Finally, she saw him lying against a large boulder near a sheer cliff wall.
She sprinted toward him, her fiery red hair trailing behind her. She slid to a stop next to him and lifted his head off the ground, setting him up against the cold stone. His eyes were open, staring blankly up toward the clouded sky. Blood stained his teeth and chin, and his arms hung limply at his side.
Xandra lifted his left hand, still tied around the grip of his crescent blade. She ran her fingers along the metal shards that stabbed out from inside his wrist and eased his hand back open. The shards retracted leaving scarlet ribbons behind.
She stared at him and let the heavy rain soak into her soul. His cold lips were turned up in a wry grin that she somehow knew though it had always been hidden. If only she had seen him smile. Just once.
Slowly she closed his deep, black eyes and gently touched his scarred face. He was barely older than she was, and his life was already over.
She felt like screaming. She felt like marching into Firevers and tearing Exandercrast’s head from his body. She felt completely helpless.
She cried as the rain beat down on them both.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Matthew the Blue stepped through his citrine portal into the cool morning air outside the city walls of Odes’Kan. The suns were shining, and birds trilled their morning songs. The call of merchants and vendors resonated over the city, and the bustle of everyday life continued as it had for thousands of years.
Matthew’s spirit was low. It was a simple enough thing to steal the blade out from under the ale-soaked watch of the Wyvern’s Nest patrons. It was more difficult to determine exactly how the gamblers had come to possess the artifact, and it was even harder to believe. How could the man abandon the blade? Had he completely walked away from his destiny? The Cairtol had waited for many years believing that Kas Dorian’s return would herald a new age of Hope, but it appeared that even the great General of Men had given up what faith once lay within him or, perhaps, had it driven from him.
Matthew held the sword up for inspection. It was taller than he was, and though it was much older, remained as immaculate as the day it was forged. He saw the reflection of his face staring back at him from its glistening edge. It looked as tired as he felt.
Perhaps Baden or Lacien would have good news at the rendezvous. He knew they were doing the right thing. Even if they were the only ones, it had to be done.
He wrapped the Blade of Leindul in a strip of cloth and tucked it under his arm. He smiled sadly at the grand city and its people. They were content to dwell in Exandercrast's shadow as long as they could buy and sell, love and lust, toil and live according to their own measure.
Who was he to tell them that they need to be rescued? If they had no knowledge of Exandercrast, did they even need deliverance from the God of Fear?
He shook away his doubts. Deep within, he knew that was exactly why they needed a hero like Polas Kas Dorian to undertake this quest for them. It was something they would never try themselves. Matthew the Blue would do everything in his power to encourage and support the ancient general’s efforts; even if that meant reminding the man of the course he had started so many ages ago.
Matthew stepped back through his glimmering portal and prepared to face his own destiny.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Exandercrast felt the thrill of anticipation for the first time in ages. He sat on his throne in his human form, watching four oversized black mirrors on stands before him. A hot breeze blew in the throne room’s open window and rattled the stands.
Four Narculd advisors stood on hand, ready to assist their lord with anything he might need. They were all silent and kept their eyes to the floor, dreading the outburst of wrath that was sure to follow what they had all witnessed.
Each of the mirrors displayed a different image. One showed the Daughter of Hope clutching the lifeless body of a slain Undlander. The next showed the fallen body of Calec Kas Dorian, Exandercrast’s most loyal guardian, lying in an enclosed garden. The last two showed a diminutive Cairtol standing alone on an open plain and an overweight Faldred huffing to keep up with a haggard old man and a ram-faced Fallen as they passed through a lavish office.
Exandercrast dismissed the images, rose, and walked past the advisors on his way toward the window. He ran his hands along a table covered in glowing orbs. The colors within the arcane devices fluttered and swirled in response to his touch. The God of Fear looked out upon the dark and dreary sky that covered his land. Kas Dorian would be here soon, and perhaps he might even be able to make it all the way to Firevers this time.
His mortal form shuddered, and Exandercrast drank in the sensation. In his draconic Naluni form, he felt very little but his own power. Now, restrained as he was, he tasted every sensation a weak, worldly body could offer.
"Ready the armies for inspection," he said. "Do not return until all is perfect."
The advisors were all too happy to remove themselves from their lord’s presence. They shuffled out single file, the last one closing the door gently behind them.
Exandercrast poured himself a glass of wine and sat on the plush cushions of his throne. He swirled his glass and breathed deeply, inhaling its sweet aroma.
He idly stroked the red ring on his right hand.
Soon. Very soon.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Polas watched as Flint stepped through the black portal at the end of the hidden hallway. The Faldred disappeared, trailing a line of rope behind him. The remaining end lay in a pile against the wall. After a brief pause, the rope began to uncoil, following through the dark, swirling arcanis at a slow and steady pace.
Polas exchanged a nod with Vor and reached out toward the portal with closed eyes. His touch made the magic gateway shudder, but it did not fade. He pulled his hand back and picked up his pack.
"See you on the other side, then," he said.
Vor snorted and clapped him on the back, encouraging him forward. They both drew their weapons, and Polas stepped into the shimmering pane.
A low mist clung to the ground and puddles dotted the rocky land, giving testimony of a recent downpour. A curtain of dense fog rolled from the rocky steppe above them and filled the valley. Visibility was minimal at best, and it was difficult to differentiate the bodies of fallen Ibor from the rocks and boulders that lay scattered about the ravine.
Polas emerged from the portal, and his breath caught. He remembered the very first step he had taken on the rocky beaches of Waysmale. He remembered battling for every inch of ground on their way toward Firevers. And he remembered failing all too well. He shook his head, attempting to keep the memories from bubbling to the surface or perhaps hoping to dislodge them permanently.
Behind him, Vor growled as he leaped from the portal. The damp air instantly matted his fur, and he stumbled as he stepped on a fat man’s pierced and slashed body.
"Your handiwork?" Vor asked.
Polas shook his head.
"Master Kas Dorian," Flint called out through the mist. "Over here."
Polas and Vor cautiously approached the area where Flint was waiting. Polas was confused by the number of dead Ibor he crossed as they made their way over to him.
"Curse this fog," Vor said.
"Did you find Xandra?" Polas asked.
Flint plodded forward through the fog and nodded.
"What about that traitorous whelp?" Vor added with a snort.
Flint raised a finger to his lips and shook his head. Vor responded with visible confusion.
"I’m afraid the boy is dead," Flint said somberly.
Xandra surged forward through the mist and shoved Vor hard in the chest. He staggered backward from the surprise assault.
"He died to save your thankless hide," Xandra yelled through her tears. She lunged to shove Vor again but stumbled over a loose rock. He caught her as she fell and held her in his strong arms.
The group stood quietly while Vor supported the Daughter of Hope. Flint
rubbed his broad hand on her shoulder in a feeble attempt to console her. Polas simply stood and watched, his heart heavy with guilt, and he resolved to add one more soul to the ticket he owed Exandercrast.
A few hours later, the fog finally dispersed, allowing Polas and the others to see clearly by torchlight. The clouds also dissipated, and the faintest trickle of light painted a border on the southern horizon. Overhead, the stars flickered and glimmered in the vast, dark sky.
Flint had spent the passing time nodding off for lack of sleep, and it took some extra jostling to bring him to full attention. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head.
"Is it nightfall already?" he asked. "I didn’t think I had slept that long."
Vor dragged the lifeless body of an Ibor and added it to his pile.
Polas stared off into the distant north, along the winding valley. He stood behind Xandra as she stacked rocks over a shallow grave.
"No. It is barely past midday by my best guess," he said as he bent down to help the girl with her chore.
She looked up at him with red and puffy eyes and forced a weak smile. The physical and emotional exhaustion was wearing on her, but Polas admired how she had refused to sleep until she finished laying Kiff’s body to rest.
When they had stacked the final stone, Polas stood and walked over to Flint and sat down on a stone-tree log. The Faldred scholar had pulled a scroll case out of his pack and was looking over a full map of Traesparin. A chain of marks trailed from the Hollow Mountains in western Maduria and wound their way past the Rhamewash Forest to the capitol city of Odes’Kan just shy of the northern shore.
"Do you have a map of Waysmale?" Polas asked.
Flint pulled a smaller scroll out of the case and unrolled it. Polas laughed lightly upon seeing it. The map was only a simple outline of an island chain that ended with the much larger island of Waysmale. The city of Firevers was marked at the far north end of the elongated strip of land, and a narrow beach was marked on the southern shore as a possible landing spot for a ship.
"It’s a little sparse, I must admit," Flint said. "Not a lot of cartographers itching to go exploring in Waysmale, I guess."
Polas took the map and held it out before him. "It’s not far off from the real thing," he said. "Missing a few valleys here and there, but just as dull and dreadful."
Vor threw a few more bodies onto his corpse pile and joined them by the map.
"How far off do you think we are?" he asked.
Polas eyed the cliff walls on either side of them. "Quite a ways, I’d say. I’ll be able to get a better feel once we make it to the top of the cliff."
"The top of the cliff?" Flint asked with wide eyes. "I’m not one to complain, but I thought we would be resting in this valley. It has been a very long night since our last good sleep."
Polas shook his head. "We’re going up, my friend. If this place is anything like I remember, we wouldn’t stand a chance in the valley under the light of the moons. I’m actually rather surprised we haven’t been hunted yet, considering the darkness."
Xandra approached Polas with her eyes on the ground. "Master Kas Dorian," she said quietly. "Could you say his rites, perhaps?"
The group turned toward the young girl. Blood stained her white clothes, and her red hair had come out of its long braid and clung to her in the humidity. She held both of Kiff’s sickles in her hand and busily made a place for each on her hips.
Polas stood reluctantly and brushed off his knees. "I’m not much for words. In my day, loved ones might say a word or two, but we usually spent some time in silence every day to remember those departed so that they would never be forgotten."
The group formed a ring around the stone grave with their heads bowed. Even Vor was still for a moment. Minutes passed, and the valley joined them in their stillness. Eventually, when he felt he had allowed enough time, Polas lifted his head.
"For loved ones lost, we carry on. Your light has given us strength, and your memory will never fade. Until we meet again in Hope’s embrace, I will hold you in my heart for the rest of time."
Xandra found a flat stone and knelt down with it. She retrieved a sickle from her belt and started to scratch letters on the rock.
Vor put his hand on her shoulder. "Don’t mar the blade." He handed her a small climbing spike.
Polas looked up at the starlit sky, his soul filled with longing for home. He breathed a silent prayer for his wife and children and asked that he might see them again soon.
Xandra finished and set the stone in front of Kiff’s grave. Etched in the ancient language of High Peltin, the marker read, "Tasak ahvna ov. Ov seerahsool. Kiff Vikoros di Thorosh."
"A good name," Flint said. "And well earned."
"What's does it mean?" Vor asked.
Xandra stood. "Hero of Hope."
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Matthew stood alone on the open plateau looking out over the sea. The waves rolled and crashed against the sandy beach below him. As the suns set in the southern sky, orange light danced across the cresting waters. Birds soared along the shoreline, and the faint trumpet of a tenkoth echoed from the plain.
The Cairtol sat down in the plush grass and retrieved a small book from his satchel along with a pen and a vial of ink. He breathed deeply of the salty air and sighed, expelling the weight of fear within him out over the plangent tide. There was still hope in the world, of that he was sure. Polas Kas Dorian was out there somewhere, and he was not alone. Soon, others would join as well. Matthew could feel it. He believed it was true. When hope was strong enough to become belief, even the smallest man could stand proudly upon it.
Matthew smiled, dipped his pen, and wrote.
TO BE CONCLUDED…
About the Author
Dallas E. Caldwell is a Christian author who writes role-playing books, designs strategy board games, and regularly humiliates his wife at 80s cartoon trivia contests.
144:Wrath is his first novel and the first book of two in the Iron Blood series.
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