by Jake Yaniak
The Punishment of the Gods
By Jake Yaniak
Copyright 2013 Jake Yaniak
All Rights Reserved
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Dedicated to my beloved wife Sarah for her unfailing love and companionship, my parents for instilling in me a love for the fantastic, and to my brother and sisters, for their constant support, friendship and conversation.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Book I: The Legacy of Galvahir
Chapter I: The Troubled Son of Biron
Chapter II: Mityai's Testimony
Chapter III: Beautiful Peiraso
Chapter IV: The Goblins of Mount Coronis
Chapter V: The Usurper of Peiraso
Chapter VI: The Folly of Cheft Faros
Chapter VII: The Conjurers' Duel
Chapter VIII: The Exile of the Galvahirne
Book II: The Fell Wolf
Chapter I: Amlaman, Ramlos and the Kings
Chapter II: The Altar of Agonistes
Chapter III: The Children of Vulcan
Chapter IV: The Forest of Heyan
Chapter V: The Doctrine of Lord Havoc
Chapter VI: Leonara
Chapter VII: History Revealed
Chapter VIII: Power and Desire
Chapter IX: Legion's Head
Book III: The Vestron Monster
Chapter I: The Return of the Merkata Clan
Chapter II: Natham
Chapter III: The Wrath of the Monster
Chapter IV: Envy to Madness
Chapter V: The Other Outcasts
Chapter VI: In Marin Quendom
Chapter VII: Dwarves in the Marches
Chapter VIII: Into the West
Book IV: The Seige of Dadron
Chapter I: Paley
Chapter II: Evna
Chapter III: The Remnant of Galva
Chapter IV: The Monster Rages In Falsis
Chapter V: Return to Noras
Chapter VI: The Hidden People
Chapter VII: The Prophet
Chapter VIII: Light and Shadow
Chapter IX: Dadron Besieged
Chapter X: The Breaking of the Siege
Chapter XI: Facing the Monster
Chapter XII: The Siege Ends
Chapter XIII: Natham
Book V: The Siren's Song
Chapter I: The Elves Awaken
Chapter II: Victory
Chapter III: The State of Weldera
Chapter IV: Coronan Revisited
Chapter V: The Stage is Set
Chapter VI: The River Meretris
Chapter VII: The Hidden War on Sten Agoni
Chapter VIII: Fell Wolf
Chapter IX: The Punishment of the Gods
Chapter X: What Came to Pass
About The Author
Introduction
In my account of what has lately been called the Welderan War, I have found it necessary to consider the conflict, not merely as it occurred, but by tracing the more important persons back to their roots. Only in this way have I been able to make the chaotic events of recent times understandable. My reader should not be surprised, then, to find that the first three books of this treatise seem, at first glance, alien one to another, and wholly separated. But when at last these three threads are bound together, as they are in the fourth and fifth books, then at last the whole tapestry will appear comprehensible where it might otherwise have seemed to be without sense or order.
Book I:
The Legacy of Galvahir
Chapter I:
The Troubled Son of Biron
Strange Dreams
There are two kinds of people in the world, those who speak whatever comes to their minds, whether for good or for ill, and those who for good or for ill do not. Daryas Galvahirne was of this latter class, though his people, the Noras, were almost entirely of the former. The Noras, and the Galvahirne Clan in particular, were known for being bold and strong-minded, if not thickheaded and rash; they were prone to speak hastily and without any thought of their audience. But young Daryas seemed to be nothing like his countrymen in this regard. He expressed himself sparingly, especially when it concerned his thoughts and sentiments. He was certainly not the sort of person who looked to others for counsel or advice without cause. But lately Daryas had been troubled by strange dreams and he found that he could no longer keep his troubled thoughts to himself. So when the day was over and the sun sank behind the peak of Mount Coronis, he set himself before a fire and laid his dark thoughts out before his friend. The two of them had been scouting in the mountains now for three days, but they had not yet found any trace of their enemies.
'The dream is always the same,' he explained, 'No matter how many times I dream it. And no matter how hard I try, nothing changes. I am always left in the end with the same riddle and the same fear.
'In my dream I am always running. There are trees all around me, and the sun is hidden from me completely. Whether it is night, or whether it is the canopy of leaves that hides the light from my eyes, I cannot tell. Why I am running I have never discovered, but nonetheless I am frantic, panting. I look down at the ground and see that I am leaving behind me a trail of blood.
'Abruptly I enter into a dark and ominous place and I hear a voice, but I see no one. A quiet but malicious voice says:
'"Answer me swiftly mortal, for I am about to die. Forget Hell and Flame; forget god and gavel. Leave behind you all superstition and sympathy and answer me truly. Why should I, at the moment of my death, choose that which is right over that which I have always desired? For I have paid my dues and now I have but one last choice to make."
'I am startled and I awake, never seeing who the speaker is; never able to tell what the dream portends.'
As far as young men go, there did not seem to be anything special about Daryas. He was by all accounts an average man, but of good birth. He was neither tall nor short, sturdy or frail; in every way it seemed that he was the perfect mean; 'Exceptionally unexceptional,' is how some of his father's peers described him.
He had dark brown hair, shorn just above his shoulders and even darker eyes. His brow was quite severe, giving him on the whole a grim appearance. Even in front of the bright firelight there was no sparkle in his eyes. He wore a heavy green cloak over a thick brown woolen shirt, the edges of which were adorned with a simple sylvan pattern sewn with dark green thread, and cloth trousers over which strips of fur and leather were patched together for warmth.
'Another night is coming,' Daryas said nearly in a whisper, 'and another dream with it.'
Hassan Oastirne sat silent for a moment and then after some thought he spoke. 'It isn't like you to share your dreams, Daryas,' Hassan grinned. 'And it is not at all like a man of Noras to be troubled with nightmares. I would have expected more courage from a Cheftan's son.'
'It isn't the dream itself,' Daryas said, now beginning to regret saying anything, 'It is the return of the dream - the constant return of this same dream night by night that is troubling me.'
'Perhaps the dream means nothing.' Hassan suggested. 'I will tell you plainly, my friend, that I refuse to take any comfort in the thought that dreams portend things to come. That is the sort of thinking that will drive a man
mad. I know what the sages say, but I pay it no heed. I've had too many useless dreams to believe in omens. Perhaps, if nothing else, you can take some comfort in that.'
Hassan was of the other class of men who speak quickly, often without giving his words a thought. He was as well known for his quick tongue as for his skill in battle.
Hassan was a tall, slender man with bright golden hair that betrayed his Knarse ancestry, for men of pure Noras blood were mostly dark haired. He was dressed in a similar cloak and wool shirt, though a bit lighter in color, and torn in a few places. He was unkempt and unwashed, even when he was not scouting in the mountains, though this generally did not seem to bother him. He was the sort of man who expected to attract very few friends, and this expectation of his was seldom disappointed. In fact, neither of the two seemed to be very interested in impressing their fellows. But for whatever reason, these two misfits found each other's company to be tolerable, and sometimes perhaps that is all that a friendship needs in order to born.
Despite his lack of friends, Hassan had a good reputation among the Noras, for he was very skilled with the bow and the sword. Some said that in all his generation there was not his equal in Noras, with the exception of course, of Daryas' older brother.
Hassan was called Sion by his comrades, though nobody knew the origin of this peculiar name. The only thing they knew was that it had some secret meaning, which only he understood, and that he hated his right name with ardor. His father was a Knarse sailor who set sail never to return when Sion was a very small boy. His mother, who was from a very ancient and honorable family of Noras, returned to her native country with the boy and was married to a Cheftan named Ponteris Oastirne. Her marriage to a man of noble blood restored at least some of the honor that had been stripped from her family during her ill-fated sojourn among the 'golden-heads'.
Cheft Ponteris seemed to resent Sion, as he served as a constant reminder of his wife's former lover. It seemed to Cheft Ponteris that it would have been better for the man to have died than to have simply run off. As it was, he could never quite rest easy knowing that somewhere on the wide oceans of the world sailed the man who was the rightful father of his heir. His own dreams were frequently haunted by the return of a vengeful man of the sea, coming to claim his son and bride.
There was also a great deal of gossip and whispering about the marriage of a noble-born Cheftan to a woman who was by no means a virgin. But for reasons of his own Cheft Ponteris took the woman as his wife and adopted her son as his own and granted him all the privileges of a Cheftirne, that is, a Cheftan's son. But of this we will learn more when the time comes.
For his part Sion detested his stepfather, and resented the fact that his mother's affections were wasted on him.
Daryas was sharpening the edge of his knife against a stone, which gave his anxious hands something to busy themselves with while he spoke. Sion, in contrast, sat perfectly calm, not seeming to notice his comrade's nervous motions.
The two men were sitting before the entrance of a small cloth shelter on the side of a hill. The Coronan mountain range loomed high above them to the west, casting a dark shadow over their tiny camp and all the lands that lay behind them.
Daryas sighed. He was no more eager to find a meaning in his nightmare than his friend. He paused for a moment and then continued, 'Still, it is hard to ignore such a consistent and alarming vision. And the same dream, so many nights in a row hardly seems like an unhappy coincidence. Can this really be the work of chance alone?'
'But if not chance then what?' Sion laughed. 'Are you a seer now?'
'Don't mock me,' Daryas smiled, trying to pretend he was not insulted, 'or I will not tell you your fortune.'
Sion laughed heartily.
'You see, you do not take me seriously. Now I cannot tell you about the beautiful wife you were going to have.'
'WERE going to have?' Sion protested.
'You have angered the gods, and now you have to marry a farmer's daughter.'
'And I shall be all the happier for it, I am sure,' Sion said as he rose from his seat and stretched his arms above his head. 'It is getting late and I do not want to anger the gods any further tonight.'
'Then goodnight to you,' Daryas said, growing more irritated. Sion looked down at his comrade for a moment and then sat back down.
'Are you going to stay awake all night?' Sion asked.
'Perhaps.'
'But what about sleep? Even seers must sleep, right?'
'I try not to sleep these days,' Daryas said as he threw another log onto the fire. For a moment their faces were illuminated as the log ignited and the ashes and sparks were unsettled.
'Tell me Daryas, do you really feel that your dreams are some kind of omen?'
'If you mean to ask what I feel, I will have to say that I feel that they are omens. But if you want to know what I think, I cannot say. All I can say for certain is that if they are an omen then I am destined to be a very unhappy man, for the dreams terrify me.' Daryas shuddered slightly as he spoke. Sion tossed a few small sticks into the fire and stood up once more.
'I will not sleep tonight,' Daryas said gloomily.
'Fight it as you may,' Sion answered, 'but I do not expect you will last long. For in the end Sleep will prove to be the master. At any rate, I am going to rest. I will let you take the first watch, since you are afraid to shut your eyes. Do not fret your dreams my friend, for they are more likely inspired less by gods and devils than by the spiced meats and moldy bread we've been eating since we left Galva Hall.'
With those words he left Daryas and entered their small shelter. He flopped down on a blanket and was quickly overcome by sleep. Daryas remained outside staring at the fire as it danced and flickered. He sat there for a long time, until the embers died down and all the world became black. Yet he did not dare shut his eyes until the sun returned from its nightly exile to warm the eastern sky behind him.
Daryas was the son of a Noras Cheftan named Biron Galvahirne. They were descended from the ancient hero Galvahir of whose fascinating tale I shall have more to say at another time. Cheft Biron was the master of the largest estate in Noras, which had been in his family's possession for the past seven generations. Of the Nine Clans of Noras, those who were born of the sons of Galvahir were considered the fiercest and strongest. They were not much taller than their Noras brethren, but their features were more harsh and their shoulders more broad, giving them a more formidable appearance. For this reason they were customarily made use of in the defense of Noras. They were particularly intimidating when clad in armor and mounted on a sturdy Noras war-horse, though the thick woods in which they lived made the use of the Galvahirne Cavalry very rare indeed.
Their hair was almost always dark brown or black, which they traditionally wore at shoulder length, though some of the older men would allow their hair to grow almost to their waists.
To say that the Galvahirne were forbearing would not give their legendary strength and endurance nearly the notice it deserves. It was often said among the Noras that, 'As the minstrel loves song and the miser loves gain; so ardently and avidly do the Galva love pain.'
Such was their reputation among their fellow Noras. The stories that have circulated about the manner in which certain admittedly brutish members of their clan discipline their own children would have appalled any outsider. From their earliest history down to the present day it seemed that this group of men were fashioned with iron for bones and leather for skin. Those who rose to prominence among them wore the scars of their nightmarish childhoods like trophies or prizes.
In this peculiar setting, Daryas was born. He was the second and last son of Cheft Biron, born to him by his wife Marima, who was of the noble Cossirne family. In her youth she was considered one of the most beautiful ladies in Noras, and so her joining to Cheft Biron was no small incident in Noras. Her family sent her to Peiraso, for that was what Lord Biron's estate was called, adorned in a brilliant white dress made from the finest silk. On he
r head she wore an elaborate crown of silver and diamond. With her came a train of servants bearing gifts and presents for her new husband. Nearly two thousand Noras attended their wedding; nearly all of them from the more important families.
It was not long after this that she bore her first son, whom I will describe at another time. And about six years after that she gave birth to her second son, Daryas. Cheft Biron insisted upon this name in honor of the astral lord who was said to have saved the world at the end of the Arbori Wars. He was so named because on the night of his birth a star fell from the sky and streaked through the air like a flaming whip, before splitting in two and burning out.
Lady Marima was opposed to the 'pretentious' name, but Cheft Biron's will was immovable. He explained:
'I looked in the eyes of our child and I saw the reflection of a star. It was bright, as bright as the great constellations of which the poets sing. But something was lacking, for with every sparkle of this star came a twinkle of darkness. This light waxed and waned like the flickering of a candle tossed about by the breeze.
'Each life is like a falling star, gleaming across the span of the sky in brilliance and flame. Some light up the world in the light of their wisdom. Others flicker for a moment and pass on. Some burn up in the air long before their journey's end.
'In the dark of night it appeared; an erring orb of flame. Dashing to and fro, rising and then descending. Bright red in color, brilliant, swift, but treacherous in movement and reckless in flight. Finally, it came to the outermost edge of the sky and burst into flames. At once its outside parts were burned up, revealing the inner parts. As I watched I saw a stone of immense size and of an obscure form now split in two from its violent intrusion on the Mortal Realm. The finer part descended slowly and serenely over the wooded lands in the north while the baser part screamed into the west like a hawk searching for its prey. I know not where it fell. On that night, under a spectacle of astral beauty, a soul was born. I name him Daryas, after the Lord of the Stars, who leads the armies of heaven in battle against the darkness of night.'