Kalifae was struck to the core. “Your son? What do you mean, ‘nothing to fear?’ Have you felt the power he possesses? I am Kalifae and have walked between worlds for more than a century. Your son could hardly be twenty and when we fought he swatted me aside as if I were a child.”
“Indeed I have seen his power also,” Elaina answered. “Syrion is meant for great things. But you have nothing to fear from him now. He opposed the man you served, Gerwold, who was responsible for the death of his father, my husband. Gerwold is no more, and you have nothing to fear from us now.”
Kalifae’s countenance showed concern as she relaxed. “Who is it that was poisoned, then? Not your son, I hope.”
“No, Syrion is well,” Elaina replied, confused at the woman’s interest in Syrion’s wellbeing when she clearly feared him. “The antidote is an exchange for a favor. I’m sorry but I cannot tell you any more than that. You will simply have to trust me.”
The Empyrean pondered a moment before responding. “I will let you do as you wish here. I will tell no one of your presence and will allow you to depart in peace. In exchange, I require a favor.”
“What is that?” Elaina responded. She did not like the prospect of yet another task over which she had no control.
“When you see your son, explain to him the circumstances I was in when we last met. I was fighting for my freedom, not vain ambition like Gerwold. I bear him no ill will, and hope that he will feel likewise, should we meet again.”
“You want me to put in a good word for you?” Elaina asked, her motherly instincts surging up in her. “Why would you want that?”
“You have asked for my trust, Astarii, and I have given it. You must return it in kind. Do we have an agreement?”
Elaina looked quizzically at the woman before her. Could this woman be in love with my son? Elaina asked herself. Or perhaps she just sought to confuse Syrion to gain the upper hand in any future encounter. Try as she might, she could not guess the woman’s motive. Reaching out her hand she replied, “Yes. What was your name, again?”
“I am Kalifae,” the Empyrean responded, taking the offered hand. “Might I also have your name?”
“I am Elaina.”
“Well, Elaina, work quickly here. There are others of my people who will not take kindly to your presence.” The woman lifted a hand and snapped her fingers gently. The Empyrean disappeared as abruptly as she had arrived, leaving Elaina alone to gather her thoughts, and the Mousillion.
Chapter 27
Syrion spotted his destination before him. Even at this distance he could make out the impressive structure. The Shah’s Palace was an incredible edifice: each new Shah had sought to enlarge the structure and add to its sweeping grandeur. The original central structure bore an immense dome. In each corner towers rose into the sky, each bearing a matching dome. Each Shah had then proceeded to add to the complex—now courtyards, gardens and palatial districts stretched outwards in all directions. The results were magnificent to behold.
Syrion tucked his wings and dove towards the Palace. As he broke through a thin layer of clouds Syrion could see a large courtyard below. Without hesitation he headed straight for it.
Syrion had considered many approaches as he had soared above Sevalorn. The young mage had little idea exactly what he would be faced with when he confronted the Disciple. In those hours of flight he had made and discarded dozens of plans. At length he had settled on the direct approach—his duel with the sorceress at King’s Court had taught him a great deal. He would not hesitate this time
Syrion had spent his days studying the vast library at King’s Court, and his own research was supplemented by the excellent tutoring of Malus, who knew the subtleties of the arcane. As Syrion honed his art he found himself able to manipulate not only the elements but the arcane energy itself that was within all matter. In this aspect of magic Malus had been most instructive.
The manipulation of the surging energy had opened a new world of possibilities to the young mage, and his new abilities were proving invaluable as he honed them in practice duels against the aging magician. But it had soon become apparent that Syrion’s innate gifts easily surpassed his aging teacher’s practiced arts.
As Syrion approached the courtyard he snapped out his wings and arrested his descent, with each steady beat slowing his pace until he lighted gently in the large courtyard. Before the nearby guard could collect himself, Syrion had reverted to his human form, blinding the bleary-eyed guard in a flash of light.
The guard’s expression changed swiftly from terror to confusion at the sight of the young man before him. Syrion raised a hand in greeting. “I am Syrion Listar,” he said. “I come at the Shah’s bidding—take me to him at once.”
The bewildered guard could do little more than nod his head in response. He turned and led the way into the Palace. As they made their way through the immense structure Syrion was impressed by the lavish décor, a stark contrast to the simple furnishings at King’s Court.
At length the pair arrived at the Throne Room. When challenged by the guards his escort responded more confidently than Syrion had expected: “An emissary for the Shah—he comes in response to the Shah’s call. We must be admitted at once.”
“The Shah is in council with Talan and won’t be disturbed,” The guard responded forcefully.
Syrion’s response was stronger yet: “I have crossed the Boundless Sea to meet with the Shah. I will not be deterred nor delayed. Step aside.”
“Do not threaten us, boy,” the guard replied, reaching for his sword.
“Know that I take no pleasure in this,” Syrion responded, sweeping his hand before him. At his will gale-force winds blew from the mage’s outstretched hand. The corridor went from serene to cyclonic in a matter of seconds. The two guards were thrown from their feet and slammed forcefully into the heavy door behind them, and the doors burst open underneath the barrage of wind and bodies, revealing the elaborate chamber beyond.
As the doors swept open, Syrion lowered his hands and the wind stilled. Syrion stepped over the crumpled guards into the Shah’s Throne Room, a splendid space with beautiful mahogany timberwork covering each wall. At the head of the chamber was a large, ornate Throne, flanked by the golden forms of two large hunting cats.
Seated upon the Throne was a man who could only be the Shah. The figure was richly clothed in a silk robe whose value rivaled all that Syrion possessed. The Shah raised an eyebrow in surprise but was otherwise unperturbed by Syrion’s appearance in the chamber.
At his right stood an aging man in robes of black and red, the man leaned heavily on a silver staff as he conversed with the Shah. From the description Kastor had given, Syrion presumed this to be the Disciple. It was evident that the two were deep in counsel when Syrion burst into the Throne Room.
“What is the meaning of this?” the Disciple challenged as he straightened to his full height.
Syrion ignored him as he approached the Throne boldly. “Shah Songrilah, I am Syrion. You sent for me and I have come.”
“Where is Kastor?” the Shah asked, noting his emissary’s absence.
“He is alive and well, in spite of my better judgment. He travels by ship and will arrive in a few weeks with fair weather. He indicated your needs were pressing, so I traveled by other means to arrive as soon as I was able.”
“I take it he explained the reason for my asking you to come?” the Shah asked with purposeful ambiguity.
“Indeed he did. His message was heard in my presence by His Royal Majesty Tristan Listar, first of his line, King of Valaar. I bear his response to your petition, written in your captain’s own hand.” As he spoke Syrion produced the rolled parchment and stepped towards the Shah.
As he approached the Shah the Disciple moved until he stood between the two. “What is the meaning of this, and who are you?”
“I am an emissary of a foreign power, treating with the Shah. Surely you do not mean such brazen disrespect,” Syrion replied, trying hard to
suppress a smirk.
“You burst in here unannounced, interrupting us as we counsel together, and it is I that am disrespectful?” the Disciple replied, his ire surfacing as his frustration rose. Talan did not understand what was occurring before him, and that uncertainty coupled with the unsettled feeling caused by the youthful emissary’s appearance had him on edge.
“Relax, Talan—I summoned the lad,” the Shah assured him, motioning for Talan to step aside. “Let him through.”
The Disciple returned to his place and Syrion approached the Shah, handing him Kastor’s missive. Songrilah took the parchment and unrolled it hastily. As the Shah read through the parchment his eyes went wide. Looking up at Syrion he spoke quickly: “Who are you to this King that he would ask such a boon of me?”
The question caught Syrion off-guard. For hours he had pondered how the Shah might react to his request. Of the dozens of responses, from rage to outright rejection, he had not expected this question. “I am not sure what you mean, Your Highness,” Syrion replied.
“Do not play coy with me,” the Shah replied patiently. “Your King could have asked for anything—money, power, land or women. Does he ask for those things? No, instead he asks for this. Most men would think him mad. However, I know the circumstances of your having met Kastor. So when your King asks a price so profoundly related to your experience with our Kingdom, I must ask again, who are you to the King?”
Seeing no advantage in speaking anything but the truth, Syrion replied, “I am his brother.”
“Hahaha!” the Shah laughed loudly, almost rolling off his Throne. “His brother . . .” The Shah slapped his knee mirthfully at the answer. “I’m surprised Kastor got out of there alive at all. If I had known I would have thought twice before sending him.”
“But you would have sent him anyway?” Syrion asked calmly.
This time it was the Shah’s turn to be surprised. His smile faded and his countenance turned to stone. “Indeed I would have.”
“Then your petition is as earnest as Kastor led us to believe,” Syrion responded. “Understand that the conditions of our aid are not negotiable. If you agree we will do as you have asked. If not, I will return home without delay. If you do accept our terms and fail to live up to our agreement, the consequences will be dire.”
“I do not doubt that, Syrion. Your price is considerable, but the price of not doing as you wish is even greater.” The Shah leaned forward in his throne. “We have an accord. Now you must deliver on our terms, my young friend.”
Syrion’s expression was stern. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.” Syrion inclined his head towards the Disciple. “This guy is so old he already has one foot in the grave . . . all he needs is a little push.” As Syrion spoke he thrust his hand towards the Disciple, power coursing through his body as his will was made manifest. A concussive force rippled from the Astarii’s outstretched hand, striking the Disciple in his chest. Caught flat-footed, the Disciple was thrown into the air.
Talan flailed as he arced through the air before landing heavily in a heap on the stone floor of the chamber. Songrilah leaned back in his throne, shocked at the display of power before him. The youth had barely moved a muscle and the Disciple lay in a crumpled heap.
“That was easier than I expected,” Syrion remarked, eying the Disciple’s limp form. “Seems he was closer to the edge than I thought.” But as he spoke the Disciple began to stir. Syrion swept his hand across the room, unleashing concussive waves of power intending to batter the Disciple into oblivion.
But as the waves reached the Disciple they rolled harmlessly over him, streaming across an unseen barrier. Talan pulled himself to his feet. “I’m not sure why you thought that would work a second time,” he said. “Explain yourself at once.”
“I would have thought that apparent. The Shah summoned me here to free his people from a dictatorial zealot. I don’t suppose you will just leave of your own volition?”
“This land has sworn loyalty to Mythos and he will have it. You will die for your folly, along with the Shah for his duplicity.”
“Well that settles that, then,” Syrion retorted, letting loose a shimmering bolt of arcane energy against the Disciple. The bolt hurtled across the chamber before striking the same barrier as before, reflecting off the shield and slamming into the mahogany wall behind the Disciple. The timber splintered under the assault and shards of the costly timber showered down from the point of impact.
The Disciple raised his left arm to shield his face from the barrage of debris, and the rain of timber splinters was caught harmlessly in his flowing robes. When the last of the fragments had struck the floor and the room was still, the Disciple lowered his arm and thrust it outwards as he thumped his staff firmly against the throne room floor, bellowing his outrage in a language Syrion could not comprehend.
As unintelligible as the words were, the intention was clear. Syrion interposed himself between the Shah and the enraged Disciple. Torrents of flames leaped from the Disciple’s outstretched arm and hurtled towards the young mage. Syrion reached forth his hand as if to block the fiery lashes of the Disciple’s wrath. As he did so a golden shield materialized before him, and the fire struck the shield and rolled outwards across its surface. The shield’s magic dispersed the flaming torrents before they could reach their intended target.
He’s quick, Talan thought to himself as he watched the young magician dissipate the tongues of fire before him. Not to be deterred, the Disciple gestured emphatically. As he moved his arm before him the torrents of flame coalesced into a wall of fire that entirely obscured his targets from view. At his command, Talan sent the wall of fire towards the young magician, a broiling wave of flames that would overwhelm the meager shield.
Syrion backed towards the Throne and expanded his shield to meet the wave that rolled towards him like a tsunami of hell fire, ensuring that both he and the Shah were safely behind the shimmering shield of energy. Syrion focused his will on maintaining the barrier for the coming assault.
The flames struck the barrier and Syrion felt the drain on his reserves as he struggled against the Disciple. Such a task was exacting and strenuous, and Syrion began to sweat under the barrage, both from his personal exertion and from the heat of the blaze before him. Flames completely enveloped the pair.
Syrion turned to the Shah. No longer did the he possess his previously calm demeanor. Now Songrilah was visibly tense, noticeably concerned that he had made a mistake that might cost him his life. “I hope you have a plan for dealing with this before we are both baked alive!” the Shah shouted over the tumult of the flames.
“I do, Your Highness,” Syrion responded, still struggling to maintain his shield. “He cannot keep this up indefinitely. It will be draining him as much as the shield is draining me. When he falters we will act swiftly.”
“And do what?” the Shah asked. “You haven’t been able to scratch him since you caught him unawares. How do you intend to get through that shield?”
“Did you see what he did when the timberwork shattered?” Syrion asked pointedly.
“Yes, he shielded his face from the debris,” the Shah answered as the idea began to dawn on him.
“Exactly,” Syrion answered. “The particular shield he is employing against me may deter magical assault but does little against inanimate debris—an important distinction to understand.”
“So you simply require more debris, then?” the Shah asked, taking hold of Syrion’s reasoning. “How do you plan to get that?”
“I would not ask questions you do not wish to hear the answer to, Your Highness,” Syrion responded. The flames dispersed and Syrion allowed his shield to dissipate in order to maintain his stamina. As the golden shield vanished Syrion hurled another bolt of arcane energy at the Disciple.
Talan grinned as he saw the bolt speeding towards him. The foolish youth has learned nothing. The bolt struck the Disciple’s shield and deflected harmlessly off the barrier, arcing up towards the ceiling.
As the Disciple’s eyes followed the bolt, Syrion leaped into action. With savage force he unleashed a furious barrage of spells—not on the Disciple but on the chamber itself. Arcane energy poured from the young magician, shockwaves reverberating through the chamber as the earth itself shook beneath their feet. The bolt struck the ceiling of the chamber and Syrion added his fury to the cause.
When the bolt struck the roof, the tortured infrastructure of the throne room gave way under the strain. The bolt of energy obliterated a section of support timbers. As Talan watched in surprise an entire section of the roof gave way. The result was instantaneous and Talan stumbled, struggling to keep his footing as the deadly cascade of stone and timber rained down from above. Struck by the falling support beam, Talan fell just before a jagged piece of masonry struck him, crushing him as easily as a child might squash a troublesome insect. In a matter of seconds the Disciple was entirely buried by the deadly shower of stone and timber.
Syrion watched patiently to ensure that the Disciple was no more. Once he was content that the fallen ceiling had done its work, Syrion glanced around the chamber. The once-majestic Throne Room was a battered husk of its former glory. The fine mahogany timberwork that had lined the walls was a scorched and splintered mess, and many of the grand chamber’s rich furnishings had perished in the torrent of flames Talan had unleashed. The crowning reminder of the conflict that had just taken place was the shattered ceiling, the clear blue sky now visible through the ruined roofing.
Syrion made his way over to the pile of rubble. Better safe than sorry. As he approached the rubble Syrion knew the debris had done its job, as a large slab of stone lay across the Disciple’s chest, the distance between it and the stone floor impossibly small. If the fallen masonry hadn’t killed him immediately, the damage to his internal organs would have shortly thereafter.
When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar Page 19