“That’s not even a valid argument,” spouted Lemant, “At least not any longer with the recent reforms.”
“Maybe,” claimed Bwar, “what we need is a mental reform that includes us all. Just like your own church has said, ‘we should all have an equal part.’ In true equality, we should all have a valid claim to the vacant throne!”
The entire council erupted in a cacophony of arguments. Insults and accusations flew across the room at each other. Bwar and his fellow dwarven advisors looked ready to murder their peers. The elves haughty stares and invectives slandered the others in the room. Lemant and his fellow advisors spat barbs at a notable disadvantage.
The council had been given the authority to appoint a new monarch, and judge current affairs. From Lemant’s viewpoint, there seemed no way that a human would sit on the throne. Surely a new dynasty would emerge from this room, and there didn’t seem a worthy person in the whole lot.
Lemant sat back as the arguments raged around the council hall. His thoughts turned inward as despair took over his thoughts. The only logical course of action was to side with one group or the other and seek a strong alliance that could benefit mankind under their rule.
A firm tap on his shoulder pulled him from his dark revelry. Lemant turned to the messenger who handed him a sealed communication. It carried orders to read at once and directed the messenger to interrupt any kind of closed session to deliver the package.
Lemant dismissed the carrier and hastily unraveled the parchments. His eyes widened at a royal seal affixed to the page. A sense of urgency buzzed in his ears and drowned out the quarrels that flared around him.
The advisor leapt to his feet amidst the council members and proclaimed his findings. “Stay your arguments! I have just received word that Havara has survived the assassination attempt and taken refuge elsewhere!”
Silence shook the hall. The faces of the elves and dwarves fell in disappointment; their contentions for the throne would fall by the wayside as long as Havara lived. None of them looked more upset, however, than Bwar. Lemant narrowed his eyes, immediately expected that the dwarf had some part in the assassination of king Lo-Sonom.
Bwar and Elo’misce traded glances. The sincere look spoke more than volumes of text. That nonverbal communication chilled Lemant to his core as a deep fear for his life twisted in his gut.
The throne had been dangled in front of the other races and revealed how they desired it above all else. Snatching it back so suddenly only fueled the tension between mankind and ekthro. The hall fell eerily silent as the social rifts broadened quietly. A weak voice in the back somewhere motioned to convene the meeting, another one seconded it and hands silently raised to vote. The meeting adjourned under a pall of tension so thick that it had hushed everyone under the threat of a civil war that they all knew loomed on the horizon.
With or without Havara, Gleend teetered on the brink of something new.
***
Mil-khaw-mah’ stared down at his humanoid contact. The lycan towered above everyone at all times and rarely resumed his human shape. He viewed humanness as beneath him.
The werewolf bared his fangs as he welcomed the messenger. Mil-khaw-mah’ desired power above all else. Acquiring glory through battle and shedding blood were what he excelled at… that was power and he showed his teeth to let the soft-skinned guest know he came at the lycan’s pleasure.
Fayge was no ordinary pinkling, however. His hollow eyes and pale skin gave that away. High cheekbones and slicked back dark hair gave him an air of nobility and his neatly trimmed sideburns framed his delicate face. Fayge represented powers that courted the werewolf clans. He came as an envoy from the brood of Lilth.
Mil-khaw-mah’ sniffed the air. Of course there would be no fear lingering around the undead. Vampires were powerful, even small ones like this had no reason to fear a mortal creature. His kind had already beaten death.
This vampire smelled unlike the others he had met. Fayge's odor was not archaic, like the dust and old skin smell of the ancient brethren. This one smelled more like the vampiric messenger he'd located in the Tribben Forest some time ago. Mil-khaw-mah' expected that Fayge was a Wendigo. The original vampires, crafted by hay-lale' were limited in their numbers; they would not risk their safety to court one such as Mil-khaw-mah'. The ancient Adamic line would send a created vampire, one who was once a man but seduced by the ageless power: a Wendigo.
“I bring you more information from our spies,” Fayge stated.
“Do tell,” said the towering werewolf.
“It appears that one of your own has sought out a former colleague of yours.”
Mil-khaw-mah’ snorted derisively. However, the riddle-speaking vampire had his full attention.
“Sim-khaw’ of the Zaw-nawb’ has sought out another of the fallen tribes. He currently sits with Zeh-Ahbe’ of the to-ay-baw’ Say-awr’.”
The lupine’s blood began to boil. He bit his lip and drew blood as the feeling of betrayal coursed through his engorged veins. The lowest of the tribes, the Say-awr’, had been rendered cursed and cast off from the kil-yaw’, the ruling body central to the werewolf culture. They were anathema, forever lost.
“Then he must be destroyed, along with the rest of the Zaw-nawb'! Those malcontent subordinates… so afraid of becoming the lowest rank they would seek aid from even the most inferior of the lupine.”
“Stow your anger, Mil-khaw-mah’. You must not damage the kil-yaw’ any further. Do not forget your end of the bargain; you must restore the kil-yaw’ to its origins.”
“The other tribes will not be easily persuaded. ‘The to-ay-baw’ is final and complete,’” the werewolf quoted his one-time mentor and predecessor.
“Then you will force them to understand that the body must be whole.”
“Why do you take issue with the Say-awr’?” The werewolf asked, confused and belligerent, “You demand that the Say-awr’ be restored but prohibit the original to-ay-baw’ clan; you force the creation of a new Say-awr’ despite the claims that they have regained their powers. Why do you prohibit the recreation of the Shaw-than’ in the same way? It begins to make me feel like I am the one being played; I am moving game pieces but you withhold the strategy from me.”
Fayge grinned, showing fangs of his own. “The Shaw-than’ are unneeded because they still exist, as you have record of. When the time is right, the to-ay-baw’ prohibition will be lifted.”
“And the Say-awr’?”
“They must be wholly recreated. We have hesitation about their allegiances and no idea the source of their power. They have chosen to collude with a cult that challenges the power of the Luciferian Order. For reasons that we do not fully know, the leader of the Gathering has spent a great deal of effort trying to destroy them. If he had no other challenges to his power, beh’-tsah might have destroyed them utterly by now.
“For the time being, these krist-chins are too risky to be trusted. They might make good allies in the future if we could find some way to manipulate them—but for now, leave those pieces off the board.”
The vampire’s mention of manipulation triggered a thought in Mil-khaw-mah’s head. Was he being manipulated right now, even?
“Why are we reforming the kil-yaw’,” he challenged.
“To fulfill your purpose, lupine. You were created for a purpose—everything was… or did you think otherwise?”
“There is no purpose,” he snarled.
“Then you do not know your history,” Fayge mocked.
“We have the records of the Ahee-sthay-tay’-ree-on.”
“Ah yes,” the comparatively diminutive creature chided, “the scribes and scholars of the kil-yaw’. But tell me, do you possess the original record?”
“We have kept them since the first! They are authentic!”
“No, you misunderstand me. Do you have the very first records?”
Mil-khaw-mah’ paused for thought, then his blood heated again. The va
mpires must have somehow broken the sanctity of the kil-yaw’. The records kept by the Ahee-sthay-tay’-ree-on were secret and private and stayed only with the kil-yaw’. No outsider could know that the record volumes started at a number higher than one. The numeric sequence began with the number two; none in the kil-yaw’ knew about the original, lost tome.
Before the massive beast could seize and interrogate the pompous vampire, Mil-khaw-mah’ fell faint. His steps staggered and some mystic power forced his body to revert to its human form.
Fayge firmly stood his ground. His hand outstretched in a typical spellcasting form. The vampire had pulled him out of his lupine form and postured as if it had been child's play.
Mil-khaw-mah’ stumbled to his feet. He glowered incredulously at the vampire. Standing there, naked and wet, glistening with the transformation, he still stood as a massive specimen of a man and remained larger than the vampire. The thought to attack him entered his mind but quickly departed; if he had this kind of power and appeared unhindered by the spiritual drain that a spell of that magnitude might take, he must have been more powerful than any regular wendigo.
“Are you calm?” Fayge inquired in a cool tone.
“I am listening,” Mil-khaw-mah’ said smoothly.
“Good.” Inwardly, Fayge sighed with relief. The strain that they spell caused him nearly sent him into torpor—but he was graceful above all else, and there was no need to share that information. Fayge continued, “To understand your purpose, you must know the fullness of your history.
“You should know that there were many records kept prior to the forming of the kil-yaw’. Volume two of your records contains an account of the formation of the kil-yaw’. The Ahee-sthay-tay’-ree-on kept records before that point in a large codex. It just so happens that my people possess this particular book. You are invited to come and examine it at your leisure. It may be important that you can verify its authenticity. Your full cooperation is something we greatly desire, and once you verify its accuracy and examine what it contains, I have no doubt that we will both find the mutual power and glory that our kinds seek in our own ways.”
The werewolf met Fayge’s hollow gaze. The open invitation intrigued Mil-khaw-mah’, though he was more drawn to the possibility of personal glorification than of discovering any lost historical records. He wanted to be history, rather than know it.
Their alliance was uneasy, but there were too many temptations and potential benefits for him to avoid leading the kil-yaw’ down this path.
“Think about how little you know of your own origins,” the vampire said flatly as he departed. Fayge was in desperate need of cooperation, but he revealed none of that. He displayed only confidence and power to the werewolf as he melted into the shadows. That was the language Mil-khaw-mah’ spoke and it was what he would understand. He slithered through the night, almost desperate to feed.
***
The days of ceaseless walking brought the nondescript traveler passed Briganik and moved across Lol’s harsh terrain on tireless legs. The journey could have been made quicker via other modes of travel that he could certainly access, but he savored the time stewing in his thoughts. He enjoyed the anticipation of the journey. If his hopes came to fruition, he would reverse his condition; he dared not hope or dwell on what might be otherwise.
Day turned to night as he walked… and dusk again to dawn. Several days passed as the landscape on which he trod changed. His mind kept brushing against the one horrid thought, What if there is no hope for one such as I? Every time it came, he discarded the notion and focused on his steady strides.
***
Absinthium’s legs pumped steadily, bearing him upwards through the grand spire that connected the Order’s Monastery of Light to the entrance of Paradise, the demonic Babel Heavens. A jog up through the massive structure would have caused any normal being to pause for rest. The arch-mage had earlier cast an invigoration spell that supplied him with limitless physical energy as long as he remained focused on the spell.
As he finally burst through the final entry to Paradise, he was once more reminded of the war that raged for possession of the Babel Heavens. It had been a constant state, to some degree, ever since the departure of hay-lale’. This most recent conflict had arisen from within the Gathering itself, as it often did. The untimely coup split the ranks of Gathering and divided his master’s attention just as the krist-chin threat began to rise before them.
A heavy contingent of beh’-tsah’s troops guarded the Paradise entrance which remained the most convenient access point between the upper and lower firmaments. Absinthium, no stranger to the demonic lands, snapped his fingers and sequestered a gang of mixed ekthro troops and a ghostly white horse to take him safely to beh’-tsah’s castle, the meeting hall of the demonic council. As the dread lord’s most trusted servant it was foolish to travel exposed in Paradise; beh’-tsah’s enemies would too willingly assassinate him.
They neared beh'-tsah's fortress and the archmage's bodyguards peeled off as the mage pulled his pale steed ahead, speeding to his master's fortress. The immense, black curtain wall towered over the landscape. Crafted from eldritch, black iron and seated atop the realm's leylines, it had been wrought from a single piece by its creator. Everything about the stronghold reeked of power and strength.
As he approached the blocked entry the barbed portcullis raised in greeting. Absinthium rode through a passage where the dismal light of Paradise bled through the murder holes above him, just as boiling oil might if he'd been an enemy. The arch-mage loved everything about this place.
The metal grate clattered noisily behind him and the Luciferian dismounted. Hitching his beast to a nearby post, he sought out his demon master.
Stalking through the dingy halls, he passed the throne room and walked into the antechamber where he often awaited his master's commands. He did not feel the presence of the dark lord as he waited, kneeling on the cobblestone floor of the chamber. The dark Lord of the Gathering usually hovered somewhere nearby in an ethereal form, undetectable to the human eye, and on guard to protect his seat of power. In that state he could siphon the power from the spiritual leylines that threaded together the magic of the realm, translating the sinful nature of mankind into raw power.
In his spirit form, beh’-tsah harvested the energy unto himself; essentially filling his being with a type of fuel to power his magic. Despite the invisibility to humans and most humanoid ekthro, most creatures could still sense the aura of tangible evil that the demon over-lord exuded. That sense of ominous power chilled even Absinthium at every meeting; only beh’-tsah could cause such a tingle of dread in his spinal cord.
A demonic scullion entered the room and groveled for attention. The wretched demon looked wasted and emaciated, clearly a servant of the lowest ranks of their kind. It amused Absinthium to know that even a human being could contend with many demon’s power.
“The dark lord bids you locate him in the dining hall,” the loathsome creature groaned.
Absinthium silently rose and strode through the compound. He knew his way around the facility better than many of those beasts that lived within.
He found beh’-tsah feasting at a fully spread table. The buffet stretched across the entire room. Delicacies steamed and leaked fluids upon various parts of the table, though many of the diverse dishes that had been heaped upon it were considered revolting or even anathema to some races and cultures.
Absinthium approached his master. The demon over-lord remained seated in a massive chair, three times the size of what an ordinary man might require. Even seated, the dark lord towered above his prophet.
beh’-tsah had fed and grown upon the bitterness and sins of mankind, becoming a terrible sight to behold. His purple veined wings draped behind him like a cape and he consumed the prepared dish before him, his canine mouth loudly crunched the bones of whatever creature he ate.
He finally finished ingesting the roasted creature and rose on lion
-like haunches to greet his loyal servant. His blackened hide contrasted the shimmering crimson loincloth that hung from his waist; the dragon-scale garment contained the undying spirit of meh’-red, the previous Lord of the Gathering. The only part of his boar-like hide that was colored other than a dusky charcoal gray was the diagonal scar that ran across the demon’s muscular chest. The ivory colored wound was mostly covered by a newly acquired chest plate assembled from human bones.
Absinthium fingered his wizard’s stave as he studied beh’-tsah’s new armor. He had almost lost his toqeph in the same battle where his master had received the mark. The angel, Jorge, had actually cut his master. These krist-chins’ supernatural weapons were unlike anything they’d ever seen and could even physically affect beh’-tsah as he sat high above in the Babel Heavens.
“You noticed my new breast piece,” the demon bragged.
Absinthium nodded. Bloody pulp and ligaments still clung to the skeletal structures splattering the ivory framework with red taint. Many of the bones were still fresh and the smell of cracked ossein permeated the air as the pungent marrow scent leaked forth.
“While you were away setting Dyule up as puppet ruler of Jand, another krist-chin followed in Nhoj’s footsteps. He was preaching to anyone who would listen and we quickly snatched him up.”
“Let us hope that this doesn’t become a common occurrence. We would not want those two groups joining forces. Perhaps we should take further precautions.”
“It would be prudent,” the demon intoned. “I fear that they are somehow being inspired by the power of the Holy Spirit. He must be quenched. Our enemy has unleashed a terrible foe, but one that we have all but expelled once before.”
Absinthium nodded as beh’-tsah’s bovine tail swished in annoyance. “I assume that he has been dealt with?”
“I would not be dining were it not so,” beh’-tsah said flatly.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 64