man so full of self-doubt and self-accusation, Eldarien has indeed become a surprisingly firm rock on which he leans, and on which, Rorlain suspects, many will come to lean in the coming days. Reflecting on this, a newfound awareness is impressed upon him, the awareness that the stability of a man and the security of his heart in times of trial come not so much from his own innate ability or resolve but from a power greater than himself by which he is held. And such power, in their current dire circumstances, seems to be the most reasonable hope. Indeed, it may not be long until it is the only remaining hope at all.

If that is truly the case, then well and good, Rorlain thinks, for I feel utterly weak and helpless at the moment. I just do not understand why the forces of light always appear so much weaker, so much more frail, than do the forces of darkness. If I could find some way to lay hold of more strength for those who fight for goodness, for life over death, for unity and peace…I would not hesitate to do so. But where could such strength be found? Perhaps we should have sent for more recruits long before the conflict came to this moment. Or perhaps we should have evacuated the city rather than stay and wait for our doom to draw nigh. Rorlain shakes his head as he tries to dismiss these thoughts. What am I thinking? Now is not the time to be preoccupied with doubt and regret. We stand where we stand, for good or ill, and all we can do is fight with all that we have and all that we are. But I hope that I survive this night, to discern a better path for the future. And...I hope that these men survive the night. I will do what I can to assure that they do.

The horns have stopped blowing now, and the night is quiet. Indeed, the quiet that falls upon them now is not the serenity of restful nocturnal slumber and repose but an oppressive muteness in which it seems that even the ordinary nightly sounds are silenced: the dove has quelled her song, and the owl hoots no more, and even the wolves are mute. The winds that caress the surface of the land and make music against the rooftops have fallen still, with a stillness not of rest, like a moment of leisure in the midst of their activity, but rather with the immobility of oppressive fear. This, at least, is what it feels like to those who hear it, this dread silence and this suffocating stillness. Rorlain recognizes this feeling, this suffocating terror, though now it is multiplied a hundredfold. The druadach are here. I feel them, he thinks. How can I possibly protect my men from such horrors? And how can we possibly protect the people of the city?

Suddenly a cry sounds from somewhere inside the city—a cry of terror—followed then by a shriek of pain.

"W-what is that?" one of the men on the battlements cries in alarm.

More screams arise from within the city—not the cries of men engaged in battle but the cries of fear and of anguish and the cries of physical pain, from the voices of women and children as well as of men. And now, in the midst of these cries, the war horns begin blowing once again, loud and shrill, shattering the stillness of the night air. Like water from a dam that has burst, the icy fear that has been gripping them bursts forth in a tidal wave of terror that washes over them, and many of the soldiers themselves cry out in fear and cower as if being struck. Some cast down their weapons and turn to flee.

"Hold fast!" Rorlain cries. "Hold fast! There is nowhere to run, and in flight shall be your doom. Stand strong and prepare to fight!"

Suddenly a voice sounds from behind, in the courtyard, "Sir Rorlain!"

He turns to the sound and sees a soldier standing in the gateway that leads into the city.

"Sir Rorlain, the captain has sent me," the soldier calls up to him. "We are being besieged from within. There are men emerging from the shadows, as if from thin air. But they are not...they are not men. And they slay all in their path."

"What would he have me do?" Rorlain asks, shouting back in response, while trying to ignore the cries of despair and anguish that erupt around him on the arrival of this terrible news, causing him to wish the messenger had addressed him privately.

"Leave half your men at the gate, and take the other half and do whatever you can to save those within the city," is the reply.

"Very well," Rorlain responds, and then, turning back to those who stand around him, he draws in a deep breath, trying to still his throbbing heart. Once he has found his voice again, he says to them: "Courage, men! Courage, husbands, fathers, brothers, sons! We fight today for the very lives of those whom we love. Yield not to fear, for that is their greatest weapon. There is hope yet to turn the tide, but only if we withstand them with the same vigor with which they besiege our very hearts. Come! Who shall come with me into the city? To me!"

With this, he clambers down the wall and runs to the center of the courtyard, drawing his axe and raising it in the air. "We have no time to count numbers. Half of you, join me, and we march in haste into the streets of the city."

Stirred by their concern for their families and loved ones as much as by his words, easily half of the men join him without hesitation, though their faces are wrought with fear.

"Let us make haste!" he cries and leads them on toward the gate from the courtyard into the city.

But at that moment, there is another shout from the north. It echoes from the plains and reverberates across the wall, breaking through all the other noises. And at the sound of this voice, Rorlain's heart falters within him.

"Loose!"

A moment later, a volley of arrows comes raining down upon them.

"They attack simultaneously from without and from within!" Rorlain says. "Now it takes as much courage to stay as to go. To arms, men! To arms!"

At this, his spirit broken and his heart divided, he tears himself away from the battlements of defense and leads half of his company into the city and straight into hordes of druadach intent to kill.

† † †

Eldarien listens intently and with anguished heart to the cries that echo, dim but clear, through the window of his cell. His body is strained against the chains that bind him as he unconsciously leans forward as if to break free and rush to the aid of those who now face a threat that—if the sounds are any indication—runs them down in slaughter like fire blazing through a forest of sleeping trees, dried leaves, and dead grass. But unlike the burning of a forest, these men and women feel! They hurt, they fear, they anguish, and they despair!

Hæliána, inclés a me, en difé illó tua a cærá me dia tan loca obscála. Dife illó tua a enía qua parás tan marís medlúr nu bánda.

The words come to his lips unbidden and yet deeply desired, and he pours his whole soul into them, as if by the force of his entreaty he could burst the bonds that hold him and take flight like a bird on the wing. He is carried on the current of this movement, and a song comes to him now to which he gives voice. He knows not from whence it arises, whether from his long-forgotten past, or from the mind and heart of another which he bears within himself in this moment, or from the unspeakable origin of all music from the dawn of time. But he sings as if his only hope lies in singing:

Entra tan astási nu náta seng

ena enén asáng moéndas svaténg,

melén ya sanó, meldía angá

qui en iyén proyéng illó eä.

Hygás a noän, Heillás, hygás,

en inclés a noän en hund nu ohómë,

en seng asáng sua eya noën cakráë,

hatá crunæ malási, eäta meldáë.

Among the stars of night there sing

those whose song sweetens everything,

gentle and pure, melodious delight

which in its very sounding is also light.

Take heed to us, Blessed Ones, take heed,

and incline to us in the hour of our need,

and sing forth your song into our cacophony,

that the discordant notes may become melody.

After his song has ceased and he falls again into silence, he hears the shuffling of feet in the hallway. Only a moment later, Maggot again appears at the door of his cell and, opening it, enters.

"You hear the sweet sound of terror, agony, and death?" he says with a laugh devoid of all mirth. His face betrays a smile that is neither delight nor joy but only illicit and twisted pleasure and haughty mockery.

"Do you command these creatures?" Eldarien asks, shifting in his chains, which have begun to cut into the skin of his wrists and ankles and to cause them to bleed. The wounds on his face and shoulders, which bled freely before, have now hardened, and they bleed little, though they burn unlike any wound that Eldarien has yet received, as if some poison has been placed within them.

"Do I command these creatures?" Maggot echoes. "It is I who summoned them, yes. And as you can hear, defensive walls are no hindrance to creatures that take shape from the very shadows, who dwell in the darkness and from it emerge in answer to the will of the one who calls them."

"Who are you to command such forces of darkness?"

"As I mentioned to you before, I am a 'lesser one' of my kind. Or at least, such would they have me believe, trying to keep me in my so-called place. All you need to know is that I am infinitely more powerful than you or your kind shall ever be."

"And what then do you seek, if you are already convinced of your superiority?" Eldarien asks.

"Such petty questions need not be asked, and they shall certainly not be answered," says Maggot, walking forward until he is face to face with his prisoner again. "I only wanted to assure you that the people of Ristfand are slain in great numbers, and that there is nothing you can do to save them, not a single one. The city soon shall fall into ruin, and from it the reign of dark shall spread to engulf all of Telmerion. Listen, worm, and despair." He reaches forward and lays a hand upon Eldarien's shoulder, almost as if offering a gesture of affection. But then he tightens his clawed and gnarled fist, and the wounds reopen and flow freely with blood again. "Yes, listen and despair. Yield to the darkness and you need not stay here alone, helpless to the cries of so many plunging into death. I could make you a great leader, the very lord of this city, imparting to you a power far greater than the petty toys given to you by the so-called goddess to whom you vainly pray.

"Let despair be your doorway into power. That is my offer to you. Look deep in yourself and realize the darkness that you bear within. Does it frighten you? Does it cause you shame? But I tell you: Do not ignore it. Do not fight against it. Rather, embrace it, yield to it, and realize the power surging up within you from the very heart of your darkness. This is the only way that you can save the people of this city. They die, do you not realize, because of you? They die as my little game. For rending your flesh is not enough for me. Breaking your plans and shattering your so-called 'gift' is not enough. No, I must let you taste the depths of darkness that the pretty veneer of this world hides just below the surface. Only in this way can I open up to you the pathway to true power. And only in this way can you protect those whom you wish to protect. For at one word of yours, I shall call off the attack. Only tell me that you shall accept the allegiance of these weak men and women, that you shall allow them to bow down to you. Then I shall bestow upon you a share in the power that your heart craves, and you may not only use it to be guardian over others but may give this same power also to them. Then they shall never fear again, neither darkness nor death. For in pact with darkness, there is nothing to fear. Certainly you see this?"

"How could you imagine that what you say is obvious to me, Maggot, or that it is in any way desirable?" Eldarien replies without hesitation, when the flow of poisonous words has ceased. "Is it not obvious to you, rather, that you lie and that your lies are apparent? Do you imagine that you can force me into the darkness by the very darkness that threatens me?"

"But is that not the origin of peace throughout all the ages of time?" Maggot says. "Every war has come to an end because the weaker have yielded to the stronger, because those who naively cling to pure light finally realize that they must compromise with the darkness that belongs just as truly, just as validly, to the nature of this world. It is the blindness of those who presume to belong to the light, to be servants to the light, which is the true source of conflict and of death. For the darkness alone absolves these absurd distinctions, these wretched categories that men create in order to make themselves feel secure: right and wrong, good and evil, light and darkness, true and false. Rather, in the darkness one realize that all is one. It is not evil; it is not fear; it is not loss. It is the finding of everything and the peace of universal serenity. Are not the stars one and united in their radiance precisely because they all shine in the darkness of a single sky? Stop trying to be the sun; stop trying to shine more brightly than others. Accept the inevitable darkness and come to terms with it, and only then can you find your place as a shining star of true power among the firmament of the mighty."

"Blaspheme no longer, you beast," Eldarien whispers, weakened and exhausted by the ceaseless outpouring of words, the oppressive twisting of reality that they force upon his mind and heart, not to mention also by the loss of blood and by the continuous cries of anguish echoing into the cell. "Why is it that evil is always so loquacious and yet in all its words says nothing at all?"

"It is not nothing, you fool. It is everything. You are simply too petty, too small, to yet see it for what it is. But it need not be that way."

"The only thing…" Eldarien begins, but as he speaks, he swoons, and his words die in his mouth. A moment later, he emerges into consciousness again, overtaken by vertigo, and it takes a long moment for the room to stop spinning and for the sickness to subside.

"You were saying?" Maggot asks by way of reminder.

"I…"

"Worry not, I too weary of this converse. I wish to speak with you, worm, even less than you wish to speak with me."

"I doubt that," Eldarien breathes.

"But join me, or at least tap into my power, and then we shall be on equal footing. No longer need you suffer in this way."

"The only thing in all that you have said," Eldarien begins again, picking up on the words he was speaking before consciousness escaped him, "that has any bearing on me… The only thing...is my desire to save these innocent people from the wretchedness of suffering and death that you inflict upon them."

"Then simply do as I ask, and your wish to save them shall be fulfilled."

"I cannot be a ruler in the empire that you offer."

"Then rule not," says Maggot. "Offer me your word only for a moment. I am willing to yield to you on that. If you do not wish to rule and desire rather to go your way apart from what I offer to you...then very well. It shall be so. I shall strike a deal with you."

"What are you implying?" asks Eldarien, trying to cling to the last shreds of consciousness that remain with him.

"Make unto me a vow that henceforth you shall not wield the light that has been entrusted to you. If you agree to step away from your destiny, then I shall agree to step away from this city, never to touch it again. No longer shall the minions who answer to my call come near to the city or its environs. I shall even make sure that the denizens of the Vælirian Empire, our poor little puppets, withdraw. Do you doubt me? I do have such power."

"And if I refuse?"

Maggot laughs and then says, "If you refuse, it is as you hear now, unto the end. It is death and destruction for all the children of men. Unless… Well, suffice it to say that I have another offer if you refuse the first."

"I refuse the first… I cannot cease to stand for the light."

"Petty creature," Maggot says, "thinking that you are doing good by rejecting the darkness and standing with the light. But you really only safeguard your own self-righteousness by casting an entire city into the pits of destruction. Do you not see? You cling to the light in your words, but in this very act you are giving free reign to the very thing that you profess to resist. It is you, you alone, who are responsible for these deaths. It is you who are feeding these people to the jaws of suffering and death by your narrow preoccupation with your own fidelity to the light."

Eldarien's head sinks to his chest and his eyes close. When he does not reply for a long moment, Maggot reaches forward and swipes his claws across Eldarien's torso, leaving four wide gashes across his lower chest, and blood seeps freely down and begins to soak into his breeches. Eldarien cries out and raises his head, looking at Maggot with a mixture of confusion, anger, and disgust. There is resolve also in his eyes, though to Maggot it appears to flicker in and out just as does his very consciousness.

"What…" Eldarien asks, "what is the second offer?" After a long pause, he adds, "And if you wish to come to an agreement with me, why do you strike me?"

"I thought that was already made clear," replies Maggot. "I strike you to teach you of your weakness and to stir your longing for strength. Pain begets power. But it does so only if you allow yourself to desire power and to seek it. Yet you have proven your folly, your love of weakness and the false security that it provides. Therefore, I revoke my first offer and give you the second. There shall not be a third."

"What is it?" Eldarien asks, struggling now for breath as his chest constricts in pain.

"I ask for your life," is Maggot's terse reply, and all of his loquaciousness falls away. He simply looks at Eldarien with fire in his eyes and says, "Give me your life, and you shall die that thousands may live. It is not a fair price, of course, but it is a deal that I am willing to make."