The Key of Creation: Book 02 - Journey to Khodara

by M. D. Bushnell

  “Nothing,” Garrick replied, glancing at the map over his shoulder. “There is nothing up there but snow, ice and mountain goats.”

  Aelianna squatted and shook Navin by the shoulders. “Where he go with Clavis? Speak!”

  “He’s lost a lot of bloody…blood,” Dathan observed.

  Navin barely pried open his eyes; two red slits now framed by a sheen of sweat. In a hoarse whisper he croaked, “He…can’t work…Clavis. Taking to…” He coughed weakly, with flecks of blood in his spittle. “…Kho…dara.”

  “Khodara!” Aldrick and Garrick said as one.

  “Khodara is a myth!” Aldrick added quickly.

  “What is this ‘Khodara’?” Aelianna asked in a suspicious voice.

  “Khodara is a mythical place hidden somewhere in the mountains of Illyria,” Aldrick explained. “There has never been agreement on exactly what it is; it seemed to be something different for everyone. I’ve read stories that claimed it was an oasis in a blizzard, while others said it was only a simple cottage in the woods.”

  “In Illyria we know it as more than myth,” Garrick added. “We believe it is real, yet I’ve not heard of anyone finding it in some time.”

  “But this is map?” Aelianna asked.

  Aldrick looked disbelievingly at the parchment. “We have nothing but a map that shows a route into the mountains, and the word of a thug that it leads to Khodara.”

  “Ask him where he got it,” Garrick suggested.

  When Navin did not react to a solid kick, Aelianna squatted to feel his pulse and reported in a matter-of-fact voice, “He is dead.”

  “And so we have no lead, except a map which leads to a legend,” Aldrick scoffed.

  Silence hung over the ruined common room for several moments until Garrick said, “Whether Khodara exists or not is irrelevant. All that matters now is finding Jahann and the Clavis, and now we know where he is going.”

  “If this map can be believed.”

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  Aldrick opened his mouth, but after a moment could think of nothing, and shook his head.

  Aelianna slung her bone-white bow over a shoulder. “When we go?”

  “What do you mean by we?”

  “You have map to Clavis. I go.”

  “That is not a good idea,” Aldrick argued. “You can’t go with us.”

  Aelianna tilted her head like a bird. “Why is this?”

  “Because…” Aldrick floundered. “Hunting this sorcerer, if that is what he truly is, will be dangerous, and the journey long and difficult. Besides, the Clavis was stolen from me. I’m trying to recover it for research. I must determine its purpose.”

  “I tell you purpose,” Aelianna scoffed. “It is to save my people. This is purpose.”

  “I’m not convinced of that,” Aldrick said with a frown.

  “Ae’roya Jost say it is so. What you not understand?”

  “I don’t believe in the validity of the Ae’roya Jost; there is no proof the imagery is real and not drug induced,” Aldrick stated as if by rote. Although he sounded confident, he could not help but feel some doubt, thinking about the similarity to his own visions.

  “So it not true if you not see it? You see when Mother Zam’mana grow world in her womb? You not believe in world if you not see it born?”

  “It was the All Father who spun the world and the sky into being,” Aldrick argued.

  “So you see this All Father do this?”

  “No, of course not. There is no proof; you just have to have faith.”

  “Ae’roya Jost is like this. It is faith.

  Aldrick tried a different tact. “Yes, but how does it work? I have to understand it to believe in it.”

  Aelianna gave him a look that reminded him of a schoolteacher he had once when he was young. “You know how baby is made?”

  His cheeks colored and he cleared his throat. “I understand the basics.”

  Aelianna laughed. “You turn red like little girl! I not mean do’daram; you call it sex. I mean how this make baby grow?

  Aldrick chuckled in spite of himself. “No one knows exactly how that works.”

  “You not understand baby, but still believe it is?”

  “She’s got you there, Aldrick,” Garrick interjected.

  Aldrick could see her point, but was unwilling to concede so easily. “Still, we can’t both have the Clavis.”

  “You have it when I done,” Aelianna concluded. “I go if you say yes or no. Best you say yes; make easy.” Aldrick saw her begin to reach towards her bow, but then she seemed to change her mind.

  Seeing the defiance in her eyes suddenly reminded him of the hazy figure of an equally defiant warrior from his dream who had stood next to him and Garrick as an equal, facing Sargon unafraid. Could this strange woman be that warrior?

  “I imagine it would be easier to travel together,” Aldrick acquiesced. “If you are decided on going.”

  “I must go.”

  “I am going as well,” Garrick added.

  Warren, who had been quiet for a while, spoke up. “I thought you were going back to Akkadia now that you have surveyed the encampment.”

  “That was my plan,” Garrick agreed. “But things have changed. I think I need to go with Aldrick.”

  “Another one of your feelings?” Warren asked with a sigh.

  “You could say that.”

  “Is it a good idea to be traveling through Illyria now with all these soldiers about?”

  “Good idea?” Garrick laughed. “Absolutely not! I don’t think we have much of a choice however.”

  Warren sighed. “I guess we are off to Khodara then.”

  “You can bloody count me in,” Dathan chimed in. “I am not going back to bloody Kishen to face that blasted monster.”

  “We settle this, so I repeat question,” Aelianna said, stretching like a cat. “When we go?”

  Chapter 14

  The flickering light from a single sputtering torch was his only relief from the complete and utter darkness of the dank, foul smelling dungeon. The weak fluttering illumination was perhaps the only thing that allowed Brodan to cling to his sanity. In the dark recesses of his cell he could hear the scuffling and sniffing of rats searching for scraps. In the beginning, that had been the most loathsome part of imprisonment; he would never forget waking one morning to find a large dark brown rat nibbling at his new-grown beard. He had been unable to sleep for days after that. Of course as time passed, he had grown accustomed to them. He hardly even noticed them now.

  The worst part of imprisonment now was the boredom. Other than eating and using the foul smelling chamber pot, there simply was nothing to do other than fester his hatred towards those who had betrayed him. Fortunately as the son of the former king, he was treated marginally well compared to the standard treatment. The food was adequate, his chamber pot was cleaned on a semi-regular basis, and the single torch he was allowed was often replaced; a unique beneficence not normally enjoyed by a regular patron of the dungeon.

  Unfortunately, there was no immediate solution for the rat infestation. Yet since there were currently no other prisoners in this block to keep him company, he almost welcomed the presence of the vermin now. The skittering of their little claws on the cold stone floor became a symphony in his mind; a music to push back the maddening silence and loneliness. A background of rodentia to his quiet contemplation of the injustice of his presence here, along with the various ways he would repay the traitorous bastards who were responsible for the crime.

  Brodan was just finishing the nutritious, yet unappetizing slop which passed for lunch when he heard the unmistakable echo of footsteps approaching. This was a surprise, considering he was the only guest in this establishment at the moment, and did not expect to see another guard until dinner. In a few moments a dark hooded figure materialized out of the shadows and stepped into the fluttering torchlight.

  Brodan squinted, trying to see his face, but it was hidden within
the folds of his hood and a shroud of encroaching shadows.

  “Brodan?” The voice sounded hoarse, as if the speaker was changing his voice on purpose.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a former loyalist, and…a friend. You look terrible.”

  The former regent scratched his long, scraggly beard. “I don’t get to the royal baths much these days,” he said with a hint of anger.

  The stranger grimaced. “It stinks down here.”

  Brodan stood and flourished a creaky royal bow. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he spoke ironically, but his smile was forced. He sighed and flopped down on the thin straw cot. “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to ask you about King Gilmoure,” the hooded man said.

  “Gilmoure?” His head came up at the mention of the name, and a glint of torchlight reflected fiercely in the eyes of the former regent.

  “Are you aware of Gilmoure’s true identity?”

  Brodan came to his feet in a flash. “I never discovered much about Gilmoure during the Tournament, no one had heard of him. What do you mean by ‘true identity’?”

  “I have learned that King Gilmoure is in truth the crown prince of Illyria, Prince Garrick.”

  “What?” Brodan stammered.

  The stranger continued, “There are some in the palace who believe he only wants the best for us, but I’m not so sure.”

  “They are all traitors!” Brodan spat. He stepped forward and grabbed the bars of his cell, with a wild look in his eyes. “Are you sure about this?”

  The mysterious stranger nodded, but said nothing.

  Brodan was stunned, and for several long moments did nothing but stare at the stone floor and lick his parched lips. Eventually, he croaked, “Bring me water.”

  The hooded stranger glanced about the area visible in the pool of torchlight, and saw a dented pitcher sitting on a rickety wooden table near the far stone wall. He poured some tepid water into a filthy tin cup and handed it to Brodan, who gulped it down as if he was dying of thirst.

  When he was finished, the former regent gently handed the cup back and leaned his forehead against the cell bars. “Prince Garrick of Illyria. How could this happen?”

  The stranger shrugged. “There are rumors of turmoil taking place in Illyria, claiming Garrick has fled. I was near the border recently and learned that King Zabalan wants Garrick for questioning; something to do with missing nobles and military leaders. This could mean Garrick is not a spy, as some believe. But I cannot help but wonder if this isn’t an elaborate Illyrian scheme to conquer Asturia.

  “An Illyrian scheme…”

  “Yes. A renegade prince flees chaos at home, and becomes enamored with the people of his new country. He manages to become their leader, all with the sole intention of protecting them from his own people. While I admit it’s possible, it seems rather unlikely, and I’m having difficulty believing it could be true.”

  “That is it…”

  “What is it?”

  “I knew he had ulterior motives. This entire time it’s been an Illyrian plot to take over the country.”

  “I am only speculating Brodan. I have no proof of that.”

  The former regent nodded obliviously. The fire burning in his eyes had nothing to do with the flickering light of the lone torch in the dark stone hall.

  “I suspected it was a plot from the beginning. I just didn’t see how insidious it was. This is the missing piece I needed. The prince of Illyria has taken over the country and put me, the rightful king, in prison. Oh, he will pay for this.” Brodan pranced around the cell childishly, casting crazy undulating shadows against the rear stone wall.

  “What of the advisors who support him?” The hooded man spoke now with reluctance. “I can’t believe they would be involved.”

  Brodan lunged at the cell bars. “Just say who you mean. We both know you are talking about Tiberius and his followers. If he knows of this crime and does not free me, then he’s as much a traitor as his backstabbing son.”

  “I don’t know…” The stranger cut off when the creak of a rusty iron door at the entrance to the cells echoed from a distance. Glancing about the darkness of the dungeon, he whispered, “Someone is coming. I need to hide.”

  “The next cell is empty,” the prisoner whispered, licking his lips.

  The cloaked figure hesitated briefly, glancing back towards the outer door. He then darted into the shadows beyond the torchlight and was gone from sight. Brodan heard a few light scuffs from his heavy boots, and then nothing more. After a moment, a new set of steps echoed closer and Tiberius stepped into the dim torchlight.

  “Speak of the dark one and he shall appear,” Brodan scowled. “What do you want?”

  “Now Brodan, let’s be civil. Regardless of these unfortunate circumstances, you must remember that I practically raised you.”

  Brodan scoffed. “Along with that traitorous bastard son of yours!”

  “Please Brodan,” Tiberius sighed. “You know very well he’s not a traitor.”

  Brodan frowned, his eyes flicking about the dim cell. “You almost had me convinced I was crazy, old man. Now I’ve learned I was right all along.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tiberius asked in a tired voice.

  “The small matter of our new ‘king’ being the Illyrian prince, and a spy!”

  “What? Who told you that?” Tiberius demanded.

  “What does it matter?” Brodan argued. “It’s true.”

  A large rat squeaked and darted across the passage, its claws scratching across the cold, stone floor. Tiberius peered into the shadows for a moment, and then continued. “King Gilmoure is not a spy. He is a good man, and he cares greatly about the welfare of this country.”

  “You don’t deny it then. He is the crown prince of Illyria!” Brodan accused.

  “Where did you get this information?”

  “It makes no difference! He, and anyone that supports him is a traitor! If you wish to avoid their fate, you must release me now!”

  “Release you?” Tiberius stared in horror. “Why would I release you? You are a self confessed murderer! Even you must realize the consequences.”

  “I murdered no one!” Brodan’s voice shook as he shouted.

  “You ordered the deaths of the other finalists, as you’ve already admitted. I still suspect you ordered Brandt’s death as well.”

  “I told you I had nothing to do with Brandt’s death.”

  “Nevertheless, the deaths of the other contestants are horrific enough. If it weren’t for my son arguing to spare your life and delay your trial, you would have been executed long ago. At the very least, you would have been banished to the southern wastes; a fate which would have had you begging for a quick execution.”

  “All of that is now irrelevant. I was completely justified. I was trying to stop an Illyrian plot to seize control of the country.”

  “There is no Illyrian plot, Brodan. You murdered the contenders and cheated at the Tournament in an effort to become king, and you were caught.”

  “Lies!” Brodan screeched. “I am the only thing standing between our people and Illyrian domination!”

  Tiberius sighed. “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. I only came for my weekly visit because regardless of your crimes, I still thought of you as a second son. It seemed you were making progress, but now I can see that will never happen.”

  “You only call me your son because of what happened to your wife and her unborn child. I am no son of yours!”

  “Don’t you dare speak of my wife and…” His voice cracked but he composed himself. “I pity you Brodan. I’m sorry I failed you.”

  With that, a teary eyed Tiberius turned and left, his footsteps fading eerily down the dark stone hallway.

  “You will pay for this, traitor!” Brodan shouted at the retreating man. “You will all pay for this treason!”

  After the clang of the distant door, several moments passed where the only sound was the sput
tering flame of the single torch, and the skittering of the rats.

  Finally, Brodan licked his lips and demanded, “Are you going to stay in the shadows forever?”

  The hooded stranger stepped out of the ebon gloom as quickly as he had entered it.

  “What was that about his unborn child?”