When we win this war...
Ahna admired Gideon for his blind faith. Though, for a brief moment, the old coot saying made more sense to her. She wanted to remain hopeful and positive, but as she looked at the modest fort under the reclined cliff of Gal, her mind could not fathom a victory. Yet Gideon still had the light of hope that shone in his oval eyes.
“The gods took their time to reveal their plan,” Ahna said. “A new prophecy, now, of all times?”
Gideon first answered with a soft chuckle as he looked over the cliff. “It only makes sense,” he warmly noted. “We have an archmage in our midst, one who can name the Dragonborn because she has already done it once. The Resistance had a Dragonborn all along, the gods just needed to point us to him, at the right time.”
Ahna simply nodded. For just a moment, she wondered how many other Dragonborns were out there, how many who carried the gods’ essence in their blood. How many were destined to save a land, like her brother, or now, like Cedric Rover. When Gideon and the elf reached the end of the path, they returned to the fort to finish their task.
Cedric found a damaged training dummy in one of the crates in the antechamber. He brought it to the last empty room of the cloister, and began to cut through it unceasingly until nightfall. The shrike took another strike against the innocent wooden doll. He even managed to get so warm that he had to rid himself of the yak coat.
As Cedric struck one more time, the dummy fell to the cold ground and broke in two. He sighed deeply and sheathed his sword. Behind him, Ahna stood leaned against the wooden doorframe.
“Déjà vu,” he softly whispered.
He turned to her and raised his open hands slightly in the air, expecting her to say something. Instead, she smiled gently at him.
“That’s how you deal with something difficult,” she said. “You swing your sword.”
Cedric chuckled and shrugged. “I guess, and look”—he pointed at the broken dummy—“they brought my favourite toy.”
The shrike captain stepped outside the room and went to sit on the base of the facing arch. Ahna came to rest close to him. He had a grim, concerned look on his face, as if he bore a secret too heavy for him.
But it was not a secret. It was the responsibility of an entire movement.
“I haven’t had a rest in gods know how long!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been running and running since East Haven. We’ve gone to Bravoure city. Hell, I even ran with one single sword into a fortified castle to save you!” He laughed at the aberrance of his words. He looked to Ahna with an imploring glance, almost begging for some time to doze off for a full night. “And now, I’m supposed to turn into a dragon...” he said, unbelieving of his words. “The horde is coming here. Yesterday, people were silent and praying for a peaceful death and today, they are rejoicing. I can’t help but think they’re fools.”
“They have hope again,” Ahna declared with a simper. “This new prophecy restored their faith.”
“Prophecy be damned!” the restless shrike howled. “We’re freezing cold, half the soldiers are wounded, and we survive on cloud bread and nutspread! At this point, hope is meaningless.”
But Ahna dived into his eyes and bore the bravest smile on her face. “Hope is the spark that ignites a rebellion,” she proudly said.
Cedric chuckled again and gazed upon her dearly. “You got that one from Joshua, didn’t you?”
Ahna gave him a quiet nod. She had heard it from Kairen, who probably had heard it from David, who then had heard it from the high commander himself. That small detail did not matter anyway. Those words had brought a light of confidence in the shrike’s eyes, and he rose to his feet furtively with an enduring smile.
“No time for self-doubt, then,” he said. He stood in front of Ahna with his arms gloriously raised in the air. “So, Archmage, name me.”
Ahna laughed silently. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never seems to be.”
She smiled at the truth of his words. “The naming needs to happen in a place of draconic worship,” she pursued. “Gideon says there is an old temple north from here, at the lower side of the mountain. The Temple of the Four Winds, it’s within less than a day’s reach.”
“And we’re on the run again.”
Cedric glanced at her expectantly. The look on her face had suddenly become somber, as though a dark thought had passed through her mind.
“Cedric,” she began again with a concerned tone. “Your body will become a divine vessel. Your own soul will unite with a draconic soulling, an infant soul, or so to speak. That is how it’s supposed to go. Although in your case, I am honestly not sure what will happen.” He remained silent and attentive. “The shadows could somehow interfere,” she warned.
The shrike took a step back and leaned against the wall behind him. He sighed deeply and kept his gaze on Ahna as he pressed his lips together in uncertainty. At best, he would turn into a dragon, the majestic beast everyone kept talking about. At worst, he would die and lose his soul. What could possibly be worse than losing his soul?
After a minute of thinking, he straightened his body and came close to the elf.
“I pledged my soul to the cause. Whatever happens, let it happen.”
He smiled as she delved deeper in his eyes. The flicker of the torch next to them was reflected in his cerulean gaze. Ahna ached again for the taste of his lips, for a brief moment of comfort. In the ocean of his irises, she saw the determination, the urge that he was prepared to do whatever it takes to put an end to this bloody war and to lead the Resistance to victory.
14
Dragonborn II
Boots marched in the soiled grass that had turned to mud in the valley where Orgna had stood, steps that shook the ground beneath them. Sharr’s army had installed itself. They stretched tents, lit fires, sharpened their swords, patched their wounds and trained against each other. They cast their dead into the trenches dug that served as mass graves.
By the collapsed cliff that formed a slump, where the barracks had been crushed by a mudslide, Xandor Kun Sharr walked, proud, in the royal gold armor that was never his to wear. His gaze rested on the broken beams that peaked from underneath the rocks, crumbles of the gates that stood no more.
The body of the fallen Resistance leader reposed by the ruble, cold and lifeless, slouched on a dried sand rock, his dead hand open above his heart. Xandor looked at him with a dark grin on his face. The body had begun to decompose. His eyes were pale, his tongue dry, and his skin was cracked with green yellowish pus.
The Dark Lord kneeled by him and gorged himself with the putrid smell of decay. He exhaled lively as though he relished it. He picked up the royal claymore that lay beside him and plunged it through the dead man’s body. The sword remained erect, lodged between his broken ribs and the mud underneath.
Xandor was soon joined by his grand vizier, Sodiln, who came bearing gifts. He marched with his silversteel armor rattling to the rhythm of his steps. The dokkalfar officer carried rebel swords and spears he had picked up on his way to his master.
Xandor, unimpressed, turned to Sodiln. “Any sign of my sister?” he asked, pensive.
“A few dryak traitors but no sign of Lady Sharr.”
His master stepped away from the high commander’s corpse and headed back to his army’s encampment. He signaled for Sodiln to get rid of the carcass while he returned to his troops.
When he reached the tents, he was greeted by two of his soldiers who had caught a wounded dissident who hid below the valley, a young dark elf, who struggled against his capturers. They held him down with a two-handed flail, with the chain around his throat. The metal slowly clawed through his skin, and his neck bled.
Xandor leaned toward the young prisoner. He spoke to him with a low and calm voice. “You’re too young to fight, dryaini.”
The rebel dark elf spat at the Dark Lord. He addressed Xandor in Dokkalfari, condemned him to burn in Hell’s fifth circle, warning him of his impending demise. T
he flail’s wielder pulled the weapon to his side, and the prisoner fell face first, in the mud, silenced by the oppressive force. Xandor signed his men to take him away.
The grand vizier emerged from behind him. “Bind his hands and feet and throw him in the trenches!” Sodiln commanded.
The Dark Lord then walked toward the middle of the encampment. There, attached to a single black stallion of the Dwellunder, was an iron cage where one dokkalfar wrapped in a dark cloak lay still. He slept disturbed, agitated by nightmares, screams and cries he heard in his mind.
Xandor walked to the door and clasped his hand around one of the bars. He looked upon his frightened brother, who cried and yelled in his sleep. With a blunt thrust of his palm against the cage, he awoke Thamias, who screamed and turned his head left and right in a panic.
Xandor snickered at his brother. “My soldiers are ascending,” he declared. “Soon, they will reach the peaks and will draw the Resistance out of their hiding den. I’m going to need you soon, little brother.”
Thamias, panting, his chest heaving, regained his calm and scowled at his older brother. “I will not be fighting for you, Xandor!”
But the Dark Lord howled a maniacal laugh. He had seized a small-sized object in his hand, an iron key that fitted in the lock of Thamias’ cage. “As long as I have you here, your will is mine to dominate!” He waved the object as he spoke to mock him.
Thamias was severely weakened. A transformation to his draconic form would force him into a state of pure rage. He would blast anything in his path, even if it were Resistance fighters.
“When the rebels come crawling to me, you will burn them to ashes!” the Dark Lord violently announced. His face then came close to the cage’s door, and his tone darkened more. “And there will be no Meriel to rescue you!”
One entity of each of the three axes of the Fabric of Realms must bear witness to the draconic ritual that is the naming of a Dragonborn.
Outside Fort Gal, there was a path on the right, to the east, that contoured the peaks. The trail slinked along the crest of Gurdal and led to the lower summits to the north.
And so, Jules, Brother Gideon, Ahna, and Cedric walked north toward the Temple of the Four Winds, in the cold breeze of the morning. They wore their snow boots packed with wool, warm yak fur coats, and had secured themselves with a sturdy rope that bound them together.
The golden light of dawn rested on the high mountains to the east. High white peaks that could nearly reach the stars. Some said that the gods often came to these peaks to watch over the mortals in confidence. To the west, the lower mountains were below the snow line.
The crest led them to another trail, among the few hardy pine trees that had made it above the snow. As they reached the upper edge of a distant forest, they saw, further above the snowy ridge, figures of large ancient columns that supported a larger dome roof with an open top. The columns rested on a circular crepidoma, built on the flat top of the hill, by the high cliff to the north. The wind had become harsher and sprinkled around some snow it had carried off the mounts.
Brother Gideon, at the sight of the open temple, accelerated the pace, undid the rope and rushed upward. The three others followed him, and they made it to the top.
The ancient stone structure had stood solid for centuries. It preceded the era of the old monks of Gurdal and had probably witnessed the first Varkadian rites of prehistoric nomads. None knew who had built the draconic temples. Some, like a few magi, believed them to be remnants of ancient constructions, from a time before the world they knew.
The grand open temple in the middle had but one single altar, which was covered with snow. Gideon went up the few stairs, marching on the platform for stylobate. He was removing the snow altar and gazing towards the horizon. The mountains, high above the cliffs and untouched by ice and snow, became lower hills. Much of the countryside was covered by the dense coniferous trees.
Ahna saw the inscriptions as she hit the altar.
It was Draconis.
She could not read it, and neither could Gideon. The two went to Cedric as he walked down the steps. When the shrike came to the altar, Gideon welcomed him into reading, they stood aside. Cedric rested his hands on both sides of the stone as he gazed upon the markings. Jules remained behind him and the three waited expectantly.
Cedric shook his head and turned to Ahna.
“I don’t exactly make sense of this,” he confessed. “But it gives me a strange sense of refuge.”
She looked at him with curiosity. “Can you read what’s written?”
The shrike took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Drakos ena ola. Tesserys anemoi. Anemos naos. Kalos ilthate sto iero mas.”
He had pronounced these words with hesitation, but also with a sentiment of dignity. When he finished reading, he turned to his peers.
“I have no idea what it means!” he admitted as he passed his gloved hands in his hair to shake off some snow. “I just know what I feel when I read it.”
Brother Gideon smiled. The language of the gods may not be something mortals understood, but mortals could connect with the gods as they read the old markings. To speak the tongue of Draconis was the utmost privilege. That of the children of the gods, the dragonborns.
The sound of the wind whistled against the bare columns of the open temple. As they focused on its music, they noticed four different harmonics that chanted to the temple’s visitors.
Cedric stood by the altar and attempted to make sense of the words he had just read. Ahna and Gideon prepared for the coming ritual, and Jules observed them and wondered what his task could be.
“Tell me, Captain Rover, were you baptised?” Brother Gideon inquired.
Cedric turned to him and shrugged. “I was born an orphan. I didn’t have the luxury of religion.”
“Yet you pray to Guan?” the cleric retorted. “Interesting how pieces of the eternal puzzle join together,” he distantly said. “Were you initiated?”
Cedric remembered his long-forgotten reasons for joining the Guan Order. Before the Uprising, more than a decade ago, when the young outlaw had met the shrikes of the rebellion. The Resistance had given him hope, a righteous reason to fight. And with that hope came endurance, then the feeling of purpose. Joining the clerics of Guan had occurred naturally, as he was led to new honorable ways.
As a response to Gideon’s last question, Cedric gave him a nod. He had passed the initiation to the order and was blessed in the symbolic tears of the horned dragon.
“Good—it will make my task easier,” the wise man declared.
Jules, who still observed the cleric and the elf, had many questions he kept to himself. He did not want to disturb them as they prepared for the ritual, yet he grew more and more curious.
“Ahna, I have a question,” he finally uttered as he turned to her and gave her a puzzled look. He cleared his throat. “What’s happening?”
“Brother Gideon is going to bind Cedric’s body to the divine,” she replied instructively. “Cedric has been initiated in the past. His connection to the gods is clearer.”
“What about you?”
“Simple answer? I will be opening a portal,” she announced with a smile.
As Gideon instructed Cedric to stand by the altar, he took a few steps back and placed himself at the edge of the stylobate. He signed something to Ahna, and she nodded and headed to the opposite side, behind the altar.
As she passed Cedric, she stood for a short minute by him and searched his cerulean eyes. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. She wanted to say many unsaid things to him, but this was not the place nor the time. The flame of resolution burned in his eyes. Something in her heart longed for that flame. She desired to stay here, in this moment, lost at sea in the ocean of the shrike’s gaze. She laid her hand on his arm with affection before she walked further to the back of the altar.
From inside his fur coat, Gideon pulled a large hand-sized pendant attached to a simple rope in a knot
. The object hung in his hand. It was a circle made of silver, with an inner ring that contoured a flat mirror surface and seemed loose. The mirror was adorned with white engravings, in a similar style to the writings on the old man’s clerical alb.
Gideon gently put the symbol around his neck and held his hands open on both sides of the pendant. He closed his eyes and uttered the holy words of the Divine Fervour.
Through the hands of the cleric, a bright light started shining. The pendant moved further ahead of him, and the inner ring slowly rotated. He guided the levitating body with his hands to the length of an arm of his face. The ring rotated faster and faster, and the pendant suddenly stopped midair as the halo obscured the mirror, and faced Cedric. Instead, the golden light exploded in a sphere of limitless rays, and the shrike plunged into divine radiance. Cedric, overcome by an overwhelming sense of ecstasy, dropped to his knees when the light was gone. Gideon's pendant came back to hang from his neck, and Cedric, panting from the blessing’s impact, lifted his head up to the old cleric.
The winds had become stronger. The whistles had turned to a soft, muttered wail. Ahna’s eyes met Jules, and she addressed him quickly.
“It’s time.”
He looked at her, unsure. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You are the natural witness, you are to prepare Cedric for a divine arrival.”
Jules, still unsure, glanced at his captain in search for more explanations. Cedric, recovering from the holy vehemence, chuckled and looked back at his dear friend.
“She says you have to kill me!” he exclaimed.
Jules gasped in unwilling surprise. He studied Gideon for different orders, but the cleric remained serene. He looked to Ahna, she tilted her head in a nod of confirmation.
Tempest of Bravoure: Kingdom Ascent Page 19