When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar

by Samuel Stokes

The Shah raised a hand, gesturing for the pair to rise. “Rise, Amir—by all accounts you have served me well. The Vizier reports that your journey was a grand success, your wares sold, your camels return laden with precious goods—even mahogany from the forests of the Diadri. You have indeed done well.”

  “I live to serve, Sire.” The merchant rose to his feet. Amir beckoned for Talan to step up next to him before he continued: “The Vizier indeed has a keen eye. I was hoping to surprise you. Mahogany has become increasingly difficult to procure of late, as the Diadri guard their realm zealously. But I found a smuggler by the border who had procured several lengths of it. He was a shrewd businessman but in the end we reached an accord. It was not easy to drag it across the desert, Sire, but I am sure it will produce many fine furnishings for the Palace.”

  “You have done well, Amir. I will see you are paid well for your industry.”

  “You honor me, Sire,” Amir responded, “but your continued goodwill is more than payment enough.”

  “You have it, Amir, and my thanks,” said the Shah. “Your guard, Sergeant Yusef, has already reported that you were attacked in the Jagatan by a horde of bandits but suffered few casualties. Yusef’s account was intriguing. For one not usually given to flights of fancy it was . . . beyond belief. Could you relate to me what happened in your own words?”

  “Certainly, Sire. As we ventured south through Andara and into the lowlands we came across this man, Talan”—he gestured toward his companion. “He was heading to Khashish as an emissary of the Empress Yaneera. Thinking there would be safety in numbers, we invited him to travel with us. It soon became apparent why he was bold enough to travel alone.

  “We were crossing the Jagatan when we were set upon by a horde of bandits. Easily a hundred of them ambushed us as we arrived at the Sayat Oasis. Our party was fatigued from the journey and we were in need of refreshment—it was an ideal time for them to strike. They swept out of the oasis and would likely have destroyed us, but Talan intervened. I do not understand how he did it but I know that he”—Amir pointed at Talan for emphasis—“did it.”

  “Did what, exactly?” The Shah asked, curious at the tale.

  “Summoned a firestorm—cascading walls of fire that fanned through the bandits’ ranks. Talan rode into the maelstrom—there were flames everywhere—and when the flames ceased, there he was, alone. The bandits were dead, and the scant trace of their bodies that remained would soon be buried beneath the shifting sands of the Jagatan.”

  “A firestorm, you say . . . intriguing.” The Shah looked Talan over: “What manner of man can walk unharmed through a storm of fire? Tell me, Talan, who are you? And why are you here?”

  “Noble Shah,” Talan said at the invitation to speak, “I have come here to gain an audience with you, the reason for which answers the first of your questions. I am a Disciple of Mythos, heir of Empyrea, the Supreme Being in this universe. It is by his gift that I am able to bend the elements to my will.”

  “I know nothing of this Mythos of whom you speak,” the Shah replied. “But in this land, I am supreme.”

  “Indeed you are, noble Shah,” Talan agreed. “From horizon to horizon as far as the eye can see. But stretch your gaze upwards to the heavens. The fold of Mythos encompasses worlds without number and his arm has stretched out to reach this world.

  “Mythos does not seek to supplant you or your throne, Shah. I am here to gather all who will honor and revere him as the God that he truly is. If your people will reverence him he will prosper and preserve you. His favor is something to be sought.”

  “Prosper us, you say?” asked the Shah, raising an eyebrow. “Well, Talan, you have mentioned the carrot. Where is the stick?”

  “The stick?” Talan answered, confused.

  “The threat, Talan. I have met zealots before—self-proclaimed servants of divine powers. Many have come to this court and sought to raise the image of their gods over this people, and yet we have not a single shrine or temple in our entire land.

  “We have little need for the unseen and unknowable gods that man is so prone to worship,” he continued. “All have come as you have, promising great reward should we embrace them, and offering ominous portents of disaster should we reject the gods they serve.

  “So I ask you again. What should happen if we remain as we are? What is the price of our independence?”

  “You are most perceptive, noble Shah,” Talan said. “I will be honest with you—within the worlds claimed by Mythos there is no independence. All serve him—some as peasants, some as Emperors or Kings or Shahs, as befits the circumstances. But at the end of the day all serve.”

  “So abasement or annihilation, then?” the Shah responded, unfazed. “Talan, behind your polite tones and clever words, you have come to this place with an ultimatum: embrace your god whom we know nothing of or be destroyed. It is a difficult thought to countenance. Others have come as you have, Talan—charlatans and frauds to a man—and we have drowned them in the Boundless Sea.

  “But the thought that gives me pause here,” the Shah continued, “is Amir’s recounting of the firestorm. I am now faced with the question I have pondered for so long: what would I do if one appeared who possessed the power to bear out all he proclaimed?”

  “I assure you, Shah, it is no idle claim and I am not alone in this world. Five of my brethren bear similar messages to the other rulers of these lands. The Empress Yaneera has already answered the call and from the deepest depths of poverty and drought she is being restored. Rain has returned to the land. Her dependence on the Elkhan is at an end. She musters for battle a war host the likes of which Sevalorn has never seen—it will crush all who will not bend the knee before Mythos.

  “Should I fall here.” Talan went on, “it will not prevent the Empress and my brethren from visiting this land with ruin the likes of which you have never seen.”

  “I see,” mused the Shah. “Inasmuch as you have surprised me this day, might I ask for time to consider your offer? I would have you stay here in the Palace, if we are to seriously consider the proposal you have brought—I would know more of Mythos.”

  “Very well, Shah. I am in no rush. I would be pleased to tarry here as your guest if you will have me.”

  “Indeed I shall,” responded the Shah, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “Amir, show Talan the way to the Vizier. He will ensure suitable quarters are found to accommodate our guest.”

  “As you will, Shah.” Amir bowed deeply, and Talan also bowed, but this time noticeably less deeply than before.

  As the two men were ushered out of the room the Shah’s smile faded. Turning to a nearby servant he whispered, “Fetch the captain, immediately.”

  “Yes, Master.” The man bowed and scurried out of the room.

  The Shah leaned back heavily in his throne. The impact of Talan’s message weighed on his mind. Songrilah had met many such holy men in his time, but unlike the zealots of ages past, Talan had power in his message, testified to by Amir. It seemed possible, even likely, that Talan possessed the power to bear out his purposes. But Songrilah was hesitant to consider surrendering the Kingdom’s independence—to that end he sought another path.

  The doors of the Grand Hall swung open and a menacing figure entered, his long black hair showing streaks of gray as it swept his shoulders. A savage scar ran down his left cheek, and he strode forward with an awkward limp. His right leg had been amputated just below the knee, and a steel peg gave an unsettling clack each time it struck the floor. As the man came to a halt he affected a lop-sided bow before the Shah.

  “Kastor,” the Shah greeted him, “it’s good to see you. My thanks for your swift response. I have a matter that requires your attention and counsel.”

  “I live to serve, Your Highness. Your runner indicated it was most urgent.”

  “Indeed it is, Kastor. This morning my court received a guest. His name is Talan, and he claims to be a holy man in the service of a god named Mythos. As part of his message he invite
d us to pay homage to his master or face destruction and ruin. Normally I would have cast him out as I have those before him.”

  “What prevents you from doing so, my Shah?” asked Kastor.

  “—the thought that this zealot might be capable of all or some of what he claims.”

  “What gives you that impression, most honorable Shah?”

  “He traveled here with one of our caravans and in the course of the journey manifested his powers and wholly destroyed a party of bandits in a firestorm. Those who traveled with him have witnessed his power and conveyed the extent of the carnage.”

  “Troubling indeed,” replied Kastor, “though I don’t understand how I can be of assistance in such matters.” The captain fidgeted nervously before the Shah.

  “Don’t dismiss yourself so quickly, Kastor. I recall well the tale you told me when you were first brought before me—when my navy pulled your dehydrated and bleeding body out of the Boundless Sea you were babbling incoherently.

  “Once the healers had attended to you,” the Shah continued, “you came before me and gave an account of how you had lost your ship. When you did so, Kastor, you told me a tale that was beyond belief.”

  “I understand it is difficult to stomach, Your Highness, but every word of it was the truth.”

  “So you stick by your story, then, Kastor?”

  “Every word, Sire,” the captain replied earnestly.

  “A young pyromancer you had kidnapped shape-shifted into a Dragon and lay waste to your ship. It defies rational thought.”

  “Indeed, Sire. Yet that is precisely what happened.”

  “Excellent. Because if we are to survive and retain our independence, we will need his assistance.”

  “Assistance, Sire? I don’t understand.”

  “Kastor, I need you to return to Valaar, find this Pyromancer and secure his assistance against this new threat.”

  “Most noble Shah, that pyromancer believes me to be dead. Should I return to Valaar I am most certain that he will finish what he started.”

  “Kastor, let me be clear. I will not be enslaved by another—not a man, not a missionary and not some foreign god I’ve never met. Call it defiance or call it pride, Kastor—I do not care. But we will reject his proposal and weather the storm.

  “To preserve our way of life you must appeal to the pyromancer,” the Shah continued. “Besides patriotism and protecting our people . . . you owe me a debt, Kastor. I plucked you from the sea’s icy embrace, I restored you to health and your captaincy, and as your Shah I require this favor at your hand.”

  The Shah’s emphasis was not lost on Kastor. Resigning himself to the appointed task, Kastor asked, “When would you have me leave, Sire?”

  “Immediately. We can make no delay. I will entertain the zealot until you return. Valaar has a new King—I would suggest you start there, as these zealots will not stop with us. If we fail, Valaar will be next to fall. Perhaps once he knows this he will aid you with the pyromancer when the time comes.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness. I will make ready the Mistress and depart as soon as she’s loaded.”

  “You have my thanks, Kastor. Travel swiftly. Our lives and our Kingdom lie in your hands. Make no delay.”

  “At once, Your Highness.” Kastor bowed and retreated hastily from the Grand Hall, silently cursing himself for ever having mentioned the young pyromancer. This will not end well, Kastor thought as he hastened toward the port.

  Chapter 12

  The Narrow Way, entrance to the Everpeak

  Rauger marveled at the scene before him. The steady uphill path they had been following burst out of the dimly lit corridors of the mountain and into the sunlight and a narrow stone bridge spanned the vast chasm that lay below them. At the far end of the stone bridge a mountain stretched skywards until it disappeared into the clouds.

  “Now you understand why it is called the Everpeak,” Hodik declared.

  “It is most impressive,” Rauger said. “But don’t tell me the Iron Court is at its peak.”

  Yarrig laughed. “Fortunately not. The Court is deep within the Everpeak, at the very heart of our realm. I hope you are not afraid of heights.”

  “Not at all—I’ll follow your lead,” the Disciple responded, eager to be at his journey’s end.

  The two Dwarves set out across the narrow bridge and Rauger trailed behind them. As he glanced down into the chasm below, the depth was difficult to determine. Clearly they had been traveling uphill for most of their journey.

  When they arrived at the far side of the bridge a heavy iron door stood before them, but before the party had a chance to knock the iron gates swung outwards toward them. A dozen Dwarves appeared in the breach, and these were no casual border guards. Dressed from head to toe in the finest splint mail, each carried a two-handed axe. Covered as they were in armor, they revealed little for Rauger to observe apart from their immense beards, which could not be contained beneath their helms. Each beard was grayed with age but immaculately kept. Tight braids finished with brass rings ensured their beards would not become a hindrance in a fight.

  “Ironguard,” muttered Hodik, “the oldest of our kind. Each clan contributes to guarding the Everpeak. It is considered a slight against honor to send less than your best each year—thus they are older, the most experienced warriors of our kind. They serve for three years before their oaths are fulfilled. Once they have served they may return to their kinsmen.”

  “Intriguing.” Rauger eyed the warriors before him. “I would have expected more guards, though.”

  “Ha! We need few guards here, Rauger. If an army were ever foolish enough to attack via the Narrow Way they would be slaughtered before they ever arrived at the Everpeak. These twelve are simply a precaution. Most of our men guard the Vernaldhum.”

  “The Vernaldhum?” asked Rauger.

  “It is the only way that leads into the Everpeak directly. It is more easily traveled than the way we have just come but a much further journey from Andara. It is still surprising that the Empress suggested the Narrow Way for your journey. A man might pass it but an army never will. Not while a single Dwarf draws breath . . .”

  “What is your purpose here?” A gruff voice interjected. An Ironguard had approached from the gate.

  “Hail, kinsman,” Hodik began. “Honor to your clans—we have brought an emissary from the Empress of Andara. He seeks an audience with the Iron King.”

  “An emissary, you say?” The Ironguard looked skeptically at the odd appearance of the newcomer.

  “Indeed. He brings urgent word from the Empress,” Yarrig replied.

  “Give me your message and I will see it delivered to the King,” the Ironguard responded gruffly.

  Rauger affected a bow. “You are most diligent, Master Ironguard. But I have traveled a great distance I have been charged to deliver the message personally to King Tharadin. I would happily save myself the journey if such were an option, but the Empress was specific and I must do my duty.”

  “Your duty, huh? I can respect duty. You may pass.” Turning back to the Dwarves he continued: “I suppose you two young ‘uns can find your way to the Iron Court.”

  “Indeed we can,” Yarrig replied. The Ironguard gestured towards the doorway and his fellow guards parted.

  The three travelers continued into the mountain and the heavy iron gate swung closed behind them. The first thing Rauger noticed about the Everpeak was its contrast to the tunnel he had just passed through. While the Narrow Way had been a simple hewn-stone pathway, the paths within the Everpeak were wide and ornate. Every wall was finished with carefully carved mosaics, the detail of which was highlighted with precious stones and jewels. It was an incredible display of wealth.

  Hodik caught his eye and explained: “It is the written history of our people. No expense was spared and no detail overlooked. It is said Dwarves never forget. This is why. We have carved it with our blood and sweat into the halls of the Everpeak.”

  “It is m
ost impressive,” Rauger said. “How far is the Iron Court from here?”

  “Two hours’ march, give or take. Faster if you can pick up the pace a little.”

  “Pick up the pace? My legs are twice yours, my miniature friend. Any faster and I’ll leave you behind.”

  “I very much doubt that, Rauger. Try to keep up.” With that the two Dwarves took off down the corridor. It seems the long day’s march had had little influence on the stamina of the doughty warriors. With a sigh Rauger followed them, struggling to keep pace with the pair of Dwarves as they disappeared down the corridor.

  *****

  Tharadin, King of the Everpeak, rested heavily on the Throne. Holding court had always been a tedious affair—he had not enjoyed it a hundred and fifty years ago when he had ascended to the Throne and the past century-and-a-half had done nothing to endear it to him. Clan rivalries consumed the court—petty squabbles that required attention lest they fester into grudges.

  After a millennium you would think we would have crafted a more comfortable chair, Tharadin thought to himself. The Throne was a masterwork of dwarven craftsmanship. Wrought from black iron, it had been crafted to intimidate those who stood before it—comfort had not been a key factor in its creation.

  A commotion in the court stirred Tharadin’s attention from his reflections. At the far end of the hall a human-sized figure was entering flanked by a pair of escorts—Stonehands, from the crest emblazoned on their armor and shields. The figure between them gave Tharadin pause.

  The tall human was clad in vibrant robes of red and black. In his hand was a large staff tipped by a crescent moon. The chest of the newcomer bore the same crescent moon set amid a sea of stars. The heraldry was unlike anything Tharadin had ever seen. The thought bothered him, but not as much as the tingle in the air that accompanied the newcomer. Unlike the heraldry, the sensation was immediately recognizable to Tharadin. Magic—nothing good ever comes of it, the dwarven King thought to himself.