"Fear not, Lucian of Drahvanael, and steady thyself," came the surprisingly low, calming voice. “I am Ijon, and the danger has passed.”
Lucian was lost in the man's glowing blue eyes, set in a face that held no signs of ageing and with skin that looked like ivory silk. He tried but was unable to speak. He thought that maybe he had died, killed by the assassin’s blades.
“The time for answers will soon come,” said the warrior who named himself, Ijon. “But for now you need only listen, and witness that which I must show you.”
He reached up and covered Lucian’s eyes with his fingers.
Ripples of heat surged through Lucian’s head and filled his body. He opened his eyes and suddenly he was in a place that he didn’t recognize. Another world it seemed. He looked in confusion as hundreds of thousands of people knelt and chanted around the largest structure he had ever seen. A temple of some sort, constructed of stone, inlaid with precious gems. As his vision moved upwards he began to sweat profusely. His breath came in short pulls as he looked at what could be nothing more than pure evil perched at the top of the temple. His stomach lurched and he doubled over to try and keep from feinting. When he finally looked up, the vision was gone and a new one replaced it.
He stared in wide eyed wonder at multitudes of people, slaves, milling about a massive foundation. They were building it, dragging giant slabs of rock, one after the other, up to this enormous structure. Lucian recognized it as the one from his last vision. Men with whips ruthlessly and relentlessly beat the slaves, flaying the skin from their scared backs. Men, women, and children all worked to build the incredible temple. Tears streamed down Lucian’s face as he laid witness to the terrible event.
He blinked and it was gone. He was somewhere else, another place. He thought that what he last saw was terrible, but what he looked at now was infinitely worse. War, greater than any war he could ever have imagined was being waged. Millions of humans, spread all over a great expanse of land, looked like ants. Roaring fires raged out of control. Screams of agony filled the air, causing Lucian to cover his ears. Suddenly he realized that this was what he had dreamed about. He looked to Ijon who was standing next to him, watching the war. The warrior turned and gave Lucian a knowing nod.
Lucian looked back to the horrifying war and it was no longer there. Instead he saw a place that he did recognize.
“Vorea,” said Ijon, as he glanced at Lucian.
Lucian looked closer, but it was not the Vorea that he knew. The once great city was nothing more than rubble and ash. A woman sifted through the fallen city with three children, searching for something, probably food. They looked to be starving. He could see the children’s ribs and spine jutting out from their unhealthy looking skin. They wore nothing more than rags. The vision moved to the south and Lucian stared in dismay at the charred remains of Yavasura, Culdora and the other cities and villages of the southern tribes of Los.
His brow pinched down in confusion when the vision moved to the north. An enormous city stretched out for miles across northern Los, haunting and vile. The same horrid feeling wrenched through Lucian’s insides at the sight. It was an epicenter of evil. Slowly his feelings turned from horror and sadness, to fear. He turned to the warrior called Ijon. “Are you showing me what is to come?” Even as he said it he could not make himself believe it. He hoped against all hope that it was not.
Ijon looked at him in a way that made his body tremble. The warrior’s eyes were glowing white flames now. He reached out, touching Lucian’s forehead.
Blinding light made Lucian squeeze his eyes shut. Waves of heat pulsed through them. He shuddered at the millions of visions that tore through the depths of his mind. War after war, battle upon battle, remembered as if he were there through each one.
A jolt shot through his chest that took his wind. Suddenly he felt rain pelting his face and slowly opened his eyes. He looked around and the host of warriors was gone. Eliath was still looking at him through teary eyes and Solomon still lay unconscious in the mud. Lucian wondered what was happening to him. The image of the fearsome warrior was still vivid in his memory. Could it have been real? The vision shown to him by the warrior was much like those he had seen in his dreams. Was this just another dream? If so, than why did his mind burn with the knowledge of countless battles?
A glimmer caught his attention and when he looked over at the source, he was startled at the sight. Sticking out of the ground next to him was a magnificent looking sword. Surely it had not been there before. Against his will it seemed, he reached out and touched the pummel. A pulse of energy shot through him and he tried to pull back but could not. He ran his finger down the grip and a whisper echoed in his mind, Drovenalor.
He stared at the beautiful hilt and repeated the name, “Drovenalor.”
The grip looked to be made of ivory only it was something more pure. The cross guard and pommel were made of a metal more pristine than he had ever seen. It shined brighter than the purest gold. The pommel was in the shape of a lion’s head with its mouth opened wide, holding an enormous gem that looked to have living blue fire within. The cross guards looked like molten flames that stuck straight out to the side with bladed ends that swept forward slightly. When he clutched the grip, it felt as though the sword fused to his hand. He pulled the blade free from the mud and it rang out, echoing throughout the thick fog. A wave of adrenaline coursed through him and he felt revitalized. He studied the blade in wonder. It was unlike any other he had ever seen. It glimmered like a diamond and looked crystalline rather than steel. He thumbed the edge to test its sharpness and instantly it cut deep into his flesh. He jerked back his hand and stuck the bleeding thumb into his mouth.
He stood for a few long moments, staring at the magnificent sword before finally sliding it into his scabbard, it was a tight fit and he would need another made, but it would do for now. Finally he looked up to his friend Eliath. Solomon was standing next to him. Lucian had known by Eliath’s expression earlier that Solomon was not dead, but he was still relieved to see him standing now. The two men walked over to him, Eliath was breathing heavily but smiling widely.
Lucian winced at the sight of the rest of his friends lying dead in the muck. Tarriel and the other Culdorans who had vowed to protect him, Thaddeus and Orton, the two huge men from Ortsk, and the poor Sanjeeran messenger. His heart sank at the vision of them before they died and he started to worry about how he could accomplish this quest without their help.
The fog cleared for a moment and a human form came into view, drawing the attention of the three men.
"Tarriel!" exclaimed Lucian, shocked and elated that the beautiful warrior was still among the living. He rushed over to her.
Tarriel’s head turned slowly to acknowledge his call and she nodded at him. Her face was set in a deep scowl and she returned her attention back to the body that she was kneeling over. When Lucian came up closer, he realized that it was Voneel. She lay next to the bodies of Lorani and Eanetha, all three pulled near to each other by Tarriel. Lucian winced when he saw Tarriel's dagger come down at Voneel's chest. Though he now knew the reason, the sight of what she did still made him cringe.
He waited until she had the hearts packed into the tins before he spoke again. “My heart aches for them, Tarriel. They were some of the bravest warriors I have ever met, and I will never forget them. We will make sure that no one forgets the sacrifice that they have made.”
Tarriel said nothing, but turned her head slightly and offered a short nod.
It was more of a response than Lucian had hoped for from the iron warrior. She stood and walked off in the direction of the horses and Lucian knew that she needed some time. She had just lost her entire force. Eliath and Solomon came up to greet him, sharing solemn looks as they watched Tarriel leave. After a moment, Lucian noticed that they were both staring at his chest. He looked down curiously to see what it was that had the two men so riveted.
There, on the high center of his chest plate where the flat
spot was that once looked so out of place, was now a rune burned into the metal. It was beautiful looking in design, and Lucian recalled similar looking symbols on the warrior that had spoken to him. His mind flashed back to when he felt the jolt at that part of his chest when Ijon had touched him. He ran his finger along the crisp edges of the rune. It seemed to hold a slight golden glow. He lifted his arm and looked at the similar markings on his pauldrons and they too had the same golden glow now. He hadn't noticed it before. His mind searched through the events and noticed Eliath was looking at the symbols with what seemed like recognition. For some reason Lucian didn’t find it so strange that his friend might know the meaning of them. Eliath noticed the estranged expression on Lucian’s face and gave him the slightest of smiles.
Solomon was still staring at Lucian's armor, the armor his people had made, like it was his first time seeing it. He slowly reached up and touched the symbol that was now burned into the chest piece. "Magnificent," he said. "What does it say?"
Lucian looked to Eliath, waiting for the answer himself.
"It is the written language of the ancients,” said Eliath. “It simply says, Faith."
Solomon gave an approving grunt while nodding his head, not even bothering to question how Eliath knew such things. "It is a powerful word. To believe without doubt in something that can’t be proven. Now I know why it was to be left blank. This symbol could not be etched, only burning it into the armor would serve it true." He looked over the suit, inspecting it further and his eyes went wide when they fell on the hilt of the sword that hung at Lucian’s hip.
Lucian looked down at the fine sword, caressing the ornate pommel and grip with his finger. "It was a gift,” he mumbled, “from Ijon.” The name that the warrior had given barely escaped his lips, but Eliath caught it, and Lucian did not miss the expression that came over his friend. Yet another story for another time, he thought.
Solomon and Eliath both blinked in astonishment as the blade suddenly rang out, the movement so fast and fluid that it seemed like the sword magically appeared in Lucian’s hand. Both men stared at the almost transparent, crystalline blade. Solomon's was a look of complete wonder, whereas Eliath's was one of knowing appreciation.
"This blade was not forged from any metal that I know," said Solomon as he continued to appraise the amazing weapon. He looked as though he wanted to reach out and touch it but Lucian's hand came up in warning.
"Careful, it’s quite sharp." He stuck out his thumb to show the deep cut that the sword had made when he first tested its edge. He held out the grip for Solomon to hold.
The Priest gingerly accepted, looking as though it might be a fragile piece of glass that would break in a strong wind. His eyes went wider still as he tested the weight. It had a wide, long blade, stretching out to nearly four feet in length, yet it weighed less than the empty scabbard. Solomon bowed his head and offered it over to Lucian, still holding it as though it were a new born baby.
Sliding the sword back into its scabbard, Lucian turned his attention to the battlefield. He walked over and slumped to his knees next to the bodies of Thaddeus and Orton. Solomon had pulled the wicked dagger from Thaddeus' head leaving the small slit where a surprisingly small amount of blood trickled out. Orton lay next to him, covered in many gruesome wounds.
Lucian recalled the fight and the memory of seeing the large man cut down so quickly. Something flashed through his mind then, and he jumped to his feet. The memory of the lone man, clad in black armor and standing back from the others, pulled at his senses. An emotion unlike any he had felt before surged through him. He could feel eyes watching him from within the thick fog. He could sense the presence of what could only be described as…evil.
Cat and Mouse
Valgannon watched as three of his men had Lucian down and were about to kill him. He had given them explicit orders not to kill Lucian but to leave the boy so that he could finish him off. He rushed forward and was about to scream out for them to halt when the voice became so loud in his head that it knocked him flat on his back in the mud. He heard the voice scream out a long stream of curses as it faded off into silence. He was just lifting his head, confused as to what just happened, when there was a sharp crackle, like lightning, and a concussion of wind that slammed his head back down into the mud. Everything went black. He could feel his body lying there but it wouldn't respond to his thoughts. He tried to scream for his men but could not speak. He couldn't hear anything either. It was as though he was trapped in his own mind.
Hours seemed to pass by as he lay there, unable to move. Even more disturbing, was that the voice, normally incessant as of late, had not spoken to him at all. He thought he may be dead, or at the least, losing his mind. But then, instantly, his vision returned along with the rest of his motor reflexes.
Jumping up from the mud, he looked around trying to see through the fog. Before the fight, his vision was empowered and he could see the entire battle while staying out of sight. Now the fog looked as though it were a white blanket in front of him. He pulled his thoughts inward, concentrating, remembering his training and listened to the wind. Soon he was able to hear voices and discern where they were coming from. Creeping slowly he moved closer to the voices until his foot bumped into something that was obviously not mud or stone. He looked down in confusion at the three men that lay at his feet, face first in the mud. He rolled one of them over and blanched at the gruesome cuts on the dead man’s face. The eyes were gouged out. These were the men that were about to kill Lucian. What could have happened to them? Did the boy do this? What powers did he possess?
Concentrating harder Valgannon crept ever so slowly toward the voices until he could see where they were in his mind. He stopped and listened, keeping his eyes closed so that his impaired vision wouldn't distract his mind's eye. He could hear Lucian talking with two other men. Judging from their voices, it was Eliath and Solomon. They were talking about a sword that Lucian now held. Valgannon didn't understand why this sword would be so interesting. He thought of his three expertly trained assassins lying dead in the mud and wondered just how skilled this Lucian could be. Quietly pulling one of his black blades from its sheath, he flipped it in the air and caught it by the tip. Concentrating on where Lucian's voice was coming from, he hurled the knife through the air and waited to hear the outcome. No pained scream followed, but the sound of the blade stopping abruptly. It didn't ring out as if it deflected off metal, but sounded as though it was simply snatched from the air. Valgannon smiled, this was truly a worthy opponent. He heard Lucian rushing toward where he had thrown the blade, but he had slipped well away from that spot just after he had launched it, and the fog was too thick for them to possibly see him.
Valgannon called out to Lucian through the concealment, "Very impressive boy." He moved as he spoke, in case Lucian was able to tell the direction of his voice.
"You did not intend to kill me with that throw,” said Lucian, still wondering how he had caught the blade. “It was a test. You are too proud a warrior to kill a man such as myself without facing me in honest combat." He had moved on instinct, but it felt as though he had done so a thousand times.
Valgannon laughed inwardly. The boy was trying to bait him into showing himself. "You speak the truth, however, now is not the time. It seems you are more formidable than I first considered. But fear not, we will meet soon."
Before Lucian had time for a retort, Valgannon was gone, slipping further away, deeper into the fog and away from the deadly group that had decimated his entire squad of assassins and brutes. He wasn't sure what had happened. Despite the initial losses, it seemed that his men had overcome them. He tried to remember anything before he was knocked to the ground and paralyzed but it was all unclear.
Running as fast as he could in the thick fog without compromising his safety, Valgannon made his way back to Kaheendra. He would tell the High Priest about Lucian and the others and set a trap for them. Valgannon was sure he could arrange a one on one confrontation, o
nce the boy was captive and away from his friends.
The fog cleared a little and he could make out some of the buildings surrounding the city of Kaheendra. He pumped his legs harder, sprinting faster toward the city. His mind raced as well, wondering why the voice had abandoned him and what had caused his men to tear out their own eyes.
Fight or Flight
Kyrianna woke to the steel grating sound of a key turning within the lock of her cell door. She expected to see the same guard that had been bringing in her food for the past week since the assassin killed the last one. The security had tightened up since then and she hadn’t even been taken from her cell to be tortured, or to witness the torture of her bodyguard Yosu. She hoped poor Yosu was still alive. She hadn't seen him in over two weeks and the last she did see of him, he looked near death. She was happy for the week of being left alone. It allowed her to clear her mind and begin thinking of how she might escape her prison and either go to Vorea herself, or at least send word of the pending attack. The guard that had brought her meals never even entered the cell but merely cracked the door and slid her food in. She laughed to herself at the thought that they might think her dangerous since the incident with the assassin and that is why they left her alone. But when her thoughts centered on the assassin, as they often did, she would tremble, wondering when the time would come that he would return to kill her. She was determined to escape before that happened, figuring that he would probably be waiting until the guards slackened up their patrols before he came again.
She had gone over the plans of her escape a thousand times in the past week and was only waiting for the perfect moment. The guard always looked through the window to see where she was before he opened the door and once she tested him to see what he would do if she stood against the close wall, out of sight from the window. To her disappointment, he called for another guard before opening the cell door to find her slumped down against the wall, pretending to be asleep. She continued the ruse though, and after several times, she noticed that both men started to be less aware. The last time they didn’t even draw their swords before one of them entered the cell.
Revelations of Doom Page 30