Chapter Sixty-Two: Nephilheim

“Little is known of Nephilheim, the home of the relicts. Only that it is a blank, desolate mirror of our own, one where the sky is dark and the earth is light. A mirror of what our world may have been like in the past, or what it may be like in the future. Not even Wyd knows the extent of its mysteries.”

—Dagus Adem, The Adventurer’s Guide to the Continent

Ein drifted along the Spirit Garden like a blade of grass on the breeze. In front of him was the Heart of the World, a shimmering pool of silver feeding sustenance to the wildflowers and the trees, its surface hazy like smoke. Motes of light floated from its depths.

Aedrasil awaited him upon the islet in the centre of the pool, a magnificent tree the colour of autumn. The wilt was more noticeable now, splotches of grey spreading along its roots and limbs. There was a dreamlike quality to everything, a lilac veil across his eyes that warped and distorted all sense of noise and depth.

-Fateweaver.-

The voice touched him like the frond of a leaf upon his head, deep and worldly, the patient drawl of an entity that lived in a realm where time flowed differently. Ein flew past the garden and into the centre of the spring, rising up to meet the Ward Tree.

“Mother Aedrasil,” he returned. “Why have you brought me here?”

The tree seemed to sigh, its branches creaking. Why was she talking to him? He wasn’t an Uldan or a Lachess, or even a Thoren. Historically, the Protector rarely ever spoke to those without the blood of the Three Kings. That was why the Head of the Grove Tenders was usually an Uldan.

-You must hurry, Fateweaver. I am dying.-

He saw a barren, broken plain, and a field of trees withered to husks. A deer sprinted across the landscape, fleeing from something. The images disappeared as quickly as they’d appeared, as did the words associated with them. All Ein was left with was a sense of urgency and encroaching death.

-The dragon stirs. It gnaws upon my roots, struggling to break free. You must not allow Trad’Atar to escape, or the world will burn.-

The words dissipated, and more images flashed through his mind. A black dragon the size of a mountain, seething with fire and shadow. Teeth like blades, gnashing against roots deep below the ground. Pain, red and throbbing, and a city in flames. Ein struggled to comprehend the tree’s message. It was a bombardment to his senses, two steps faster than the speed of thought.

“The dragons have all gone into hiding,” Ein said. “They can no longer take on their true forms.” Except Garax and the elders. But Garax is dead now, and who knows how many of the elders are left?

-The demons march,- Aedrasil continued. -They ravish the city. Steel and stone will not hold them for long, for they are led by the Urudain.-

More images. He saw the outer walls of Aldoran in flames, smoke fuming into the sky. Worgals and Celadons, Bloodmanes, Slazaads… and two masked Apocalypse Knights, hanging back behind the front lines. The chained giant who they’d spotted along the Blight between Caerlon and Aldoran, and a dog-eared swordsman whom he’d never seen before. The night was heavy with the stench of death.

“What are you showing me?” he demanded. He would have pounded the tree if he could, if he was big enough and close enough. “Has this come to pass?” If it was a vision of the future, then there might still be time to—

-It is. You must hurry, Fateweaver, before they reach the Heart. If I die, the city is lost, and Trad’Atar will be unleashed. Make haste!-

He saw the dragon again, grinding against the roots, hatred in its eyes.

“How?” he asked. “I won’t make it back in time.” He was still on Raginrok as far as he knew, and he had to bring the girl with him as well.

-Hurry, Fateweaver. Hurry…-

Another image, of relicts running rampant through the streets. He recognized Menkraft, the district enclosed by the first wall of Aldoran. Buildings were aflame, Worgals pillaging whatever they wanted from within.

-Hurry…-

Ein sat up, gasping, and nearly collided heads with the Lachess girl. She lurched backwards as Rhinne and Aeos came running to his side.

“Ein,” Rhinne exclaimed. “Are you alright?”

He whirled around, looking at where Aedrasil and the Heart of the World had been just moments ago. They were gone, replaced by the cave atop the mountain where they’d spent their last night with Tushar. A small fire simmered beside him, fighting back the frigid cold. Their belongings lay bundled in a neat pile beside the wall.

“I heard her,” he murmured. “She was crying out for help.”

“Who?” Rhinne asked.

“Aedrasil. She showed me a vision of Aldoran.” He stared at his hands for a moment, the images still fresh in his mind. The shades of red, the cracking of burning house beams, the ominous gnashing of teeth. “It was in flames, and there were relicts everywhere. It was like Felhaven—” Ein broke off, realizing the name meant nothing to them.

“We have to head back,” he said. “They’ll raze the entire city to the ground. The Legion is holding them, but they won’t hold for long. We have to bring the girl back to the Ward Tree.”

The Sylvan girl looked frightened at Ein’s escalating tone, shrinking back towards Rhinne. Aeos drew his lips into a thin line and looked past Ein.

He turned around and found Talberon there, his forest-green cloak around his shoulders. The last Ein had seen of the Druid had been in the mines of Mor’Gravar, before the mysterious ‘Master’ had assailed him. Talberon had lost weight since then, his cheeks grown more gaunt and sallow. Streaks of white lined his beard where there was only grey before.

“I see you are well,” he said slowly.

Ein frowned. “Yes,” he said. He felt tired, but there was no sign of the Soulsickness he’d experienced the first time he’d called upon the storm. In fact, Songweaving was becoming easier the more he did it.

He peeked out the entrance of the cave. It was pitch dark. “How long have I been out for?”

“Are you sure?” Talberon asked, ignoring his question. “You don’t feel anything at all?”

Ein shook his head. Rhinne and Aeos looked away, while the girl watched him with fear.

“Come with me, then,” the Druid said, walking towards the entrance of the cave. “And to answer your question, you’ve only been sleeping for a few hours. It’s early in the morning now—though there’s literally no way to tell any more.”

Scratching his head at the last exchange, Ein climbed to his feet and followed Talberon to the mouth of the cave, hugging his shoulders against the wind. Aeos and Rhinne stayed inside, keeping quiet.

They broke out onto the mountaintop. It was just as he’d remembered, though the sky was starless and as black as night. Talberon stepped a short way up the path and stopped. Ein followed him.

“Have a look,” he said.

Ein blinked. He couldn’t see anything except for the void, an inky darkness that formed a stolid wall in front of him. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he realized what he was looking at.

Opposite him was an enormous cliff face, stretching up as high as he could see. It continued downwards, past his feet, into a chasm that had no end. It was as if the entire mountain had been cleaved in two, and he was standing on one edge of those two halves.

“Where are we?” he asked. There were no signs of the stormclouds from the day before, the raging tempest of snow and sleet that had come to his aid. Were they still on Raginrok?

“We are exactly where you think we are,” Talberon said. “Raginrok, shortly before the Summit of the World. But, you see,” and he gave Ein a puzzled look, “you’ve broken the mountain in half.”

Ein looked at the chasm below his feet. “What?”

“You’ve broken the mountain in half.” He looked back to where Aeos, Rhinne and the girl were watching him. “The storyteller is dead, and the World-Eater trapped in the depths of the mountain. I didn’t see what happened; nor did the Prince or the Dragon, but everyone for miles around saw the lightning and heard its roar.” He fixed Ein with an uncertain look. “You nearly killed Aeos with all the Spirit you drew from him. Judging from the extent of damage the mountain has sustained, it looks like you Siphoned it to fuel your Soulsong. I don’t think Raginrok will ever live again.”

Ein stared at the bluff before him, dumbfounded. Me? Break the mountain?

You are Talam. Godbreaker.

“Wyd almighty,” he murmured.

“I’ll ask you again,” Talberon said. “Do you feel anything? Pain? Nausea?”

Ein searched deep within himself. He was tired and sore, but his head was clear. “I feel fine. I don’t feel at all like I’ve cast a spell to kill a god and break a mountain.”

Talberon shook his head. “You are an enigma, Ein Thoren. Though you haven’t broken any of the Laws of Songweaving, it’s a mystery how you managed to Siphon the entire mountain and not die in the process.”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know what I did, I just did it.” Ein shook his head and looked to the sky. “Why is it still dark? Shouldn’t the sun have risen by now?”

The edges of Talberon’s lips curled, and he called back to the entrance of the cave. “Aeos. Rhinne. Pack up, and take Yselin with you. We’re returning to the Summit.”

The two didn’t respond, but Ein saw the twitch in their shoulders. They were afraid.

#

They reached the pass a short while later, though it was no longer a pass. The entire Summit was gone, collapsed in a pile of earth and ice before them, the highest mountain in Faengard now a shadow of its former glory. Though the snow was still the same colour, the exposed rock was darker and duller, and the patches of moss and weed that had braved the gelid conditions had shrunken to blackened scrags. The Blight had taken over the mountain, and it was Ein’s doing.

However, his thoughts didn’t remain on the damage for long. There was a more immediate, pressing concern before them, one that stretched down from the sky like a yawning drape of black silk, narrowing to a point that stabbed into the ground. A rift.

“Is this…?”

Talberon nodded. “A portal to Nephilheim, Ein. The biggest one I’ve ever seen, spanning almost the entire length of the sky. A portal that covers the sun itself. I daresay it came as a result of all the Spirit you siphoned to fuel your Soulsong.”

“When twilight draws near, the demon wolf will swallow the sun and plunge the world into darkness. How long this darkness will last, I cannot say.” Aeos shook his head. “To think that the Prophet Morene had foreseen this in the First Age.”

Ein approached the enormous rift, peering into its depths. It was a mirror; a gate to a world eerily similar to theirs. Through the mirror he could see a white plain; cold and barren like a wasteland, marked with craters and mountains against a sky as black as tar.

“This dream of yours,” Talberon said. “You’re sure it’s real?”

“It felt real enough,” he replied, still looking at the rift in awe. “I was at the Heart of the World, and it felt exactly as I’d remembered it. I don’t think I’d be able to forget Mother Aedrasil’s presence any time soon.”

“Are we really going to assume Aldoran’s under attack just because of a simple dream?” Aeos interjected. “I don’t think the relicts are that foolish. The city is one of the most well-fortified in all of Faengard; it would be folly for them to try to take it with anything less than an entire army.”

“They have an entire army,” Ein said. “And more. They have Slazaads… and they have Apocalypse Knights.”

“Dreams are seldom things to be dismissed,” Talberon said. “Often they hold an underlying meaning, whether it be a message from your inner psyche or a telepathic transmission from someone else. But what makes me worry is that Ein has been to Astreal before. That just means we should take his visions with an extra bit of consideration. Aedrasil sending a plea for help is not out of the question. And besides…”

“Besides?”

Talberon glanced at the girl.

“I daresay getting Yselin back to civilisation as soon as possible should be a priority. How long have you been chained up here for?”

The girl stared wide-eyed at the Druid. “I… I can’t remember.” She hadn’t left Rhinne’s side for the entire duration of their trek.

“Sylvans siphon energy off the land to live,” Talberon explained, “but she’s a half, so she still needs food and water to survive—albeit very little. Is that right?”

Yselin nodded, but didn’t add anything further.

“In any case, this portal may be a blessing in disguise.” At this, Ein, Aeos and Rhinne frowned. “We might be able to use it to our advantage.”

“Surely you don’t mean for us to go through the portal? To Nephilheim?” Rhinne’s voice was incredulous.

“Distance is skewed in Nephilheim,” Talberon continued. “One step in Nephilheim is the equivalent of several in Faengard. If we go through and feel our way westwards, we might just stumble upon one of the portals that lead to the Blight. Then we’d be right outside Aldoran, and we would have saved days of travel.”

“But we’ll be travelling through enemy territory,” Ein said. “If the relicts find us, it’s all over.”

“If your vision is to be believed, then most of the relicts will be gathered outside Aldoran, readying themselves to attack. We might just get through unnoticed.”

“The Oathbreaker is imprisoned in Hellheim,” Aeos murmured. “It won’t make a difference if we’re here or in Nephilheim. Talberon, your plan might just work.”

“It’s the only plan we have,” Talberon said. “If you want to make it back to Aldoran without wasting a week travelling, we have to risk going through Nephilheim and getting lost. It’s the only way.”

“If we go back the long way, Aldoran and Aedrasil might already have fallen,” Aeos added, nodding. “As much as I hate the idea of setting foot inside their world, this may be our only chance.”

The Prince and the Druid looked at Ein, and he realized they were waiting for him to come to a decision.

“I’ll take whatever path you follow,” Rhinne said. She too stared at him, waiting.

Gods, they’re all relying on me. Since when had he become the leader of the group?

As much as he hated to admit it, he knew what the correct decision was. There was only one decision, one way to proceed. Aldoran was under attack, and he held the key to its salvation. The key to saving Evaine, Alend and all those who lived inside the city.

“Okay then,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

He approached the shimmering rift with hesitant steps, his heart hammering in his chest. A chill wind touched his face, carrying with it a coldness that tasted different to the cold of Faengard. He couldn’t describe how. It was simply different, like the way water tasted different depending on which river you drank it from.

He took one last look around him and stepped forward. Abruptly, he felt the urge to turn back. Everything seemed distorted around him, as if he were viewing the world through warped lenses. His hair stood on end, his instincts screaming at him not to go any further. It was like the times in his childhood when he’d wandered into the woods at night out of curiosity, the deep, dark thickets of trees where not even moonlight dared to penetrate. Every step into the darkness set his heart thumping, his spine tingling, his mouth drying. Every step he took, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and flee the way he’d come.

He bit back that primal urge and continued walking. Behind him, he heard the others do the same.

Nephilheim was white, but it wasn’t white with snow. The rock itself was a pale colour like chalk, cracked and uneven, dusty beneath their feet. Sand dunes shifted in the wind against a backdrop of great mountains in the horizon and deep craters that sank into the darkness. The sky was perpetually black; there were stars, but they were in different places than the ones in the Faengard sky. The moon was also a different colour; a deep marbled blue swirling with whites and brown-greens.

They walked forward in silence, leaving the portal behind them in the distance. They were each tense, watching the planescape, searching for any signs of movement. The land of the relicts was dead quiet and devoid of life. Each time a rock moved, someone would jerk.

They remained that way for what seemed like a world’s worth of mountains and valleys, ridges and bluffs, stone channels where rivers once would have flowed. They passed ruins here and there, pillars and buildings carved into the stone from some race that had inhabited the realm before the relicts had. Talberon kept them moving in the same direction, even when the rises and crests threatened to throw them off track, using the stars as guidance. They were still the same stars, he said. Just dark mirrors of them, located in different places. Ein didn’t try to understand; he just accepted the Druid’s word.

After what felt like an entire day of travelling—they’d eaten on the go, unanimously deciding they wanted to be away from the place as soon as possible—they finally came across life.

It was a large camp of Worgals located in a deep crater in the ground. Dome-like huts of rock spanned its base, filled with Worgals wrestling with each other, mating, tending to Celadons. A female Worgal gave birth to several cubs, even as another was killed in the ring beside her. At once the onlookers pounced, tearing apart the carcass, taking chunks back to their own offspring. They were the most bloodthirsty of beasts, and left alone in this harsh wasteland with no other races for company but themselves, they could only feed upon their own.

“If we keep going, they’ll catch our scent,” Ein murmured. The wind was behind them, and it looked like they had female Celadons as well—the ones with the acute senses of smell. He didn’t know if they knew the scent of humans in this world, and he wasn’t willing to take the risk.

“It’ll take us forever to go around,” Rhinne said. “There has to be another way.” She looked from side to side at the rim of the crater and cursed.

“No,” Talberon said. “We must go straight ahead, through the relicts.”

“Are you serious?” Ein exclaimed. “It’s one thing to walk into their world, but something quite different to literally walk under their noses.”

“We have to. Look over there.” Ein followed the Druid’s gnarled finger to the heart of the camp, and his heart sank.

Strewn across the middle of the site, within a stone’s throw of the central hut were a scattering of portals.

“I’m willing to bet those are the portals we’re looking for,” he said. “We’ve walked for long enough.”

Ein grimaced. Could they just make a run for it and hope to reach them without being stopped? No, that won’t work. We’re not fast enough. What about a diversion? But that would be hard to pull off as well. The Worgals weren’t stupid; they had some measure of intelligence. Another group of armed Worgals marched through the portal, disappearing from the camp.

“There aren’t as many relicts as I would have expected,” Aeos remarked. “Most of the huts look empty.”

A feeling of dread settled over Ein’s chest. “They’re in Faengard,” he whispered. “That must be where they’ve all gone.” The dream was real. Wyd help me, the dream was real.

“I might be able to get us back,” Yselin said in a small voice.

Immediately, all eyes turned to her. The girl started and looked down, but held her ground.

“You might be able to get us to the portals?” Talberon asked patiently. “How?”

“I can sing,” she said. “I’ve done it before. I’ve sneaked into shops and stolen things from under the shopkeeper’s nose. I can make people see things that aren’t there, hear things and feel things that aren’t real.”

“Illusion,” the Druid nodded. “That must be your Wyrd. That was how you kept Faenrir asleep, wasn’t it? By controlling what it saw in its dreams?”

Yselin nodded, her dark locks falling in front of her face. “I don’t know how long I’d be able to keep it up for, though. I was singing for a long time on the mountain, and my voice has grown hoarse.”

“Do your best,” Talberon said. “If you need it, you can draw Spirit from us.”

She swallowed and nodded. “I’ll do it, then.”

She licked her lips and began to hum. It was quiet, barely tickling Ein’s ears, but he could feel it building up around them, layer by layer, like the cocoon of a spider. It was nothing like Ein had ever heard before, not like Talberon’s Soulsong or Evaine’s. The chords were closer to sounds of nature than human words; hums, clicks and hisses. The rustle of leaves in a canopy, the sound of a cloud moving across the sun, the quiet padding of a feral alleycat. The air shimmered around them and all noises outside their little bubble became warped and distant, as if the party were at the bottom of the ocean. Yselin nodded at Ein, still singing, and he led them onward.

They edged closer and closer to the huts, sliding down the edge of the crater, leaving behind a cloud of dust in their wake. They drew so close that if they reached out, they could have touched the stone structures. They kept to a small group, huddled together around the Sylvan girl as she continued to weave their web of invisibility. Worgals walked right past them, completely oblivious.

“Amazing,” Ein heard Talberon say. “She doesn’t leave a single gap in her magic. Sight, sound, smell, touch and taste. To the relicts, it’s as if our existence itself has been erased. I’ve never seen such raw talent in my life.”

“She sings even better than my sister,” Aeos agreed.

The conversation stopped after that as they drew close to the heart of the camp. It was no longer a matter of simply making straight for the portals; they had to duck and weave around the relicts, sometimes even backtrack when there was no way forward. It was like trying to navigate a crowded marketplace without bumping into a single pedestrian. According to Talberon, a single touch would break the spell Yselin had so carefully woven.

As they reached the final stretch, Ein caught sight of a familiar figure. The cloaked Apocalypse Knight stood beside his black mount, supervising a pack of Worgals. Talberon stiffened at the sight of him.

“He’s still alive,” Ein murmured. “I thought you’d taken care of him in Caerlon.”

“I wish I had,” Talberon growled. “He wouldn’t have survived if the full moon wasn’t out.”

“The full moon?”

“Al’Ashar was the god of the moon,” the Druid explained. “It’s only logical that his subordinates grow stronger when it’s full. Much stronger. You might even say that I was lucky to escape with as few injuries as I did.”

The Knight stared through them as they passed, the mask of the Watching Moon swivelling a full half-circle. The party froze half-way, all except Aeos and Yselin, until the Knight continued its vigil. Ein breathed a sigh of relief and they closed the last few paces between them and the rift back to their world.

“It won’t win a second time,” Talberon muttered. “The moon is gone now, as is the sun. The next time we cross paths, only I will emerge victorious.”

They stepped through the portal and back into Faengard. The sky flickered, the stars changing positions, the white rock giving way to Blighted soil. There were still Worgals around them, loping off towards the smouldering walls of Aldoran. Yselin kept her song up until they’d left the portals well behind and were nearing the edge of the Blight. Only when the green was in sight did she dare pause her singing, and even then they didn’t stop or speak for a good while.

“We actually did it,” Aeos muttered, as they took the first steps onto living grass. “We made it back. I’ll be damned, we made it back.”

“We’re not there yet,” Rhinne said, noting the black pillars of smoke in the distance. “By the looks of it, getting back here was the least of our troubles.” He glanced sideways at Aeos. “And it seems your mother’s Celesite technology was useless, after all.”

“Don’t look at me when you say that, old man. I’m not the one who suggested the idea.”

“The vision was real,” Ein said, shaking his head in disbelief. He’d known it to be true, but it surprised him all the same. He quickened his pace to a trot. “The vision was real. Merciful Cenedria, the vision was real. Aldoran is under attack, and we’re the only ones who can stop it.”

“Let’s hope we’re not too late,” Talberon growled. “I won’t be happy if we went through all that only for Aedrasil to die before we can save it.”