“You may return him to the mountain, but you cannot impose your will upon it. He can attend to his father’s rites but beyond that I promise you nothing.” Torgen said, “See to it swiftly. The King must be returned to the mountain—it is our tradition.”
“I will see to it, Torgen. You have my word.” Syrion turned to depart.
Torgen spotted for the first time, the wound in the young man’s shoulder, easily visible through the damaged robes. “Stranger, was it not magic that caused that wound?” he asked.
“Indeed it was. One of the Disciples did not go quietly to her grave. That mess is her handiwork.”
“Then do not be so hasty to depart,” Torgen said. “Our healers will see to your wound. It’s the least we can do after all you have done.”
Syrion stopped and weighed the offer. In truth he was eager to return home and find what had become of his mother. Has she returned from the Soul Forge?
Seeing Syrion hesitate, Torgen continued: “Our healers are gifted in dealing with the arcane. Stay a time with us, and you will heal much swifter here than you will on your own..”
Syrion nodded—the thought of a healer was a persuasive one indeed. He would be able to travel more swiftly with his wound attended to.
Torgen put his hand on Syrion’s back and gestured to the Everpeak. “Follow me. I will take you myself.” The Ironguard parted to allow Torgen passage and Syrion followed him through the throng of Dwarves toward the imposing mountain.
Chapter 37
Tres Cidea
Treval, voting councilman of the Maginot Concern, shook his head furiously. “It simply is not the time, Alistair.”
“There has never been a better time, Treval,” Alistair replied emphatically. “Our scouts tell us the plains are almost completely devoid of Kairon—the beasts were almost wiped out at the Everpeak. If we act now we can crush the few that remain and ensure they are never able to threaten our lands again!”
“Our lands are ravaged, Alistair, and our people have suffered terribly at the hands of those creatures. Whatever appetite for conquest once existed, it now lies smoldering in the fields with what is left of our people. The influence we wielded in the concern died the day those creatures crossed the Elkhan.”
“Do not be so melodramatic, Treval,” Penelope interjected. “Our people suffered a blow, but our army did not. Quartered as they were in the city, the army lost only a few outlying patrols. We stand in a unique position to act.” The councilwoman added.
“Unique how?”
“We still have an army, Treval!” Penelope responded gleefully. “Vitaem and Andara spent their strength against the Everpeak—they are in no position to stop us even if they wished to do so.”
“Exactly!” Alistair added. “If we move now we can destroy the Kairon once and for all. With the beasts gone and our army in the field, we can annex the plains—we will double our lands in one fell swoop.”
“I see the opportunity and your point Alistair,” Treval responded with resignation, “but The Concern will not. There is just no appetite for war at the present time, our people are mourning.”
“Then put your silver tongue to use, Treval,” said Penelope. “The people may not want war but they are suffering all the same. You must remind them who is to blame for their present affliction. Fear and hate are far better motivators than greed, anyway. Remind the people that the Kairon may return again if we do not find a more permanent solution. Even our bureaucratic brothers and sisters will see reason.”
Treval nodded his head slowly. “Fear could work. Fear could work very well.”
“Then we are agreed?” Alistair asked excitedly.
Penelope nodded. “Of course.”
“Yes,” Treval answered. “But it will take the three of us, and more. I will find soapbox preachers to begin spreading those sentiments among our people. While the feelings grow we must meet with as many of the Chamber of Commerce as possible.”
He held his chin in thought. “With the people being stirred into a frenzy it will feel like the Chamber is responding to the concerns of our people rather than imposing another war upon them. If we are able to spread the sentiment among the other members of The Chamber we will face little resistance when the time comes.”
“Very well,” Alistair answered, rising to his feet. “Let us act swiftly before this opportunity passes us by.”
Chapter 38
The Court of Songrilah, Khashish
Kastor stood before the Shah, surprised. “So you intend to honor your agreement with Valaar, then?”
“The story you told me, Kastor . . . it didn’t do the boy justice. Even after watching him deal with the Disciple I was ill prepared for the sight of him in battle. With his magic he laid waste to our enemies, and when he became that creature . . . that dragon . . .” Songrilah shook his head before continuing: “I have never seen anything like it in my life. Do you truly think we can renege on our agreement and not be brought to account?”
“I do not,” Kastor agreed. “His brother the King was quite clear in his terms. I would not presume to counsel you, my Shah, but I do agree with your sentiment. The boy is powerful and not to be trifled with.”
“Indeed he is not. In any event, I gave him my word and I will not break it. The cost will be vast but our loss will be Valaar’s gain. In keeping our word we strengthen the friendship between our peoples. We do not know when we may need their aid again—it is wise to plan now for that day.”
“But every slave, sire?” Kastor asked. “There must be thousands of them—tens of thousands if you count their progeny.”
“Fifty thousand,” Songrilah responded. “I have spent the last two weeks counting the cost of my victory, Kastor. If they all choose to leave we will be burdened with the cost of not only releasing them but shipping them back to Valaar. All told, it may be as many as fifty thousand people.”
“Will those that own them not resist?” Kastor asked. “Such a decree has never been issued before in the history of our people.”
“I expect they will resist indeed, but this was the price of our freedom. If we had not sought Valaar’s aid we would now be slaves to Andara and this Mythos whom they serve. It is a small price to pay for our freedom. The irony of releasing slaves in order to be free ourselves is not lost on me.”
“It seems this new Valaaran King has a sense of humor, your Excellency.”
“Indeed he does,” Songrilah replied, the corners of his mouth starting to rise up into a smile. “I would very much like to meet him . . . That is all, Kastor—you’re dismissed. Send in the Vizier. He will not be impressed when he learns of his next task.”
Kastor bowed and turned to depart. Things are changing in Sevalorn. The former slave hastened out of the chamber in search of the Vizier.
Chapter 39
Amendar, Empire of Andara
Yaneera wept openly as she watched the flames grow higher. The funeral pyre blazed brightly against the evening sky. All that remained of Mavolo, her faithful protector, was being reduced to ash before her eyes.
A billowing plume of smoke rose into the sky. In the traditions of Andara that smoke would carry Mavolo’s spirit into the realm beyond. Or at least it should do, Yaneera thought. The Allfather’s priests had always taught her so. The priest who had officiated at her parents’ funeral had assured her that such was the case.
There were no priests present today—they had been driven out by Jonas, along with any reference to the Allfather and his teachings. Though surrounded by her people, Yaneera was oblivious to their presence in the face of her internal turmoil. She couldn’t help but wonder if her betrayal of the faith of her forefathers would influence Mavolo’s reception in the next life.
She had cast aside one god in favor of another, only to be abandoned. The Disciples were no more. Jonas had last been seen disappearing through a portal as the battle had turned against them. Mythos and his servants had forsaken her, leaving the once-confident Empress uncertain of the roa
d that lay ahead.
Jonas had made abundantly clear the price of failure. Mythos would replace her with a more capable vessel and seek to expand his domain once more.
Staring into the flames Yaneera wept. She was now truly alone. Bereft of friends and family, she now stood alone against the world.
Yaneera’s defeat had devastated the Imperial Army, and Andara was more exposed than ever before. Her only comfort was that Vitaem had likewise been devastated and would be unable to take advantage of her present weakness.
The Dwarves may have triumphed but they had paid a heavy price for their victory. Word had reached the Palace that Tharadin had fallen before the Kairon assault. She had received the news with mixed feelings—relief that the Dwarven King would not be alive to pursue his oath against her, but also sorrow at his loss. Until the Disciples had set Andara against the Everpeak the two nations had been firm friends. The Dwarves would not venture out of their stronghold until they had observed the month of mourning for their fallen King.
No word had been received from Khashish or the Maginot but Yaneera had little doubt they too would be circling like vultures waiting to pick the scraps from the carcass of Andara.
As the flames of the funeral pyre died down a final tear rolled down her cheek. Looking about, Yaneera realized all eyes were upon her. The assembled courtiers and palace guard stood patiently waiting for her to break her silence.
Yaneera struggled to clear her throat. “Mavolo was a great man, but more than that he was my mentor, my protector and my friend. When all about me forsook my family and sought our lives, he alone stood between me and those who sought to kill me.
“Now he is gone and I miss him more than words can express. I pray that his fierce spirit finds peace in the world beyond. I know little of such places and so I will say little of such matters.”
She paused, then continued more strongly: “I know little of the world beyond, but this world I know. I tell you our enemies stand ready on every side, their jaws open wide, ready to receive us. Mythos has forsaken us—but if his servants are to be believed he may one day return to punish us for our failure in his cause.
“I do not tell you this to frighten you, merely to remind you that the battle is not over. Our enemies are numerous and will seek to take advantage of our weakened state. . .”
Yaneera paused, allowing her words to sink in for a moment before she continued. “I will not allow it!” she shouted. “As Mavolo stood between our enemy and me, so will I stand between you and any who come to take what is ours. No matter the form our foe may take, be it a god, man, dwarf or beast—I will fight them.
“Since the day I took my father’s throne I have sought nothing but the security and survival of our people—nothing has changed. I will fight for these things—for you—until the day I die. I pray that you too will stand ready to aid me when the time comes—
A deafening roar of approval flooded the courtyard, cutting her off.
Yaneera paused and waited for the commotion to die down. When it did not, Yaneera lifted her hand to signal for silence. “Until then, let us remember those we have lost. May their memory strengthen our hands and hearts in the days that are to come.”
Another cheer broke out in the somber setting. As the voices echoed about her a sensation settled deep within Yaneera. She knew it at once—determination, the same drive that had possessed her after her parents’ death. The same determination lay within her still. The knowledge brought a comfort to her aching heart as she left the courtyard and retired to her chambers.
Chapter 40
Inside the Soul Forge
Elaina paced anxiously around the Forge. It had been hours since the Soul Smith had departed. The ornate funeral urn had changed little during the long wait. As Elaina watched the Soul Stone flickered and went dim. Elaina was furious. “That lying wretch . . .”
Before she could finish the thought, the urn began to hum. From deep within the strange device a light grew brighter and brighter. A hiss filled the chamber as the vessel’s lid lifted, and white vapor poured out.
Elaina ran to the vessels, and looking within she could see nothing. Using both hands she furiously fanned at the vapor, and as it cleared she saw the face of Marcus. It had been two decades since she had last seen her husband, but he was just as she remembered. The creases of his face were a little deeper, the passage of time more obvious in a human than an Astarii, but there was no doubt that this was Marcus.
Marcus opened his mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Elaina drew back in surprise, then reached into the vessel and shook her husband. “It’s me, Marcus—open your eyes!”
Marcus opened his eyes and for the first time he saw Elaina. Struggling to catch his breath he spoke: “It’s you, Elaina, it’s really you. I’ve been having the strangest dream.”
“You will have to tell me all about it later,” she replied. ‘But first we must get out of here. This place is not safe.”
Marcus nodded and Elaina grabbed his hand, eager to lead him toward the portal.
Her husband stepped out of the urn but planted his feet. Elaina turned back: “What are you doing . . . ?”
Marcus’s lips found hers, cutting her question short. Elaina returned his anxious embrace.
As the two parted, Marcus was the first to speak: “Now we can leave. How do we get out of here?”
Elaina smiled and pointed at the portal still shimmering in the wall of the Soul Forge. “Through that!” she exclaimed.
“What is it?” Marcus asked.
“Enough questions, my love. There will be time enough for them soon.” Elaina took her husband by the hand and half-guiding, half-dragging Marcus, she ran for the portal.
I’m coming, boys, and I’m bringing your father, Elaina thought gleefully as she pulled Marcus through the shimmering surface of the portal.
The End
Epilogue
The Frosted Peaks of Sevalorn
Grindelmere stood high above Sevalorn in a place no human had ever traveled. With quiet satisfaction he admired the Spellweaver’s accomplishment. Normally with winter’s passing the sleet and snow atop the mountains would thaw, the water would run off the peaks and into the Elkhan before plunging over the Winter Falls.
In spite of the season a thick frost coated the land. The Elkhan itself was frozen solid and the falls had all but ceased to flow. The Spellweavers of the Glaciadal had labored tirelessly night and day to prolong the winter’s icy grasp upon the land.
According to information gathered by his scouts, Grindelmere’s plan was proceeding according to his designs. The shortage of water had caused the humans in the lands below to turn on each other. The savage creatures that roamed the plains had also moved south, searching for more food.
Grindelmere watched in awe as the Spellweavers worked. A dozen of them stood chanting in the frozen river bed. The power flowing from them belied their slender, agile frames, and the Spellweavers stood, eyes closed, hands raised with palms together in front of their chests. If he hadn’t known better, Grindelmere would have presumed they were praying.
Such was not the way of the Glaciadal. They served their master in deed, not in mindless obeisance. Grindelmere felt a stirring deep within. He knew the sensation at once—it was the Master’s call.
Looking up into the starry sky, Grindelmere smiled as a familiar light shot across the night sky. He is free at last! Grindelmere thought excitedly. Turning to the Spellweavers, the High King shouted jubilantly: “Aielniur, it is the sign! Stop the incantation. We must gather the Glaciadal and move south at once.”
The ancient Spellweaver lifted his head, his delicate features difficult to read. “Are you sure, Grindelmere?”
“Look up, Aielniur—what else could it be?” the High King answering with a question of his own.
Aielniur raised his eyes to the heavens and watched as the brilliant star moved swiftly across the night sky. “I believe you may be right.”
Grin
delmere strode to where his steed waited nearby, quickening his step to leap gracefully into the saddle. The High King ran his hand through the large bear’s fur to reassure him, and the creature shook his head appreciatively. Lifting his helmet off the saddle horn, the King slid it gently onto his head, his long tapered ears disappearing beneath the elegant silver helm.
“Gather the tribes, Aielniur. It is time to recover our inheritance.”
The ageless Spellweaver affected a bow and departed as Grindelmere spurred his steed toward home. It is time to move to a warmer climate, Grindelmere thought as he pulled his fur cloak tight. Soon, very soon.
About the Author
I am a tax and business consultant from Brisbane, Australia. A Coronation of Kings and When The Gods War are my first published novels. It has been a thrill for me to write and I hope you have enjoyed the books, too. I grew up reading from many amazing authors like Tolkien, Feist, Clancy, Matthew Reilly and others.
Each of them spun tales that filled me with wonder and awe as I imagined the world they vividly crafted with each carefully selected word. They are incredible masterpieces that have thrilled readers for decades. My hope is that I can add something new to the genre. Instead of a slow buildup of an incredibly detailed plot, my goal is to write fantasy that takes place at breakneck speed, sweeping you the reader along with it.
I expect that my literature (like everything in life) will improve with each novel. I hope you enjoyed this latest installment.
Until next time!
Samuel C. Stokes
P.S. Authors live at the mercy of Amazon and its search engines. The single greatest thing you can do for me as an author is to take a few minutes to leave a positive review on Amazon.
When The Gods War: Book 2 - Chronicles of Meldinar Page 25