The Shadow Of Fallen Gods

by V. R. Cardoso

  “I’m Faustan, you bloody idiot!”

  Hagon darted around another corner, quickly followed by another, and then another, always choosing the narrowest, darkest alleys he could find in an effort to lose the Legionaries.

  And then, he ran out of street.

  “Fire take us!” Hagon cursed.

  They had reached a dead end; a foul-smelling alleyway blocked by some stone ruin covered in moss.

  “Well, the plan was to lure them away from the Rivergate,” Andon said.

  “Yeah,” Hagon croaked, reluctantly drawing his sword and turning around. “They fell right into our trap…”

  Clanging steel announced the two Legionaries’ arrival just before they came into view, swords and shields in hand. Beneath their helmets, thick beads of sweat dripped down their foreheads.

  The one on the left sneered at their quarry. “Cornered like rats.”

  “You really shouldn’t have run,” the other added breathlessly. “I hate running.”

  “What, you tired already?” Andon asked. “We haven’t even started to fight, yet.” He drew two daggers from his belt and assumed a guard stance.

  The Legionaries must have found it amusing, wide grins growing on their clean-shaven faces as they brought their oblong shields forward, a wall of metal covering most of their body, the tip of their swords peeking over the top.

  How in the mother’s name had these two managed to keep pace with them for so long, carrying that much steel? Hagon’s lungs were burning as if a dragon had sneezed over them and his legs felt like stumps, and he was wearing nothing but a simple tunic.

  “Okay,” he said, testing the weight of his sword. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The Legionaries advanced as one, a single, well-rehearsed step at a time, approaching their prey with the patience only a very experienced predator could have. Andon decided not to wait. He threw one of his daggers, which flew in the air, spinning madly until it clanged harmlessly against one of the Legionaries’ shields.

  “Really?” Hagon asked him.

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to give it a try.”

  Hagon shook his head, focusing on the soldier in front of him. All he could see was metal. The man was covered in it from head to feet. How in the mother’s name did one win a fight like this?

  The Legionary shoved the lower end of his shield at Hagon’s shins and he stepped away, backtracking. The move was so quick he barely saw the sword slashing towards his neck. He parried the blade sideways and took advantage of the small opening it created to strike. His blade hit the Legionary’s left pauldron, sliding off the steel plate with a shriek.

  Goddess damn it!

  Hagon recovered, assuming a different guard stance that placed more distance between his body and the enemy.

  “How about that?” the Legionary quipped. “He can use a sword.” Hiding his blade behind his shield, the soldier stepped forward.

  Hagon swung right, trying to escape the Legionary’s angle of attack. Still, the sword came for him anyway, aimed at his left arm. Hagon spun slightly as he parried.

  Mistake!

  The Legionary barrelled forward shield-first as if trying to run him over, catching Hagon off-balance. In the panic of trying to keep himself from being pushed to the ground, Hagon exposed himself. Pain shot through his shoulder and he found himself spinning. His heart exploded in his chest and his mind went into a blur, focused desperately on nothing except putting distance between himself and the Legionary.

  When felt he was at a safe distance, he stopped, panting heavily.

  “What, you tired already?” the Legionary mocked. “We haven’t even started to fight yet.”

  His left shoulder felt like it was on fire, and when he resumed his guard stance a jolt of pain shot through his arm, his face contorting in a grimace. He heard Andon scream with pain but resisted the urge to look for him, not daring to take his eyes off his opponent.

  The Legionary charged and Hagon sidestepped, evading his attacker—or so he thought. He must not have been fast enough, because he felt a blade slash through his right thigh. He fell to his left knee, screaming in pain.

  Was this it? Was this how he died?

  A shadow loomed over him and he looked up. Moonlight gleamed over the steel plate of the Legionary’s armour. Hagon saw the man grin.

  Merciful mother…

  Behind the Legionary, Andon was still fighting his own opponent, but he was slouching heavily, holding a hand against his left flank, blood running between his fingers.

  Hagon looked back at the soldier towering over him. “End it quick. Please.”

  “You don’t get to pick how you die, rebel scum.”

  “No one does,” another voice said from behind him.

  The Legionary was twisting to look over his shoulder when his entire body broke into convulsions, bright blue tendrils crisscrossing him like serpents made of lightning. White foam formed at the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolled back until nothing but white showed.

  Hagon blinked, not fully understanding what was happening. After a handful of breaths, the blue tendrils vanished, and the Legionary fell into a loose heap at his feet. He looked to Andon and found him straight ahead, just as baffled as he was, the smouldering body of his own opponent lying on the ground.

  A young man in dark robes ambled towards Hagon, hands casually crossed behind his back. “You must be Doric. I was told you were quite dim-witted but picking up a fight with a fully armoured Legionary is frankly very stupid.”

  “I’m Hagon,” was all he managed to say.

  “Oh.” The man sent a disinterested look at Andon. “Then you must be Doric.”

  “No…” he mumbled. “I’m Andon.”

  “I wasn’t briefed on any Andon.”

  “We… just met,” Hagon tried to explain. “He was helping me.”

  “He most clearly was not.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Andon asked.

  “Name is Emrys. Arch-Mage Persea sent me.”

  “Persea? How did she…?”

  Emrys raised a hand, cutting Hagon off. “Don’t even. I’ve long stopped trying myself. The woman just… does these things.”

  “You’re a Mage!” Andon said in belated realization.

  “And you’re very astute.” Emrys stepped to Hagon. “I suppose I should take a look at those wounds…” He sighed. “Seeing as I’m to be your wet-nurse, now.”

  15

  The Dancing Isle

  The retreat from their failed heist was such a chaotic affair, Aric couldn’t believe they actually made it out of the port. Darpallion led them to a basement he had been renting in the center of the city – which none of his former associates knew about – where the group could vent their frustrations safely. Eliran’s arms were shaking and her voice had a high-pitched quality Aric didn’t remember. Still, her presence of mind returned rather quickly. One moment she was breaking every piece of crockery in the moldy cellar, the next she was planning their next move, ordering Darpallion to hire a ship and crew that would allow them to chase Astoreth.

  “Where am I going to find the money for that?” the bard asked.

  “You worry about the ship,” Eliran replied. “I’ll get us the money.”

  And that she did. Aric had no idea the kind of toll it took to do magic like that, but in a matter of hours, Eliran had traveled to Radir and back. When she returned with the gold, Eliran looked as pale as the Supreme Sister’s robes, blue veins streaking her face. She handed Aric a fat leather pouch without a word, then staggered to a straw mattress in the basement’s corner and collapsed on it.

  As the sun rose over Tabriq, Aric ordered his hunters to assist Darpallion in finding them a way to sail after Astoreth and stayed with Lyra, watching over a feverish Eliran, muttering and shuddering in her sleep. The hours went by as Lyra dutifully changed the wet cloths she lay over Eliran’s forehead, a single candle lighting the room. Aric sat beside the mage, studying the lines of he
r cheeks and jaw, the curves of her dark lips. He realized he had been staring for a while and raised his head, snapping out of it. Lyra was looking at him. She had noticed, of course. Aric blushed and the two of them remained in silence. When Lyra finished soaking and replacing the cloth on Eliran’s forehead, she got up and walked away, a stern look on her face.

  What did I do? he wondered.

  The door to the basement opened and conversation flooded inside, waking Eliran. As Darpallion and the others descended the stairs into the basement, Aric shushed them, but Eliran told him it was okay with a gesture.

  “How long was I out?” she asked.

  “Just a couple hours,” Aric replied. “You should rest more.”

  “You slept for four and a half hours, to be precise,” Darpallion told her. He had a sonorous voice and spoke loudly, his presence filling the room.

  “Do we have a ship?” Eliran asked.

  “We do,” Darpallion replied. “The Heron. It’s just a small sloop but she looks fast. It did, however, cost more than anticipated.”

  “We had to sell them some of our glowstone weapons,” Leth explained, looking at Aric. “Not all of them, though.”

  Aric nodded.

  “Captain Griggor called it the ‘in a hurry fee’,” Darpallion added. “But it does mean we can leave whenever we’re ready.”

  “Good,” Eliran said, getting up with a grimace. The color had still not returned to her face. “We should leave right away, then.”

  Aric got up as well, his hands helping her keep balance. “You need to rest.”

  “I’ll rest on the ship. Here.” Eliran dug her Seeker bracelet from her robes and placed it in Aric’s hands. “I’ll probably pass out again soon enough. Make sure we stay on her trail.”

  “I will.”

  “Whatever happens, we need to keep following her.”

  There was something about this whole thing that felt completely wrong. Astoreth knew she was being hunted, which meant she knew about the Tracker shard Eliran had placed on the chalice. So why was she encouraging them to keep their pursuit with taunting letters? Aric’s every instinct screamed ambush.

  He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Whatever happens.”

  * * *

  Balancing a food tray in one hand, Aric pushed the door gently with the other. Worn hinges whined in protest but clearly not loud enough to wake Eliran, her hammock swaying along with the ship. The food on the tray Aric had brought earlier was mostly undisturbed, exactly where he had left it. There were a couple of nibbles on the slice of bread and a smudge on the spoon from what had probably been a single mouthful of stew. It had been the same for the past three days, ever since they had departed, but Aric dutifully returned every meal with freshly cooked food. As he placed the new tray on the small desk by the cabin’s window, he heard Eliran stir behind him.

  “So, I don’t have a food fairy after all.” Eliran’s voice came out rough and sleepy.

  Aric smiled at her. “No. It’s a food goblin, I’m afraid.”

  She chuckled. “Well, I’m certainly not complaining.”

  Somewhere in Aric’s stomach, something turned. He cleared his throat, pulling himself together. “Feeling any better?” He wished he had thought of something cleverer to say.

  “A little.” Eliran pressed on her temples and closed her eyes with a grimace while exhaling loudly in a strange mixture of pain and relief. “It’s that damned dagger, you know.”

  Aric glanced at the artifact, its exquisite purple hilt gleaming beside the food trays. “The one with the memories? I thought it was from all the magic you used to go to Radir and back.”

  “That too, of course. And the fact I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. Maybe months. We can use runium to keep going, you know? But it comes at a price.”

  “I can see that.”

  Eliran chuckled again. “I must look worse than that stew you keep bringing me.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t mean that at all,” Aric blurted out. He nearly said she looked beautiful, but he stopped himself. Instead, he just froze, staring into her blue eyes.

  Eliran smiled. “How long since we departed?”

  “Three days,” Aric replied, his eyes darting away. “Still no sign of Astoreth’s ship, though.”

  “She has a decent head start on us.”

  Aric nodded and silence filled the room when he failed to think of anything else to say. “You need to rest,” was the best he could find, adding, “I should go.” Hurriedly, Aric picked the old food tray up and started to the door.

  “Aric,” Eliran called, stopping him. “Thank you.”

  “Sure.” Aric smiled and opened the door, stepping out into the darkness of the ship’s corridor. As he closed the door behind him, he let out a deep sigh, which left him rather confused.

  “Ah, I see.”

  Aric spun, startled by the voice. Across from Eliran’s door, Darpallion stood halfway in the doorway of his own cabin.

  “What?” Aric asked.

  “Well, she always did have terrible taste in men.” Darpallion winked and stepped fully into his room, closing the door.

  Aric stood there for a moment, trying to decipher what he’d just heard until he shook his head and started down to the kitchen. “Jerk…” he mumbled under his breath.

  * * *

  As the rest of the day dragged by, Aric led a small training session down in the hold. Whether on patrol or in Lamash, dragon hunters trained every day. Now that they had been away from the desert for over a week, Aric didn’t want their form to lapse. Dragon hunters were expected to be in perfect shape at all times, and being away from the Mahar didn’t change that.

  He took the opportunity to give Artax a one-on-one sword lesson. The rookie had been well taught by Saruk; a reasonable scout, a decent shot with a bow, and he could run for hours on end. But for some reason, the sword just didn’t sit with him. Even little Lyra had caught up to the weapon faster, and she was by far the worst fighter in the company, maybe even the Guild. The difference was, as company physician, Lyra’s fighting skills didn’t matter all that much. Artax’s did.

  After the training session, the first mate told Aric captain Griggor needed to talk to him. It was the third day in a row. The old sailor kept telling Aric his crew was growing worried, restless even, that they kept sailing east. At first, Aric had dismissed it as typical sailor superstition, but Leth had explained there was a good reason for the captain’s worries. Apparently, just like the western sea was bordered by the perpetual storm of the broken sea, so was the eastern sea bounded by what Akhamis called the Stilltides, a region where no winds blew and where the water was as still as that of a small pond. Any ships unfortunate enough to sail into the Stilltides would find themselves stranded, left to wither in the sun until everyone aboard dehydrated.

  Aric found captain Griggor at the aft castle, searching the horizon through a spyglass, his gray raincoat waving in the wind.

  “You wished to see me, captain?” Aric said, announcing his presence.

  Silently, the old man lowered his spyglass, then held it out to Aric.

  “What am I looking for?” Aric asked, lifting the lens to his right eye.

  “The distance.”

  At first, Aric wasn’t sure what to make of Griggor’s words, but their meaning became evident quick enough. A wall of darkness lined the horizon, reaching as far up as the clouds as if every shadow in the world had gathered there to swallow the ocean whole. Aric forgot to breathe for a moment.

  “That’s a ship killer, that is,” Griggor added. “I’ve been telling you we can’t keep sailing east. Well, now we really can’t.”

  No, Aric thought. This couldn’t be. If they turned back or simply tried to go around the storm, they would lose days, maybe weeks. Astoreth would get away with her plan. He reached into a pocket on his vest and drew Eliran’s Seeker bracelet. The glowstone shard danced in the air, fighting the wind.

  East. Still east. Somehow, the H
ead-Archon had sailed into that storm.

  Or maybe she had summoned it to keep them away from her trail.

  Aric returned Griggor’s spyglass. “Stay on course.”

  “What? We can’t sail into that.”

  “If the ship we’re chasing did, then so are we.” Aric took a step towards the ship captain. He towered over the old man by a full head. “Is that understood?”

  Intimidating people wasn’t exactly Aric’s style, but a dragon hunter had to deal with a lot more than just dragons – desert raiders and free-lances, ruthless Cyrinian merchants when they most needed supplies, Nagari nomads looking to take whatever they could – so a Guildsman required a wide assortment of tools in his belt. In his dealings in the Mahar, Aric had learned that threats didn’t always work. That some men had such sense of pride they would rather die than suffer the indignity of being coerced. They were like boulders standing relentlessly in the middle of the Mahari dunes. Griggor was not one of those men. Aric had realized this the moment he’d heard the man speak for the first time.

  The old sailor clenched his teeth and squeezed the telescope until his knuckles turned white. “If your enemy has sailed into that storm, then she is at the bottom of the sea by now,” Griggor said, trying to sound fierce. “And we’ll be too if we don’t turn back.”

  Aric understood, of course. Unlike him and his hunters, these sailors had not made the reckless commitment to hunt Astoreth, to whatever consequences that may entail. Worse than that, the crew of the Heron didn’t even know who they were chasing or why. On the other hand, they also hadn’t seen what the Circle was capable of.

  This had to be done.

  “You have your orders,” Aric said, turning to leave. As he did, he found his path blocked by a blue-eyed man as wide as Nahir. A scar running up to his cheek twisted the corner of his mouth into a snarl. “First mate… Naquad, was it?”