Gifts of Vorallon: 02 - City of Thunder

by Thomas Cardin

  Lorace raised his cooling eyes up to the high recesses of the temple’s apex. “I will show you all what is wrong.”

  He turned back to his friends, the people he loved and cherished. “I am making a choice.”

  Hethal sagged like a limp doll and brought his hands to his mouth to stifle a cry. Moyan immediately went to his brother, his face clouded in concern.

  Hethal pulled back his shaking hands. “You cannot do this! You cannot make this choice! Everything changes now!”

  “What changes?” Oen asked, confronting Lorace squarely. “What choice?”

  “He cannot tell you,” Hethal said, his voice reduced to a low groan. “He must not tell you.”

  “Hethal is right,” Lorace said to Oen. “I cannot tell you, because I do not know what was about to happen if I had not fought down my anger, and I must not tell you because I value you all too much to hurt you with my suspicions. I am sorry. When I have made more sense of it, I will tell you what I can. Hethal will have to sort the future out all over again, but I have not escaped my destiny yet. These demons still pose their original threat as does the Devourer in his lair within Blackdrake Castle.”

  To their ears came the ringing peel of the bronze bell high above the Pilgrim’s Gate, heralding the arrival of the demon horde. Dawn brightened the sky beyond the open temple entry. His sight showed the black tide of demons flooding onto the southern battlefield. Past the forgotten siege tower and the unfinished siege engine they came. They spread out rank upon rank, trampling Moyan’s former command tent beneath their myriad limbs and bodies. The great palanquin with its distended rider was still far in the rear, they had time before it arrived, time which Lorace needed.

  “Did the Lady tell you what one thing your sword could not cut, Sir Rindal?” Lorace asked, taking them all aback with the sudden change in subject.

  “Yes she did, eventually,” the paladin admitted. “It is your chain. As much as Brakke Zahn can cut anything, Sakke Vrang is even more unbreakable. It is the greater.”

  Now came the sound of rousing citizens, guardsmen, and Zuxrans running toward the south wall in the brightening dawn light.

  “This is my fight,” Lorace announced. “I understand now what Lorn had intended of the demon horde; his ‘gift’ to me. You must all stay safe within these walls.”

  Lorace raised his hands to still their unanimous protests. “The final gathering of the last remaining servants of the light is here, all as a lure to bring those demons to me,” he explained. “Lord Aran told me after the battle with the Zuxran army that I only had a very small amount of the strength I would need for what was to come. Far too little for what my destiny required. The Old Gods have been sleeping for years to gain strength, but because of the further decline of the balance toward corruption, they do not have the strength they need. I will have to supply the rest.”

  “Perhaps you are meant to cleanse the demons and add them to your army?” Moyan put forth.

  “Those demons would only feed the Devourer were we to somehow march them unto Blackdrake,” Lorace answered with a shake of his head. “If I fail today then all is lost. Even if you should slay every demon, or somehow turn them back, I believe I am the only one who can defeat the Devourer. The gods planned this out, orchestrated my life for a reason, but I have changed the plan by not embracing vengeance. By choosing tranquility, I have re-written my destiny. Not even Hethal knows yet what this will mean. I choose to meet the demons alone on the field.”

  Lorace looked to them each in turn, his eyes connecting longest with the bright green orbs of Iris, who stood within a perfect calm all her own. Alone among all of his companions, she had shown no worry or apprehension at Lorace’s struggle. She had not shrunk back from him when he had lifted up Hethal. Her certainty of him was firm, it showed in her eyes and in every inch of her bearing.

  “Each of you is too precious to the balance to lose,” Lorace told them. “Far more precious are you all to me. You and the people of this valley are all that remain. The rest of Vorallon has already fallen. This is what my brothers and the Old Gods have laid before me, but I am going to do it on my own terms. I will be no puppet of destiny.”

  Tornin drew his sword and held it out for all to see. “What about this Lorace? I am your sworn defender, the Lords Aran and Lorn both blessed this blade Defender of the Youngest. I must stand with you.”

  Lorace clasped Tornin’s shoulders. “You I can afford to lose least of all. Your destiny is bound to mine. Recall what the dwarves said to you after you stepped into the Ritual of the Forge beside me—you share my fate. I declare now, before all here, that you shall be my first paladin, Tornin. You have already sworn your life to me. You have no choice in this. I charge you with the defense of the people of Halversome,” he said this last with a meaningful look toward Captain Falraan who smiled with a heavy exhale.

  “Moyan, you must command your men,” Lorace said to the General. “They are to reinforce the guardsmen on the wall. Their task will be lending their strength to the priests who shall reinforce the wards. Captain Falraan, your guardsmen shall do likewise. Only Tornin and Sir Rindal have weapons that can strike through a demon’s flesh—hueratta, the Lady called it—they must stand ready to dispatch any demons who should try to bypass me and attack the city.”

  “I can try to make them afraid to attack our walls,” Iris suggested with some hesitation.

  “No, I do not think that is what your task is,” Lorace said with a smile as an idea came to him. “Actually, I want you to do nothing until Hethal tells you. Sir Rindal the same goes for you. Stay with Hethal, he will tell you what to do when the time is right.”

  Hethal’s eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at, Lorace?”

  “I know you cannot tell me what lies ahead,” Lorace said to him. “I think I know a reason why that must be, a reason other than its influence over my decisions. Lorn has done nothing yet that has served only one singular purpose.”

  “You are making things very interesting,” Hethal said.

  “Stay near Iris and Sir Rindal, and stay where you can see the battlefield in safety,” Lorace instructed him. “Do not tell me where, and you must do your best to follow your vision, but think only of the present, do not look ahead by more than a moment at a time. Can you do that?”

  Hethal nodded as Lorace gave him a very slight grin, like two mad idiots sharing a delusion. Lorace now felt certain this was the right decision. Everything else, he would just have to deal with as it happened.

  “Oen you must be ready with your priests,” Lorace said. “You will be sorely taxed with what is going to happen.”

  “Just what is going to happen, Lorace?” Oen asked with a deeply furrowed brow.

  Lorace let out a bark of laughter, “I am going to challenge Aizel to a fair fight.”

  Chapter 11

  THE CHAMPION OF HALVERSOME

  Twenty-Eighth day of the Moon of the Thief

  -in Erenar

  Lorace went among his friends, embracing each in turn, while doing his best to clear his mind and focus only on his next footstep, his next embrace. He especially tried to clear his mind of everything he had just discussed with these few precious people. If his suspicions were correct, everything hinged upon maintaining a clear and calm mind. He lingered longest with his arms about Iris, breathing in her subtle scent.

  When he felt ready, he turned and slipped into the plaza, away from his friends. The sky was dim with the overcast of low clouds, a gloom that matched the horde’s tangible miasma of corruption. He let his feet take him through the wide street, immersed in the thin flow of guardsmen and Zuxrans toward the southern gate.

  Many of the Zuxrans had painted a single white circle on the armor of their chests, as had some of Halversome’s guardsmen. They honored him by wearing his symbol, and he raised his hands toward those he passed. The white circles on his palms shone starkly in the weak dawn light. He cleared his mind again, especially his suspicions of what those circles m
eant, as his deliberate steps carried him up to the tightly sealed portal of the Pilgrim’s Gate.

  A palpable wrongness emanated from the foul beings beyond the wall. There was a power and strength behind that malevolence. The resonant anger still lurked within him, a cherry red glow of rage against these abominations. With a deep breath, he allowed his calmness to wash over those burning coals until only coolness reigned in the depth of his being. Whatever happened outside these gates, he was determined to face it without anger. “You chose tranquility,” he muttered. “Stay true to that choice.”

  He let tranquility flow through him as he cleared his mind and let his eyes wander over the interlocking gray stones of the wall, each one bearing its silver warding glyph. He traced one with a finger, and it glimmered with a slight blue light at his touch. With a final comforting pat on the indomitable wall, he turned toward the barred gate.

  Lorace focused only on the gate before him, closing his mind to what lay beyond, forbidding his sight from sending his awareness beyond its solid timbers. His control over his mental gift was absolute, but denying himself of it, stifling its reflexive use, was agonizingly difficult. The hush of silence was enough to confirm that the horde had fully assembled upon the battlefield. Halversome held its breath, waiting.

  Lorace turned to the two guardsmen at the gate bidding them to raise the bar and open the gate for him. Silently and without haste, they obeyed his command and he stepped through, his white robes contrasting against the dim recess of the narrow portal. He continued out onto the dirt and trampled grass of the battlefield while hisses and gibbers of anticipation rose from the massed ranks of demons. The Pilgrim’s Gate slammed shut with a hollow boom, and the bar dropped into its traces with a thud of finality.

  He appraised the demon horde before him. At one time each of these demons had been a spirit living upon Vorallon, a corrupt and foul spirit crouching within the soul of a man, woman, or other natural denizen. This horde represented a breakdown in the grand cycle of souls, a failure in the system of cleansing and rebirth. Something was horribly wrong in the depths of Nefryt. Their foul spirits should have been cleansed, not left to form new bodies of black hueratta, the very essence of corruption.

  Lorace cleared his mind of these thoughts. They did not help with what now lay before him. He stood motionless before the demons and drew calming breaths, focused only on the infinite tranquility within. In the ensuing peacefulness of his mind the image of Elena, facing down the great black dragon Kamunki, suddenly came to him. A scene glimpsed from far away, a memory, but not his own. Kvarrak then lunged into the flesh of the towering Gnarwa amidst a storm of black lightning. Dranna whirled and dodged his way through warped and twisted abominations toward the lurking shadow of the wizard Losqua. Images from a being who was present at each of these clashes of light against darkness and still mourned the sacrifices those brave heroes had made. He was here now, Lorace felt him deep within his own tranquility, reaching out, welcoming, thanking. The spirit of Vorallon was with him.

  The demon horde was silent now. Their jeering hisses at seeing him step upon the field long since faded. They waited, untold numbers of powerful spirits, many of them gifted in horrible ways as he had already witnessed during his previous encounters with their kind. Each demon was unique, yet they all moved and acted almost as one, something that had struck Lorace as odd when he had observed their northward march. He felt even more secure about his suspicions, but swiftly cast that thought aside as well, focusing once more on inner calm.

  “Aizel!” Lorace cried, carefully denying the air around him the pleasure of amplifying his voice for him. “I am the champion of these people; send forth your champion to meet me in combat!”

  Without his sight, Lorace could detect a shifting in the midst of the battlefield, demons were moving aside with a minimum of hissing and grunting at one another, clearing a circular area about two hundred paces across. Above this general susurrus of the horde, Lorace heard a deep laughter from far within the expanse of chaotic black forms.

  “If you wish to treat with me, third son of Fara and Veladis,” a smooth voice intoned. “Come forth. We shall discuss the terms of this combat you offer.”

  Without hesitation, Lorace strode forward into the ranks of demons. Many towered above him, but some were small, the size of children. They glared at him and opened their jaws wide in threatening displays of black teeth and mandibles, but they uniformly parted before him. They remained close enough that his robes snagged upon their spikes and scales. An unseen hand seemed to hold them back while they strained to be unleashed upon him.

  They desired to descend on him with tooth and claw to rip him limb from limb, a brief morsel that would only feed the quickest to strike. Nonetheless, he passed between them wearing only a robe and a carefully forgotten satchel that rubbed upon his hip.

  Strangely, the demons smelled only of the land they had trod to come before the walls of Halversome; the soil that caked many of their feet, hooves, and coils; the salt spray from the ocean; the grasses of the fields. There was no sweat on their various black hides, though they shined glossy and hard in the overcast morning light. Indeed their bodies of hueratta appeared not to breathe.

  Lorace focused his mind on each demon he passed. Some appeared delicate and graceful, though far from beautiful. Many were feminine or had female characteristics, anatomy which he had never seen but had felt when he had carried Iris or hugged Falraan as they parted this morning. Some had masculine characteristics very prominently displayed. Lorace wanted to laugh at their ludicrous proportions. Some had skins that bore scales like snakes. Some were thorny and spiky or pebbled and dull. The varieties seemed endless. The death dealing appendages and fangs were equally varied and infinite.

  Lorace emerged, unscathed, into the clearing, ringed around by a solid wall of large demons with smaller demons filling the gaps between. He stepped to the center of the circle and halted. Above the heads of the demons, low clouds drifted. He focused on the clouds, relaxed and tranquil.

  “You must realize that we will not let you live,” the smooth voice said. “You have nothing to offer us should you fail which we cannot already take, and you have no chance of defeating us, let alone our champion. But I must say I am curious as to why you would willingly offer yourself up like this.”

  A powerful spirit descended upon him like a crushing avalanche, linking with him, not unlike when he linked with the spirit of someone who was holding his chain, only this was an invasion. He almost moved to grab the chain in his bag reflexively, but he quelled all thought of it, not yet he thought.

  “Not yet?” the voice asked.

  Iris looked out over the parapet of the great south tower. Sir Rindal stood beside her, one hand on his sword and the other planted firmly on the top of the wall before him. Hethal sat low, his back to the same low, crenelated wall.

  She had stopped trying to ask the monk any questions, Hethal was closed to all things as he watched what transpired by observing only through his gift.

  She had cried out with concern when Lorace walked directly into the horde of demons. She thought that all her fears were gone, but the sight of this mass of black corruption stretching to the horizon, where a mountain of foulness sat brooding over everything, proved her wrong. New fears could assert themselves. She fought them down. This fear was external and had no grip over her if she did not willingly allow it.

  She concentrated instead upon the spells and rituals she knew, meticulously going over any that might be of use to this situation. She wanted to cast a far communion spell that would allow her to ask Lorace what he thought he was doing walking into the teeth and claws of thousands of monstrous demons. Did he not realize what he meant to her? Not since the death of her mother, had anyone meant anything to her, so lost had she been in her own fears. To awaken, made new, in his arms had been an overwhelming experience.

  Iris cast no spells. She held back because Lorace had told her to do nothing until Hethal instructed
her. Her trust in Lorace was complete, but she knew that he was still only a mortal man. His destiny to become a god was a possibility of the future, if any of them had a future.

  Her breath came a bit easier when Lorace slid out into the clearing the demons had formed in the midst of their sea of darkness. So far from all aid, his white-robed form seemed insignificant in its isolation. He stopped in the center of the clearing and stood perfectly still. A moment later, a tall black form separated itself from the encircling demons and stepped toward him, moving with the grace of a dancer on a stage. Her breath caught once more when that distant white robed figure remained frozen as a long fingered black hand reached down toward him.

  Lorace remained motionless as the tall demon strode toward him on a pair of long symmetrical legs. Of all the demons he had yet seen, this one seemed the most aesthetically formed, as though its symmetry and perfection was its gift.

  “Not yet?” the demon said as it towered over him. “Surely the time is now! I accept you as the champion of these people, and I am the champion you called for, I am Lord Aizel.”

  Lord Aizel reached down and wrapped Lorace’s head in a hand with fingers like the long, chitinous legs of a black spider. “Do you think you remain motionless by choice? It is my will that directs you now.”

  The demon did not lie. This was the will that had held an entire army of ravenously hungering demons in place while he walked among their ranks, the will that had ruled Nefryt for an unknown span of years—the will Lorace had expected to face.

  As the spidery hand tightened on his head, he awakened his sight.

  “Remarkable,” Lord Aizel said. “I could make great use of this gift—it is wasted on you. I could look upon the gods themselves, and force them to bow before me as easily as I hold you. Much more easily still, it is my will that now commands the gatekeepers of this beautiful city to open wide its gates for my arrival.”