masterghandalf

Chapter 18: Mournland

Ir’Sarrin’s party travelled swiftly through the day, soon leaving the Nightwood behind and emerging onto a well-traveled highway. They spoke to no one they met, and none spoke to them – apparently, the scowling guards and coldly impassive skeletons were sufficient to convince any Karrn to mind their own business. By the time the sun was sliding towards the horizon, they’d arrived by the shore of the Cyre River.

The warlord had a boat waiting for them there, and quickly loaded his company aboard. Thyra stood near the prow, the ever present skeleton warrior hovering behind her, while ir’Sarrin gave hurried instructions to the captain. Shortly thereafter, the boat cast off and began its crossing towards the Mournland.

The sight of her destination drew Thyra’s gaze with a horrified fascination. Once, Cyre had been the jewel of the Kingdom of Galifar, most powerful and prosperous of the Five Nations, and it had contended with the other four for a hundred years of war. Now, that glory was shattered, gone almost past recall. A great wall of mist encircled the nation’s borders; Thyra watched it now, grey and impenetrable, though it shifted before her eyes as it grew ever closer. The stories she’d heard of what lay beyond… well, they were the sort that didn’t bear thinking about. Still, it drew her onward, a clawed hand of destiny stretching out and bearing her on towards her fate, whatever that might be.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” a calm voice asked; Thyra started and turned to see Irinali coming to stand beside her. The elf shot her a cold smile. “The kind of power to bring a nation to its knees in a single day – there are many who would kill for that.”

“Including you?” Thyra asked.

Irinali laughed. “I’m not an evil wizard from some chapbook, whatever you may think of me. I’m a professional, a master of my craft, and I sell my services to those who appreciate them, such as Kharvin and his organization. I’ve no desire to see the Mourning repeated – what’s the profit in that? Even my relatives back in Aerenal aren’t worth the effort; they’ll sink into the mire of their own hidebound thoughts and drown there with or without my help.” She looked back at the fog. “But still – it is a wonder.”

An entire nation dead, a wonder. Thyra found herself shivering at Irinali’s complete lack of concern; it was an intellectual curiosity to her, nothing more. “And is it true that nobody knows what caused it?” she asked when she finally found her voice.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Irinali said. “Oh, there are theories, some of them with merit. Some say the Cyrans brought it on themselves – that they had House Cannith working on a superweapon and it went off early and blew their whole country straight to Khyber. Some say it was natural – a spillover of magic from some alien plane that interacted with ours rather poorly. Others still say it was the daelkyr, stretching their dark hand out from their prison for the first time in millennia. I’ve been into it myself a handful of times, though never for long, and they all seem equally likely – or unlikely – to me.” She looked back to Thyra. “And you’ll be seeing it soon enough. I hope you’re made of sterner stuff than you look, girl.”

You have no idea what I’m made of, Thyra thought, but she managed to resist saying it out loud. Glancing back towards the center of the boat, she saw ir’Sarrin approaching.

“Are you frightening our guest, Irinali?” he asked. “However the Mourning happened is irrelevant, until or unless it happens again. But do you want to know what it really is? An excuse.” His eyes hardened. “The excuse Kaius used to justify rolling over and showing our bellies to the world rather than pressing our attack. The excuse used to make all our losses, all our sacrifices meaningless.”

He looked to the shifting mists. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Meaning. Our attempts to creating meaning in a cruel, uncaring world. I found my way just as my nation lost its own, but I will show it back to the proper path.” He turned to Thyra. “Prepare yourself, girl. Tonight we enter the closest thing to Khyber that exists on Eberron. Be ready for it. You too, Irinali. Everything rests on this. We can’t fail now.”

///

Len stood on the bank of the river, regarding the wall of mist that shrouded what waited on the other side. They had made their way here, to the border of Karrnath and that which had once been Cyre, without much difficulty; now Rinnean and Pitar had gone down to a little fishing hamlet a short ways down the coast to try and barter for the services of a boat to take them across. Until they got back, all Len could do was wait. Normally she wouldn’t mind that, but now… watching the mists swirl, she pulled her stolen cloak more tightly around her shoulders, though she wasn’t cold.

“Lost in thought?” a familiar voice asked, and then Yhani was there beside her, an arm wrapped around Len’s shoulders. “Do not worry. If we are lucky, we should be able to get moving again before too long.”

“I know,” Len said softly. “But I just keep getting the feeling that we’re being… drawn out there. Us, Valyria and Pitar, Thyra, the damn Karrns – it’s like you said back at the inn at Korth. We’re caught in a trap of someone else’s weaving, and we don’t know who they are or what they want. We can’t do anything but dance on their strings.”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “That reminds me. I’ve been thinking about ir’Sarrin, and why he seemed so familiar. I knew I’d seen him somewhere before, and I think I know where.” She turned to look Yhani directly in the eye. “Remember that battle at the border fort, not long after we met?”

Yhani smiled. “You mean the one where you nearly single-handedly led the defense and got your promotion to lieutenant?” she asked. “How could I forget?”

Len shifted awkwardly. “Yeah, that one,” she said. “Well, remember at the end, after the Karrns withdrew, that one officer who stopped to salute us? I keep thinking back to it, and the more I do the more certain I am – it was him. Ir’Sarrin. I can’t put my finger on how I know – maybe it was the armor, the way he holds himself, the way he sat on his horse or gave orders – but I do.” She laughed darkly. “What a world, huh? What a coincidence that we’d meet him again after all these years? Or maybe it’s not. Maybe whoever it is planned this out too, for Aureon-knows-what reason.”

The captain let her shoulders slump. “Maybe we’ve been caught in this damn trap the whole time, and someone’s scripted out every move we’ve made or are going to make. Sovereigns, I hate how that makes me feel. Like there’s not a damn thing I can actually do!”

Yhani put both her hands on the sides of Len’s face and turned it slowly to face her. “Len, dear heart,” she said softly, “I understand how you feel. As long as I have known you, you have been so determined to forge your own path, to find your own purpose in life, and now you fear that has been taken away from you. There are many powers in this world that seek to guide it along the path of their own choosing, overriding all other wills. But let me tell you a secret – none of them is infallible. The future is so complex, so full of branching possibilities, that no mind can understand it all. Do you know why demons and dragons are so determined to read the future and shape it to their wills? Because they know, deep down, that there will always be something in it that defies their control. That is where we stand, my love; the tiny points of light that can disrupt even the best-laid plans. The small stones that can, in time, cause an avalanche.” She leaned in close. “They do not rule all things. Not you, and not me.”

Yhani pressed her lips tightly against Len’s own; for what felt like an eternity they stood there, lost in each other. Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps tore Len’s attention away; she turned, scowling at the interruption, to see Valyria standing there.

“Ah,” the inquisitor said, awkwardness plainly written on her face. Yhani pulled away from Len and adjusted her white robes, apparently trying to recover some dignity. “My apologies for interrupting,” Valyria continued, “but Pitar and your friend Rinnean have managed to secure us a boat. We should probably get going while we still have light; hopefully your shifter will be able to pick up ir’Sarrin’s trail on the other side.”

“Yes, that would be wise,” Yhani said. Turning to Len, she gave a small, encouraging smile and then began to make her way down towards the village, the captain following close behind. Valyria fell into step behind Len.

“So,” the inquisitor finally said, “you and the priestess are…”

“Yes,” Len said, an irritated note creeping into her voice. “I hope that won’t’ be a problem for you.” Her tone said that she didn’t particularly care what Valyria thought of it.

“It’s not,” the human woman finally said. “I’ve just never found the time for love myself. The Church keeps me busy. The most important thing in my life has always been the Flame… and my family.” There was a note of sorrow in her voice that she couldn’t hide.

“Thyra is still your sister, Valyria,” Len said. “No matter what you’ve been led to believe. You’re not on my team and I’ve got no authority over you, but just… think about that before you do something rash.”

“And if I’m right and you’re wrong, I take the risk of unleashing something terrible on the world,” Valyria countered. “Can I take that chance in good conscience? Everything I’ve learned over the last two years says that Thyra – the thing pretending to be Thyra – is a threat. And you have to admit she’s not acted like someone with nothing to hide.”

“You can have secrets you want to keep for other reasons than some sinister motive,” Len said quietly. “Though I guess someone with the title ‘inquisitor’ wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“I think that’s something you’d know a lot about,” Valyria said. “Pitar and I watched you for a while outside ir’Sarrin’s fortress before we helped you. I saw your face change. I know you’re a changeling.”

“Yes,” Len said, rather more sharply than she’d intended. “I’m a changeling. I’ve lived with secrets my whole life, and I get why someone might want to hide things about themselves, especially if they’re afraid of being judged. If I wore my true face every day, people would look at me and always assume I was trying to cheat them or use them just because of what I am. Getting away from that… helps. I think Thyra hides her heritage for the same reason, more or less.”

“Her… heritage.” Valyria’s tone was cool, but there was something troubled beneath the surface. “So you believe then that she really does have… rakshasa blood… in her?”

Len shrugged. “I’m no expert on sorcerers. What magic I have I learned, same as a wizard. But people I trust believe her, so I guess I believe her too. I don’t approve of everything Thyra’s done since I’ve met her, but I think she’s scared, desperate girl who needs help, not an evil monster who has to be destroyed.”

Valyria’s expression was unreadable. “We’ll see,” she said, but her voice was cold.

///

Ir’Sarrin’s boat docked on the far shore of the Cyre River just as the sun sank from the sky and left Eberron in darkness. The warlord and Irinali conferred with one another briefly, and seemingly made the decision to press on, though Thyra could see that many of their followers were nervous. The Blood of Vol priest merely looked determined, however, and the skeleton warriors’ eyes were as vacant and staring as ever. Leaving the boat behind, the company began to make its way through the mist.

For what felt like an eternity, Thyra could see nothing, just swirling shadow-shapes as the mist engulfed them. She could faintly make out silhouettes that must have been the rest of the party, but the only one she could see clearly was her skeleton watchdog, which was holding on her horse’s reins and strode close by her side, more terrible than ever in this weird, half-real world. Its presence made it almost seem as if they were passing through Dolurrh itself, but finally, after the Flame knew how long, they emerged from the mist and into open ground; Thyra released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

The land that lay before them was dead, a cracked waste illuminated by the moons’ cold light. Nothing moved or stirred on that desolate expanse that stretched onward into the horizon, but Thyra’s horse bucked as if it had sensed some terrible danger nearby; the other horses did much the same. The only exception was ir’Sarrin’s great warhorse, which seemed to share its master’s cold, dispassionate gaze as it stared across the Mournland.

“Cyre,” ir’Sarrin said finally. “Behold. That which once was the great jewel of Khorvaire, now broken and tarnished past all recall. Behold Death, the enemy which comes for everyone and everything in this world in time; the enemy against which we struggle. Cyre is gone, devoured by its own hubris – now Karrnath must once again take up the standard of this continent’s leading nation. Fear not, my friends – though we look upon the face of destruction, fate is on our side.”

He gestured forward with his right hand and the company began to move out, following behind the warlord in a tight group – clearly, no one wanted to get separated in this place. They passed in silence throughout the night, the dust of their travel swirling behind them, while all around them nothing stirred, nothing lived. Thyra’s horrified gaze wandered all about them, scarcely able to take in the sheer scale of the destruction; any time she tried, her mind simply reeled. Every so often, in the shadow of some hill or outcropping, she saw a dark shape that might be rocks – or might be a humanoid body. The tales of how the bodies of all those who had died in the Mourning lay here, never buried, never rotting, expressions of shock and horror still written across their faces, rose once again in her mind; she felt herself shivering, and not from the cold.

Finally, after hours of this terrible, interminable journey, the Sun began to once more rise above the horizon, though here its light was dimmed by mist and the pall in the air. It served only to cast the desolation of the Mournland in sharper relief, but Thyra welcomed it all the same; it was good to have a reminder that there was still a light in the world beyond the power of whatever caused the Mourning to destroy.

“We’ll rest here for a few hours,” ir’Sarrin said as the came to a rocky overhang shortly thereafter, “and then continue on to the camp; Irinali, send them a message to let them know we’re coming. We should be able to reach our destination by midafternoon. Recover your strength; you’ll need it.”

Thyra slid off the back of her horse as some of ir’Sarrin’s soldiers prepared to feed and water the mounts; one of them handed her a water bottle, and she drank greedily from it. Sitting against the overhang, she leaned back against the rock and let her eyes flutter closed, exhaustion overpowering her fear at being surrounded by enemies, the looming presence of the skeleton warrior, and the overwhelming horror of the Mournland.

Her eyes snapped open some time later to the sound of voices talking quietly. Looking up, she saw ir’Sarrin and Irinali, deep in conversation. Straining her ears, she managed to make out what they were saying.

“…don’t like this,” the necromancer said with her hands clasped behind her back. “I’ve been in the Mournland before, for brief times to run some experiments. Three of those times I was attacked by monsters of various sorts before I was through. Today, we’ve seen nothing, and that bothers me.”

“I would think it would relieve you,” ir’Sarrin said. “After all, few people enjoy fighting for their lives.”

“Imagine that you’re back in the war, leading an invasion of Thranish territory,” Irinali said, “but when you get there, there aren’t any Thranes. Wouldn’t you think that was odd? Wouldn’t you wonder where they all went? And the fear of not knowing could be worse than having a hundred enemies facing you directly.”

“I see your point,” Ir’Sarrin said. “Nonetheless, we’ve come too far to stop now. We press on.” He turned away, and his eyes passed over Thyra’s resting place. He regarded her for a long moment, his expression shrewd, and Thyra knew that he was fully aware she’d overheard, but he said nothing.

The next stage of their journey was much the same as the previous one had been; empty desolation on all sides. Still, none of the horrors that were said to inhabit the Mournland appeared, and after what she’d heard, Thyra was keenly conscious of their absence. A thought began to work its way into her mind – what if someone was deliberately keeping our path clear – but the implications of that were staggering and she shied away from them. Once they heard a distant yowl, like that of some immense and savage cat, and the entire company paused for a long moment while ir’Sarrin watched the area around them intently, but no threat emerged, and after several minutes they pressed on.

Thyra was beginning to grow weary once again when they rounded a low hill and came across a small camp surrounded by rock formations; it was inhabited by people who appeared to be wearing Karrnathi uniforms, and Thyra thought she saw among them the cadaverous figures of several skeletons. Ir’Sarrin led the way as the company road into the camp, and the Karrn soldiers, though weary-looking, saluted him.

A young woman – no, a girl barely Thyra’s age – in a dark robe approached and bowed at the waist. “Lord Ir’Sarrin,” she said, “and Mistress Irinali. Welcome. I hope your journey was as safe as could be expected, but I fear we’ve had no further luck in opening the sepulcher, and I fear we may be forced to abandon the project before long.”

“Never fear, Ashlinn,” Irinali said. “We wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing; we think we may have a solution.” She glanced at Thyra out of the corner of her eye. “Now, where is the sepulcher?”

“Follow me, Mistress, My Lord,” Ashlinn said, bowing again. Thyra, ir’Sarrin, Irinali and their guards dismounted and followed the girl – who must, Thyra decided, be another apprentice necromancer – through the camp, passing several dusty tents before arriving at the base of one of the rock formations. There it appeared a great deal of earth had been scooped away, leaving a hole several feet deep with a slanted incline leading to the bottom. On the side against the base of the rocks was a great metal door, unmarked with only a thin line down the middle to show it was anything but a blank wall.

“Behold,” Ashlinn said softly. “As I wrote to you, mistress, the doors cannot be opened, scratched, moved, or altered in any way, by mundane or magical force. I wish you better luck than I.”

“I think we have a good luck charm,” Irinali said, and she looked at Thyra. “Now, girl, let’s see if bringing you out here was really a decent use of our time. Come!” She marched down the incline, steadying herself with her staff; the skeleton warrior seized Thyra and dragged her along after the necromancer, with a curious ir’Sarrin bringing up the rear. Finally, they reached the bottom, and Irinali smiled as she ran her fingers along the door.

“What a fascinating construction,” she whispered. “But let’s see how much its wards are really worth. Girl, hand.” Thyra held out her right hand uncertainly; Irinali seized her wrist with surprising strength, turned the hand palm up, and then drew a knife from her belt a sliced a shallow cut along Thyra’s palm. Blood began to trickle from the gash. “Now,” Irinali said, “we shall see.”

Still holding Thyra’s wrist, she dragged the sorceress over to the door and pressed her palm against the metal. It felt cool and dry beneath her hand, and surprisingly clean, despite having been buried beneath the earth for uncounted millennia. It felt… familiar, also, as if something on the other side was calling to Thyra, welcoming her; a sudden warmth spread across her hand and up her wrist.

The door, however, didn’t budge.

Irinali sighed. “How very disappointing,” she said. “Well, girl, it seems your services are no longer required; a pity. Still, there are some spells I might be willing to try – “

“Wait!” Ir’Sarrin said. “What’s happening?”

Thyra and Irinali turned their attention back to the door in time to see the strange symbols that began to spread across it, radiating out from Thyra’s hand in elaborate patterns. Thyra could almost read them – they reminded her of some of the glyphs she’d seen in Taras’s books, but these seemed somehow older, more archaic, more… primal. Irinali watched hungrily as they spread across the door, and behind her Thyra could hear ir’Sarrin’s startled, expectant gasp.

And then the doors shook and split apart along the line down the center. With a terrible groan, as of a creature that had lain dormant for thousands of years, they swung slowly open, revealing a great, yawning emptiness beyond and a sloping dark passage that lead in and down.

///

The Mournland is one of the enduring mysteries of the Eberron setting, and its cause is something that Keith Baker seems to have never intended to give and official answer for. Explaining what happened isn’t a question I plan on dealing with in this fic (none of my bad guys did it, I’ll say that), but I did have Irinali go ahead and give some of the more common theories here. She doesn’t particularly want the power to create another Mourning herself, as she admits here – Irinali is fundamentally mercenary at heart and doesn’t have a practical use for a power that vast – but she does have a certain intellectual curiosity about it.

I was glad to be able to include Len and Yhani’s scene, and bits like this are part of the reason why I decided to make them a couple rather than just friends – they’re very different in a lot of ways, but they also just sort of fit together. Yhani is certainly a tremendous pillar of support for Len in times of doubt like this! Len and Yhani have seen part of what is going on with the fic’s plot now; Valyria and Pitar have another part, and so does Thyra, and so does ir’Sarrin, but nobody’s put it all together yet.

At least for this first fic, that putting together will be happening sooner rather than later, though! Thyra’s gamble has paid off, at least so far; the vault is open. What’s inside is a question for next time…

-MasterGhandalf