"Take heart, my friend," Matthew replied. "If your hope is so easily lost, why do you expect it to be simple to win others toward it? You should go to the Dorokti. The clans of fire, wind, earth, and the moon should be rallied to battle. Under a united banner, they would bring great strength to our cause."
Lacien scoffed. "You wish to bring the Fallen into battle so that they might hide or run in fear? You are the historian here, Matthew. You know how they betrayed the Light by hiding and watching Exandercrast slay Leindul at Mount Tesevara. You know how they refused to send even a single warrior into the battle of Eena Grolah."
"Yes, my friend, I do," Matthew said. "But I have spent years among these four clans, and I know the strength of their hearts. This is the call their people have long awaited."
"You might as well send me to recover the Horn of the Field Lords and rally the Yarsac to battle," Baden said with a laugh. "I think I might have more luck with that kensin’s task."
"I only ask that you run into the plains of Kinos Klayfurren," Matthew said. "It is not so far from here, and if I am wrong about them we will not have lost more than a day of travel."
"Is there nowhere else you could send me? What about Thalry? Or perhaps Orovin?"
Matthew shook his head. "Orovin is too far for even you, and Thalry would take weeks to decide if they should call in the four kings to be consulted. This is where real good can be done. This is where you are needed."
"Like I was needed with the Sontauchs?"
Lacien stifled a laugh.
"Very well," Baden agreed. "I am becoming quite adept at drawing out rejection like poison from an asp’s bite. Perhaps soon I will develop immunity to its burn."
Lacien smiled. "Good luck. My task almost seems easy in light of yours."
"Let those who are willing know that they may join us here in four weeks’ time," Matthew said. "May the Light of Hope guide you both."
"Good luck, Matthew," Lacien said as he leaped into the sky. His dark wings glimmered under the light of the broken moons.
"May Leindul watch over you, Matthew," Baden said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Polas wrestled with dark dreams once again that night. His hands clung to his fur blanket as though letting go would cast him into an abyss. Sweat dotted his brow and soaked his hair. Deep in his mind, memories fought against sanity and years of despair. Beneath their lids, his eyes danced, trying to make sense of all they saw.
~ 1000 years ago ~
Polas lay on his back, strapped down to a cold metal table. He was in a small, stone room with a single torch that cast flickering shadows along the walls and ceiling. The air was heavy with the smell of burning tar and decaying flesh. The sound of wailing drifted through the open door.
Two Narculds leaned over Polas’s lower body. They were stooped and bent at awkward angles due to self-mutilation, and they had skin-break piercings though their cheeks, wrists, and necks. Their eyes were swollen, and their faces looked like wet paper drawn tightly over knobby stones.
One made small incisions along Polas’s legs; the other closed them with sutures. Each cut felt like veins of acid trickling up his legs as the thin knife tore through shallow flesh and nerve endings. The stitches poked through raw and haggard tissue, inflaming and re-doubling the pain. The tugging and tying was excruciating, and it took all of the discipline Polas could muster to keep from crying out in agony.
When they had finished, his legs were numb and covered in oozing track marks that looked like a well-traveled map. In the next room, he heard a ferocious growl silenced by a sickening snap. Moments later a man entered the room clothed in pure white. His dark hair was pulled back, clamped with a bone-latch, and allowed to lay flat against his back. He was a regal picture of Peltin perfection.
"Exandercrast," Polas said. He struggled to turn his head to the side and spat upon the ground.
The God of Fear, in his mortal form, wiped crimson stains from his hands with a black cloth. His white dressing suit remained immaculate, without a single drop of blood tainting its surface.
"General Kas Dorian," Exandercrast said, "it’s good to see you today. Are you still enjoying the accommodations? I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to give you my full attention yet. Your Eryntaph friend proved to be quite spirited. Truly impressive. He was a credit to all mortals. I have a feeling you will be much softer."
He leaned over Polas and ran his fingers along the sutures, pressing in a few times to draw a pained wince from the beaten man. When his hand reached the top of Polas’s thigh, he ripped a single stitch from the general’s legs. The tattered flesh ripped open and seeped blood and puss. Polas tensed, but did not cry out.
Exandercrast raised his eyebrows and smiled. "It looks like this might be a bit more fun than I expected. What do you say we start these games in earnest?"
Exandercrast pulled up a stool and sat. One of the Narculd attendants offered him a pair of gloves, but he waved them away. As the God of Fear began his work, pain became Polas's every breath. He screamed and writhed as much as his chains would allow, the manacles digging deep marks into his wrists.
The shadows swelled and swirled, drawing Polas deeper into the cold embrace of surrender. A light broke through the ceiling and grew in intensity until Polas had to close his eyes.
Dawn tore Polas from his nightmare. His body was sore and his muscles tight. Ages ago, he would have greeted the dawn with prayers of thanksgiving and praise to Leindul, the God of Hope. Today, and every day since awakening to this lurid reality, he simply awoke, whispered Exandercrast's name, and spat upon the ground. He ran his fingers through his peppered hair and checked his reflection in a dagger’s blade to make sure his face showed no signs of infection.
Outside his tent, the village buzzed with voices even at this early hour. The remaining fangtooth meat was dried for jerky or cooked for the morning’s breakfast. Vor made his way from tent to tent, said goodbyes, and wished the warriors skill and favor in their hunts.
Xandra and Flint had already prepared their horses for travel and busied themselves in conversation about what might lay on the road ahead of them. Flint had stuffed his pockets with jerky and added an extra bag filled with the dry snacks to the packhorse’s load as well.
Polas put on the leather armor he had been given by the tribe. It was a pressed-hide version of a breastplate that provided adequate defense from most direct and glancing hits and allowed for greater mobility than a normal suit of armor. It had ridges of bone at the collar and along the sides and spine to provide extra protection to those vital areas.
When Vor saw him, he waved and said one last goodbye to the warrior with whom he was talking.
"Kas Dorian, I trust you slept well," Vor said.
Polas gave a simple nod.
"I will ask you one more time to reconsider my offer. The combined might of four Dorokti tribes would cause even the great Exandercrast pause."
"No, friend," Polas replied. "No more armies or legions to throw themselves on the sword before the God of Fear. This battle will be won or lost without any more needless sacrifices."
Vor motioned for Kertyah to join them. He was busy giving charges to the next shift of guards, a pair of feline Dorokti with matching black stripes across their shoulders. He handed one of them a small bit of cloth that held within it an aurochs’ horn and walked over to his lord’s side.
"If you have need of any last items, please let my Kei'ensah know, and he will provide them for you."
"There’s truly nothing else I desire to take from your people," Polas said. "I was reluctant to come here at all even to ask your help. However, I did not want to dishonor Ve by ignoring his oath. And if you are half the warrior he was, I would do well to have you by my side for the road ahead of me."
"For many generations my people have waited for this day, Kas Dorian," Vor said. "Had you not come, we would have continued to wait until the end of all times. It is good you came, or else we would be waiting for that which has a
lready passed."
As the group walked toward Flint and Xandra, a young Dorokti girl with the features of a hare brought Polas his horse. Her long ears and large feet made her stand out even among the great variety of appearances that made up the Ginakti clan. She also carried a small sack of bread and dried fruits, which she presented to him with averted eyes.
Polas thanked the girl and climbed atop his horse. Somewhere deep inside it felt good to be back in the saddle leading others to battle. He shook the feeling away. His days of being a general were long behind him. These others were not his concern, and if possible, he would leave the children and the Faldred scholar behind at the port.
Polas looked around for a moment. "Where’s Kiff?" he asked Xandra and Flint.
Flint shook his head and shrugged.
"I haven’t seen him since last night, Master Kas Dorian," Xandra said. She bit her lip and added, "Neither of us has."
"Good riddance to the pup," Vor said as he mounted his own horse. "The boy is an adder in our sleepsack, best to leave him to his own demise."
"We’re not actually going to leave without him, are we, Master Kas Dorian?" Xandra asked.
"We can’t wait around for him to show up," Polas said. "If his road has led him elsewhere, then so be it."
Xandra shifted uncomfortably and surveyed the busy village.
"His tent was never occupied, if you are looking for him somewhere within my camp," Vor said.
Kertyah inclined his head to Vor, "I saw a shadow against the stars last night. I can only assume now that it was the dark one leaving us. I’m sorry I did not tell you of this sooner."
"At least we know that he has gone," Polas said. "He is likely better off along a safer path."
Xandra continued to chew on her lip and looked out over the plains, but said nothing.
Vor grinned. "Daylight is burning. We should away."
Flint rubbed his eyes and ate a quick after-breakfast snack to prepare himself for the long ride ahead of them. He had remembered to wear his extra thick breeches to help with his saddle chafe and made sure that plenty of water and snacks were within reach in his horse’s saddlebags. The fangtooth jerky was less salty than he preferred, but it had a healthy chew to it and plenty of meaty flavor. He had even managed to trade a few of his trinkets for a loaf of sweetbread and two sacks of wine that he hoped would keep him warm over the coming nights.
Kertyah fetched Vor’s axe for him and presented it with due reverence. Vor pulled him aside and spoke to him in hushed tones, using the language of the Dorokti to discourage eavesdropping among the others.
That caught Flint’s attention. He leaned toward them and inclined his head. When their conversation ended, Flint jerked back upright in his saddle, nearly toppling his horse. Vor cast a wary eye on him, but did not press the issue.
Flint was puzzled. His knowledge of the Dorokti language was based solely on his expertise with High Peltin, but he thought he had heard Vor say, "Ready the armies for the four-legged man."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Matthew the Blue had spent the day humoring Dairbun hospitality. Certain protocols had to be observed, which meant Matthew had been given a tour of the Great Hall and shown all of the advancements made since his last visit five years earlier. In truth, he wanted nothing more than a chance to meet with their Grand Council to discuss adding the strength of their army to the impending battle.
The cities of the Dairbun were carved into the hearts of the great myrmian trees that made up the Jungles of Myrioth. The trees towered one thousand feet into the sky and grew a quarter of a mile wide at the ground. Matthew found it amusing that such large trees housed beings of such short stature. Of course, as a Cairtol, he could not comment too harshly on their size, considering they were more than double his own.
The Dairbun were squat creatures that resembled somewhat stunted Peltins. They averaged four feet in height and had thick waists and strong limbs. Their culture revolved around engineering and craft, and each aspired to produce one thing in their lifetime worthy of the Great Creator.
Matthew had always appreciated the ingenuity the Dairbun possessed, and as Karrah led him down a newly opened branch of the city, his eyes were wide with wonder.
He had met Karrah years ago when the Dairbun engineer had first earned his crafting apron. He considered the man to be one of his closest friends, but knew that it would be difficult to persuade the Dairbun council even with his help.
Karrah had become Next-Elder since Matthew’s last visit, due to become Elder when the current leader moved on. This made him a powerful voice, though no decisions could be made without majority support of the High Council, which was tied directly to the influence of the current Elder.
It was hard for Matthew to focus as Karrah took him to the very top of Arulon using their new sand-powered elevator. They stepped off the platform and walked through a narrow passageway. Matthew blinked a few times as they emerged into the cool, evening air high above the ground. They were near the very top of the jungle’s canopy and could see out over many kallows toward the western shore.
The duo walked out on the thick branch side by side and sat. Dark, rolling clouds gathered over the sea beyond the jungle, and the sky, just out of reach, was dim and shaded like perpetual dusk. Far away, beneath the ominous clouds, the land of Waysmale hid; its rocky shoreline barely visible from the highest points of Arulon. The entire continent of Odoror, of which the Myrioth Jungle was the southernmost point, had not seen the light of a full day in an age. Were it not for the water clocks and the town timekeepers, it would often have been impossible to know if it was dawn or dusk, for the suns always clung to the edge of the world, never leaving the horizon's grip.
"I’m glad you have come," said Karrah. His long hair showed signs of turning from a youthful black to wizened silver. He hid his chubby face behind a thick beard gathered in an elaborate wooden carving, and his teeth were in desperate need of a good scraping. He was barely over four feet tall, and his hands showed the wear of his years spent gripping rough-handled tools. He had been one of the primary architects of the city of Arn, an eight-square-mile, entirely self-sustaining city that floated among the clouds. The feat was considered by most to be the greatest in Dairbun history. It had certainly earned him his current position.
"A lot has changed since you last visited."
"So it seems," Matthew said as he watched a shadowhawk make its nest on a nearby branch. "Your works never cease to amaze me."
Karrah scratched his ear and shook his head. "I was more referring to our people and even the council. We’ve become insular, Matthew. That’s part of the reason we’ve advanced so much within our own homes. We no longer send our students out to see what help they can offer the Coranthens or the Madurians. We take care of our own, and little more."
Matthew forced a sad smile.
"It’s easy not to worry about the rest of the world," Karrah continued. "It’s easy to say, ‘I’m only a simple architect,’ and to leave it at that. It’s fine being an architect or a smith or a sculptor and ignoring the darkness around you when you keep your eyes shut."
Matthew reached up and rested his tiny hand on the Dairbun’s shoulder. "If the rest of the council’s hearts are as open as yours, Karrah, I believe our meeting tomorrow will go quite well."
Matthew rose early to spend some extra time in preparation for his appeal to the Dairbun Council. He took a light breakfast of eggs and salted pork before heading off to meet Karrah outside the council chambers. Matthew made sure to steal a glance at the Dairbun advancements in siege weaponry on his way through the twisting corridors, and his hopes were high as he walked through the arched, double doors and into the chamber.
Two hours later, he found himself still standing in the middle of a ring of high tables. Twelve Dairbun men, including Karrah, sat in their oversized chairs looking down at the tiny Cairtol. The room was arranged so that the council members always peered over the edge of their tables at their audie
nce below them, but for the lone figure of the Matthew the Blue, it was overkill.
The circular room lay at the very center of Arulon, below the surface of the Myrioth Jungle floor. It was the lowest room in the city, as the roots had been left alone so that they did not risk hollowing out too much of what sustained the great tree. Carvings of Dairbun in various stages of creation ringed the room. Some figures hunched over anvils or furnaces, others lifted beams and brackets, and a few held tools over assorted inventions or used levers to support large constructions. At the pinnacle of the room, a glowing orb cast soft light along the walls and wiped away all shadows from the center of the council’s ring.
Karrah, who had dressed in his gold-plated crafter’s apron, sat near the head of the arrangement in a large, elaborate chair. He nodded along with his friend’s words, but the other council members were proving much harder to convince. It had taken Matthew the better part of the last two hours to steer the conversation toward asking for aid.
He was tired of talking, and his tongue kept sticking to his dry lips. But most of all, he felt a pang of hurt as he looked up at Karrah. For all his nodding, Karrah had said very little in support of Matthew so as not to go against the crowd and jeopardize his future as Elder.
The Cairtol once again fought to bring the conversation back around to Polas and the others.
"The Leader of the Armies of Light has returned to us. How can we not take notice and stand beside him?"
"Quite an incredible claim, Matthew," said a wrinkly old Dairbun. "Polas, the Iron Blooded General, has returned. What proof have you brought us of this?"
"None but my word," Matthew said. "But it has always been enough in the past."
Karrah gave him a reassuring head-bob, though others on the council were less eager to agree.
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