Now he waited as he had for the past two days. He had returned home briefly when he realized that he had forgotten to bring any of the pora balm with him. Polas would be in desperate need of a second batch of the burn salve when he arrived.
Matthew had been to Flarcant before, some years ago when he first explored Maduria. His more recent travels had taken him across seas to the distant lands of the Bo’Uhr in Odoror and the untamed wilds of Hymar, but he always felt like Maduria was his true home. His books on the histories of Maduria and the Graeran Plains had included entries about Flarcant. They were merely footnotes for he had not been able to dig up much information about the town, but still felt that it was important to include its existence in his record books. From what he knew, Flarcant may have been destined to become the jewel of the plains for its fertile soil, rich farmland, and its location along the trade route that ran from Nittengret to Odes’Kan.
Matthew shook his head and sighed.
He sat alone in an empty field of prairie-fire grass. The only marker for kallows was a stone totem jutting into the pastoral scene and offending the eye with its garish ornamentation. The pillar was twenty feet high and bore the shrieking faces of ghastly apparitions straining to free themselves from its core. The carvings were so masterfully done that they had given rise to a horrific legend. Many believed that this was no mere totem, but that the souls of the people of Flarcant had been trapped within when the town was destroyed ages ago. From what Matthew knew of history and of the vile and vengeful nature of Exandercrast, his heart sank to think that this legend was likely all too true.
Several times in his younger days, he had returned to this spot with conscripted mages and sorcerers hoping to release the trapped spirits into eternity. Many had tried. All had failed.
The sound of hooves riding across hard ground caught his attention. He stood and batted a stingnat away from his ear before pulling out a bar of mune and taking a bite.
Polas slowed his horse as he approached the marker, and Matthew was forced to wave his hands over his head to be seen amid the tall grass.
"Well, let’s have those bandages off and get you something to eat," Matthew said. "You must be famished."
Polas let go of the reins and slid from the horse’s back. Matthew did his best to help steady the man, but ended up doing little more than bracing Polas’s knee.
Polas sat on his haunches for a moment before collapsing onto his back. His shirt was soaked with sweat and grime. His eyes were red with dark circles. Even the horse looked exhausted as Matthew strapped a feedbag to its snout.
Matthew helped undo the bindings on Kas Dorian’s face. "Here, have some of this, and we’ll talk."
He handed Polas a waterskin and a pouch full of dried fruit. Polas ate and drank greedily, finishing both containers before any more words were exchanged.
Finally, Polas stood and gazed upon the ghoulish totem. Matthew handed a few strips of dried meat up to him, which he took, giving the Cairtol only a curt nod in return.
Polas raised one hand to his eyes and looked out over the field of waving grass. Nothing made any sense. He should have passed his farm hours ago and yet the city was still nowhere in sight. "How much farther is Flarcant? I thought I had found my bearings, but I must be more lost than I realized."
"It is not you who are lost, my friend," Matthew the Blue said. "Rather it is Flarcant. Destroyed not long after you left by the God of Fear and his minions. This is all that remains of those people, preserved here in warning against any town that might sire one such as you."
Polas stepped forward to examine the totem. He was shocked to find that he recognized a few of the faces frozen in the stony effigy. His eyes widened, and he began to search frantically for his wife and daughter with the trapped souls. Though he was no closer to learning of their fate, he was relieved that he did not find their faces locked amongst the others.
Horror rushed in to replace his relief. This totem was like something out of a myth; something embellished over histories until it became a bleak legend. Polas knew many of the stony eyes that stared back at him from its surface. These were innocent people, many too afraid to speak ill of the Exandercrast lest he somehow hear them, and they had died simply because they had lived in his hometown.
He clenched his fists as a tremor ran through his body.
"Where can I find a sword?"
Matthew smiled. "Your journey begins anew, then? I had hoped and waited for this day. I have read the histories, legends, and prophecies, and have prayed that you would return to lead the people. You can rally the free people once again, strike at Firevers, and destroy Exandercrast once and for all."
"No."
Matthew stopped. "What?"
"No," Polas repeated. "My days as general are over. I am not a leader of men anymore. I’m going to find a sword, and I’m going to drive it though Exandercrast’s black heart. And I am going to find my boy, if he indeed still lives, and pull him from the dark god’s claws."
"You can’t go alone. You just can’t. We need to gather armies, march them to Exandercrast’s front door, and tear him from his lofty tower. You will need soldiers, war wagons, cavalry…"
"No. I marched the largest army this world has ever known to its death in the valleys of Waysmale. I will not lead any other innocent lives into the hereafter."
Polas turned and picked up Matthew’s pouches of food, threw them on the back of the horse, and climbed up.
"Your talk of prophecy reminded me of a debt I’m owed. That will be all the help I need in this, old man."
"You keep calling me 'old man.' Need I remind you that you are over nine hundred years my senior? Perhaps I should call you old man."
"Call me what you will, but I'll have no more of idle talk. Waysmale calls."
Matthew threw up his hands in surrendered protest. "If you insist on being so foolish to think one man can do this on his own, at least pay a visit to your old guildhall in Odes’Kan. There is something there I think you might need."
Polas nodded, turned his horse, and rode away.
"And you can keep the horse!" Matthew yelled after him.
Matthew watched as Polas disappeared over the horizon heading back to the north. He thought of all the years he had waited for the return of General Polas Kas Dorian, for a chance for Hope to be reborn, for the final breath of the God of Fear. He thought about all those things and smiled.
Then he turned and waved his hands, tearing the very fabric of space. His eyes turned shimmering yellow, and a matching portal, like a flat mirror of citrine gemstones, opened in front of him. The Cairtol took one last look at the totem of Flarcant, scratched his beard, and stepped through the glittering pane. Moments later the portal vanished, and the totem once again stood alone in the sea of grass.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Along the northern shore of Waysmale, a glowing city stood like a forgotten monument in a forsaken land. Surrounded by great walls, the main gate was the only safe way in or out. A molten river of fire flowed through the center of the city, bubbling up from the earth far east of the capital. The farthest edge was a sheer cliff that dropped several hundred feet to the roiling sea below.
Floating above the city, like an otherworldly guardian, was Exandercrast’s Bastille. The immense obelisk was set two stories above ground level and towered two hundred feet higher into the tepid air. Four great stone pathways, twenty feet wide, anchored the structure in place and provided the only means of egress to or from the bottom level. The tower was made of polished black stone that reflected the orange glow of the lava gushing beneath its base. Its four sides boasted ten windows each, stacked above the other at every level except for the top, eleventh level, which only had one window opening to the south.
Bones lay piled in heaps, and carrion scavenged amongst the rubble of scorched stone for unclaimed scraps of flesh. The buildings were ramshackle and bare, made from slabs of stone or piled rocks. A great open area lay at the forefront of the town, its cobbled
stone stained with years of spilled blood. The walls were made of jagged boulders fused together and smoothed flat on the outer edge, the rough side facing in provided natural crenellations and easy climbing for those behind its shelter. The gate was a mass of writhing, undead corpses that demanded payment in blood for any who might enter.
A bloodwing swooped overhead, returning to its nest with spoils drawn from the northern waters. Dark clouds like thick, grey smoke filled the sky and blocked out the twinkling of distant stars. A faint orange glow, like a distant fire, spread across the entire southern horizon. Night refused to relent to dawn in this dark land, and only on clear nights, which were few, did the moons ever choose to grace the forsaken landscape with their light.
Ibor crawled throughout the city, gliding with their thin wings outspread and leaping their way from place to place with no clear destination. They acted as a war-band encamped with no army to attack. Their strong bodies slammed together as they fought amongst each other in various places around town, releasing pent-up anxiousness and aggression. In all truth, they were little more than guard dogs in this vile city and Exandercrast their cruel master.
High above the city, in an opulent room large enough to hold an Erus whale, Exandercrast sat on a throne carved from hematite and covered in luxurious purple pillows with gold fringe. The floor beneath him was tiled black with large, five-foot marble squares. Matching columns stood in the corners, and a tapered archway ran from each and crossed in the middle of the ceiling. Heavy black drapes garnished the walls; each capped by golden crown-molding. A long table set at the far side of the room with strange, glittering orbs adorning its surface; each on its own stand.
Exandercrast had once again discarded his draconic appearance for the less intimidating form of a Peltin man. His hands bore five rings between them, jeweled in red, blue, brown, green, and silver. He kept the red-stoned ring alone on his right hand and played his fingers across it whenever his mind happened to wander.
He had returned from his game at Five Islands University a few hours earlier, but already he found himself wallowing in languor. His right leg shook restlessly, and his lips were tightly pursed. In this body, he sat upon his thrown, lord of all mortals. He drank in their fears and gained strength from their corruption. Any who would dare challenge him had long been silenced, and in his reign, he had grown overly comfortable in the ease with which he swayed the dreams and nightmares of men. Each day these mortals became more docile and servile. Not that he minded the servility, but he missed the days when the threat of war was always looming. He very nearly missed his brother.
What a great waste the university had been. He had allowed its formation, hoping that the concentration of power there - for the university had existed to train the One-Forty-Four to use their Gifts - might prove to be capable of threatening his regime. Sadly, its leadership was either too corrupt or too lazy to unify the students who lived there into a force that might seek to challenge him. In the end, Exandercrast had been forced to make the first move, but was disappointed with how easily they were destroyed.
Beside his throne, a dark figure stood stalwart. He was shorter than Exandercrast, but thicker in the arms and shoulders. He wore heavy plate mail made of Exandercrast’s own scales that drank in light and consumed it. His helmet concealed all but his deep, blue eyes, which were hardened by years of bitterness and despair. He was Calec Kas Dorian, the eternal guardian of Exandercrast.
Calec stood silently beside his master, one hand always on the hilt of his ebony blade.
Exandercrast drummed his fingers on his armrest, his eyes searching the ceiling for inspiration. He stood and paced for a moment before walking over to a large window set between two massive black mirrors. He gazed out over the city of Firevers, across the rocky terrain of Waysmale, and found it all too stale.
Tall doors barred the throne room. They were made of gold and embellished with the image of Exandercrast’s true form. His clawed fingers were the handles, and they rattled as someone struggled to open the heavy doors from the other side.
The doors swung open, and a frail, gaunt Narculd rushed into the room. His purple robes swished along the marble floor. His face was ashen and sunken in, and his large eyes bulged from their sockets. He looked like a Peltin man who had been dead for weeks, but as far as Narculds went, he was the pinnacle of health. Their kind were unusually long lived, feeding on others’ essences to extend their own lives.
With a raspy voice, he cried out, "Master, master! Terrible news."
Exandercrast did not turn his gaze from the window. "What is it, Consular?"
The Narculd stopped, falling on his face in reverence for his lord. "It’s Olagon, sir. Kas Dorian…"
"Has escaped," Exandercrast said. "I had all but forgotten we still held him there."
"But, my lord," the Consular whimpered, "the prison in Olagon is inescapable. What he did is literally impossible."
Exandercrast turned from the window and walked back toward his throne. "Consular, you should not abuse words for effect and in doing so distort their meaning. Most of the wards on the prison are magical, making his escape all-the-more possible."
"Then, my lord, shouldn’t," the Consular stammered and paused. "Shouldn’t more effort have been put into containing him there?"
Exandercrast’s eyes blazed. "You dare to question me? You insolent worm!"
"No, my lord. Never, my lord." The Consular did his best to slide backwards without altering his submissive posture. "It’s just that Kas Dorian has met up with Matthew the Blue. It is possible they plan…"
"Enough!"
Exandercrast’s dark eyes swelled, and black veins radiated across his face. He roared, and the room shook. Only his guardian was unmoved by the tremor. The Narculd consular screamed and his body shriveled and smoldered. Bones snapped and skin tore as his insides evaporated. The pathetic creature’s last breath came out in a black mist, which Exandercrast inhaled with a satisfied sigh.
"I’ve never tasted so much terror caused by a simple, mortal man," Exandercrast said with a note of admiration. "General Kas Dorian. No doubt you have a score to settle."
Exandercrast motioned to his guardian.
"Calec, make ready. I should like to give my old friend a warm reception."
Calec nodded and left the room.
Exandercrast returned to his throne, his mind swimming in excitement. A man from a time when mortals dared to challenge gods.
"Come to me, Polas. Bring your sword and hate and fear. Your grief will break you."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The hard dirt rushed beneath pounding hooves, flanked by fading summer grass on each side. The Rhamewash Forest loomed to the west, its thick canopy creating a nocturnal illusion within its deciduous walls. To the east, the land was an open book, rolling out into a hilly plain. A strong breeze ran along with Polas’s horse, cooling them both and urging them forward.
Polas loved riding and, for a moment, forced himself to forget about where he was. He even forgot about when he was. He simply let himself be swept up in the freedom of the open road and let the path ahead of him become nothing more than a steady clatter of the horse’s steps. He let the suns warm his back and dispel the chill of the morning air.
He kept his horse at a quickened pace, but not so urgent as to tire it recklessly. He had no idea how much farther he needed to travel. He was barely keeping his bearings by following the forest’s edge. All of the markers he once knew had wasted away ages ago with the rest of his life. He stopped before noon to rest at a pond a few hundred paces from the wagon trail. He ate conservatively of the rations Matthew had provided and allowed his horse ample time to drink. His back was sore and his legs stiff, so he walked around the water’s edge, but not so far that he lost sight of his mount.
From the road behind him, he heard a loud crack and the grunts of a team of pack animals. Someone with a gravelly voice was shouting curses Polas had never heard before. He dug in the pack Matthew had given him an
d found a coil of rope. He made a quick knot, looped it around the horse’s neck, and tied the other end to a tree.
As he made his way back to the trail, he saw a covered wagon that had lost a wheel. A barefoot woman tried desperately to calm a pair of haggard looking oxen, and a bent, greasy man struggled with the lost wheel near the back of the wagon.
"Ho there," Polas called out to them. "Need any help?"
The woman froze.
The man snapped his head around, looked back into the wagon, and took a few cautious steps toward Polas. His hair was stringy and brown, and his shoulders curled forward unnaturally.
"We have nothing of value, good sir," the woman stammered. She dropped her head toward the ground and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, covering her stained and torn dress.
"I mean you no harm," Polas said, holding his hands out wide. "Apologies for my appearance. I’m sure that I look like the worst sort of person to run into along the road, but I am not even armed. Looks like you could use a hand with that wheel."
The man gave Polas a dubious look that slowly shifted into a toothless grin. "Well met, fellow traveler. Never can be too careful with all the ruffians about these parts. We would be much obliged for any help you could offer."
Polas walked to the fallen front end of the wagon and tried to lift it. He strained, but could hardly make it budge. He shook his head and stepped back. His shoulders sagged and lips turned up in frustration.
"Must be carrying a heavy load," Polas said. "Might be too much for the old boy. Let’s see if we can brace the back wheels, and we’ll have the Missus back the team up a bit. That should help."
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