Satisfied the Disciple no longer posed a threat, Syrion reached into the debris and retrieved the Disciple’s staff. As he did so he felt a tingling sensation run through his arm. The staff was enchanted, Syrion realized as he held it in his grasp. The arcane energy Syrion felt running through his being explained how the Disciple had appeared so unfazed by the enormous energy he had unleashed in the exchange. Even as he held it now Syrion felt invigorated by its presence. The fatigue of the previous day’s journey seemed to lift from his shoulders as he hefted the staff of office.
“Could you put that down, Syrion?” asked the Shah, his voice heavy with concern. “That staff disturbs me.”
Syrion turned to face the Shah. “What do you mean? What do you know of it?”
“I held it briefly, and I felt as you do now. It’s not natural.”
“Indeed it is not—it’s arcane. I believe it’s a conduit for storing and unleashing magic. It explains the sensation that flows from it. To channel the arcane is not without price. It flows through all things, including us. To interact with it, to control it, one must pay a price in sweat or blood or soul. That price fatigues the mage.
Syrion continued: “The Disciple was able to conjure without tiring. I was concerned, as I thought perhaps what I have learned of magic did not pertain to him. I take comfort from knowing this tool was what granted him the added strength.”
“Yes, Syrion, but remember well—it was gifted to him by his master, Mythos. It may be many things. Until you better understand it, perhaps you should set it aside.”
Syrion nodded. “Wise words, Songrilah. I will study it later.” Syrion laid down the staff. “See to its safe storage. I will return for it when we are through.”
“Through?” the Shah asked. “Talan has been dealt with, you have been good to your word, and I will make good on mine, though it will take me some time to do so.”
Syrion replied, “That is not what I mean, Shah. You know as well as I do that there are more than one of these Disciples. We have dealt with this one, but Kastor was clear. Your neighbors contend with his companions. Those who have embraced the cause of Mythos will no doubt side with the Disciples against those who have refused to submit.”
“In that you are correct, Syrion. Even as you arrived, Talan and I were discussing that very issue. His superior just sent word ordering us to muster our forces to march north against the Dwarves. I have been stalling for as long as I could but Talan was growing suspicious. Now the northern kingdoms of Sevalorn muster against the Everpeak.”
“We must aid the Dwarves, Songrilah. If the Dwarves are defeated, Khashish will stand alone, and aid from Valaar will not arrive in time to lend strength to your cause. We must fight alongside the Dwarves for our best chance of survival.”
“You say we, Syrion. Will you fight with us?”
“Yes, Songrilah, if Sevalorn falls, my own home will face this tyranny of Mythos and his followers—maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually they will come. I would rather face them sooner than face them later.”
“Then we have an ideal opportunity, Syrion. As far as they know we are complicit in their plans against the Everpeak. If we move carefully, we may be able to strike from an unexpected quarter and turn the tide against them.”
“Did Talan mention when and where this battle is to take place?” Syrion asked.
“The messenger arrived a few days ago. Our orders were to marshal our forces and meet them in the Vernaldhum. They took for granted that Talan would win our devotion to Mythos.”
“The Vernaldhum?” Syrion asked.
“It is the valley that lies before the Everpeak. We have been commanded to be there the day after the new moon. By my reckoning we have a week to marshal our forces if we are to make it in time.”
“Then we have no time to lose, Songrilah. Continue as you have begun. Muster your armies swiftly, for in the shadow of the Everpeak the fate of Sevalorn will be sealed.”
“I will do as you ask, Syrion,” the Shah replied. In the meantime I will have a room prepared for you. You will need to rest if you are to face Talan’s companions. From what I have gathered there are at least five remaining to contend with.”
“Rest, Songrilah . . . I struggled with this one. Five may be more than I can bear.”
“They had better not be,” the Shah said with a hint of humor but determination, too. “If you die, who’ll pay for damage you’ve caused to my Throne Room?”
Syrion was dumbstruck. After all I’ve done!
The Shah must have seen his discomfort as he burst into laughter. It was a deep throaty laugh that seemed out of place as it sounded through the rubble-filled Throne Room.
“I jest, Syrion. You need to learn to laugh, boy. It will do your soul good. Rest easy for a while—in the coming battle you will have one of the greatest armies Sevalorn has ever seen at your back. We will do all we can.”
“Let us pray that it will be enough,” Syrion answered, the fatigue of the day weighing heavily on him as he thought of the conflict that was to come.
Chapter 28
The Frozen Peaks
Alsarius pulled his robes tightly around him as he continued trudging northwards. Each day seemed to grow colder as he made his way towards the Frosted Peaks that divided Sevalorn’s verdant pastures from the frozen lands beyond. The journey had taken weeks and gradually moved from grassy plains to a valley full of snow; knowing the distance he would need to travel, Alsarius had carefully supplemented his supplies with wild game where it could be found, but game was sparse north of the Elkhan—the Kairon had truly scoured the lowlands in their search for food.
Hefting his bag, Alsarius had serious concerns about his journey home. If he could not find civilization in the north, starving to death would become a very real possibility. Alsarius sighed—Jonas was adamant that something of import lay beyond the mountains, but now as he trudged towards the range he couldn’t help but think of the price he would pay if his brother were mistaken.
Alsarius had arrived at the valley two days before. According to the maps they had studied in Andara, it was one of the few traversable routes through the peaks. Alsarius had trudged his way through the snow for those two days, longing for a return to warmer climates. As he worked his way upward through the pass he studied the terrain.
There was a majesty to the snow-topped peaks that surrounded him. As far as the eye could see in every direction the mountains stretched skywards, obscuring all but the path before him. If it weren’t so damned cold it would be beautiful.
As Alsarius reached the crest of that pass he was rewarded with a breathtaking panoramic view of the valley below. But as he scanned the path ahead he startled at the bodies of several Kairon in the snow. How long they had been here he could not tell, for they were preserved by the ice and had not decayed.
Alsarius made his way over to the bodies, hoping to find some explanation of their fate. At first glance he had thought they had starved to death, but then he recalled the Kairon’s predatory nature. If they had indeed turned on each other there would be only one body. The Kairon would have devoured each other long before they would have starved to death.
Alsarius slogged closer to the bodies and, laying his staff in the snow, he began to examine the corpses of the large and powerful beasts. The cold weather was a possibility as they normally made their homes in warmer climes, but the likelihood of that was also slim—they would not have died all at the same time.
As Alsarius searched the body of the beast before him he found a strange wound on the beast’s chest. Blood had pooled and frozen in the wound so that at a distance it was not visible against the dark hide of the creature. Looking closer, Alsarius realized there were dozens of these wounds scattered across the fallen beasts. These beasts had been riddled with arrows. Alsarius thought. But where were the arrows now?
A terrifying realization dawned on the Disciple. They had been ambushed and whoever had done so had removed the evidence, allowing him to wander
into the same trap. Alsarius reached for his staff but it was too late. There was a wet thud as an arrow struck him in the chest. A moment later another slammed into his back. Alsarius tried to focus his mind to summon a shield but the pain in his chest made it impossible to concentrate. His vision swam as he tried to examine the arrow shaft protruding from his chest. The shaft was fletched with white feathers that made it hard to distinguish from the snow before him. A third arrow struck him, the arrowhead tearing through his robes like paper.
Weary from the journey, the aging Alsarius collapsed under the strain from his wounds. Sinking to his knees, Alsarius tried in vain to see his assailants. Spotting a movement in the snow to his right, Alsarius raised his hand and began to chant, and with his dying breath he willed vengeance upon his unseen foe. As the flames began to materialize, more arrows hurtled into the suffering Disciple. Thwack, thwack, thwack—in quick succession three more arrows hurtled into the dying Disciple. The final arrow caught Alsarius in his throat, stifling the rising chant.
Unsupported by the Disciple’s voice, the incantation dispersed harmlessly and Alsarius, Disciple of Mythos, collapsed into the snow.
Chapter 29
Elaina emerged from the portal. No matter how many times she experienced the sensation of moving between worlds it still unsettled her. As she appeared, the Soul Smith looked up from his anvil and smiled. “I did not expect you back so soon. Do you have the Mousillion?” His eagerness was apparent as he approached the Astarii.
“I do,” Elaina answered. “You had better be able to deliver on your promise, Apollos.” Elaina answered, trying to conceal her own elation as the object of her heart’s desire drew nearer.
“Excellent.” The Soul Smith stooped down and drew a pot from a shelf by the Forge. “Use this and prepare the antidote. When I am healed I will begin the process that will restore your Marcus to you.” Apollos held the pot out to Elaina and gestured to a nearby table. “You may use that bench.”
Elaina took the pot, the water within swirling about as she hefted it and set it on the bench. Reaching into her pouch, she took out the Mousillion stems. For good measure she had gathered fistfuls of the stems, unsure how much tea would be required to cure the Soul Smith. Elaina was not eager to return to Empyrea if it could be avoided.
Apollos watched patiently as the woman prepared the tea. Each stalk was separated from the others before being crushed so that the lifesaving elements within could be released. Each stalk was then added to the pot.
Throwing the last stalk into the pot, Elaina hefted it off the table and set it on a nearby grill over a fire pit Apollos had already prepared. With a wave of her hand Elaina set the timber alight and repositioned the pot above the flames.
Once she was satisfied, Elaina turned to face Apollos. “As you can see, I have honored my side of our bargain. Are you prepared to deliver on yours?”
“Indeed I am. While you were on Empyrea I finished my preparations. Your husband’s new vessel is prepared. All that remains is to release his spirit into it to give it life.”
“What do you mean, give it life?”
“Forgive me, Elaina, I often forget how little other races know of the cosmos in which you live, or of life itself for that matter.
“I mean that I have created him a body. It is not unlike the body that once housed his spirit, though I have improved upon the original—the human frame is so frail. Marcus will not be subject to the same ails his human frame once endured. In form he will age much more slowly than before, a pattern that should mimic your own longevity as an Astarii. Consider it my gift to you for your part in granting me my freedom.
“But to answer your question—the vessel I have created for him will not be truly alive until his soul is fused with it. It is the soul that gives life, Elaina. Without it we are but dust. One of the true secrets is the magic of creating—lesser beings use their magic to destroy. As one ascends to godhood, the mind expands and begins to comprehend the immutable laws that govern worlds, the stars and even life itself.
“In my time I kindled life on many worlds that wars had left desolate. It was in the course of doing so that I first discovered the Soul Forge.”
“How do you know so much of the Astarii? Were we not created after your fall?” Elaina asked interrupting the Smith’s narrative.
“I may be confined to the Soul Forge, but I am not without means, Elaina. I can scry the stars when I wish to. Besides, as unique as the Astarii may be in Creation, you are not unique in the wider expanse of the heavens.”
“What do you mean?” Elaina asked. “There are others like us?”
“I mean that your master, my son, patterned you after servants I once created. He may have changed your form but the notion of endowing chosen followers with gifts of great power is not an idea he originated.”
Elaina’s mind raced with questions—each answer the smith gave seemed only to raise more questions.
Apollos smiled. “Suffice it to say your Marcus will be restored to you as promised. As soon as I am healed, I will begin the process, then I will depart in peace. I warn you, Elaina, do not deviate from our agreement. I get the antidote and you allow me to leave unmolested. Remember there is no point at which I cannot bring your world crashing down around you.”
Elaina grimaced as she glanced at the pot that was now busily boiling away. She had come too far now to not go through with it. “I will honor our agreement, Apollos,” she said quietly, lifting the pot off the makeshift stove. “I think it’s ready. Are you?”
“Certainly.” Apollos stepped forward and swept his hand over the simmering pot. The bubbles went still, the smith’s magic cooling the pot rapidly. Clearly impatient, the once-supreme Apollos gripped the now-cool pot and raised it to his lips and drained its contents.
Elaina watched with interest as a change swept over the Soul Smith. The creases in his brow and face seemed to smooth before her very eyes, and the gray in his hair darkened as it returned to a dark black luster. To her astonishment the Soul Smith went from aged and weary to a youthful vigor in moments. The now-fit and able Apollos discarded the pot and it rolled loudly across the floor.
“How is that possible?” Elaina gasped.
“Behold the power of the gods, Elaina. The Mousillion coursing through my body aged me to the point of death. My body was powerless against the poison’s grip. If it weren’t for the power granted to me by my faithful followers I would have perished long ago.”
“I thought your sons seized your Kingdom and your people?” Elaina asked.
“They tried, Elaina, oh, how they have tried. But not all who worshipped before my throne were so quick to forget me. Many are the faithful that lie within and without my sons’ domains. Their faith invigorates me yet. Never take for granted that simple fact, Elaina—their worship is my power.
“Did you never wonder,” he continued, “why the Astarii only exiled you for abandoning your duty? That would normally be punishable by death.”
“I thought it was mercy,” Elaina replied, now feeling foolish at not having wondered sooner.
“Don’t be naïve—that pathetic excuse of a Guardian that they sent to replace you couldn’t have carried out the sentence if he tried. When you became Eleen, the Mistress of Wind, some of those you protected as a Guardian began to worship you. Even now, there are those who would deify you. While they are a relative few in the vast expanse of the heavens, they are still enough to grant you power well beyond your station. It was fear of you, not mercy, that held the Astarii’s hand—never forget it. You are more powerful than you realize, Elaina.”
Elaina was speechless. Apollos shook his head. “You didn’t even realize the gift that was yours. What you do with that knowledge now is up to you.”
Apollos produced the Soul Stone from his apron and slid it into the socket of the large vessel before him. He lifted the ornate hammer off the Forge and light played over its surface as he raised it high above his head. Before Elaina could react, he brought i
t down in a singular decisive stroke.
The hammer struck the Soul Stone, and caught between the jeweled socket and the crushing downward pressure of the hammer the stone shattered. There was a clap akin to thunder as a wave of power rippled outwards from the powerful artifact. The shards scattered and a white mist rose from the remnants of the pulsing stone.
Before Elaina’s eyes the mist took shape, and in moments the unmistakable image of Marcus was staring at her. The spirit smiled as he recognized his wife, and eagerly he reached out with one incorporeal hand to take hers. As Elaina reached for the hand the Soul Forge was filled with the sound of rushing wind and the spirit was sucked down into the waiting vessel.
Elaina’s eyes went wide as the spirit of her husband vanished into the urn-like vessel. As the spirit disappeared the vessel began to pulse with light. Elaina’s eyes were riveted to the scene before her.
Satisfied, Apollos gestured at the chain binding him to the Forge. The link around his ankle parted and clattered to the floor. Elaina turned to see Apollos opening a portal before him. Before she could speak the former Soul Smith smiled and said, “Do not fear—the process has begun. Marcus will be returned to you and you will be free to depart the way you came. The Diadri will not bother you. I have sent word of your pending arrival—they will be expecting you.”
Questions flooded through Elaina’s mind. “What of the Soul Forge, Apollos?”
“It will call another in my place—it has ever been thus. Since time began and the Forge was formed it has called a Smith. Do not worry.”
“What will you do?” Elaina asked, concerned at the course of action she had set in motion.
The smile faded from the countenance of Apollos as he spoke quietly. “I will do as I have said.” Without another word Apollos strode through the portal and it closed behind him, leaving Elaina alone in the Forge waiting for its power to restore her beloved Marcus to her.
When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar Page 20