When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar

by Samuel Stokes

  Distracted, Syrion failed to detect the shift in energies as Karesa neglected the portal and focused her efforts on the Dragon now diving towards her. She had read of such beasts but had never come across one until now. Karesa was unsure of its abilities, but having seen it lay waste to the Kairon, she was certain fire would do little to such a creature.

  Karesa drew on the power from her staff and unleashed a bolt, not of lightning or fire, but of pure arcane energy. The azure bolt hurtled out of her staff towards the beast.

  Syrion saw the bolt of energy but too late. Still struggling to control his powers while in his Dragon form, Syrion took the only option remaining and attempted to evade the danger. Syrion spun, and the bolt of energy shot past his scaled head but struck his wing. The azure beam blasted through the membranous tissue and sent pain shooting through Syrion’s body. He began to plummet groundward, the bolt having damaged both muscle and bone so that Syrion was unable to maintain control of his descent.

  Syrion hurtled toward the Disciple in a far less graceful manner than he had hoped. Using his remaining good wing Syrion tried to arrest his descent, but it was in vain and Syrion slammed into the valley floor with tremendous force.

  The impact shook the earth and further antagonized his injured wing. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Syrion staggered to his feet and looked around for the Disciple. Foolishly she had not sought to distance herself from the rampaging Dragon and instead seemed to be gathering her energy for another assault.

  Without hesitation Syrion tucked his wings close to his body and leaped at the Disciple. The swift movement caught the woman unprepared. Not willing to endure another blast, Syrion swiped at her with a scaled claw. The blow knocked her off her feet and sent her tumbling across the valley floor.

  Syrion bounded after the Disciple trying desperately to get to her feet while holding on to her staff. Syrion knocked the staff from her grasp with another swat of his claw, then with his right foreclaw slamming down directly on top of the Disciple, pinned his foe to the ground.

  Syrion stared into the woman’s eyes. He expected to see fear—instead both brown eyes bore into his, and malice seemed to seep from the woman. There was no terror, only hate. Even as he sought for a reason to spare her life he sensed the buildup of arcane energy beneath him. Without another thought Syrion clenched his claw, crushing the life from her body in a single motion, then shook his claw and cast the broken Disciple into the midst of the nearby soldiers.

  The soldiers scattered in fear. The Andarans had considered the Disciples to be supreme, and the sight of the Disciple’s broken body sent a wave of terror through the ranks of the Imperial Army. With the source of its power removed the portal blinked and then disappeared entirely, and the Kairon began to mill about in confusion, unsure of how to proceed. What happened to those caught within the portal? Syrion wondered.

  *****

  Yaneera studied the battlefield. In her youthful inexperience it was difficult to determine how the battle was progressing. The dwarven artillery continued to sow death with each volley, the Kairon having been unsuccessful at reaching the emplacements, they were now locked in combat with the Dwarves. Her own infantry had likewise reached the dwarven position but had suffered heavy losses due to the Kairon’s failings. Hopefully they would succeed where the Kairon had fallen short.

  The Kairon who had traveled through the portal had inflicted substantial casualties on the Khashishian position. Songrilah’s quick reaction had prevented his position being overrun entirely, but encircled by the beasts as he was, his Kashel would be unable to assist the Dwarves. One regiment of Khashishian troops continued to advance on the Andaran flank, posing a severe threat to Yaneera’s forces now locked in combat with the Dwarves.

  Most threatening was the Dragon that had appeared out of nowhere and was now rampaging through her ranks. Yaneera had only heard about such creatures in stories told to her as a child. As far as she knew, such a creature had not been seen in Sevalorn for centuries, if ever. Clearly the Dwarves were in league with the creature. The unholy alliance was having devastating consequences on the Imperial Army whose soldiers had little idea how to deal with the creature.

  The Disciple Karesa appeared to have wounded the beast, but even with her prodigious arcane skills she had been unprepared for the savagery of the Dragon’s assault. With Jonas having left her to deal with the Shah’s sorcerer, the young Andaran Empress was now shifting nervously, feeling more exposed than ever in spite of the thousands of troops surrounding her.

  Yaneera was so busy studying the sight before her that she failed to notice the supply wagon that had left its place in the wagon train and was moving steadily towards her position.

  “What are you doing? Return to your post!” The command from her guard drew Yaneera from her musings. She could see an errant wagon with its teamster that had been challenged by her guards.

  The scruffy unkempt teamster driving the wagon looked vaguely familiar to the Empress, but try as she might she could not work out where she had seen the bald man before. In spite of her guard’s challenge the wagon rolled on, the teamster seemingly unconcerned at the soldier’s warning.

  Seeing he had gained the Empress’s attention, the teamster stood up on his buckboard and hollered over the soldier’s voice. “Ah, the mighty Yaneera—all hail the brat of Andara. She who did naught but survive and yet has raised herself up to lord over her neighbors . . .”

  “Who are you?” Yaneera called, cutting the man off mid-sentence.

  “You are too quick to forget those you crush beneath your heel, Yaneera. I spent my life fighting for my people and you took everything from me. You wanted my head—I have brought it, along with your gift of friendship for my people. It seems you need it more than I do.” Reaching into the wagon, the teamster produced a small flaming torch that had been resting in a brazier behind his seat.

  Yaneera was in shock, unable to reconcile the disheveled man before her to the silver-haired chancellor she had always known. His disguise had worked perfectly. Were it not for his voice, Yaneera would never have made the connection. Beltain! Yaneera shrank in horror.

  “See you in hell, Yaneera!” spat the bitter, once-proud Chancellor of Vitaem before plunging the torch into an open barrel of Dwarven Blackpowder.

  Sensing what was coming next, Mavolo—always at her side—grabbed the Empress unceremoniously, clutching her in his large arms. Then the immense guard leaped away from the wagon, shielding his charge from the deranged ex-Chancellor.

  The blast tore apart the wagon as the stolen Blackpowder ignited. Splintered timbers were thrown to every point of the compass and the shockwave accompanying the blast rolled outwards, creating a deadly fusillade.

  The few guards who survived the initial blast were cut down by the deadly shower of debris.

  Yaneera felt the heat of the blast as it rolled over her . . .

  Chapter 35

  Jonas watched in utter disbelief as the wagon disintegrated. He had been making his way back to Yaneera’s position when the thunderous explosion rang out. Thick smoke choked the air obscuring his view of the plateau, but it was clear the Andaran command post had been blown apart.

  Glancing around the field, Jonas took stock of the situation. The armies were locked in combat but the Dwarves were holding fast. The Kairon who had traveled through the portal were now cut off as the gateway had dissolved. Turning to where he had last seen Yaneera, Jonas stopped in his tracks.

  The great golden Dragon he had watched disappear through the portal was bearing straight down on him. Andaran soldiers tried to stop the beast’s charge but the rampaging Dragon swept them aside without breaking its long loping stride. Even wounded the creature was terrifying, perhaps even more so than on the wing.

  Jonas considered the state of the battle taking place around him, the din of the dwarven cannons continuing to echo through the valley. The tide had turned—Jonas could feel it. The Shah’s duplicity, the Kairon’s failed assault, Kare
sa’s death . . . Jonas was outraged. You all deserve to burn. Jonas turned away from the rampaging beast and rushed through the incantation, and a portal materialized before him.

  Without hesitation Jonas ran for the portal and leaped through it. Before he could dwell on the strange sensation of moving through the arcane gateway he hurtled out the other side, striking the stone floor hard. Jonas glanced around to be assured he had indeed reached the Room of Realms before closing the portal behind him. The sight of the Dragon’s jaws only feet away had seared itself into his retinas.

  With relief and exasperation Jonas lay back. He sought to regain his breath and a familiar figure came into view above him. “What was that beast, Jonas?”

  “Man or beast I don’t know, Prophet,” Jonas replied, “but it destroyed our forces and killed our brethren. I alone am left of those we sent to Meldinar.” Jonas rested his head back on the cool stone floor.

  “I find it strange that you were willing to accept failure so readily, Jonas,” the aging Prophet scolded. “You have never shrunk from your duties before. Why have you returned when your task remains incomplete?”

  “I do not shrink from my duty. I returned so that I might give my report. There are things you must know about that world,” Jonas insisted. “Once I have given my report I will gladly return, if that is what Mythos wishes.”

  “I see,” the Prophet replied, nodding. “I will hear your report now—let us not waste any time.”

  Jonas’s mind raced, not sure where to begin. “Our Disciples—some of them never returned from their missions. These fools that worship the Allfather are not as helpless as we had thought. He has prepared them for our coming. That beast killed Karesa without breaking a sweat. I would have perished also . . .”

  “Relax, Jonas, you are tired,” the Prophet said, his tone more soothing. “It is not unusual.”

  “Everything about it was unusual. Did I mention the Kairon were there? A world outside our fold and yet the Herd had been there for a hundred years?”

  “The Herd?” the Prophet asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “Indeed. Apparently they were led there and abandoned by one of our Disciples.”

  “Nonsense, Jonas—you are delirious. We have never set foot on that world.”

  “It isn’t nonsense—I spoke with them. Their Warchief told me a Disciple named Nostriminus led them there almost a hundred years ago.”

  “Nostriminus,” the Prophet pressed. “You are sure that is the name he gave you?”

  “Yes, why? Have you heard of him?”

  “I have not heard that name in many years,” the, Prophet replied adjusting his robe as he crouched down over the exhausted Disciple.

  “Who is . . . ?”

  The question was cut short as the Prophet clasped his hand over Jonas’ mouth. Jonas struggled, surprised to find the old teacher to be so strong. The Prophet raised his other hand, which held a dagger. Its intricate hilt was fashioned into an ornate skull, and the blade glowed an angry crimson.

  The Prophet brought the blade down, plunging it into Jonas’s chest.

  Jonas attempted to cry out, but still the Prophet had his hand clasped firmly over the Disciple’s mouth, silencing him. Jonas shouted noiselessly as he felt his life being sucked from his body.

  The Prophet took a deep breath as he drained Jonas’s life. As it flowed from Jonas’s body into his own he could feel it invigorating his weary frame. The Prophet savored the sensation until without warning it stopped. Looking down the Prophet saw that Jonas had been reduced to a husk.

  The Prophet stood up and swept his hand gracefully before him, opening a portal. Without delay he picked up Jonas’s withered body and pushed it through the breach. Content that he had disposed of the evidence, the Prophet sealed the portal once more.

  No one may know that name, Nostriminus told himself as he slipped the dagger back beneath his robes. Apollos was right. The dagger was a potent artifact. It will come in useful in the days ahead.

  Chapter 36

  The Vernaldhum

  Yaneera struggled to get out from under Mavolo. “Mavolo, you are crushing the life out of me.”

  “Garr,” came the pained but unhelpful response.

  Yaneera clawed at the ground as she painfully extricated herself from underneath her protector. Then she saw Mavolo’s back for the first time. It was a grisly sight—her burly protector was terribly burned and covered in blood where the debris had struck him.

  “Mavolo, no!” she shouted, leaning over her bodyguard’s crippled frame but not knowing how to begin to help him.

  Mavolo struggled to turn his head. “Get out of here, Empress. . . . The battle is lost. Sound . . . the retreat and flee.” He gathered his power for a warning: “If the Dwarves find you here, you are dead.”

  “I won’t leave you, Mavolo,” she declared.

  “You must, Empress. I’m a dead man. I cannot move and my wounds are too great. . . . Leave now, before it’s too late.”

  Yaneera fought back tears as she planted a kiss on her beloved protector’s head.

  As Yaneera stood up she saw a number of Andaran soldiers making their way to her position. Raising a hand to her mouth, she shouted loudly, “Find a herald! Sound the retreat!”

  The soldiers stared back at her, dumbfounded. “Now!” the Empress shouted.

  The men hurried off to spread the word and Yaneera began making her way slowly and painfully back to camp. If I can reach the horses, I’ll be safe. Yaneera’s survival instincts kicked in as she fled for her life.

  *****

  Syrion stared in wonder as the Disciple fled. A horn call sounded from the rear of the Andaran army, and the enemy soldiers around him looked at each other and then at the golden Dragon still moving angrily through their ranks. The soldiers began to flee.

  A cheer went up from the Shah’s position as the soldiers of both Vitaem and Andara fled north, but the Kairon watched in outrage. Hemmed in by the forces of the Shah and the dwarven earthworks they had yet to break through, the remaining Kairon turned and galloped north, eager to get out of range of the ever-present dwarven artillery.

  Syrion made for the Shah’s position to lend his assistance against the Kairon that still lingered there. Weary from his exertion and wounds, Syrion waded into their ranks, and the return of the great beast was all the motivation they needed to abandon their assault on the Kashel and join their kinsmen who were fleeing the valley.

  With the Kairon dispersing, Syrion resumed his human form, and pains raced through his shoulder. He could see the seared flesh of his back through the remnants of his robe. That’s going to need a healer, Syrion thought as he made his way to the Shah.

  “Well done, my young friend!” the Shah shouted, struggling to restrain his hunting cats who strained against their leashes.

  “Consider this the fulfillment of our accord, Songrilah,” Syrion said. “I will expect you to honor it also.”

  “And I shall,” the Shah replied. “As soon as I return to Khashish I will set it in motion. You have my word—I will not break it.”

  “Excellent. Sweep the valley for any stragglers, and I will go and see how the Dwarves fared. Be safe until we meet again, noble Shah. I am sure we shall.”

  “I look forward to the day, Syrion,” Songrilah responded, smiling.

  Syrion bowed and excused himself. He raised his arms and took to the sky. The pain in his shoulder was a distraction but Syrion shut it out—the thought of walking all the way to the dwarven emplacements was even less tolerable.

  Syrion soared towards the battlefront, and from his vantage point in the sky he could see the Dwarves gathering at the eastern end of the fortifications. Descending, Syrion could make out a large cluster of Dwarves forming a tight circle. Syrion landed behind them and made his way through the tight cluster of warriors.

  When he reached the center, Syrion’s face fell. Before him lay the body of the largest Kairon he had ever seen. Beside the beast lay Tharadin. The Iron King
’s neck was clearly broken—the venerable Dwarf was dead. In spite of having known Tharadin for only a day, Syrion could not help but feel a profound loss at his passing.

  Syrion was unsure how to proceed. The customs for mourning were different in every culture, and the last thing Syrion wanted was to cause offense. “Mighty Dwarves, you fought fiercely today, as did your King. He would be proud of you. Your valor has preserved your people and your freedom.

  “Who will attend to his last rites?” Syrion asked.

  A sturdy Dwarf stepped forward, his helmet tucked under his arm in respect. He wore the same carefully-crafted armor of the Ironguard, his dark beard streaked gray with age. “I am Torgen Ironfist. I am a distant cousin of the Iron King. I will attend to his rites as I am his closest living relative. It is our way.”

  “What of his son, Ferebour?” Syrion asked.

  “Ferebour is dead,” Torgen responded swiftly.

  “You are mistaken, Torgen. When I spoke to the Iron King last night I brought word that his son still lived. There on his hand you’ll see the signet I brought as proof. It was Tharadin’s wish that Ferebour return to the Everpeak.”

  Torgen bent down and examined the ring on Tharadin’s hand. It was indeed the signet of the Ironhearts. There was no mistaking the sigil. “The boy was exiled,” Torgen continued. “He neglected his duty . . .”

  “He was forgiven,” Syrion answered, cutting off the old Dwarf.

  “He could never have managed such a feat.” Torgen replied—Tharadin’s stubbornness was legendary.

  “Ferebour enlisted my aid to defend your people here. You have him to thank for my intervention here today. Without my aid and that of the Shah, you might all be dead now.”

  “You presume too much, foreigner . . .”

  “I presume nothing, Torgen. I am merely stating that I will return Ferebour to the Everpeak as I promised, so that he may attend to his father’s rites. That is all.”