Flames of Awakening: Faemoch Cycle Book 1

by Reynolds, Michael

  Ariax followed the earth into the pit, screaming the entire way. Hundreds of thousands of arms reached out and groped for freedom, feeling the debris pass. One hand managed to grab Ariax as he flew past, jerking him to a stop. Many otherworldly arms clutched at the doomed man, ripping him apart. His agonizing wails never ceased.

  "Come forth! Do my bidding. Bring yourself. Bring your friends. I call forth an army from the fiery pit! Go forth and slay my enemies!"

  Shadows covered the surface of the glowing orange-red lava. Screeches and howls filled the air as an army of many armed, many-legged fiends belched forth from the mouth of the abyss. Their wings blackened the sky. Their stench forced a few of the society to double over and retch. With the circle broken thus broken, the ground sealed closed.

  Aportus watched on from the shadows. He knew that his master was ruthless and powerful, but what he had witnessed this night awakened in him a fearsome new respect for his master's power. When the ground finally stopped shaking, he stepped out from behind the stone and peered into the sky. He took a few steps closer to the center of the henge and his master. Aportus was only a few steps from his hooded master when the ground beneath him heaved and jerked again, throwing him to the ground.

  A giant ape-like hand erupted from the bulging terrain. A second hand sprouted forth and clenched the ground. Finally, a giant primate head broke free from the earth, and a long snake-like body followed, coiling beneath the massive torso. Immense bat-like wings unfurled, throwing mud and dirt out into the night. The rain sizzled as it fell on the beast.

  "Who calls me by my true name and releases me to this world?" Gredgeshnosch thundered.

  "I do," the dark leader stepped forth.

  "And what is your name, mortal?"

  The man laughed loudly with his hands on his hips. "You do not make demands of me, creature. You need not know me except as your summoner. You will do exactly as I say. You may call me Master."

  The demon raised a massive hand to swat the diminutive creature away. He froze with his hand in the air, unable to force it to his will.

  "I am no mere mortal. I have lived and died a score of times since my soul's beginning. I am power incarnate," Aportus' master said. "I am your master, and you shall do my bidding for 100 days. At which time you shall return directly to your infernal home. These are the terms of the spell that summoned you. These terms bind you."

  The half ape, half snake demon howled its disapproval, but, in the end, nodded his acceptance of the demands of his new master. He stared into his master's piercing eyes. The look that crept onto Gredgeshnosch's face was a mixture of awe and fear. The giant demon shrank back from his new master.

  "Now, that we are understood. There is a certain half-elf who stays with a tribe of northmen. I require you to retrieve him and his traveling companion. Bring them to me. Destroy anyone who stands in your path. Go!"

  Gredgeshnosch tightened his coiled body beneath him and shoved off, into the air. His mighty wings flapped, and he took flight. The cloud of demons followed him as he sailed to the north.

  Aportus watched the fearsome demons until they flew beyond his sight. Fear gripped him as he contemplated the shear amount of destruction that his master had just unleashed on the world.

  "You haven't begun to fathom the power that I command," his master said, as though he could read Aportus' mind.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jaxius pushed open the flap of the medicine man's tent to reveal an ancient and shriveled man sitting next to a small but fierce fire. He was clothed in nothing more than a loincloth made of fur.

  "Well, come in," the old man said.

  Jaxius did as he was told. He huddled into the small, warm tent and took a seat at the fire opposite the old man. Glancing around, he noticed that this tent was outfitted differently from the rest of the rather spartan military-style tents of the camp. This tent had small shelves standing against the walls and overflowing satchels scattered across the rugs piled on the floor of the tent. Dried bunches of fragrant flowers and leaves, as well as several varieties of braided roots, hung from the corners of the tent.

  "I have come seeking your assistance."

  "Hush, now," the old man said. "Just breathe."

  "Yes, but, the matter that I came to speak with you about is of grave importance."

  "Blast it all to the heavens boy, I know why you are here. You talk too much to learn anything at all. If you want to know the reason behind those disturbing dreams of yours or the dramatic changes you've experienced, you will simply breathe. And hear."

  Struck by this sudden inexplicable knowledge of his plight, Jaxius could do nothing but follow the shaman's cryptic instructions. He inhaled deeply.

  The aged man slowly poured a vibrant green liquid from a long-necked gourd onto the crackling fire which subsequently flared a brilliant blue and filled the tent with dense grayish-green smoke.

  Jaxius coughed and inhaled a gasping breath. As he choked, the old man's arm shot out with such fantastic speed that even Jaxius' enhanced elven eyes could not follow his movements. The mystic caught him by the cheeks and pulled him close. Their noses touched, and the old man stared Jaxius in the eyes. The whole world melted away in that gaze. There was nothing except the old shaman and Jaxius. Even the elderly magic man slowly faded, until there was only Jaxius.

  "I dreamed of you. I dreamed that you would come to me seeking answers. I dreamed it a month ago," the Nordrasian shaman's voice surrounded Jaxius. "Then I started to dream the dreams that you dream. I dreamed of the battles and of the woman and the children. You have come to me seeking explanations, but I say to you that the answers you seek are most assuredly inside of you. Locked away from your conscious self. Only you have the ability to access them. I can, perhaps, offer a path to find them, but you must be willing. There is no turning back. Once you begin that road, the things that you learn cannot be unlearned. Are you prepared?"

  "Yes. I am ready."

  "Good," he said. "Think back to what was said to you in the forest clearing. The child called you cousin, yes?"

  "Yes, but how did you know that? You said that you shared my dreams. The events in the forest weren't a dream."

  "Oh? And you are absolutely positive of that? What is the difference between life and dreams? Tell me, master of the elven blade, what's the disparity?"

  "Honestly, I don't know anymore. Nothing has seemed quite real for the past month. Perhaps you are right. Maybe I am dreaming," Jaxius agreed hesitantly.

  "Now, don't misunderstand, young elf. You are very much awake at this moment. But, when a fae is involved, there is always some element of dream. And so, I saw your interaction with Chlora as if I were an active, present participant."

  Jaxius drifted through the blackness, unable to see or hear anything except the wise old man's voice.

  "Where is this path that you speak of? There is only unending darkness."

  "Patience. Look. See. You will find it. Turn your attention inward."

  Jaxius considered the ideas the old man presented. The answers were inside himself. Something akin to memories? He picked at that idea, following the sentiment further, chasing it through his inner self. Not to figure out what was happening, but to remember. That's right, he thought. That's what Chlora had told him.

  "That's right, cousin, remember," Chlora's voice cut through the blackness.

  Remembering hearing her encouraging voice in the tower, Jaxius was transported there through the inky dark. He watched and saw himself dodging Fylzia's magical barrage. He remembered the exact moment that time began to slow. From outside of his remembered body he could see his skin start to shimmer and his eyes shift to the vibrant emerald green. He saw his hair grow wild and raise into the air. He also observed the shadowy figure in the mirror in the room's hidden corner. The figure that was not staring at the witch as he had once thought. The hooded man gazed at him, intent on his every move.

  "Remember more. Recall the way things used to be. Before. Ages ag
o," the old man's voice cut through.

  Jaxius thought back and tried to recollect everything that had ever occurred in his life. He found it amazingly easy to remember the entirety of his life in vivid detail. He could not, however, coerce that memory to move beyond anything other than what he had personally experienced.

  "Remember the dreams."

  Remember? How could he possibly forget? The visions haunted him day and night. He conjured an image from his dream with ease. He stood atop a hill on a drenching night facing an innumerable horde in pitched battle. He slowed the vision and the image froze. He stepped closer and looked his dream self in the face. His dreamed self's eyes were vibrant green. His hair matched the image of his hair from the room in Fylzia's tower. He could almost remember being on that battlefield. He peered up into the sky, hoping for some clue to jar his memories into awakening. As he lowered his gaze back to the battlefield his eyes met the gaze of a strange man. A bald man with cold steel-blue eyes stared at Jaxius from an adjacent hilltop.

  "No, you don't," he saw the man say. The figure's arms erupted into flame. Two large jets of fire raced toward his dream self. Moving impossibly fast, he and his dream self bounded into the sky and evaded the jets of flame. But this reaction put his dream self into the direct path of another magical gout of flame. That Jaxius plummeted to the ground, and then the entire battlefield was engulfed in flames.

  Jaxius' vision went brilliantly white. Then, staggered, he was back in the tent in Nordras with the ancient mystic.

  "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked the half-elf.

  "No, not yet, but I did see further. It was as though I was there. Me, but not exactly me." Jaxius was still reeling from the vision.

  "It was you. You just have to remember."

  The tent flap opened and most of the swirling smoke dissipated into the cold night air. Tolian stepped through with Grundar not far behind.

  "Oh hello, Bergar," the old mystic smiled his large toothless smile. "I was just speaking with Jaxius, the Returned One. This journey of discovery involves you too, son of Grundar."

  "What is he talking about?" Jaxius' face wrinkled with confusion.

  Tolian's eyes widened. In his panic, he could think of no other course but to tell Jaxius.

  Tell him, Bergar agreed. Just don't let father know yet.

  "Jaxius, friend, we need to talk," Tolian said and then nodded toward Grundar. "Alone."

  Jaxius nodded, turned to the old man, and said, "I will return later, I promise. It seems that my friend needs me now."

  The wise old mystic snickered knowingly and waved the two off.

  Jaxius followed Tolian a short distance away from the tent and apart from their large Nordrasian friend. As Tolian recounted everything that Bergar had shared with him, a look of total comprehension overtook Jaxius' face. Surprisingly to Tolian, Jaxius smiled.

  "This explains much," Jaxius says. "I was doubting my own sanity for a while."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I will just say that Bergar walks loudly," Jaxius said with a laugh.

  I do not.

  Tolian couldn't help but smile. "He disagrees."

  "He can hear me?" Jaxius asked, astounded.

  "Yes," Tolian answered. "He simply has no control over my glorious physique at the moment. Somehow we swapped command on the trek through the blizzard. A good thing too. Just one more moment of that... and I ... I would have snapped."

  You did.

  "It looked like you did my friend."

  See. Bergar's voice was smugly satisfied and Tolian could imagine the young barbarian grinning widely.

  "Grundar needs to hear of this," Jaxius added solemnly.

  No! Bergar's smugness faded quickly at the thought of explaining the whole mess to his father.

  "I do not believe that we should tell him quite yet," Tolian expanded on Bergar's protest. "I rather fear he isn't prepared for a revelation of this magnitude."

  "Perhaps you are right."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The pair gathered Grundar from the shaman's tent and then the three of them returned to the main hall shortly thereafter. The scene in the hall had evolved from the feast of returned heroes into a series of cheerful drinking games.

  Jaxius and Tolian enjoyed their first chance at relaxation in more than a month. They each grabbed a hearty drink and settled near Grundar, hoping to extend their happiness to the grieving chieftain. But Grundar did not cheer up. If anything, his sorrow only deepened with the passing minutes.

  Intent on cheering his friend, Tolian sprang from his seat, bowed low to Grundar and said, "Would you allow me to honor you and the memory of your son with a song?"

  What are you doing? Alarm was evident in Bergar's question.

  Nothing, Tolian thought.

  Ugh. Why must you torment me? Didn’t the witch do enough?

  Grundar nodded his grizzled head and vaguely motioned his hand in a half-hearted affirmative.

  Tolian, ever the showman, leaped atop the long wooden table and began tapping his foot to set the rhythm of his hymn. What followed was a rousing and triumphant ballad of the boy's coming of age and passage into manhood. The song became somber as Tolian detailed Bergar's slaying at the hands of the foul witch and returned triumphantly as Tolian described Bergar's ascension to the Wildlands.

  His song was met with mixed reactions as those who were closest to Bergar alternately cheered and wept at the appropriate moments. However, a small group of young barbarians booed and hissed as Tolian's ballad continued.

  Don't pay them any mind. They wish they could lead the clan. Jealous, that's all, Bergar told Tolian.

  This spurred Tolian on. He moved closer to the disgruntled youngsters and his song took on an almost taunting tone as he pointed out the great loss to Clan Dernegart.

  The heckling turned sour and bitter. Harsh remarks were made, insulting Tolian, calling him a coward, a stealer of glory, incapable of fighting his own glorious battles. They hurled insult after insult at the bard who was not phased by this in the least. In fact, he had encountered the same reception a number of times in many of the taverns scattered across the land. After half a decade of the same unimaginative insults, he learned to ignore them or incorporate them into his act.

  Bergar, however, did not have the same thick skin as Tolian. Why do you let them make fun of you like that? Stand up for yourself, man!

  Tolian, ignoring his second conscience, pressed on, singing more and more to the crowd of hecklers than to anyone else.

  Finally seeing that they didn't upset him with their hateful remarks, they turned their insults on Bergar. Their remarks hinted at failure and extreme cowardice in his final days. One of the young barbarians, in particular, sought to trounce on the name of the recently departed son of the clan head.

  That is too far! Bergar roared.

  With that mental shout, Tolian leaped forward, landing fully in the middle of the half drunk barbarian and grabbed him by the throat. The bard punched the drunkard repeatedly in the jaw and eyes. When the shocked, young barbarian turned his head to save his nose from further punishment, Tolian pummeled his ears furiously.

  Great, Tolian thought wryly at the angered Bergar. Now you've gone and done it. I no longer control myself.

  No reply came from Bergar; he was no longer thinking. He had been lost to the battle lust for which his people were best known. He beat and beat his clansman until a couple of the shocked bystanders pulled him off.

  "Now, that's fighting like a barbarian," one of the onlookers said.

  Alright, snap out of it, boy, commanded Tolian.

  "Wha-what happened?" Bergar asked aloud. Oh yeah, he made fun of you and then he turned on me. I remember now. He mentally answered his own question.

  Right, Tolian thought. And you almost outed us right here in front of your father. Do you have any idea how you took control of the body?

  No, Bergar said. Not really. I just got mad, and then was punching him.
<
br />   That's it! Tolian almost shouted. Emotion. You became angry. You got irritated enough to take the body back. It's perfectly logical.

  It is? Bergar asked.

  Yes. When I took over control of my body before, it was because I was so angered with your bumbling that I was set to kill you. It has to be emotion!

  That does make sense, Bergar agreed. But we can only swap places when one of us is extremely angry? That isn't very useful.

  Tolian explained to his internal partner, I don't think the Witch Goddess meant for it to be particularly helpful. I am also quite sure she meant for it to be an obstacle, yet another way in which to create confusion and chaos. That is what she does, after all.

  Bergar agreed with all the bard had described. He could not think of any other way to swap places. Both of the times that they had swapped were under nearly identical circumstances.

  "You can let go of me," Bergar said, in Tolian's voice again. He shrugged off the two brawny men holding him back.

  Just as his arms broke free of his restrainers, the assaulted barbarian's fist met Bergar's jaw with a loud thump. Bergar stumbled backward, landing solidly on the table behind him.

  "That's fer hittin' me. You punch like a sissy. I thought you ought to know what a real man hits like."

  Now, with more than his pride hurt, Bergar thought it a wise course to stay down. However, he noted this particular boy, and would repay the debt one day.

  After we figure out how to get you out, Tolian suggested.