“We did steal your chalice,” Aric replied flatly.
Astoreth chortled. “This feels like victory to you?”
“As long as you don’t have it, it is a victory,” Eliran muttered, her head hanging to one side.
Aric glanced at her. She didn’t look like she could last much longer. She had given up completely on trying to stand on her legs, her whole weight hanging from the ceiling by the chains around her wrists. He had to get her some help. Maybe their captors could be reasoned with.
“You know, I can’t remember the last time I was face to face with a mage,” Astoreth said, addressing the semi-conscious Eliran. “I have to admit, I’ve always found your kind fascinating. A life dedicated to the pursuit of truth? It’s so noble. Naïve, certainly, but noble nonetheless.”
Eliran somehow found the strength to raise her head. “Well, I’ve always found your kind repulsive.”
“Why? Because we worship different gods? How narrow-minded of you…” Astoreth teased.
“Is it open-mindedness that compels you to murder innocents by the thousands?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t expect a mage to understand sacrifice. You’re all so obsessed with critical reasoning, you forget what selflessness is.”
“I think you’re speaking to the wrong audience here,” Aric chimed in.
That gave Astoreth a pause. “You have a point,” she admitted. “The both of you have shown remarkable dedication to your cause.” She turned to Eliran. “I suppose the Purge did do wonders to the Academy. How else would someone like you achieve their true potential?”
Weakly, Eliran flashed her teeth, a kitten trying to roar. “You call this ‘achieving my potential’?”
“I do. So would you if you hadn’t been blinded by your teachers. You were taught to preserve. That stability is the road to progress and prosperity. Even the Academy’s precious quest for knowledge serves no other purpose than crystalizing it in libraries and museums. But stagnant waters can only rot. You may think yourself noble for dedicating your life to putting out every fire in the world, but if you are successful, what else will be left besides darkness?”
Aric glanced at Eliran. She blinked sluggishly, struggling to stay awake. How much longer would she last?
“You know…” she mumbled, “I’ve always found that the more metaphors one uses, the greater the chances are they’re full of crap.”
Astoreth smirked. “Defiance… where the pride of the hopeless goes to die.”
“You look strangely cheerful for someone who’s as much in chains as the two of us, you know?” Aric interjected.
“I do, don’t I?” Astoreth’s smirk grew wider. “I wonder if you’ve stopped to consider why.”
The latch of their cell door screeched and the orange glow of a torch poured inside. A woman stepped in escorted by two men, the hoods of their dark robes pulled back to reveal shaved, ashen heads. She moved with the authority of a queen, shoulders back and nose high. An abundance of jewelry as black as Astoreth’s eyes seemed to confirm her status; pierced nose and lips, five rings on each ear, a pendant swinging from a tight choker around her neck, and more bracelets and rings than Aric could count.
The two escorts stayed by the door while the woman strutted into the cell. She studied her prisoners one by one from head to foot. “What happened to this one?” she asked, motioning towards Eliran.
“She was like this when we found them, reverend mother,” one of the escorts replied. “She’s a spellcaster, like the old woman and the remaining prisoners. The only exception is the golden-haired one.”
The woman trained a pair of sickly yellow eyes on Aric. “This was the one holding the relics?”
“Just the chalice,” the escort replied. “The copper-haired one had the dagger.”
Aric looked between the woman and the man answering the questions. Did they know about the cup of Kallax?
“How did you uncover the relics?” the reverend mother demanded, her head swinging from Aric to Eliran. “Where were they hidden?”
The woman’s unnaturally pale complexion was somehow even more unsettling than Astoreth’s. Aric felt a sudden need to choose his words wisely. He opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to speak.
“Oh, they have no idea,” Astoreth replied in his stead. “They wouldn’t even know where to start.”
The reverend mother pondered Astoreth’s words for a moment. “You do not look Avashun,” she said at last.
Avashun, Aric echoed in his mind. They kept repeating that word. What did it even mean?
“Because I’m not. And it was I who uncovered the relics.” The Head-Archon looked at the two prisoners beside her. “These two are nothing but thieves.”
The hairs on the back of Aric’s neck prickled. What was Astoreth doing? Was she trying to side with their captors?
“Why would two Avashun steal the relics and bring them here?” the reverend mother asked, arching a brow.
“I brought the chalice here,” Astoreth replied. “It was only stolen after my arrival. Your spellcasters interrupted us just as I was retrieving it. The dagger, however, had been stolen months ago. I did not have the time or the patience to go after it, so I…” she smirked at Eliran, “made it come here instead.”
Fire take us all… Aric thought, his skin crawling.
“And why would you do that?”
“Why, reverend mother, I brought them to you, of course.”
* * *
At first, Aric had been sure Astoreth’s words had simply been a ploy to win over their captors. When the Head-Archon had been taken away for a “private discussion”, Aric had been sure her real motives would soon be uncovered. He quickly changed his mind when Astoreth herself walked back to their cell side by side with the reverend mother, hands free of any shackles and with two of her own minions next to the reverend mother’s escorts.
“You look surprised,” the Head-Archon said amusedly.
Aric said nothing because, if he was honest, surprised was putting it mildly.
“Are you telling me that after all that has happened, you never even considered the possibility that I might be exactly where I intended to be?”
Once again, Aric simply stared at the old archon. Beside him, Eliran seemed to have fallen asleep, or at least Aric hoped she had.
“Do you even know what the artifact you’ve been chasing so eagerly is?” Astoreth pressed.
“The cup of Kallax,” Aric replied, happy to demonstrate he wasn’t entirely clueless.
“Very good,” Astoreth said as if rewarding a toddler for swallowing a spoonful of food. “I’ll be honest with you, that little stunt you pulled in my camp was a bit of a nuisance. I was hoping for a more… formal first-contact with our dear hosts.” She gave the reverend mother a nod, and she politely nodded back. “The ancient Order of Kallax has patiently waited for our arrival for thousands of years. It is a pity we couldn’t have met under better circumstances, but, in the end, it all worked out well enough.”
Astoreth turned to one of her minions. The man was holding an object covered in a purple silk cloth, which Astoreth peeled away, revealing the chalice. “You see, just like you, the kallaxi can recognize a holy relic when they see it. Alas, also like you, they have no idea how they work.” She again turned to the yellow-eyed woman. “So, as a sign of friendship, I offer a demonstration.”
Smiling, Astoreth held the cup and approached Eliran. As if sensing her presence, Eliran’s eyes flickered open. Astoreth drew the dagger with her own memories, which Eliran had been carrying for almost a year, from her belt.
“Isn’t it remarkable that the ones tasked with stopping me would be the ones to deliver me the very key to my success? One might even consider it a result of divine providence.” Astoreth struck forward with the dagger, its double blade disappearing into Eliran’s gut with a squelch. The mage howled in pain.
“No!” Aric yelled, eyes wide with horror.
Astoreth turned the knife and Eliran managed to
scream even louder, the sound echoing in the chamber. “Hallowed be Kallax, god of the Threshold,” she prayed. Behind her, the kallaxi and her minions echoed her words in a sinister monotone. She pulled the knife and blood spurted out from Eliran’s wound. “We offer this sacrifice in blood that you may gift us your sacred power.”
“Hallowed be Kallax,” the others chanted behind her, the kallaxi glaring feverishly at the gory spectacle.
Pressing the cup to Eliran’s belly, Astoreth collected the gushing blood. Across the artifact’s surface, glowstone shards lit up, the blood within the bowl beginning to sizzle and shrink in volume like sauce reducing in a pan.
Tears ran down Eliran’s face as she whimpered, too weak even to struggle as more and more of her blood poured into the relic. Next to her, Aric felt himself burning inside, his heart racing. He pulled down on his chains as if he intended to yank them off the ceiling by sheer force of will.
“I’m going to kill you!” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips.
“That threat would probably work better if directed at someone who has never died before,” Astoreth retorted flatly. “You two should be proud. The order of Kallax has toiled on this island for millennia, faithfully awaiting this very moment. You should rejoice in the knowledge that your own blood will channel Kallax’s power.” She looked at her archons. “Bring the vials and the bowl.”
The archons nodded and left the cell. They returned a moment later, one carrying a copper bowl so wide and deep a person could curl up inside it, the other a wooden chest no wider than his shoulders. Two of the kallaxi stepped up to Eliran, grabbed her chains, and pulled, hoisting her up until she was dangling three feet above the floor. Eliran tried to swallow her sobs and whimpers, but it was too much to bear.
“Please, stop!” Aric begged. He could barely see through the tears in his eyes.
When Eliran’s chains were finally readjusted to the kallaxi’s liking, the large bowl was placed beneath her and Astoreth removed the sacred chalice from the mage’s belly, nodding appreciatively as a dark puddle gathered on the bottom of the copper bowl. “Good. All blood is sacred, even that of the Avashun. We should not waste it. Now, the vials.”
The wooden chest was placed next to Eliran and opened to reveal row upon row of small flasks. As coldly as if performing Eliran’s autopsy, the archons began filling the flasks with the runium produced inside the cup of Kallax, storing them back in the chest. Every time the cup went empty, Astoreth dipped it in the large copper bowl, the artifact immediately producing a new batch of the silvery potion.
“That’s enough!” the reverend mother barked. She took a step forward. “Your people can continue this. I wish the demonstration now.”
“Of course, reverend mother.” Astoreth bowed slightly and handed the cup to one of her archons. “Any one of my archons will be glad to be chosen for this. Their faith in Kallax is absolute.”
The reverend mother nodded and inspected the cell around her. “This is not a dignified place,” she declared. “We shall perform the ritual in the chapel.”
“As you wish, reverend mother.” Astoreth went for the chest, retrieved one of the full vials, then indicated the cell’s exit with a wave. “After you.”
With a polite nod, the reverend mother turned and marched away, her followers close behind her. Astoreth followed as well. As she reached the door, she stopped and looked at her archons.
“After you’re done with her, bleed the hunter.”
“Yes, mistress!” the archons replied in unison, bowing deeply.
* * *
Eliran was still alive, if barely. If all they wanted was her blood, why hadn’t they just slit her throat? Why did they have to torture her like this?
Aric felt his guts turn. He kept tugging at his chains in a useless attempt to release himself, grunting with the effort, his wrists chafing into a bloody mess. The archons simply ignored him, continuing their task of filling the flasks as if it was as mundane as sweeping the floor. It all made Aric feel so powerless he wanted to vomit. His heart sank a little more every time Eliran cried or whimpered, but at least it was a sign she was still alive.
He had to do something. He thought about using the chains as a rope to swing himself and kick them off her, but what would that accomplish? The archons would simply stand back up and Eliran would just keep bleeding out. No, he needed to release himself, to free his hands so he could choke the life out of those monsters.
Aric turned around to face the wall behind him. It was less than a foot away. He had an idea. Holding on to his chains as if they were a rope, he propped both feet on the wall. Then, as if scaling the face of a mountain, he started climbing the wall one step at a time. This time, the archons did not ignore him.
“What are you doing?” one them asked, annoyed.
Aric pretended he hadn’t heard them and kept climbing. Over his shoulder, he saw the archon step closer to him with an angry frown.
“Stop that right now!” the archon ordered. He curled his fingers and a green light began to pulse around his hand.
“Watch it, Gaitan,” the other archon warned. “The mistress won’t like it if you spill his blood.”
Gaitan grinned. “A cauterized hole in his chest won’t bleed.”
Aric got to within an arm’s reach of the ceiling and swung around until he was hanging upside down like a bat in a cave, bracing his feet against the ceiling, the chains running along his chest and between his legs.
“I’ll give you to the count of three,” Gaitan snarled. “One.”
Aric looked at the archon, the whole room turned on its head.
“Two.”
In the back of his head, Aric heard Leth’s voice telling him just how stupid this idea was.
“Three!”
Like throwing a pebble, Gaitan thrust his arm forward, a green halo trailing it. Aric released the chains and his stomach lurched as he immediately fell. The green bolt flew a scant few inches from Aric’s nose as he was midflight, and then there was a snapping sound, followed by the clatter of shattering stone. Like a cat dropped belly up, Aric rolled and landed on his feet, the length of his chains ringing as they fell around him, melted links smoldering where the bolt of energy had severed them at their apex.
Both archons stared back at him, jaws dropped. It was a single moment of hesitation, but it was all Aric needed. He bolted towards the archon nearest to him, Gaitan, and wrapped the chains around his neck. The man’s fingers fought uselessly with iron rings tightening around his throat, gasping and Aric swung around and held him as a human shield.
Raged flared through the other archon’s eyes and a sickly green light pulsed in his hands. Aric feinted right, Gaitan clutched tightly in his arms, and the other archon flinched. Seething, the man grunted and hurled a bolt of energy. Gaitan’s chest absorbed the attack with a squishing sizzle of flesh, and his head fell lifelessly next to Aric’s. With a shove, Aric pushed the body forward, landing in the other man’s arms. The archon fumbled with his dead friend’s body, and by the time he’d untangled himself, Aric was behind him, hands around his head twisting sharply to break his neck.
Crack!
The two dead archons fell in a heap at Aric’s feet. He turned to Eliran. Throughout the scuffle, she’d barely moved, hanging from her chains like an unmanned puppet. Panting, Aric skirted the copper bowl gathering her blood and placed a hand against her neck, looking for a pulse. With a shudder, she opened her blue eyes. They had lost some of their glow. Her cracked lips moved and she mumbled something.
“What?” Aric asked. He wrapped his arms around her, taking some of the weight off the chains, and placed an ear to her lips.
“Runium…” she managed to whisper.
Without letting her go, Aric looked to his left. Next to the dead archons was the chest they’d brought. A good third of the flasks were now full of the runium the cup of Kallax had created from Eliran’s blood.
This was all sorts of wrong, but they were well past the po
int where Aric cared. He carefully let go of Eliran, fetched one of the flasks, and brought it to her lips with one hand while holding her up with the other. She was so weak the first few gulps dribbled back out over her lips, silvery red trails running down to her chin. Suddenly, Aric felt Eliran’s body tighten in his arms. She reopened her eyes; focused, bright blue eyes. She spread her arms and her manacles exploded as if made of parchment.
Released from her bindings, Eliran placed her hands around Aric’s neck as he stepped away from the bowl, carrying her firmly in his arms. Blue puffs formed with her breath, and Aric felt their ice-cold touch on his forehead. As he placed her gently down on her feet, he felt her heart beating harder and harder against his chest. Or was that his own?
“Are you alright?” Aric asked, his voice a low whisper.
Eliran looked down and placed a hand over the wound in her abdomen. There was a blue light and she gasped, wincing. Her hand came away bloody, but just as Aric blinked, the bleeding seemed to stop.
“I will be,” she said, then reached an arm out towards the cup of Kallax, lying next to the dead archons. The artifact flew to the mage’s hand and she inspected it with a disgusted look. “Let’s get out of here.”
20
Fog of War
“Steady!” a captain shouted.
Archers held their bows aimed at the coming onslaught.
“Hold!”
To Fadan, the command seemed to apply to himself just as well. The night was clear, and the full moon glinted off a flood of steel plated soldiers, their ranks spanning the entire length of the wall. They marched in perfect unison, a cloud of dust hazing the air above them.
Phaedra’s voice rang inside Fadan’s skull. I see a catapult.
They have one up already? Can you take care of it?
Not from this distance. But I might be able to divert the projectiles.
The Shadow Of Fallen Gods Page 30