Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale Read online

  “Little elfin star, how I wonder who you are,” he mused. Then he turned to look at Ottomnos. The Vyrl there had left many like her broken or dead. He didn’t hold out much hope for this one. “Breaking the Vyrl’s laws!” He harrumphed. “Star or no, tomorrow’s light is likely to be the last you ever see.”

  It made him feel sad.

  He growled to himself and settled down into the grass to sleep. It was long in coming, and the night seemed to pass too fast.

  In the middle of the night Luthiel awoke and stared up into the stars. Her throat was hurting her and her body had become a mass of bruises and scratches. As she rubbed her neck, she remembered something Mithorden had told her. Taking her Stone from its pouch, she softly sang the words Nin Alhandra. Slowly, the light in her Stone went out. It made her feel even more lonely and afraid. Before her, the obsidian fortress loomed, and before it the dragon-helmed guard. His white diamond eyes reminded her too much of the Dimlock. With a shudder, she turned onto her side and tried to go back to sleep. She had difficulty, and the night marched on slowly toward the daylight she feared.

  The Vyrl

  Luthiel woke well before sunrise. She had fallen into brief fits of sleep. But she couldn’t remain asleep for long without the nightmares. She kept waking up grasping at her neck and gasping for air. In her dreams, the Vyrl hunted her, their mouths dripping with her sister’s blood.

  “You failed!” they would cry to her. “We found her first and now we’re coming for you!”

  As they advanced toward her, she could see their mouths were thick with clots which they crunched with their teeth. She woke with a cry, chill sweat stinging the scratches on her arms, chest and neck. Afraid to sleep, she lay still upon the grass. High above, through the mists, moons and stars peeked. Othalas was awake too. She could see him watching her with his great yellow eyes.

  She tried to remember the smell of Winowe’s almorah bread baking or the sound of Leowin’s soft singing. But no matter how hard she thought about it, she couldn’t quite get the memory right and she found herself thinking again of the strangling hands on her neck or of the mouths from her dreams—filled with blood.

  It was almost over. The Vyrl were coming with dawn. Would they take her instead of Leowin? She realized now how foolish a hope it was. Why had Vanye let her go? Silently she cursed him for not telling her more—about Othalas, about the Vale, about what they would do to her. But she knew about Vyrl. Every elf did since a tender age. Creatures of endless hunger, they would devour her as punishment for her misdeeds. Then they would send Othalas for her sister.

  And if they accepted her? They would devour her then as well. A very few were set free. And those who would talk of the horror described the hard bites, the endless days of bleeding, the terrible pain when the blood was sucked out.

  For her, there was no hope.

  Mithorden was wrong. Vanye was wrong.

  When did she start believing she was different? Was it when Leowin gave her the Stone? Was it before? Sure, she’d always felt that secret hope, deep within her, that she was more than she appeared. She always fancied that she was one of those great heroes in the tales that Leowin told. That she could stand alone and never know fear or weakness. But she’d learned that she was little more than a frail girl. Were it not for her Wyrd Stone, she’d be long dead. And Mithorden thought she was a sorcerer!

  Soon to be just another victim of the Vyrl. That’s it for you, Luthiel.

  But even as she thought these things, she felt angry—angry for the law that would send her sister here, angry for never knowing her real family, angry for having to face all the dangers alone or among enemies. She glared at the wolf. For a time, she thought darkly of killing him where he lay. He’d never reach Leowin then. But the yellow light of his eyes let her know, all too well, that he was still awake.

  Sitting guard over me until his masters come.

  Even as she thought these things, she wondered if she could bring herself to murder, even if it was to murder a monster. Wasn’t he once an elf or some similar creature when the Vale changed him in the great long ago before even Vyrl came to the Vale of Mists?

  So, as Oerin’s Eye rose, her anger and fear smoldered. But as the light grew, her anger receded and her fear grew until her stomach felt as though it had turned to water.

  Then, by the growing light of morning, she saw a great flame rise up from the highest tower of Ottomnos. With the sound of metal grinding on metal, dragon helmed Gormtoth stepped aside. Great winches screamed as the portcullis rose and a drawbridge rimmed in glistening teeth slowly opened.

  From out of the fortress came three riders. They were tall, taller than any elf, and the horses that bore them were eyeless giants. Their hooves were cleft—the tips shining like knives. One was red with black flecks, the second was paler than bone and the third was as the color of smoke. Seeing them, Luthiel was reminded of blood, death and burning. The riders were cloaked in black, but the hoods were thrown back revealing faces both beautiful and terrible. Hair the color of blood spilled over ageless skin, gushing down toward eyes blacker than the sea at night. Within them were dim white lights like stars that seemed to drift and swirl. To Luthiel, those eyes were hungry, seeming to suck the daylight. The terrible eyes held her and she couldn’t look away. Her terror grew until she felt like crying out. As she watched, one of the motes drifting in the Vyrl’s eye winked out. It was as if some hungry shadow dwelling in the Vyrl’s eyes had devoured it. She had to remind herself over and over that Valkire took away the Vyrl’s ability to eat dreams.

  The Vyrl guided their horses into the ring of standing stones. Their eyes never left her throughout their long advance. Beneath their gaze she trembled. She’d never felt so afraid. Her eyes darted back and forth. Fear seemed rise off the Vyrl like smoke off a smoldering log. She wanted to run and hide where those terrible eyes would never see her again.

  “So are you the whelp Leowin?” the first Vyrl asked. His voice was the soft, confident sound of a predator taking account of his prey.

  Luthiel opened her mouth to say no lord! But she could not speak. Her mouth seemed to have dried up. Why couldn’t she speak? Her mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

  “She is the daughter of Winowe and Glendoras,” Othalas said with a nod.

  “Then bring her inside!” the second Vyrl said in her darkly musical voice.

  Othalas lay down upon the ground.

  “Get on!” he said in his gruffest boat-bottom across rocks voice.

  She was so dumb with terror that she walked numbly toward Othalas and was clambering onto his back before she realized what had happened.

  They think I’m Leowin.

  “You lied!” she whispered to Othalas as she climbed up onto his back. But the great wolf only growled to cover her whisper.

  Upon Othalas’ back, she was nearly eye to eye with the Vyrl. They stood around her so that wherever she looked she was confronted by those terrible eyes. They made her feel sick in her stomach, as though she were staring down into a great depth.

  “Come, Othalas, bring the Chosen. We wish to begin as soon as possible.” His voice was old, the voice of terrible wisdom.

  One by one, they turned their horses and walked down the road to the fortress of charred glass. As they advanced, the heat grew and she could smell the scent of scorched air. As she drew still closer, she realized that Gormtoth was radiating heat like a blast oven. But his armor remained dark. Only his whitely burning eyes betrayed any hint of the great flames that rose beneath the layered plates. With a gasp, she realized that the armor was made all of dragon hide and what she thought was a helm was actually a blackened dragon’s skull.

  What are you, Gormtoth? She wondered as his white flame eyes followed her. Riding upon this werewolf, among Vyrl, past this strange burning creature whose every inch was plated in dragon hide, she felt as if she’d ventured into an alien place filled with secrets that time long ago forgot.

  They continued past th
e gates and into the belly of Ottomnos. As they passed, strange, white-skinned creatures, with only blackened hollows where their eyes should be, spun the winches. Their movements were convulsive. Other creatures of this kind moved throughout the fortress, jerking even when they stood still. Their flesh seemed to have turned into paste for it lacked definition or any hint of blood. Though they had no eyes, it seemed that they could sense her for they flocked around the wolf, their cold hands grasping to touch her. Their mouths seemed to pant and they whispered something under their breath.

  “What are they saying?” she whispered to Othalas.

  “Eyes. They hunger for eyes.”

  She recoiled from the creatures even as they continued to grasp at her, raising their hooked fingers, drawn by some sense beyond sight, toward her eyes. They were all around her now, grasping at her, clutching, trying to pry her off Othalas.

  Then, the werewolf let out a great growl and the creatures scattered from him. Still their hands quested toward Luthiel. She shuddered.

  The first Vyrl laughed, his soft predator’s voice echoing through the fortress.

  “Othalas has taken a liking to this little one!” He laid a great gloved hand on the wolf’s broad head. “My hunter,” he said. “You know as well as I that even wights must eat. Is it kindness to spare her? Or cruelty? Now she knows. Why torture her with fear of what will be? Or are you so foolish to think we will let this little bird go?”

  Othalas stared ahead but did not answer.

  Now all the Vyrl’s eyes were upon Othalas. Despite their stares, Othalas kept quiet, continuing his slow advance into the fortress.

  “He does like her,” the second said with dark music that seemed to get caught up in the smoke rising off the towers. To Luthiel the whole place smelled of smoke and blood. Everywhere she looked, she could see carcasses hanging from chains—bears, beasts, elves—it made no difference. They’d all been sucked dry of blood and every one had its eyes plucked out. But the meat was left to rot.

  It is a slaughterhouse, she thought. She glanced at the wights dancing their terrible death dance and shuddered. Except some of the slaughtered still walk. I have entered a place on the border between life and death where nothing is as it ought to be.

  “Othalas,” the third Vyrl said with old-wise chanting. “The time for mercy is gone. You know this. The madness is upon us and with each passing day it grows. If we do not feed, the hunger will consume even our minds until we become little more than ravening beasts stalking the land.” He motioned to Luthiel. “And this poor fare is barely enough to sustain us—who once dined upon the rich blood of dreams. Only Valkire’s blood could compare to it! Now we wither. Why should she not give us her heart’s life-blood? It is only for the safety of her kin, which we could take at a whim. By our honor we starve. So she will pay dearly for our hunger—daughter of the elves who trapped us! And yes, her eyes will feed my wights!”

  He stepped closer to Othalas, “You think she is different than the others?”

  At this question Othalas growled and met the gaze of the elder Vyrl. For a moment his anger was naked in his eyes, but then he caught himself and bowed his head. Too late! For the Vyrl’s great arm snaked out with a speed Luthiel’s eyes could barely follow and latched onto her neck.

  “My kin!” he called madly in his terrible-wise voice. “Othalas has found someone special!” He hauled her from the back of Othalas by the scruff of her neck. She felt her vertebrae popping as he held her in the air in front of him, forcing her to stare into his black whirlpool eyes.

  “What makes you special?” One handed, he shook her as a child might shake a toy doll. Then, he pulled her close to his face. She was so close she could smell the blood on his breath. His mouth smelled like a barrel brimming with it. “You think you are something now that you were Chosen? I’ll tell you what sort of something you are. You’re meat!”

  With that, he tossed her to the ground.

  “Come my wights! Let’s show Othalas what we do to meat! There’s two eyes for the taking, if you can snatch them from her!”

  Luthiel couldn’t help herself. She was crying. But it wasn’t out of grief or fear any longer. It was out of rage. Driven by desperate anger, she scrambled to her feet. The wights were still some feet away from her when she stood. But they were rushing in on her in a convulsive wave. Her hand found the hilt of her knife—the Cauthrim blade Hueron had forged her—and with a loud snick it sprang from the sheath. It seemed an alive thing in her hand.

  Small, overwhelmed, and helpless, she fought as might some poor cornered creature armed with only its teeth against some great and terrible predator. In desperation, she struck out with all her fear-driven strength.

  “Monster! Monster!” she yelled as she drove the blade, sparking with the blue fires of Cauthraus, at the face of the Vyrl who bent, gloating, over her.

  Too late, the Vyrl saw the fang in Luthiel’s hand as she made for his eyes. He sprang back, an angel twisted horribly into one of the most terrible creatures in nature. Now his predator’s reflexes—long neglected by overconfidence and letting others do the hunting—failed him as he jerked away from the burning knife.

  The blow, though it missed his eye, cut a deep furrow into his brow, scored across his temple and lopped off the tip of his ear.

  Roaring in pain and surprise, he kicked at the madly cutting Luthiel.

  The great foot struck her in the chest, sending her flying in front of his horse, but not before Luthiel sliced a scorching ribbon across his shin. Screaming in rage, he ripped his great sword Ombrallix, from its sheath. Its black metal hissed like a snake and smoke rose from the rill.

  It whipped out, striking Luthiel, who was, at the same time, trying to stand, with the flat upon the crown of her head. She crumpled to the ground. Her blade flew from her hands, skittering out of reach and her arms seemed to turn to mud as they flopped about her. Blood flowed into her eyes and she could smell her own hair burning. The wights rushed in, their hooked fingers clawing. But the terrible voice of the third Vyrl rose above them in command.

  “Wait!” he cried. “I want her to see what I am about to do!”

  He rose into her field of vision and he showed her his teeth. They were a nest of points and they were all covered in blood. He must have been devouring the blood of any creature he could catch—bears and boars, rats and cats, any poor thing hapless enough to cross the Vyrl’s path. But now he had his eyes fixed on finer prey.

  He raised one of her arms in his great hand, then flayed the vein in her wrist with his needle teeth. The pain was greater than anything she’d ever experienced and she cried out as fire leapt through her body. The other Vyrl were upon her in an instant. They bit her on her other arm and upon her neck. Then her world became a red haze of agony. Her stomach clenched against the sudden blood loss, trying to halt the flood going into the open mouths of the Vyrl. They took a pull as an elf might take a pull off a flask of honey mead and she trembled as her heart raced.

  This is it! Oh, Leowin, this is it!

  She’d succeeded and she’d failed. Leowin would live and she would die. She wondered how many times the Vyrl could suck her blood before she faded and finally died. It couldn’t be many more times; three, perhaps four. Their hunger seemed bottomless. She waited for the second pull, steeling herself against the pain.

  But the second pull never came. Through the red haze, she thought she saw the Vyrl rock back as if in a daze. The wights came forward again but this time Othalas pounced upon one, sending the rest to flight with a great howl. They fled to the shadows beneath the burned glass where they cowered.

  “Madness take you Vyrl! You are fools! Don’t you know who she is!” he rumbled.

  The blood oozed from her veins, pumped from her neck.

  “I’d forgotten what it looked like,” the second Vyrl spoke with her dark music. “How it blazes like gold in sunlight.”

  Then she saw rainbow wings above her and a shape like a thread of mercury braiding the ai
r.

  “You are all idiots! She’s going to bleed to death if you just sit around in a stupor.”

  It landed and tore a patch from her cloak. She knew she was hallucinating now, for the creature tying knots around her wounds was a dragon in miniature. Its body was a silver river and its wings were of gossamer filigree that bent the light into rainbows.

  Then, shock took her and she lost sight. Distantly, she felt her body carried for a ways and then laid down. There was talking around her. But she no longer understood it. There were touches on her skin, pressing against her wounds. Soon, even the sounds and touches faded and she was alone in the darkness.

  The Mists’ Changing Magic

  Luthiel awoke to find herself lying in a soft bed. Her wounds were all bound in silken cloth and her clothes lay folded in a pile on her pack which rested upon a bone chair beside her bed. Strange, soft light filtered through the blackened glass of the room. Globes on the wall encircled blue flames. Mists lay thick about the room, swirling in a cloying cloud. As she sat up, they seemed to draw closer, pressing in upon her.

  With the sudden movement, a sharp pain shot through her head and her vision blurred. She spent a few moments cradling her head before she could see again. Careful not to make any sudden movements, she looked around her, trying to make sense of her strange surroundings.

  In that moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. The blackened glass walls were wrought with long, ribbed shapes that made her feel as though she were in the guts of some vast living creature. Like the chair, her bed was made of the bone of some giant creature and the white sheets were stained in places where the blood had oozed through her bandages.

  But for her bandages, she was completely unclad. It made her feel particularly vulnerable as she lay there, trying to recall how she had come to this strange place. The mist was growing thicker now within the room. It seemed to be flowing in through the slit windows, pushing through the crack beneath the great bone door. It pooled upon the floor where it rose and swelled like a sea.