Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

The man’s russet-gold eyes narrowed, twisting with a maelstrom of heat and a dark temper. “Dare you to loose such an idiot tongue steeped in lies at me? Telling me such odious falsehoods—”

  “Peace!” Jherrick moved in fast, extending a hand to forestall the bloodshed he could practically feel coming. “My comrade speaks the truth. Khehem has no King, and no one has lived there since it was destroyed in a terrible war a thousand years ago. It’s a dead city, my friend. We’ve seen it, with our own eyes. We’ve been there.”

  “How can it be? The vision that beast gave me...” The man went pale, his russet eyes terrible. All fire dropped from his eyes as an annihilating fear roiled through his gaze. With a shudder, he wiped a palm over his face, his fingertips lingering at his smooth lips. His hand drifting away from his face, he stared at it, as if it was not quite there. Jherrick drew a deep breath as he and Aldris shared a look. Aldris lowered his crystal longknives, watching the man closely as Jherrick took a breath, his brows furrowed.

  Jherrick was about to ask if the man really was who he said he was, and what he recalled of these trials he had just come from, when he felt a movement of air from above. Five Albrenni flew down through the dusk-lit sky like eagles diving, slamming to the plaza with ephemeral wings wide and rolling with power. It was not Noldrones Flavian, but Archaeon Stranik who stormed forward with all the wrath of a burning sun, a massive javelin of pure rose-crystal hefted in his right hand. His broken wings spread wide, they trembled as he devoured the essence of the stars, his gaze pinning Jherrick like firebrands.

  “What have you done, Noldrones Jherrick?” Archaeon rumbled, his voice pummeling the air like thunder. “Have you not learned that those you return from death become your responsibility?”

  “This man has had a vision of the Red-Eyed Demon, same as I have.” Jherrick rose, standing his ground before the ancient Albrennus, not accepting criticism for something his wyrria had done on pure instinct, and something that had felt so right to do. “I saw my nation destroyed in his vision, Archaeon. I couldn’t let him die.”

  The man who professed to be Leith Alodwine had stepped beside Jherrick. His fugue passed with the arrival of this new danger, his palms were spread at his sides in peacemaking. But his gaze was level, focused, wary: and in it Jherrick could see red fire begin to twist – as that tremendous energy bubbled up in the Void again, swirling around him.

  “You have resurrected something you can’t control, Noldrones Jherrick.” Archaeon’s voice was cold, his iron-hard gaze shifting to the newcomer as if he also watched that tremendous wyrria seething up through the Void. “Someone whose fate is now intertwined with yours.”

  Four Albrenni flanked Archaeon, including Ethirae and Flavian, their infinite eyes full of a vast and terrible sorrow. Ethirae opened her mouth as if to speak, but at a shake of Flavian’s head, she closed her beautiful lips. There was to be no mercy here. Whatever Jherrick had done, resurrecting this man here and now who professed to be Khehem’s Last King, it was something terribly proscribed. Jherrick could see the enormous wave of energy the Albrenni pulled from the stars, channeling all of it into Archaeon. Ruined though he was, he was still powerful, the immensity of his rising energy lighting the air with curls of white vapor, the same as rippled through the archways – limning his crystal javelin with white sigils and coursing wyrric flames.

  “I am no threat to you, whoever you are,” Leith’s voice was low at Jherrick’s side, but the air around him crackled with answering power, his eyes molten gold as his hands transitioned to readiness. “But I tell you here and now, if you threaten a brother of my city, one who has saved my life, you will face my wrath. I have battled a beast of legend today and survived – and I’m of a mind to battle more if necessary.”

  The entire breadth of the cloverleaf plaza suddenly began to crackle with power, both from Archaeon and the Albrenni and also from the newcomer. With a florid curse, Aldris seized Jherrick by his collar, hauling him to the side near the archways. Archaeon’s gaze pinned Jherrick, austere and terrible, before it slid back to the newcomer. But it was Noldrones Flavian that spoke up, his gaze infinite with sorrow as he pressed one hand to his heart.

  “We have come because we feel the call of the Undoer within the both of you,” Flavian breathed, his starlit eyes devouring Jherrick. “Buried deep in a place where it was not before. Innocence remained until the Void shuddered with a deep and powerful knell just now, the likes of which I have not felt in a god’s age. For at the touch of each other’s wyrria, Noldrones Jherrick, the saving of each other’s lives, you have saved a vision of Undoing that would have died to the Voidwinds had your souls both fled tonight. I am sorry. Though you made it all unwitting, the choice has been made. Two fates have been twined as one – for as long as you both may live it. We can no longer harbor you here, Noldrones Jherrick, for your learning will take a harder path than we ever could have imagined.”

  “Punish me for this profane act within your starlit realm, not him, god of whatever people you come from,” Leith Alodwine spoke up, his voice cold with power. Jherrick glanced over to see that Leith’s gaze had gone flat as that enormous power rose up behind him in the Void. Devouring light, it spun in crimson and gold shadows like a vortex of endless motion. Flavored with the snarl of beasts in battle, a red wash of color filled the Void, fueled with conflict and rage.

  “You will find no mercy here, Scion of conflict and deathmaking.” Archaeon’s answering growl was summer thunder upon a wind of ether. Drawing an enormous breath, he filled his emaciated chest like a powerful bellows, the crystal javelin in his ready hand flaring white-hot as he raised it.

  And Jherrick knew that if battle began, only the Undoer would reap the harvest. Without stopping to think, he tore from Aldris’ grip and stepped in front of the Scion of Khehem, raising his voice to Archaeon’s etheric surge.

  “Please, I beg you—!”

  But Jherrick got no further. With a mighty throw, Archaeon hurled his crystal javelin, the lodestone for all the Albrenni’s tremendous might – just as Leith Alodwine threw a concussion of power straight from the Void. Colliding, a tremendous sound rang through the Void and the Albrenni’s realm, deafening Jherrick. A shockwave concussed the air from those two enormous powers, sundering the air with a blast as a torrent of sigils smote themselves into being and the crystal javelin exploded in a rush of wyrric flame and searing shards. Power ricocheted; crystal archways cracked. Voidworld energy was released and Aldris was thrown backwards through the leftmost arch with a shout. Hammered by that enormous wave of force also, Leith’s body hit Jherrick, the both of them tossed backwards through the crystal pillars of the central arch.

  And as the vapors of the World Shaper’s mist consumed him, Jherrick heard a cacophony of sounds in the Void, the most sundering, terrible thing he had ever heard in his life – before he was wrenched through the crystal pillars, his body exploding into nothingness before it was once again formed upon the other side.

  CHAPTER 40 – THEROUN

  Khorel Jornath took the lead with Theroun and his other Brethren at his heels, striding into the throng of thieves and Kreth-Hakir upon the obsidian plaza. A soaring silence devoured the bowl between the thirteen black glass archways. Theroun kept his hands on his knife-hilts as he moved through to the front, near the jagged obsidian upwelling and the preserved dragon covered in glittering white dust. A dais of obsidian thrust up in the creature’s midst, encircled by the dragon’s tail and neck, reached by a narrow bridge over the tail and a set of obsidian stairs.

  Upon that dais stood a massive man, raised up above the dragon’s body and visible to the entire amphitheater. He watched Khorel and Theroun approach, though he had no eyes from which to watch. Chin uplifted, the towering, muscled warrior had a white mane thick as a lion’s, raked back from his forehead and braided into long twists. Upright and strong, with massive shoulders and powerful limbs, he wore the studded black herringbone leathers of the Kreth-Hakir, an enormous battle-axe riding his back r
ather than a broadsword.

  The warrior’s proud face was strong-boned, and Theroun realized his stature was truly massive as they ascended the stairs to the dais. The man stood a full head taller than Khorel Jornath, and Khorel was already a head taller than most. The old blind warrior made Theroun feel like a sewer-rat as he came to stand before the dais and adopted his best glower. Riven scars criss-crossed the warrior’s stoic face, like a keshar had ripped up a mountain, deeper than any keshar-marks Theroun had ever seen. The broad scars continued down his neck, under the high collar of his studded jerkin. His bare hands were ripped up also and Theroun’s brows rose, wondering if it was the same beneath all that leather.

  “Indeed.” The old warrior broke into a rumbling chuckle, gazing down at Theroun with an amused smile twisting his thick lips. “My scars go all the way through my flesh and out the other side. Master your pain, and pain will no longer be your master. Welcome, Theroun den’Vekir den’Jornath, Black Viper of the Aphellian Way, newest member of our Order.”

  “And who are you?” Theroun growled, his hackles high as kestrels that this man had slipped into his mind so easily that Theroun felt not a single trace of it.

  “Magnus Yesh. But you may call me High Master.” The man’s blind sockets stared down at Theroun, vastly cunning. Even though Theroun could not feel a single silver thread, he knew that massive, ancient presence was rolling through him, feeling out his every last thought and memory.

  “Stay out of my head.” Theroun growled, a lance of oilslick-dark energy spearing out of him on instinct. Master Yesh did nothing, his posture and subtle smile impeccable. But Theroun’s own wyrria came hammering back at him, smiting him to his knees upon the obsidian glass. Theroun gasped, feeling like he’d taken a swipe from an ice-bear. His knees screamed, ground into the rock as the pressure pummeled him, his spine bowing and head pounding beneath that tremendous force.

  “Khorel. Did you not suggest that your Scion be civil at these proceedings?” High Master Yesh spoke in an amused tone. Theroun couldn’t look up. Incalculable weight pressed him – only his shaking hands kept him braced from being flattened upon the dais.

  Chuckles stole through his mind from those filling the amphitheater’s bowl. Not a few of the Kreth-Hakir were grinning, enjoying the show. But there were those who did not grin. The Cennetian in the Red Valor uniform, for one, far back up on a crag of obsidian stone. Through his pain, Theroun caught the man’s gaze, saw his careful copper eyes as he lifted one hand surreptitiously to his longknife. The Lefkani pirates were no less uneasy, their eyes darting as they maneuvered into a tight group with the feel of a bristling sea-urchin. And the Ghreccani moved restlessly, swarthy faces scowling with hands on their scimitars.

  Just as Theroun thought some of these non-Hakir would leave, High Master Yesh raised a hand to the assembly. “Brothers! Lothren! All those who remember Leith Alodwine, Master of the Dragon and Great Unifier of our time, gather! For tonight we hold the Heraldation, as we have not had in many a long year. For those among the Lothren who know only of this gathering from their forefathers, know this: no harm shall be visited upon you, no matter how willfully you debate tonight. All may wear weapons in this hall, but none may draw, on pain of Annihilation. My Kreth-Hakir Brethren are included in this truce. Should any draw blades or mind-weapons, only Annihilation shall be the result. Those who are new to the Brethren,” Master Yesh gave Theroun the full force of his scar-blind gaze, “would do well to remember consequence in this sacred place.”

  Theroun’s body was suddenly released. The weight upon him evaporated and he was able to take a shaky breath, then push to his feet. Master Yesh’s blind gaze lingered, before he turned back to the hall.

  “Now!” He bellowed, his voice amplified through the natural bowl of obsidian and reflected back by the archways, “We have been called together tonight by High Priest Khorel Jornath, who asked for this assembly some months ago to discuss matters of import.”

  Master Yesh opened his hand to indicate Khorel – who gave a nod, then flicked his glance to Theroun. Theroun understood and stepped to Khorel’s side, but Khorel slid a step forward, so Theroun stood just behind. Theroun set his jaw, chafing, until a soothing wash of energy sluiced over him. Peace, Scion. Pay attention. You may find your insights needed here.

  That statement cooled Theroun. He settled into watchful silence, arms crossed and his scowl in place, his gaze raking the crowd from the high dais as Master Yesh began to speak again. “We live in dire times, my friends – for the Rennkavi has come!”

  The hall erupted in furor, but only from those who did not wear the herringbone-black. Theroun glanced to Khorel, but the man stood firm, gazing straight ahead. Master Yesh raised his hands for the gathering to quiet, then motioned Khorel Jornath forward to speak.

  “The Rennkavi has indeed come,” Khorel spoke in his low, dominant tones. His voice blossomed through the hall, resonant with his rolling Unaligned accent. “I have seen his Goldenmarks and felt their power. The Kreth-Hakir have felt it also, when the Rennkavi sought to break me to his Uniter’s bind near Highsummer.”

  Khorel glanced to Master Yesh, who nodded and gestured for him to elaborate.

  “Lhaurent den’Alrahel of Alrou-Mendera bears the Goldenmarks,” Khorel intoned, continuing. “Long have the Kreth-Hakir Brethren monitored both tyrant and benevolent for the coming of the Rennkavi or the Demon. One has arrived. And yet,” Khorel rubbed his lips and gave a hard sigh, something Theroun rarely saw him do, “he is not the Unifier we might have hoped.”

  Master Yesh beckoned for him to continue, and Khorel Jornath launched into a summation of Lhaurent’s atrocious character. He detailed vile deeds and horrid deals the likes of which Theroun had never even imagined. From hundreds tortured in Roushenn’s bleak halls, to thousands murdered in foreign lands, to using the Kreth-Hakir to smite down opposition, it was a stomach-churning list.

  “Lhaurent is a tyrant,” Jornath finished. “But I have seen the fervor of purpose in him. He believes he is the Uniter. He has a singularity of will that lends him power, gentlemen. A power not to be underestimated.”

  “Not to be underestimated at all.” Someone spoke up from the audience, a slight but tall man wearing the herringbone black with Lefkani piercings up both ears.

  “The Heraldation recognizes Brother Coralim hek’Enni,” Master Yesh looked to the man and nodded.

  “From our watching of Lhaurent by my contingent in Lintesh,” the man continued, “which is now decimated but for myself and Brother Arno del’Legate, who remains there, Lhaurent has caused much distress in the population. But I have felt his Goldenmarks, same as Brother Jornath. They bend my will and make me wish for nothing but to make Lhaurent’s glorious vision come to life, regardless of personal cost. Lhaurent has the power to unite us – to truly unite nations and armies against the coming of the Demon. And yet.”

  “Yet, Brother Coralim?” Master Yesh prodded in a gentle but firm tone.

  “Yet,” Brother Coralim continued, his glance darting to Khorel Jornath, “just a few weeks ago, the King-Protectorate from the First Abbey, one Temlin den’Ildrian, asserted that he had learned of Lhaurent’s familial origins – that Lhaurent is not born of Leith Alodwine’s line, as we initially supposed. I passed this information on to Brother Jornath as soon as I heard it, though it cannot be substantiated. The King-Protectorate’s mind was being artistically blocked at the time, by a ronin mind-bender who continues to slip out of our clutches in the mountains near the Elsee.”

  “Thank you Brother Coralim,” Master Yesh nodded levelly. “What other opinions do we have on this matter?”

  Theroun blinked, realizing it was to be a debate. He opened his ears, listening with rapt attention.

  “Lhaurent is a bad man.” This came from an enormously tall fellow of dark black skin down near the bottom of the dais. Countless white Jadounian scarifications of battle prowess were etched across his hands and up the backs of his forearms, even across his high cheek
bones and down the sides of his neck. The man didn’t wear black, but saffron silk garb with a wrapped headscarf – dual scimitars and countless knives on his harness.

  “The Heraldation recognizes Prince Bitko Melo of the Sunwarrior tribe, Second-Head of the Jadounian Lothren.” Master Yesh nodded to the tall fellow.

  “Long have I done the bidding of my Lothren,” the fellow nodded back and continued. “I respect and honor my father Ketko and my mother Botana, dual heads of our Lothren. We are warriors and fierce, but our hearts break for the wreckage done among our people at Lhaurent’s command. My tribe has become little more than slavers. We are not warriors. We are not fierce. We ply our own people into service with threats and tainted water. More than half our population in Jadoun is already lost to Lhaurent’s designs. We seek a pardon from this council tonight. We no longer wish to serve the Rennkavi. He is a bad man, and our country is dying because of him.”

  “Do you not serve your Lothren with glorious purpose?” Another man spoke from the side of the gathering. He had the stocky build of a Ghreccani, with blue-black ringlets down to his shoulders and a geometric tattoo across his forehead. Colorful ochre silk desert-garb was cinched close to his muscled personage, though he wore no weapons. As he approached, Theroun was stunned to realize the man’s irises weren’t Ghreccani black but a stunning ochre color that matched his garb. Those eyes fixed upon Theroun a moment as he pushed forward, rage in them, and cunning.

  “The Heraldation recognizes Passiros Eluvios of the South Desert Raiders in Ghrec, First-Head of the Ghreccani Lothren, and Raiding Priest of the Brethren of the Kreth-Hakir.”

  Raiding Priest was a new title to Theroun. His gaze sharpened upon the man, interested that this fellow was Brethren and Lothren both, yet did not wear the herringbone black. Boorishly handsome, something about the Raiding Priest was also unique. Theroun heard Khorel take an inhalation, his presence stiffening as the Raiding Priest came all the way to the front. Their eyes locked – Khorel and Eluvios. Plain hatred seethed between them.