by R. M Garino
The Gate of Fang and Thorn
A Chaos of Souls Novella:
Volume 2
R.M. Garino
Copyright © 2019 by R.M. Garino
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
R.M. Garino
Tuxedo Park, New York
www.rmgarino.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
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Cover & Logo Design by Mirella Santana www.mirellasantana.com.br (stock material used under right from: Depositphotos, Shutterstock)
Photography by Marissa Golub http://www.marissagphotography.com/
Chaos of Souls Novella 2: The Gate of Fang and Thorn. R.M. Garino -- 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1088505083
Books by R.M. Garino
The Chaos of Souls Series
The Gates of Golorath:
Chaos of Souls series; Book 1
Angels of Perdition:
Chaos of Souls series; Book II
The Gathering of the Blades:
Chaos of Souls series: Book III
(coming 2019)
The Chaos of Souls Novellas
Requiem's Reach:
Chaos of Souls series novella; Volume I
The Gate of Fang and Thorn
Chaos of Souls series novella; Volume II
The Chaos of Souls Short Stories
Initiating Angels
Chaos of Souls series short story
(Coming soon)
To those who hold a cherished dream close to their hearts. The path may be difficult and it will change you, but with perseverance and fortitude you will reach the end. Don't let anyone say you are not good enough. Step into the breach, and Bathe the Blades.
Contents
Prologue
The Vale of Sorrows
Logan's Personal Journal
The Sur
The Display
Silver Skies
The Greensward
The Lifeless
The Lost Guard
An Offer
The Bore
Logan's Personal Journal
Juncture
Brother
The Gate of Fang and Thorn
The Wayward
The Keeper of the Temple
Obsidian
The Node
Aenir
Corruption
Hint of Salvation
The Lo'ademn
Epilogue
Glossary
Author's Note
Prologue
In the beginning, a faction of angels spurned the will of Heaven and were destroyed. As punishment, their souls were shattered into millions of fragments, called si'ru, the moment they crossed over into creation. Their spirits mixed with physical matter and they were reborn. No longer were they Aesari. They became the E'ine, the First Ones. In time, these beings gave birth to children of their own, born from the flesh of their prisons. These were the Lethen'al, the Fallen.
Another faction tried to stop the exodus by force. These are the Lo'ademn, and they too were punished, cast out into the void. By the grace of the Creator, they still retained their angelic abilities, but were condemned to wander until their brethren returned home.
An angel of tremendous power, an Aesari named Tarek, guards the breach in the Sur. It is believed he held his post for millennia, but grew weary of his role. It is said he learned to hate the E'ine and the Lethen'al, blaming them for his exile. Soon, he took a new name; The Apostate, and he vowed to destroy his fallen brethren. His malice infected the Sur, and it became a place of darkness.
The E'ine raised the humans to consciousness, but in time, the Lo'ademn learned to steal their bodies. The Apostate walked the Quain in his borrowed skin, and with his hordes of shrulks, he hunted the Lethen'al to near extinction. He was banished by Thenaria Tu'renthien, the Matriarch of the Lethen'al and Keeper of the Temple of Mourning.
Seven thousand years have passed since the Apostate's exile, and the Lethen'al are changed. They have mastered the arts of magic and of war. Every Lethen'al must pass through their martial school, called the Areth'kon. Those soldiers who wish to realize a higher rank must pass through the Sur. Those who return attain the Elc'atar Guard. Those who do not, are lost forever.
CHAPTER ONE
The Vale of Sorrows
The Areth'kon Blades assembled well before dawn in the Vale of Sorrows. They were the shield against the darkness, the first and last line of defense against the coming of the Apostate, who sought the death of their race. In them, the communal determination to never be victims again was made manifest. They were the Lethen'al, the fallen angels of Heaven, and today, they bore witness to the most solemn rite of passage among their people.
They held rank by squad and formed a corridor that lead toward the weathered, circular gate that stood alone in the middle of the valley. Tall reddish mountains encircled them, their peaks covered in a perpetual blanket of snow. A pair of braziers lit the rough stone, the flames dancing on the rock face. A quartet of Magi knelt, two on either side of the opening, awaiting the arrival of the Yearlings who chose to enter the Sur.
"Attention!" A harsh voice barked and cut through the chill of the morning.
The call ran down the formation. The subdued buzz of conversation ceased. The Areth'kon Blades stepped to attention in a chorus of rustling cloth and stomping feet.
"Oohrah!" they called back in one voice.
This was the signal Logan Fel'Mekrin awaited. He drew a breath, and forced it out in a single huff. His lo'el, the dark, massive wolf-like beast he rode tossed its head. Logan corrected the behavior with a touch of his knees.
"Here we go," his Master, Mason, said from atop his own mount, a grey beast as large as Logan's. "Push your fear to the side, lad. You're already worthy in my eyes. Today you prove it to everyone else."
Logan did not respond. He fixed his stoic gaze straight ahead.
Of course he was worthy. He was the heir of House Fel'Mekrin, and the greatest swordsman the Areth'kon had ever produced. It was seldom anyone missed an opportunity to point out both facts to him.
This was the culmination of his life's work, everyone told him. He was born to take his place as one of the Elc'atar Guard.
So why then, he asked himself, was he filled with a strange, disassociated lethargy? What was this roiling turmoil in the depths of his belly, this odd numbness to his limbs? He did not fear the Sur. The dark denizens of that accursed realm held no power over him.
There was something greater than the allure of fear at work here.
His eyes scanned the ranks of Lethen’al Blades gathered in the vale, and the emptiness quickened within. Further down the slope, closer to the gate was a head of silver hair. He did not want to glance her way, but was unable to stop himself.
Arielle was lost to him. She moved on.
There was nothing left for him here.
He touched the journal tucked into the pouch on his belt. His mind was made up, was it not? His decision was already made. Why then did he hesitate now?
He stood upon the threshold of his liberation.
"Together, then," Mason said, and spurred his lo'el forward.
The Yearlings fell into formation atop their mounts, and kept pace
a step behind their respective Masters. Their position was dictated by their accomplishments, with those of the lowest ranking leading the way. Mason and Logan were the last to enter. It was a time honored tradition in the Areth'kon that the last shall be first.
The procession proceeded down the corridor, their eyes fixated on the portal. Logan tried to ignore the ennui that buffered him and separated him from the world.
In the distance, the Magi gathered their power, drawn from the energies of the earth beneath their feet. Their life force, their sin'del, swelled with the borrowed energy. The nervous flutter increased in Logan's belly.
He did his best to ignore the Lethen'al gathered to see him on his way. Pushing aside his trepidation, he held fast to the image Arielle Rhen'val bestowed upon him the night before. Seeing himself through her eyes alleviated the crippling doubt that nipped at the edges of his awareness. There really was only one course of action left to him. Honor left him no alternative.
Thoughts of her boiled to the surface, threatening to undo his resolve.
She left him.
She moved on with her life, and found contentment in the arms of another. And with that bastard Kal'Parev, who humiliated him two nights before in the communal mess, no less. She claimed to be happy, to be complete, and Logan despaired. He let their relationship fall to the wayside. He allowed his paltry ambitions to consume and blind him to his love for her. The realization galled him.
His teeth ground together, and he waited for the turmoil to subside. His lo'el, Dusk, issued a sympathetic growl in response to his wayward thoughts. There was nothing to be done about it now. He was set upon his path, and it led to the Sur. The childhood dreams of becoming one of the Elc'atar Guard were futile.
He knew he was not going to return.
Logan stilled his emotions the way his Master taught him to do.
He was calm. He was poised and collected.
Arielle’s cohort held the place of honor among the graduates, as well they should. They were now legends among the Areth'kon. Their performance during the Gauntlet would inspire generations of graduates after them.
He noted her position when he passed and glanced her way. He had to see her once more. Her silver hair shone in the moonlight, and his pulse quickened at her beauty. His heart constricted with suffering and loss, but he pushed it aside. Her presence was a salve, helping him firm his resolve.
Logan ignored the interloper, Angus Kal'Parev, who stood to her side. He did touch the belt buckle that secured his weapons, if only to remind himself of the blood feud that existed between them now. Should their paths ever cross in the future, Logan swore that he would be the only one to walk away.
He offered Arielle a smile and let none of his emotion show. He dipped his head in a silent show of gratitude. But he did not pause in his march. He passed Gwendolyn, and repeated the gesture to his sister. She stood to Arielle’s other side, her dark hair a stark contrast with his beloved. Though beautiful in her own right, she paled in comparison to Arielle.
What did he say to her last night?
“I would never do that to you, Gwen,” he said, echoing the distress she had felt at his last words. “I will fight my way through the Sur, and I will return. My hope may be gone, but I am not a child. I will not seek death because I have been spurned in love.”
The lie echoed in his mind; she held herself proud and erect, a true daughter of House Fel’Mekrin. Let her hold to the false promise, he told himself. It will assuage her grief.
The procession halted before the Commandant of the Areth'kon and the Heads of the Noble Houses. The Yearlings dismounted in formation. They stood at attention before the gathered dignitaries.
Thesius took the reins of the lo’el and drew them off to the side. She was the Master of the A'gist, the lo'el pastures, and the animals responded well to her commands.
Thoreau Rhen'val, the Commandant, held his sheathed sword cradled in the crook of his arm. One by one, he stopped in front of each candidate. He gave Logan a brief smile of familiarity.
He stepped away from the Yearlings, creating a dignified space.
“You are Lethen’al!” the Commandant shouted. His words echoed through the expanse of the valley. “You fell from Heaven, in defiance of the Creator's wishes! You chose to become the stewards of the earth! But peaceful communion is not enough for you. No! You want to be counted against the darkness and the destruction of your kind.
“So you became an Areth’kon Blade,” he said, “and learned to be the greatest warriors this world has ever known. But it is not enough for you to lay down your life in service of your kind. You want to do more!
“You wish to join the Elc’atar Guard. You wish to stand with those who hold to the memory of Prince El’Cain Tu’renthien by their every breath and action. You wish to become death incarnate. Beware ambition, for it demands a heavy price.
“We, who have attained the rank before you, have judged you to be worthy to join our legend. You, who stand before us, have been tested in mind, in spirit, in body, and in heart. You have proven yourselves true to our teachings, and so we grant you the opportunity to pay for your aspirations.
“Are there any among you who hold a doubt within your soul? Is there any one of you who is not absolutely certain that this is your wish? If there is one such among you, now is the time to step away. None will think less of you. Be warned: should that doubt exist, the Sur will detect it, and you will be destroyed.
“I will give you a moment to decide.”
Thoreau paused to let the Yearlings consider his offer. Silence held sway among the Yearlings. None of them made a sound, nor did any step away.
Logan knew that they never did. The offer was a formality. Those who were unwilling departed their ranks long ago.
“Then you are decided, and set upon your course! Your fate is your own to forge now, and you will be alone in that resolution. You have three days to reach the extraction point. At dawn of the third day, we open the portal. Those of you who return to us will thereafter be members of the Elc’atar Guard. Those who do not, will dwell in our prayers, in our dreams, and we will drink to your memory. We thank you all for the service you have rendered. Face your death with the knowledge that your actions have kept our people safe, and your loyalty has let them rest secure.
“And so we clear our minds of middling concerns, we connect ourselves to the greater world around us, and we begin!”
As one, the Yearlings faced the gate.
With the last of the Commandant’s words, the gathered Areth'kon Blades made a smart right face. They faced the Yearlings who were about to enter the portal.
The empty stone gate was illuminated by degrees. A mist rose from within it and spilled into the vale. The markings on the surface shone and changed. By increments the building energy arced outward, the jets of power increased until it filled the empty space. The entire surface was transmuted into a blaze of white light, and a spiral of black opened in its center. The spiral expanded and extended until only a halo of light marked the edge of the darkness.
Logan drew his sword, and the other Yearlings were a heartbeat behind him.
They entered the void at a run.
Logan did not falter. This was his release. This was his liberation.
He entered the darkness a step ahead of his companions. The energies reached out for him, seized him in their eagerness, and drew him into its embrace.
The rest of the Yearlings followed.
The moment the last of them stepped through the portal, the Magi released their power, and the void vanished. Once more the gate stood empty. A solid ring of weathered stone stood upright, with tendrils of mist that reached from the archway.
The lo’el howled as one and cried their grief in one long, mournful note.
CHAPTER TWO
Logan's Personal
Journal
Three Days Prior to Entering the Sur
S uccess, once such a dear friend, makes a rare appearance these days. Wh
en it does, it is tarnished with criticism, judgment and derision. The flesh gives the lie; the perfection of action is tainted by anger and disillusion. I tore through a squad of graduates tonight, a gaggle of Le’Manon brats. It gave vent to my ire, felt grand in the moment, but still my soul sought succor. The Elc’atar on duty, Deidre, castigated me for it though she spoke no words. I saw it in her eyes, in her sin’del.
And she was right.
I am incapable of reaching the perfection I seek, for I am not pure. Regardless of how pathetic and sophomoric that statement sounds, it contains a kernel of truth. I am so fecking tired. I search the world in an attempt to find a reason for continuing this life. I find fewer and fewer every day. I have obligations. I have duty borne of promises. I have decayed dreams of glory.
What I lack is hope.
Arielle is gone from me. She has found happiness in the arms of a Kal’Parev mongrel. She made that clear enough when she set her lo’el against me. The lo’el are purported to be steadfast and loyal, but Dusk turned on me as well. How did she do that?
What is it about me that engenders such faithlessness? I am the heir to House Fel’Mekrin. My name should be lauded at every turn. The crowds should part before me, not giggle behind my back.
They fear me, but they do not respect me. Despite my best efforts, I cannot bend the universe to my will.
There is no Patresilen that I can escape to like the heroes of old. Even if I arrive at the threshold, I will be unable to enter.
I fail at everything I do, and that has become a weight pressing down upon my soul.
CHAPTER THREE
The Sur
The presence of the new world pressed against Logan's awareness. It assaulted his mind with a clairvoyant barrage of visions and impressions. The collective memories of all who came before him clamored to be heard all at once.