The Shadow Of Fallen Gods

by V. R. Cardoso

  Aric didn’t think of himself as a violent person. It was true he enjoyed fighting, especially with the sword, but only as a sport. Harming someone was beyond distasteful for him. It turned his stomach; taking a life even more so.

  But, at that moment, with Eliran and most of his hunters being held hostage and that knife scraping across his throat, his chest began to heave, and his legs started shaking. A barely containable rage took over him, threatening to spill out in a murderous rampage. At that moment, Aric knew he would’ve gladly slit the throats of every single person threatening him and his hunters.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath, closed his eyes, and slowly raised the chalice towards Darpallion. “Here,” he croaked.

  “What?” Leth shouted, furious.

  Aric reopened his eyes and looked at his lieutenant. “It has to be done,” he said. “Trust me.”

  Leth gritted his teeth and, somehow, managed to swallow his anger. He nodded.

  “Here,” Aric repeated, presenting Darpallion with the chalice.

  Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild, hungry beast, the bard moved a hand to the chalice, then snatched it quickly, backing away.

  “Don’t move. None of you,” Darpallion warned, stepping to the bushes behind him. At a signal from Naquad, the sailors circled towards Darpallion, weapons remaining trained on the three dragon hunters.

  “Don’t follow us,” Naquad said. “We’ll make sure all your hunters are released. The mage, too. Just wait for us at the ship.”

  Darpallion disappeared into the forest, and Naquad and his sailors slipped after him.

  Leth exhaled loudly, then stepped towards Aric. “We could’ve fought them.”

  “Yeah!” Dothea agreed.

  “What for?” Aric asked. He looked spent. “They would’ve ended up dead, and we would’ve ended up wounded. Probably badly so.”

  “We would’ve lived,” Leth said. Then, after a pause, he added, “What now?”

  “Now, we fix this mess,” Aric replied with a sigh. “Somehow.”

  * * *

  Aric led the way, choosing their direction in silence, always keeping the stone path Astoreth had mentioned in sight, but never really taking it. Behind him, Leth followed with a furrowed brow, while Dothea brought up their rear, knives drawn.

  Night came and went, even though they’d only climbed for little over an hour, and the island’s peculiar dusk returned. Here, in the mountains, a thick mist seemed to constantly roll downhill, hiding their feet. Despite the crunching noises beneath his boots, Aric chose not to think of what he might be stepping on.

  He’d grown used to the constant burning sensation in his lungs, but the rest of his body was now aching similarly, some parts even worse. The muscles in his legs began to cramp, and when a light drizzle started falling, the rain drops burned as they touched his skin.

  Finally, they reached the crest of a small ridge from which they could see the stone path leveling out, curving widely to the south until it reached a cave at the end of a small valley. A thick blanket of fog blew from the east, spilling from the tops of the hills down to the valley, but dissolving before reaching its bottom, as if afraid of what waited there.

  Aric signaled for his hunters to get down as they neared the edge of the crest, ducking beneath a thicket for cover. Down below, they could see the cave and two lines of statues running along the valley. Between the statues, as though under their guard, stood rows of people tied to wooden poles.

  Their people.

  “Can you see Darpallion?” Aric asked lowly.

  Dothea stretched a finger to the south. “Over there, beyond the tree line.”

  Aric and Leth followed her finger and searched the area, but ended up exchanging a questioning look.

  “You sure?” Leth asked.

  “They’re there,” Dothea assured him.

  “If you say so,” Aric said.

  “How many archons did you say they have?” Leth asked

  Aric shrugged. “Expect something between thirty and fifty. Plus the kallaxians. I have no idea how many of them there are.”

  “Kallaxians?” Leth asked.

  “Island natives,” Aric replied. “Naturally, they’re allies of the Circle.”

  “Naturally,” Leth echoed dismally. “So, what now?”

  “We could just wait for those idiots to get themselves killed,” Dothea suggested.

  “They might be idiots, but they don’t deserve to die,” Aric said.

  “It’s not like we forced them into this situation…” she grumbled.

  Aric aimed a finger at the misty hilltop across from them. “Okay, I want you to circle around and position yourselves up there. The fog will make for good cover when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes for what?” Leth asked. “What are the three of us going to do against all those archons?”

  “We have a mage down there,” Aric replied. “Your job is to free her.” He pointed at a set of wooden crates by the cave’s entrance. “Those are their supplies. I expect they’ll have brought runium with them. Eliran will need some if she’s going to be of any help.”

  “One mage…” Leth shook his head. “Is that supposed to even the odds?”

  Somewhere in the skies, a dragon roared. Aric looked up, searching for it.

  “No, that’s my job.”

  * * *

  “This look right to you?” Naquad asked.

  As always, the island’s forest was absolutely silent, threads of mist swirling here and there.

  Darpallion was kneeling behind a thick bush, scanning the valley. “What do you mean?”

  “No guards,” the first-mate clarified. “Why would they leave the hostages alone?”

  “They’re probably testing us. Here, take it.”

  Darpallion handed the chalice to Naquad, who took it up as if it would bite him, then stood to leave.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Naquad asked nervously, holding the chalice as far away from him as his arms allowed.

  “To negotiate,” the bard replied.

  Naquad nodded, and the rest of his sailors seemed happy enough with the plan. Taking a deep breath, Darpallion walked through the bush. The rocky ground was slippery with dew, and a thin fog hung over the valley like a veil. All the prisoners were unconscious, their heads tumbled to one side. There was a faint rumble coming from inside the cave, and for a moment, Darpallion would’ve sworn he heard screaming.

  With careful steps, the bard approached the hostages. Eliran stood at the front of the group, her red hair covering most of her face. Where was this woman, Astoreth? Or any of her people? He turned from one side to the other, searching the shadows cast by the grotesque statues flanking the prisoners.

  A voice rang inside his skull.

  Who seeks death?

  Darpallion stiffened with a jolt. “Who said that?”

  There was no reply, but Eliran woke up, startled by the sudden noise. She raised her head slowly. “Darpallion?” she asked groggily.

  “Silence!”

  Darpallion jumped and nearly fell on his back. A dark-robed man was suddenly standing next to Eliran, covering her mouth.

  “Where is the hunter?” another voice hissed, this one sounding like a whisper to his ear.

  The bard nearly fainted, his legs suddenly weak. A white-haired woman with cracked, gray skin was standing right next to him, where no one had been just a moment before. She had eyes that were entirely black and was standing so close he could feel her breath brushing against his neck.

  Astoreth, Darpallion realized. He staggered back, unable to speak. It took all his strength of will just to keep himself from fleeing.

  “Where is the hunter?” the woman repeated, this time more forcefully.

  “I… I came for the hostages,” Darpallion replied.

  The woman stared at him for a moment, then looked towards the tree line where he’d left the others. “You brought company,” she said, then nodded. “Their bloo
d will serve the lord Kallax.”

  “What? I’m here for the deal. The exchange.”

  “My deal was with the hunter. You are meaningless.”

  “Now listen here!” Darpallion aimed a finger at her. “This isn’t a game. If you ever want to see that chalice again, you’d better release the hostages. All of them.”

  Slowly, Astoreth turned to him and grinned. “We’ll see about that.” She hooked her fingers in the air like she was choking someone. “Where is it?”

  Somewhere in the back of Darpallion’s head, a snake hissed, and he found himself fighting an urge to make himself very, very small. His whole body began to shake uncontrollably, teeth rattling as if he were freezing.

  “Where is it?”

  Darpallion’s mind became foggy, his thoughts suddenly not his own. Death, blood, and gore flashed before him and he fell to his knees. “Oh goddess…” he wailed, eyes welling up.

  “Where?” Astoreth demanded.

  He fought it. He truly did. With all he had. But, in the end, he gave it all away. The chalice, Naquad, the sailors, even the fight with Aric and the other dragon hunters.

  Just like he had over four years ago.

  * * *

  Eliran was too weak to even squirm in her ropes. It had all been for nothing. An entire year chasing Astoreth, the deaths among the crew of the Heron, her own sacrifice so Aric could escape with the chalice—all in vain.

  Ever since her capture at the Kallaxian temple, things had gone from bad to worse. First, her captors had brought her to this place, assuring her they would use her blood to fuel some ritual they kept talking about. Then, most of Aric’s dragon hunters had been brought to join her, along with all the wounded sailors. And now, to top it all off, not only had the archons captured Darpallion and the remainder of the sailors, but they had also recaptured the chalice.

  Astoreth had won.

  The Circle hadn’t captured all of them, though. Aric was missing, just like his lieutenant, Leth, and a couple of the other hunters. Did that mean they were dead? If that was so, then all was definitely lost.

  The newly arrived prisoners were not tied to wooden poles like Eliran and the others. Instead, they were each placed in front of one of the tall, dark statues flanking the valley, kneeling on the ground, hands tied behind their backs. The statues themselves looked just like the ones she’d seen inside the Kallaxian complex, each a different combination of human and dragon body parts. However, these were much taller, easily twice as tall as any person. They also had deep, wide bowls at their feet.

  Sacrificial altars, Eliran concluded. They would all be bled to death on top of those bowls, beneath the sinister stare of those grotesque beings, whatever they were.

  Astoreth walked past Eliran without sparing her so much as a glance and stopped before an assembly of her acolytes, who lowered their heads in deep reverence. She spread her arms, the Cup of Kallax in one hand and the memory’s dagger in the other, and began to chant, eyes closed.

  There was a rumble somewhere behind Eliran, deep in the cave. She tried to look over her shoulder, but the ropes tying her to the pole were so tight she could barely look sideways. The rumble became voices, dozens of them humming in unison, accompanied by the sound of marching feet.

  What’s happening?

  The answer came in the form of two files of kallaxians pouring from the cave behind her, their gray robes distinguishing them from their black-robed brethren of the Circle. They walked to the statues, placing themselves in front of the prisoners, then climbed onto the large bowls, each holding an ornate dagger.

  “Hallowed be Kallax, lord of the Threshold,” Astoreth sang.

  “Through death you call us with whispers cold,” her audience replied.

  The Head-Archon lowered her arms and opened her eyes. “The time has finally come! The Order of Kallax’s sacred duty finally fulfilled. Rejoice, brothers and sisters, children of dusk.”

  “Praised be Kallax.”

  Astoreth looked at the kallaxians standing on the bowls, first the line on her left, then the one on her right, and nodded. “Commence.”

  The kallaxians raised their daggers, blades aimed at themselves.

  What in the mother’s name…?

  Before she could even finish formulating her thought, the men and women atop the bowls stabbed themselves in the gut. The squelching sounds of the knives were accompanied by some mumbles and groans, but none of them so much as screamed. Eliran grimaced, horrified, and the sailors released frightened gasps.

  None of the Circle acolytes moved to lend the kallaxians any help. They all just stood and watched, Astoreth included, as the kallaxians slowly bled away, sagging and crumpling as strength left their bodies.

  From where she stood, and with her limited visual angle, Eliran couldn’t see most of the other prisoners, but she could easily guess they were all watching, petrified, as the macabre spectacle unfolded before them. She could also not see all the kallaxians sacrifices, so she focused on the one closest to her, a fair skinned man with hair as dark as coal. He couldn’t be any older than she was. His legs had begun to fail him, so he was kneeling in the growing puddle of his own blood, torso listing further and further to his right.

  Eliran felt weak, spent, and hurt, but now she was feeling herself becoming sick as well. Her stomach turned, and she was unable to keep looking at the dying man. Face twisted in disgust, she looked away, focusing on a distant tree at the edge of the valley.

  “Do not look away!” Astoreth barked.

  An invisible hand forced Eliran to look back at the dying kallaxian.

  “This is true faith,” the Head-Archon added. “True devotion. It will not be ignored, not even by a worthless Mage.”

  The kallaxian tumbled to his side, eyes half-closed, and in his last moment, Eliran swore he looked at her just before he went still.

  Ava mother…

  A moment of silence went by until Astoreth motioned to her acolytes. Two by two, the archons carefully removed the corpses of the sacrificed kallaxians, laying them by the statues’ feet. Then there was a frightened scream, followed another, and another. Eliran swiveled her head and found Darpallion and Naquad being dragged towards the large bowls.

  “No!” Eliran protested. “What are you doing?”

  “You know very well,” Astoreth replied. “You should all be thankful. This has been millennia in the making. That you get to take part in this ritual is a rare privilege.”

  The bard and the sailors struggled, but the archons’ magic proved impossible for them to overcome. Soon all were standing atop the sacrificial bowls, blood reaching their ankles, all looking beyond terrified. Some sobbed, others screamed in panic. To Darpallion’s credit, he looked calm, even if he was as pale as a Temple priest’s robes. As an archon approached, holding a knife, Eliran saw the bard swallow and stiffen, but raise his chin nonetheless.

  Proud to the end, Eliran thought sadly.

  “Hey!”

  The shout echoed throughout the valley tenfold and everyone froze, confused. Archons and prisoners alike looked around with questioning frowns, searching for the source of the shout.

  Eliran found it atop a hill, a silhouette drawn against the pale glow of the cloud-filtered sun. The figured dropped, sliding down the hill, one of his hands held back and scraping along the rocky slope for balance. As the man reached the base of the valley, he rolled forward, cushioning his landing, and hopped to his feet in one fluid motion, stopping a few feet away from Astoreth and her line of archons.

  Eliran finally recognized him. Aric, covered in mud, dust, and dried blood, his blond hair a disheveled mess.

  “Surprise!” he said, panting heavily.

  Before anyone had time to do or say anything, and as if the word had been a conjuring spell, a shadow covered the valley and a vicious, thundering growl vibrated through the air. Everyone in the valley shrunk instinctively, and in the next moment, a dragon burst over the hill behind Aric, fire gushing from its jaws.
<
br />   The crowd of archons scrambled, screaming and running for cover, some finding the presence of mind to hurtle green bolts of energy at the creature.

  “No! Stop it, you fools!” Astoreth tried to scream through the chaos. “What are you doing? Do not attack the beast!”

  But it was too late. The dragon circled around, spotting its attackers. It opened its massive jaws and spewed fire towards the mass of black robes casting spells at the sky. A handful of archons were caught in the blaze, shrieking in horror as the fire consumed them.

  “There you are,” a red-haired girl said as she slid in front of Eliran. She drew a knife and began to saw at the ropes binding Eliran to the pole.

  “Dothea?” Eliran asked, recognizing her.

  “Can you stand?” Dothea asked. Her answer came as the last rope frayed apart and Eliran tumbled over her. “Guess not…”

  “Runium,” Eliran mumbled weakly.

  “Here!”

  With what little strength she still had, Eliran turned and saw Aric’s lieutenant, Leth, standing next to her, holding a vial of silvery red liquid.

  “Time to go to work,” Leth added.

  With a quick glance over Dothea’s shoulder, Eliran saw Astoreth and her archons fighting the dragon, too busy to notice her rescue. She snatched the vial from Leth’s hands and downed the runium in one gulp, its regenerative warmth quickly spreading throughout her body. Blue puffs came out with her breath and Eliran stepped away from Dothea, no longer needing her support. She looked down at her own hands, noticing with satisfaction the blue aura pulsing from them, and smiled. This was not over yet.

  “Free the rest of the prisoners,” Eliran said.

  Among the archons battling the dragon, one finally noticed the mage’s rescue. Eliran saw him grit his teeth and curl his fingers, a green sphere swelling between his hands. Almost as a reflex, Eliran drew a quick pattern in the air, conjuring a barrier. When the man’s attack came, it splashed against a translucent blue wall a mere two feet before her.