When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar

by Samuel Stokes

  Reeling in the shock of what he was witnessing, he saw something else: a shimmering red light in the distance. Difficult to see at first but growing steadily, the light seemed a translucent wall growing taller before his eyes, lighting up the sky more than had the earlier sunset. Then without warning it simply vanished.

  Tanith wondered at the strange phenomenon—the eerie red light was gone but in its place a roaring commotion filled the evening air. Tanith struggled in the twilight to spot the source of the din but could see little in the dusk.

  The clamoring sound drew nearer and Tanith realized its nature: “Water!” he shouted as he gestured over the wall. His comrades looked at him quizzically as they too puzzled over the noise.

  But the seething swell of water soon filled his field of vision and Tanith was struck with terror. Run! he thought, but his legs were rooted to the spot. All he could do was stare in slack-jawed fear as the wall of water surged over the ramparts, striking the terrified guard and throwing him clean off the wall to the stone street below.

  Tanith felt his back break as he hit the ground heavily, but his scream was cut short as the water surged over him. Unable to fight the surging tide, he was swept along by it. Tanith coughed and spluttered but was unable to fight the crushing tide of water and inhaled against his will. Water flowed freely into his mouth and nose and Tanith’s world went black.

  *****

  Arsenath inhaled deeply—the air filling his lungs as he cantered steadily westwards in the moonlight. The noise of the Herd was deafening, and soon the humans would realize what was upon them, but in that moment it would be too late.

  Arsenath spotted a small village ahead. Its occupants would just be settling down for the evening, unaware of the danger heading toward them. The Kairon surged toward the village and a bell began tolling through the clear night’s air. Here we are, Arsenath thought, smiling. A hunt just isn’t a hunt unless they are running. The Warchief lifted his pace to a gallop as he made straight for the town, thousands of his warriors at his back.

  “Burn it all, and take what you will!” The Warchief shouted.

  As he stormed into the sleepy village he found a pair of farmers blocking the path before him, one of them brandishing a large scythe. The other bore an old sword. Both were clearly terrified. Assessing the threat, Arsenath bore down on the farmer with the sword, running him down as the man’s sword clanged ineffectually off the Warchief’s armor. The farmer with the scythe moved closer and swept the scythe in a long low motion aimed at the Warchief’s more vulnerable legs.

  But the Warchief was quicker, bringing his warhammer around in a large arc to strike the farmer in the chest. The momentum of his charge combined with the swing of his mighty weapon threw the farmer sprawling into the dust while the sword-armed farmer was crushed beneath the attacker’s tramping hooves. Neither of them rose again.

  The Kairon swept through the village with ruthless efficiency. Some of the humans fled on foot into the wheat fields. Others cowered in their homes. All who were caught in the streets were cut down by the Herd in a barbarous stampede. Several were torn apart and consumed on the spot as the Kairon satisfied their hunger. The homes and fields were of no use to the Kairon, so all were set ablaze to drive out those still hiding within.

  Soon fires lit up the sky in red against the night’s darkness. Arsenath shouted jubilantly as the Herd swept on, looking for the next village. No doubt they will muster an army, Arsenath thought, then the hunt begins in earnest. The young would blood themselves in this hunt, marking themselves as adults and earning their place in the Herd. Some would fall—doubtless many of the weak or aged would be among them. The Herd had grown numerous, but this hunt would sift through its ranks, leaving the Herd lean and strong.

  Arsenath howled as he set aside his warhammer and strode slowly over to the corpses of the farmers he had slain. Leaning down he picked up the first of the farmers. With little effort he hoisted the body into the air and took a bite out of the man’s torso. His teeth tore easily through the farmer’s flesh as he savored the taste.

  It has been too long, Arsenath smiled, fresh blood running down his arms.

  Chapter 22

  The skies above the forests of the Diadri

  Syrion soared easily through the skies above Sevalorn. Following his mother’s directions, he had crossed over Khashish, and as they headed northeast they soared steadily over the Teeth of the Desert. Syrion spotted the Everpeak, its lofty summit amongst the clouds, its majesty dwarfing the surrounding mountains.

  Elaina pointed out the prominent landmarks as they traveled. It had been many years since she had been in Sevalorn, but little of its landscape had changed. The pair soared northwards over Andara until they arrived at the Elkhan and then turned east to follow it into a vast woodland.

  The pair followed the river’s course until it turned into a lake. “Make for that clearing, Syrion, and remember these are the Forests of the Diadri. If we encounter them, be patient—while their power pales next to ours, in sufficient numbers they are dangerous even to us. Here in the heart of their home there are more than enough of them to bring us harm.”

  Syrion nodded his understanding before tucking his wings close to his body and diving for the clearing. Elaina was forced to grab hold of the plates on his neck in order not to fall off. Syrion plummeted towards the ground, and as it loomed near he snapped out his wings to their full span, rapidly arresting his descent. Beating his wings slowly, Syrion alighted gently in the clearing.

  Elaina clambered down, anxious to have her feet on solid ground. Once she was clear, Syrion began pacing heavily around the clearing, examining the woodlands that surrounded them. He could feel the arcane energy coursing through the air. It was alien to the young Astarii who had mastered his own power—he felt no control over the strange magic.

  “It’s the magic of the Diadri,” Elaina called, in answer to his unasked question. “Their power is not of the world. While our power is over the elements and the fabric of worlds, these forest spirits possess a different sort of power.

  “It can sway the minds of lesser beings, and that is the reason no mortals travel here. We can feel their power but it holds no sway over us. Humans would be consumed by a strange euphoria in this place, and in their confused state they are easy prey for the spirits and sprites that call these woods home.

  “Many have ventured here from other lands. None return. As I watched over this world I saw countless humans venture down the Elkhan. Upon reaching the woodlands they would cast themselves into the river and drown. In their element the Diadri reign supreme—whoever created them, it was not the Allfather. They were put here to guard the gates to the Soul Forge and they do so zealously.”

  “You should not be here, Elaina!” a high-pitched voice called from above.

  Syrion and Elaina looked up to see a small creature hovering in the air above them, its crystalline wings beating steadily but silently.

  “Why have you brought this creature into our domain?” the small sprite demanded.

  “He is my son, Persalis, an Astarii like me. Forgive me—I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I have followed you since you entered our home, Elaina,” he replied. “Just because you can fly does not mean you may enter our realm unbidden. Why have you come?”

  “I seek the Soul Forge, Persalis. We mean no harm, to you or to your forest. Will you not take us to your master?”

  “None may enter the Forge, Elaina, not even you. It is forbidden.”

  “You would deny me?” Elaina asked. “—after all I did as Guardian as I sought to protect you and your people?

  “Indeed, Elaina—we deny all who seek entrance,” he explained. “It is our purpose. We also know of your fate, Elaina. You no longer watch over this world. You are an outcast from your own kind. Whatever authority you once held is now gone.”

  “That is true, Persalis, but I assure you my power has not waned in exile. If anything, it has grown stronger. Now I h
ave time to practice my arts, unhindered by the concerns of an entire world. I will ask you again—will you deny me?”

  “My answer is unchanged, Elaina. None enter here. It is now as it has always been.”

  “I will give you one more chance, Persalis, for old times’ sake. I do not wish you harm, but I must enter the Forge. I know its gateway is here in this place and I will find it. I was exiled from my own people for the love of my husband Marcus. What’s left of his life hangs in the balance. There is nothing I will not do to save it.”

  “Then I am sorry, Elaina—your journey will end here. You are surrounded and outnumbered. Here in this sacred glade you are not our match.”

  “That is why I have brought my son. Have you ever met a Dragon, Persalis? All the power of the Astarii is contained within the frame of one of the fiercest creatures known in Creation. You are no match for us, Persalis. It would break my heart to do so but we will lay waste to all you hold dear if we must. We must find the gateway. Will you not see reason?”

  “I see it clearly, Elaina, but my reason for being is to protect the gateway. I am sorry about your husband but none enter the forge unbidden.”

  “It is I who am sorry, Persalis. Truly sorry. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” Turning to Syrion, Elaina gave command: “Burn it all. We must find the gateway.”

  Syrion threw open his jaws as the flames rose from within.

  A deep voice rumbled through the clearing: “Waaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiit.”

  Syrion closed his mouth and searched for the source of the voice. It had come from his right but there was no one there. As his eyes searched the voice spoke again: “The Soul Smith has been waiting for you, Elaina. You may enter, but only you. Do you understand?”

  Syrion realized the voice was coming from a large oak tree on the edge of the clearing.

  “I understand!” Elaina shouted, her voice flush with relief. “That is all we want. Let me enter and my son will depart peacefully. He has business elsewhere.”

  “Then enter the Forge, Elaina . . .” the large tree said. The ground shook as the oak tree split asunder. The portion of the tree that had been speaking uprooted itself. Its massive trunk split apart and Syrion realized it was more than a tree. The creature stepped to the side, revealing a shimmering portal contained within the remaining portion of the trunk. “Do not keep the Smith waiting, Elaina, he has been expecting you—enter if you will.”

  Elaina turned to her son and threw her arms around his scaled neck. “Be careful, Syrion—these men you will face may be your equal, if not in power then certainly in experience. Do not wander carelessly into harm’s way.”

  Syrion nodded his understanding.

  “I love you,” Elaina whispered before turning, nodding to Persalis, and walking nervously toward the portal. Reaching out a hand, she touched its surface. Within the portal she could see a dimly lit room, and taking a deep breath, she plunged through.

  As his mother disappeared within the portal’s shimmering surface Syrion glanced around, unwilling to remain in the hostile woodlands any longer than necessary. He launched himself into the sky and, clearing his mind, Syrion focused on the Disciple and the struggle that lay ahead.

  Chapter 23

  The Soul Forge

  Elaina glanced about—she was in a large room. The portal shimmering behind her cast an incandescent glow across the room, and torches in brackets along the wall provided further light. The walls of the large room appeared to be fashioned of steel rather than stone, and each panel was covered in a runic script alien to her.

  In the center of the room was a large anvil beside the Forge. Elaina could see within the Forge and was astounded there was no fire—at least, no fire like she had ever seen. Within the Forge swirled a series of wispy lights in a wide array of colors difficult to distinguish from each other as they melded before her eyes for a moment, then burst apart once more.

  Beside the anvil but dwarfed by the large Forge were a series of what Elaina perceived to be funeral urns, but far more ornate than she was accustomed to. Metal pipes ran across the roof of the chamber, carrying something in great volume, the movement in the pipes filled the Forge with a sound like that of a sea breeze as it rushes off the water.

  Elaina was so distracted that she failed to notice the figure in the shadows behind the Forge. “Welcome, Elaina,” he said as she jumped, realizing she was not alone. He continued: “I have been expecting you for some time.”

  The figure before her was older than she had expected, silver-haired with a haggard face that spoke of a life of suffering. The man moved slowly around the Forge and picked up a set of tongs that rested beside it. Slowly he lifted something out of the Forge and moved it carefully to his anvil. Drawing a hammer from his belt, he struck the item three times with a force that belied his age. Each strike of the hammer sent a torrent of multi-hued sparks shooting off from the anvil’s surface.

  With the tongs the man picked up the item from the anvil and lowered it into a bucket at his feet. There was a sizzle like what she had seen once when a heated sword was thrust into a bucket of water to cool. After submerging it for a moment the man withdrew the object and held it up. The dancing light of the torches caught the small object’s surface.

  “A Soul Stone!” Elaina exclaimed as she examined the small red stone being held aloft in the man’s hand.

  “Indeed it is,” The man replied. “I know you possess one also—show it to me.”

  “Who are you? And how do you know my name?”

  “Come, Elaina—must we meander about with the mundane? I am the Master of the Soul Forge. From my place here I watch worlds without number. Here in a place apart from time and space I have watched your life unfold as I have countless others. The Stone you bear was forged by my very hands, here in the Smithy of Souls.

  “I am surprised it took you so long to venture here. It has been years since Marcus passed—I expected you much sooner.”

  “You know of Marcus?” she asked.

  “Of course I know. It was for him that I crafted that Stone.”

  “Not possible. I obtained it from an Astarii peddler years ago.”

  The old man laughed heartily. “Pray tell, how would an Astarii have come to possess such a jewel? You are the only Astarii to even know for a surety the existence of this place, and even then, only because I willed it. The peddler you met was another visitor to the Forge. He too needed a boon from me. Giving you that Stone was the price I required of him.”

  “Who was he?” Elaina demanded.

  “You are a curious one, aren’t you, Elaina Listar? Needless to say, he was not an Astarii. He once served those your son now struggles against. Now he serves himself—an odd fellow indeed but a willing servant when properly motivated. I gave him that which he most desired.”

  “Which was?” Elaina asked.

  “It is none of your concern, Elaina,” the old man snapped. “What should concern you is the finite life of the Soul Stone you possess. Should you continue to pointlessly fritter away the time I have bought you, Marcus may be lost forever. Now give me the Stone.”

  Elaina had allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. The Soul Smith’s warning brought her purpose back to the forefront of her mind. Reaching both hands behind her neck she drew out the chain she was wearing, and lifted it over her head until the Soul Stone appeared from its concealment inside her dress. She handed the gemstone to him.

  The Soul Smith held the glowing Stone up so that he could better examine it. Content that all was in order, the Soul Smith broke the stone free from its clasp. As Elaina protested he simply held up his hand: “The chain is a useless accoutrement—no longer needed now that you are here.”

  The Soul Smith made his way over to one of the silver vessels by the Forge, accompanied by a faint clinking. Elaina looked to the ground as she followed the source of the noise and noticed for the first time that a steel chain was fastened around the Soul Smith’s ankle linking the Smith to the Forge.


  “If you are the Soul Smith why are you in chains?” Elaina asked.

  “Back to the questions, Elaina?” The Soul Smith mused unconcerned as he fussed over the vessel. At length he lifted the soul stone and placed it in a cradle on the lid of the urn that seemed built for the purpose. Once the stone was in place the Soul Smith turned and faced Elaina. “What you should be more concerned with is what I will require of you for this boon.”

  “What do you mean?” Elaina asked.

  “I can restore your Marcus to life—that much is certain. The Stone is intact and his spirit is strong. But as you have observed, I am unable to leave this place, at least in my current state. I will require something from you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you are uniquely qualified to accomplish what is required.”

  “How so?”

  “First, you are Astarii, so you possess many gifts—you can travel where others cannot. The peddler you met could not go where I needed. His kind are not welcome there.

  “Second, you have been exiled from among your people for forsaking your charge over Meldinar in favor of love, the love of a mortal. You know a pain most Astarii do not. You are ageless but your late husband was not. You have felt a pain most Astarii have been spared.

  “Last, I believe you will do anything to have him restored to you. I will do so, and what’s more, the vessel I have prepared for him will not age like that he possessed when he was human. Consider it my gift to you for what you are to do.”

  “You have gone to great lengths, Smith. Exactly what is it you require of me?”

  “I need you to travel to another world,” he said nonchalantly, “and there you will harvest the antidote for a poison found there. You will prepare it and bring it to me here.”

  “You seem well enough, why can’t you get it yourself?”