Chapter Twenty-Six: Urudain

“They were the bringers of death and destruction, the most powerful of the Faceless, the Forsaken One’s most trusted generals. Each of them held power to rival a god’s, and when they rode across the land, the Blight came not far behind. Seven they were, the most magical number of them all, and we called them the Urudain. Along with the Aldereich, greatest of the relicts, they were the bane of all things that lived in the Light.”

—Ylva Norn, A History of Faengard: The First Age

The Lusty Barmaid was the busiest inn in Caerlon, a twin-storied building on the main road that attracted patrons from all over town with its raunchy signs and overly steeped roof. Noise and golden light spilled from the windows and into the darkness outside as Rhinne, Drakhorn and the five Felhaveners approached it. Talberon flew above them in sparrow form, landing atop the wooden sign. He flashed them as annoyed a look as a bird could manage.

-You’re going to regret this,- he glowered. –We leave at sunrise tomorrow whether you’re ready or not. I don’t care if you’re Tel’rahn, I’ll leave you behind without a second thought—so try not to drink too much.-

“It’ll be alright,” Evaine said. “Alend will watch over us, right?”

“I’ll be busy,” Alend said. “There’s a lot of information that could be gained from a bit of listening.”

“What about you two?” she asked, turning to Rhinne and Drakhorn.

“We dragons prefer not to drink,” Drakhorn explained. “The slightest twitch of the throat could ignite any alcohol in our gut, and then we’d be breathing fire all over the place.”

“I’m only here in case you try to sneak off without me,” Rhinne grumbled. She wore a light-coloured tunic over baggy trousers and thinly stitched shoes that barely offered her feet any protection. Her flaming hair was tied back into a tail and hidden under the cowl of her cloak. From a distance, she could be easily mistaken for a boy—the grandson of Drakhorn, perhaps.

“Garax, then?”

The storyteller grinned. “I’ll drink with you, Evaine. You have to experience getting drunk at a real tavern at least once in your life.”

Evaine smiled smugly. “See?” she said. “He understands.”

The inn was so packed with people it seemed small and cramped, even though it was easily double or triple the size of the Sleeping Twinn. There were more people at each table than it could fit, with another roomful on the balcony of the second floor overlooking the first. Scantily-clad barmaids hurried with drinks and stools in hands to accommodate the steady influx of customers, drawing lustful looks from all around. Ein’s eyes went wide at the sight. It seemed that the Lusty Barmaid had an eye for picking women with large busts and it made no attempt to hide that fact, giving them noisy bracelets and low-necked blouses to go with their curves. Two burly bouncers held vigil by the doorway, watching and listening for unwanted grabs and remarks.

“What a place,” Garax whistled. “Makes me wish I wasn’t so old.”

Rhinne and Drakhorn scowled. “We’ll be at the table by the doorway,” Rhinne said.

Alend turned towards Ein. “I’ll be with them if you need anything. I don’t plan on drinking anything tonight, and I’d advise you to do the same.” He nodded at Bran and then his eyes flickered towards Evaine. “Keep an eye on her, okay? I trust Garax but he doesn’t always act as responsibly as he should.”

“Yes, Father.”

Alend lowered his voice. “And don’t do anything silly. We’re here to gather information and have a bit of fun. I don’t want to see anyone running off to the first serving girl who looks doe-eyed at you.”

Ein and Bran flushed. “Of course.”

They took a seat at a table as Alend went to join the two dragonoids in the corner. The air was warm and sweet, and the chatter was at a manageable level. Either the people of Caerlon were tame, or the hour of folly hadn’t hit yet.

“It’s very different, isn’t it?” Bran murmured.

Ein nodded. An ordinary night at Koth’s inn involved a bit of chatter and a bit of drinking, maybe a song or a story if Garax was there. A night at the Lusty Barmaid was much more eventful. Arm wrestles were ongoing at a table, surrounded by a ring of rowdy men waving tickets and purses and overflowing mugs of ale. There was a scarred trader telling war stories to wide-eyed subordinates, tables of drinkers playing cards, a small group of people throwing knives at a board, and a square section of floor where couples danced to the lively jingle of a bard. The fireplace crackled merrily by the counter, blasting waves of warmth across the inn.

“This reminds me of Founder’s Eve,” Ein said, with the beginnings of a smile.

Evaine had already been whisked away by one of the men who’d won the arm wrestling contest. She danced with him now, laughing and smiling as he twirled her in tune to the bard’s lute.

“What are you going to do when all this is over?” Bran asked. “When your father’s done what he needs to do and is ready to head home?”

“I suppose I’ll go with him,” Ein sighed. “Though things won’t quite be the same. Evaine won’t be there, and neither will you.”

“That’s true.” Bran looked lost for a moment. “You’ve got your mother—or aunt?—and Cinnamin waiting for you.”

“Mother. She’ll always be my mother no matter what,” Ein affirmed.

“Your mother,” Bran nodded. “I wish I knew my mother. Now my father’s gone too. Even if Evaine wanted to go back and they let her, I’m not sure what I’d do with myself. I’ve never felt so alone in my life.”

“You’re more than welcome to move in with us,” Ein offered. “I’m sure my parents wouldn’t mind. And you could always take up your father’s butchery.”

Bran sighed. One of the barmaids came up to them, a black-haired girl with a sultry gaze. She stopped before the two, so close Ein could see all the individual freckles across her cheeks, and offered the platter of drinks in her hand. “Can I get you two gentlemen anything to drink?”

Ein found himself staring at her bust and quickly looked away, only to be drawn into her eyes. The girl smiled. Ein felt his ears grow warm.

“We’re fine,” he managed, staring hard at the table. Bran did the same opposite him.

“Are you sure? I can get you something else, if you’d like. Anything at all.” She peered through her lashes at them, her smile remaining the same yet somehow more sensual.

“N-no thanks,” Bran said. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Mistress. People might take it to mean the wrong thing.”

“You two are no fun at all,” the girl sulked.

She left, hips swaying behind her. Ein tore his gaze away, searching for something else to concentrate on. He locked eyes with Rhinne and Drakhorn from across the room. Rhinne looked away with a disgusted look on her face.

Ein was just about to go and join them for lack of anything better to do when the room fell quiet, as if the inn had inhaled and was holding its breath. A cold draught swept through the inn, washing away the smell of ale and replacing it with the harsh scent of winter. The fireplace flickered.

He turned his attention to the front of the room and realized that at some point, the door had opened. A group of men from a range of backgrounds strode through, dressed in everything from rags to cotton shirts and silk doublets. They filtered out around the doorway, blocking it off. People began to whisper uneasily as all eyes turned to the visitors.

“Close the bloody door,” someone yelled.

The men ignored him, scanning around the room. Ein felt a sense of discomfort as one of them made eye contact and then broke away. They didn’t seem like ordinary men. In fact, staring into their eyes reminded him of…

Another figure stepped into the room, and the whispers sank into deathly silence. Ein could almost hear the beat of his own heart, thumping so loudly it echoed off the walls of the inn.

Thump. Thump.

The figure wore a hooded cloak of tattered blacks and greys, standing tall and thin like a wraith. Underneath its cowl was a mask, half bone white, half black, so that it looked like a crescent moon spreading across a night sky. There was a single eyehole on its left side.

Ein shivered. It was Angramar.

A chair clattered to the floor as Alend rose to his feet, the blood having completely left his face. Drakhorn had tensed up as well, though he remained seated and out of sight.

“Good evening,” Angramar said. His voice came out slightly muffled from beneath his mask, but there was no mistaking his words. They were like the slithering of maggots across freshly killed corpses, the cold hands of creeping shamblers crawling from the forest graves.

“W-what do you want?” the innkeeper bumbled, his knees knocking together.

The cloaked man took a step forward, peering around the room. His gaze stopped on Alend, and he extended a bony finger.

“Come with us, Thoren.”

Alend closed his hand around his sword. Ein had already climbed to his feet and counted all their opponents, weighed their skill levels and threat potential, gauged all possible obstacles and exits around the room. There were eight in total—two scrawny old men and a youth who looked scarcely older than fifteen, three well-built commoners and two massive man-hulks on par with Alend himself. They all had one-handed swords and sabres strapped to their waists, with the exception of the two massive men who had one-handed axes. They didn’t have the advantage of reach against Ein, but neither did he—and besides, they made up for it with numbers.

What am I doing? he thought. I’m not seriously thinking of taking them all on, even with Father by my side, am I?

“Burn in Hell,” Alend said through clenched teeth.

“Our Lord will prevail,” one of the men said. “The old gods are powerless. Twilight will descend.”

They drew their weapons. The patrons of the inn began to murmur in hushed tones. Those who had previously believed the appearance of the Faceless to be a hoax or a staged act were growing concerned.

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“Will you come with us?” the Urudain asked. “Or will you die here?”

Alend answered by drawing his blade, just as a window on the second floor above them shattered. A sparrow swooped down among shards of falling glass, coming to a halt beside him. It flapped its wings once, shaking them out into a cloak of green and brown. Talberon emerged from within, his eyes pale with anger.

“Faceless,” he hissed.

Angramar raised his hand and a coil of shadows appeared. Lanterns flickered as if a strong wind had just blown through the rafters.

“How kind of you to join us, Sparrow.”

Talberon thrust his hand from his cloak, scattering seeds across the group of men. He hummed and the seeds burst into fireballs and then all hell broke loose.

Ein leaped over the table as the maids dropped their platters and ran. The patrons began shouting and yelling, some of the drunker ones still struggling to realize what had happened, the sober ones already making for the back door. The bard was gone. The man who had been dancing with Evaine was nowhere to be seen.

“Alend!” cried Talberon. “Take everyone and run!”

The bouncers charged into the fray, shortswords swinging. Steel flashed again and again. It took less than a dozen strikes before they were prone on the ground, lying in a pool of blood. The Faceless were also bleeding, but they only laughed.

Garax found himself beside Alend and Talberon, Darksteel blade drawn. Drakhorn and Rhinne were up without hesitation, fighting against the tide of people, the girl leaping across tables and chairs with her knife drawn, the tailor holding a dagger of slightly longer length to his breast.

“Evaine!” Bran ran towards her, grabbing her hard by the wrist. “Let’s go!”

Evaine looked at him like a startled rabbit, her eyes wide open with memories of dark dreams. Then she shook her head and pulled back, crying out in protest. “We can’t leave—”

The air flickered and a tendril of shadows swept across her head, cutting cleanly through a pillar behind them. It continued across the bar until Talberon stopped it, singing to life a shield-shaped leaf that took the full impact of the blow. The giant leaf crumbled as the whip recoiled and sprung back towards its owner.

“Run!” he cried again.

“Oh no you don’t,” one of the men growled.

Ein blinked and they were surrounded by the two old men and the youth. The remaining five had formed a half-circle around Alend, Talberon and Garax, while Drakhorn and Rhinne waded through the last of the fleeing patrons towards the fight. The inn was near empty by now—everyone had either fled through the doors or barricaded themselves in their rooms.

“What are you two doing?” Talberon cried, as Garax and Alend stepped out to meet the oncoming threat.

Two of the Faceless came at Alend and he withdrew, ducking behind a pillar. Garax severed one of them through the elbow, sending the arm flying across the room complete with fraying ligaments and fractured bone. Talberon roared and the pillar splintered, sending dagger-like shards of wood through the other Faceless. The man fell backwards, pinned against the wall, struggling to pry himself free as blood spurted from his body. One of his eyes had fallen out, and his left ear was drooping.

“Get back!” Ein swiped at his assailants, trying to keep them at bay as Bran and Evaine backpedalled to the rear door. Two of the men dodged while the third grabbed ahold of his arm and pulled. Ein went flying off balance. Loosing a cry, he let go of his sword and drew his knife at the same time, embedding it deep into the neck of the man who’d grabbed him. Blood sprayed across his face, foul and black.

“Ein! Duck!”

Ein threw himself to the ground without thinking as Drakhorn heaved a bottle of mead at the old man on the left. It shattered in his face, dazing him. A second later Rhinne was there, planting both feet against the man’s chest. She kicked and blew flame from her lips, turning the Faceless into a walking fireball. It let out an inhumane shriek and stumbled blindly, falling over a table, its human facade melting as it did so.

“It would be a good idea to leave now,” Drakhorn said, lifting Ein to his feet. Bran had kicked open the door while Evaine continued to look over her shoulder at the ensuing chaos. With a nudge from Rhinne, the two Felhaveners stepped out into the winter night.

“Don’t look back,” Rhinne said to Ein, rushing ahead. “They can handle themselves.”

“I have to help,” Ein insisted, pulling away from Drakhorn, picking up a sword from the ground. The tailor let out an exasperated sigh and chased after him.

Angramar was duelling Talberon on the other side of the room, lashing his whip through wood and wine alike. Bottles shattered as the druid took cover, whirling across the cabinets and behind the barrels with the agility of a beast, tossing seeds and igniting them mid-air with his voice. Angramar moved with equal efficiency, stepping across the fallen stools and broken glass without missing a beat, a black shadow dancing to a song of fire and glass. One of the flames brushed past a keg of ale and detonated it, sending a blast of heat and wood splintering across the room. Ein felt his brain rattle in his skull as the shockwave swept him off his feet.

Alend and Garax were back to back against the fireplace, swords raised against the Faceless. They’d landed several blows that would have ended mortal men but the Faceless continued undeterred, even as their lifeblood stained the floor red. One of them had been opened along the gut and was dragging a length of intestine behind him.

“Father,” Ein cried. “I’m coming!”

He brought his hand up to hurl the sword before thinking better of it. It would be too easy to hit his father or Garax by mistake. Instead, he picked up a stool and flung it at the biggest of the five men. It crunched into his back and he turned around, only to be met with a faceful of Drakhorn’s dragonfire.

The tailor stepped aside as Rhinne emerged, launching herself at the man’s face in a blur of crimson and steel. She slammed her knife into his eye socket, sending him flat onto his back, then jerked downwards and ripped off the lower half of his face. The man screamed as his skin fell away, taking his eyes and nose with it.

“Father, let’s go!” Ein shouted. He broke a bottle over another man’s head, and then Garax cleaved the man’s legs from beneath him. Alend slipped through the opening and the three made for the door. The remaining Faceless staggered to their feet, human features distorting as the flames ate away at their skin. Talberon landed in the middle of the ransacked room, standing between Angramar and the exit.

“Foolish druid,” he rasped. “You struggle in vain.”

The front door burst open and three more men rushed in, sprinting through the flames without pause.

“More Faceless?” Alend gasped. Ein grimaced. Just how many of the Oathbreaker’s servants were in Caerlon?

“Why are we still here?” Rhinne hissed. “We should be gone already!”

Talberon turned his head over his shoulder. “Go to the stables outside of town, next to the start of the Royal Road! Look for Marc and tell him Talberon sent you!”

Angramar flung his whip out again. Talberon stepped to one side and it went above his head, splitting one of the pillars. The flames roared, racing across the puddles of shattered beer and wine that laced the inn, climbing up to the rafters on the second storey. The roof shuddered and then a section collapsed, falling to the ground like a flaming meteor. Smoke and ash billowed out from the point of impact. A sliver of the moon shone through the hole in the ceiling, a silver beam that illuminated the Urudain. He froze, whip falling to one side.

“Al’Ashar’s eyes and ears,” Talberon swore. “It’s a full moon.”

Angramar let out a high pitched noise between a laugh and a shriek. Another shadow spurted from his arm, and then three more from its back and several from the other side of its body. The tendrils of black rose to the air like smoke, shifting and shaking, each with a mind of its own. Anything they touched crumbled to dust. The Faceless gathered around the Urudain, smiling viciously.

“Alend!” cried Talberon. “Show this to the King in case I don’t make it to Aldoran. Tell him everything I’ve told you!”

He tossed his ring through the air and Alend caught it. The blacksmith didn’t move, looking between the druid and where everyone else waited by the door.

“GO!”

When Alend still didn’t budge, Drakhorn stepped forward and pulled him back.

“I’ll stay behind to help,” he said. “You must run, before it’s too late.”

The writhing shadows were still expanding, a thousand moonlit snakeheads slithering from a single body. Talberon screeched and wood exploded all around him, racing across the ground in a path of stakes towards the shadows. Drakhorn roared as well and the room exploded in a vortex of red. Alend, Ein and Garax were thrown off their feet, blasted against the door by a wave of heat as hot as the Eternal Fire itself. Bran and Evaine pulled them onto the road and helped them to their feet, shortly before Rhinne emerged from the inferno.

“Go,” she cried. “Lord Drakhorn and the druid are buying us time. We’d be fools to waste it!”

People were screaming outside, guards yelling and shouting in an attempt to maintain order. Fire and shadows erupted among the sound of cracking timber. Alend took one last look at the inn and then nodded.

“Looks like we’ll be leaving a bit earlier than planned.”

They raced down the main road of Caerlon, putting as much distance between themselves and the Lusty Barmaid as possible. Evaine was silent, letting herself be pulled along by Bran without a word of complaint. Ein kept pace behind them, holding yet another foreign blade in his hand. He felt numb. It hadn’t even taken a day for the Faceless to find them. Would they ever manage to gain a moment’s reprieve?

“Ein!” called Garax. “Are you alright”

He realized he’d slipped and was lying on his side, having rolled several feet across the road. Black smoke spiralled into the sky behind him. Alend, Rhinne, Bran and Evaine were waiting outside the town gates, waving at him from the other side of the palisade. The guards were gone, abandoning their posts to tend to the fire.

Ein shook his head clear and scrambled to his feet, running out to join Garax. They fled a short distance from the walls before reaching the stables, ragged and heaving, sweat stinging their wounds. The windows were gold with lanternlight, maintaining a watchful vigil across the outskirts of the town. Alend slammed his fist against the knocker.

On the fifth knock the stable master opened the door. He was half-dressed and bleary-eyed.

“Wyd almighty, what’s going on?” he growled. “What do you lot want at this hour?”

“Are you Marc?” asked Alend, panting into the night.

The man shook his head. “By the Pantheon, how could you mistake me for that scoundrel?” He stabbed a finger into the darkness to where the horses rested. “He sleeps in the hay with his two darlings at the very end. Don’t know why he does it when he’s got a perfectly fine carriage to himself.”

“Thank you,” Alend bowed.

The stable master squinted into the distance and sniffed. “Is that smoke I smell?”

“A fire’s broken out at one of the inns.”

The man saw the blood on Alend’s shirt and quickly scanned the rest of the group, taking in the soot-stained Garax and the scorch marks on Rhinne’s trousers. He blanched and took a step back.

“Is there anything else I can help you with? No? Goodbye then, and I wish you all a safe trip.” The words tumbled out in an incoherent rush as the stable master slammed the door shut without waiting for a response. A moment later they heard a lock click and a bar slide into place. The golden candlelight went out, plunging the house and its surroundings into darkness.

“We’d better hurry,” said Garax. “They’ll be asking questions about us in no time. We don’t want to land on a wanted list for arson, do we?”

“Definitely not,” Alend agreed. “I could do without a third party after my hide.”

They hurried through the stables under the silver moon, treading across the dirt as quickly and quietly as they could. Some of the horses shied away when they walked past, no doubt smelling the blood and smoke on their clothes. Bran calmed them with soft words as he walked past.

They found Marc where the master said he would be, dozing on a bale of hay next to two shaggy-maned horses. The two beasts eyed the party warily from within the stall. Alend rapped on the gate, startling him.

“Who’s there?” he mumbled, stumbling drunkenly to his feet. His eyes focused as he saw them, turning into mirrors of fear. “What do you want?”

“Relax,” Alend said. “Talberon sent us. You’re Marc, right?”

Marc nodded, taking the time to study each of his patrons. He noted the fearful Evaine and Bran, the scuffled Ein and Rhinne, the breathless Garax who had sheathed his sword and resumed the hunched-over pose of an elderly man.

“He said we were leaving tomorrow morning,” Marc said carefully. As Ein’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized the man was in no better condition than they were. His clothes were patched and fraying as if he’d scavenged them from a rubbish heap, his beard black and unkempt, his untamed hair streaked with maggot-like strands of white. He smelled of manure and all the unclean things of the wilderness. Had they encountered Marc in Caerlon, Ein would have mistaken him for a beggar.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Alend said. Marc stood up, the look of panic slowly giving way to confidence and a hint of haughtiness.

“The deal was that we leave at sunrise tomorrow,” he said. “Not a minute earlier.”

Evaine stepped forward, but Alend stopped her. There was a loud creaking of wood in the distance, followed by a roaring crash and more screaming.

“Name your price,” Alend said.

“A gold and five silvers,” Marc replied without hesitation.

Ein almost felt himself snap. A gold was worth ten silvers. That was enough to buy food for an entire week, maybe even two, and that was in addition to whatever Talberon had already paid him. This man was asking for fifteen. Evaine’s eyes were livid.

“One gold piece,” Alend said, exposing the sword by his side. “Or I’ll kill you and take your mounts by force.”

Marc met his gaze, smirking. “Go ahead. They only listen to me.”

Alend drew his lips into a thin line but said nothing.

“Bastard,” Bran muttered under his breath.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Marc continued, “and these are the fastest rides you’ll find in a place like this. Besides, I’m risking my life by taking you along the Royal Road at this time.” The ground trembled as another explosion rocked through Caerlon. “Well? What’s it going to be?”

Alend shook his head in disgust and counted out the money from his purse.

“If you so much as try to trick us, you’ll be dead before you have time to say ‘Merciful Cenedria’,” he spat.

Marc tucked the coins into a pocket, face breaking into a wide grin. “You’ve made the right decision, my friends. Come with me—the carriage is around the back.”