Fogle Eric - Forge of the Gods 01 - The Last Knight (V1.0)

by 5kops

  As the small company of jogging squires passed a darkened smithy, Lord Silvershield ordered another pack of squires who had just come into his sight to search for the stable master and ready the warhorses.

  His scale armor jingling with each irritated stride, the knight-captain crossed the final stretch of paved road and stepped into the moist sod where the Academy housed its finer warhorses. He had always loved the smell of the stables and inhaled deeply as he entered into the first set of stalls in search of his own bonded mount, Legion. It was easy for the knight-captain to sense his trusted mount. And though the charger had been decommissioned for many years, the bond between them was still strong. In truth, the only thing he still thanked God for was that he had been given Legion.

  "My lord," the distant voice of the stable master nearly brought him out of his bad mood. At least those young men were not badgering him any­more, looking accusingly at his improper behavior. He hated that.

  "Stable Master Del, have you readied our mounts?" Bowon asked.

  "Of course, Lord Silvershield," responded Del, walking to where Le­gion's head had popped over the gating and was nuzzling its friend's shoul­der. "Your orders were to ready twelve mounts for a variety of different skill levels."

  "Yes, yes, Del." Bowon waved the old man to silence. "Would you see that each squire has met their mount? I am going to take Legion for a quick gallop around the courtyard to limber him up a bit."

  "You will be taking him with you them, my lord?" The stable master asked. When Bowon shook his head in confirmation, the man continued, "Very good, then, my lord. So you know, I believe the only squires to arrive are those on their morning jog. Should I give your orders to Lords Vinion and Malketh instead?"

  Lord Silvershield frowned and walked out to the courtyard, looking to­wards the coming dawn. Eight of his nine squires were still limbering them­selves up. He barked nine hand-picked names and got eight replies. No­where in the line of young men was Bowon's personal squire and friend, Areck of Brenly.

  "Areck is late," he mused.

  With the patience of a military commander, Bowon issued a silent command. Instantly his men halted and formed a line, which he inspected. Happy that his orders had been followed to perfection, Bowon paused at the oldest squire.

  "Before you prepare your mount, I want you to go to Squire Areck's room and knock once. If there is no reply, return here and start preparing for the journey. Am I understood, Squire Redmon?"

  Not waiting for Redmon to nod, Silvershield turned and ordered the rest of the company to head to their various stables in search of their mounts.

  It wasn't until the young men saluted and set off that Lord Silvershield called Del over to make sure Squire Redmon's mount was ready when the boy returned. Satisfied, he nodded to himself and entered Legion's stall.

  ****

  Areck was ten paces ahead of Arawnn as they raced towards the gates of the Academy. The trick would be to draw as little attention as possible, rely­ing on secrecy to enter the building. However, as the pair slowed to a hur­ried walk, several guards noticed the weary-looking men and offered a good morning tide. By protocol Areck was forced to return the gesture.

  Areck knew there would not be time to cleanse the stench of the tavern smoke from his body, nor the whisper of perfume from his mind. Even as he said his greetings and the sun leaked past the building and cast a golden path towards their destination, his mind kept focusing on a dire future.

  Areck looked over at the sweating Arawnn and realized that the cou­rier's life would never be as complicated as his own, especially in these cir­cumstances. The man could simply tell the truth and, although the company would look down on him for it, never suffer the consequences. In fact, Arawnn's debauchery was almost understandable due to his lifestyle of in­cessant travel and the stress that he endured.

  The sudden knowledge that his life was held in the hands of Arawnn, who had tried to purchase him a prostitute, caused Areck to stop in mid-stride.

  "You must not . . ." Areck's words trailed off. He realized that he had started the conversation with a direct order. Calming his mind, he decided to start over. "I will have plenty of explaining to do when we finally meet Lord Silvershield," Areck began with a pleading look in his eyes. "Will you please not tell stories about last night? I wish to come to my commander on my own terms, especially if I am to be stripped of all rank and thrown out of the Academy."

  "As you wish, my friend," Arawnn replied with a mockingly modest tone. "Although you do realize that the night will not be nearly as exciting without them?"

  Areck accepted that as the best answer he could hope for.

  "There is little time before the company will leave without me," Areck said. "However, they cannot leave without you. Please take as long on you like on your way to the stables. If I am lucky I will meet you there shortly."

  The walk back to the Bre'Dmorian Academy entrance was uneventful, in the sense that knights high enough in rank to be curious of his attire did not greet him. That was not to say that more than a few low ranking knights did not murmur in disapproving tones at what they assumed to be a dis­honorable night amongst city folk. Areck remained impassive, prepared to face the consequences from his superiors.

  As he hurried up the hub in silence, Areck tried to collect his thoughts. If Arawnn took his time, there still was a chance Areck might make it to the Westinghouse Stables before Lord Silvershield moved out. His hopes were dashed when he remembered that in any case he would still have to answer questions regarding his tardiness and appearance.

  When Areck reached his floor, he crept down the hallway. Walking in­cognito made his chest tight and his hands shake with nervousness.

  Areck was just about to open his door, when out of nowhere, a voice cut through the dense silence. With stoic calm, Areck turned to face a squire one year younger them himself.

  "Lord Silvershield has sent me to fetch you, Squire Areck," Redmon said with a thick accent.

  Areck's heart sank. If Lord Silvershield had sent the young man to re­trieve him, the commander would want answers before the campaign got underway. He tried to keep his composure by squaring his shoulders in de­fiance.

  "Please let Lord Silvershield know that prayers took longer than ex­pected and that I will be down shortly," Areck said, immediately regretting the words.

  What have I done? he thought to himself. Is it not enough that I have soiled eve­rything the knighthood holds dear, now I must lie about it? Starsgalt please forgive me, he prayed silently.

  Areck saw the confusion in Redmon's face. He smelled of smoke. How­ever, it was not another squire's place to comment, so the young man nod­ded to Areck and trotted back down the hub.

  Though Areck felt soiled by the lie, he let out a sigh of relief. He would eventually have to come clean about his sinful situation but not yet, not until the company was well outside of Aresleigh, and it would be too late to be removed from the mission.

  When Redmon was beyond his vision, Areck made sure no one else was looking and entered his room. There was little time to spare, so he damp­ened a wool cloth and wiped his face. He then grabbed a small vial of scented oil, which he used on the rare occasion of visiting a noble. After dabbing oil on his neck and wrists Areck inhaled, deciding that he smelled much better than before.

  Still moving with haste, Areck undressed and pieced together his suit of light armor. He heard feet shuffling past his quarters as he tied the hauberk in place and slipped on his greaves. Finally, he pulled a pair of reinforced leather boots over his heel and laced them. Not worrying about whether his straps and buckles were secure, Areck grabbed his weapon belt, riding gloves, and tabard.

  With a last glance around the room Areck shuffled outside and down the hub, offering another prayer to Starsgalt.

  As he raced into the courtyard, he could see the mounted party gather­ing outside in two neat columns, a single mount readied and rider-less. He barely noticed Arawnn deep in an animated discussion w
ith the trio of knightly officers.

  Putting his head down, Areck marched towards his stallion, which caused the entire company to regard him. When he looked up, Areck saw the look on both Knight-Captain Vinion's and Knight-Captain Malketh's faces, indicating that the pair wished to leave him behind for Lord Millbert to deal with. It seemed, however, that Arawnn was arguing on his behalf. Finally Lord Silvershield raised his hand for silence and rode his mount forward with a grim smile.

  "I see you finally grace us with you presence, Squire Areck." Lord Silvershield announced.

  "My . . . my . . . my lord," Areck stuttered under the scrutiny. "I was—"

  "I did not ask for excuses, Squire! My advice is that you saddle up and remain in silence. Be thankful I do not remove you from this campaign."

  Lord Silvershield spun his warhorse around and addressed the rest of the company. "Understand that tardiness is a breech of protocol," he said. "Areck has just volunteered to dig latrines wherever we fortify our posi­tion."

  Areck was relieved that his knightly mentor had held his place within the company. Any other commander would have sent him back to the barracks followed by six weeks of duty in the midden heap.

  As Areck mounted a black charger in full armor, Lord Silvershield brought his horse along side him. The old man gave a quick wink, and grumbling, took off down the line.

  The small company of Bre'Dmorians looked regal in their armor, the sun glinting off polished mail. Areck thought they all looked ready to begin a long career in the service of the Bre'Dmorian Knighthood.

  With a final salute to his men, Lord Silvershield ordered a leisurely pace towards the northern gatehouse, where military personnel usually exited the crowded city.

  And so the men marched off, not knowing that a traitor was in their midst or that the man they were to protect was about to be murdered.

  Part II: History Is Changed

  10

  21st Eternity (Heavenly Timeline)

  THE ANGEL Gabriel Truthbringer walked in Starsgalt's gardens in si­lence, contemplating the cascading events that had unfolded since time had stopped. The Great Convergence, a gathering of the all the gods, had de­termined that the event was a miraculous anomaly of time, space, and the everlasting nature of Heaven. Still, it unsettled the angel that the gods re­ferred to time's failure as "unknown." After all, the entirety of Heaven was built upon the foundation that each god was omniscient.

  If they are referring to something as the unknown, does that mean they are no longer all-knowing? Gabriel wondered. He knew that the gods were bound by their infallibility; nothing was beyond their immeasurable power.

  This functional theory allowed mortals to believe their dreams were plausible and allowed the gods to flaunt power by granting miracles. It was an understanding which relied on the acceptance that reality was only as real as one believed, in turn bound by the unknown that the gods controlled. No god would admit something was beyond his or her supremacy.

  A single feather, so white it shimmered, fell from the Gabriel's out­stretched wings, fluttering as though fearful to leave the confines of the angel's body. With infinite speed he snatched it from the air, bringing it to his face. He had existed for eternity (Gods and angels do not count time, but view ten eternities of existence as "eternity") and knew that even a small thing, something as insignificant as a feather, could signify chaos. If he had let it land in a pool of pure energy, there was a minute probability that the feather would cause ripples in the fabric of reality, creating an endless stream of multiplying possibilities, until existence itself was nullified.

  With all that is going on, why take the chance?

  However, Gabriel was not sure the current situation was connected to a breach in reality. He was not sure what to think. For the gods to talk about the unknown meant something was terribly wrong.

  The angel gazed up at the swirling cosmos. The gods created this, therefore Heaven is real beyond a doubt, he thought. He knew his knowledge was abso­lute. We are infallible; it must be absolute . ..!

  Gabriel cursed as an errant stream of creation shot across eternity. He was a being of pure order and creation. Though unusual, the stream re­minded him that the gods were the creators of everything, including time— that they moved at will, parallel through the mortal timeline, able to look down on any point within history, past, present, or future. It was how the gods shaped the chaos of the multi-verse, channeling it into thought, which inversely created mortal reality. This reality did not truly exist, however; Heaven was the only true constant, existing beyond reality's boundaries of time, death, and life.

  So what happened is impossible, the angel's infinite logic screamed.

  "For the gods to admit to not knowing something . . ." he whispered. He should not think such things. The implications were unspeakable, bor­dering on the blasphemy, heretical! The plausibility that his own existence might be false made him indignant and angry.

  "This has to be Illenthuul's doing," he grumbled, showing an emotion that strangely resembled mortal irritation.

  The Dark God, as Illenthuul was commonly known, had not existed upon the Heavenly Plane for time untold, being confined to his prison: the Infernal Plane of Hell. However, Gabriel could not accuse the Greater God of subterfuge, considering that Illenthuul had been allowed back into Heaven, if only for a moment, to participate in the Great Convergence.

  Not to mention, Gabriel thought, the Dark God looks worried, his ever-changing form is constant, and he has announced his willingness to share information.

  The thought made Gabriel purse his divine lips at the irony. Every con­cept offered more questions. That the God of Chaos offered any knowl­edge at all meant that even Illenthuul was under the impression that some­thing beyond his all-knowing gaze existed.

  The impossibilities brought Gabriel back to the moment; it had been five mortal years since time stopped and again all of Heaven sat in a Great Convergence, their second since time had stopped. Though he had not been at the first Convergence, Gabriel thought that the gods had argued about the severity of the issue. To be more precise, the damning miracle had caused apocalyptical events to rage on in Heaven. At what first seemed like a simple but perception-altering event, the stoppage of time, continued to produce adverse effects.

  The newest threat to existence was that no god could pierce the veil of mortal time. It seemed that all knowledge of the future had disappeared, as if a thick mist blocked their divine sight, leaving only the past and the prob­able present to decipher the problem. Even Illuviel, God of Knowledge, was left to guess that the condemning source existed outside of Heaven, somewhere in another plane of existence.

  To their credit, each god had chosen champions to seek out informa­tion—millions of them, tens of millions, even. The gods had called upon all resources in all realms of reality-, throughout every mortal and immortal world, to find the source. Yet for all their efforts, none of the gods could comprehend such a powerful force, nor could they offer insight as to what was sought. Because of this fact, the gods agreed that whatever //was, it not only threatened themselves, but all of existence.

  Even Gabriel, the High Seraphim of Starsgalt, had been asked to play a part. His job was to call a Great Convergence at the Forge of Creation once every five mortal years, so the gods could relay new information.

  Not that it is working, Gabriel thought. This is just the first of five sessions and they are already fighting.

  The angel sighed. He would not be surprised if the gods parted ways with open animosity and suspicion between them. It was possible that many wouldn't speak until the next meeting, and perhaps even open war would occur, which offered him something to worn' about outside of the strange singularity.

  "If they cannot find a solution soon," he said to no one, "Heaven could be destroyed!"

  The thought of his existence ending struck Gabriel with force. Maybe it was time for him to do his own investigation, leaving the gods to bicker over unknown facts that were qui
te possibly beyond them. He would need to contact his mortal emissaries, most of which he attempted to conceal from Lord Starsgalt in hopes of hoarding the power of the "faithful" souls for himself.

  Gabriel pondered his first action. One advantage of being an angel was that he could walk the Material Plane without a significant drain on his power. If a god decided to walk the Mortal Plane, the imperfection of such an existence would render him less than all-powerful—a perception the greater gods would not tolerate—which was why most sent angelic minions to do their lesser tasks.

  As the angel flexed his giant wings, preparing to open a portal into the Mortal Realm, another feather shook loose and began its descent.

  This one did not look healthy. It did not shimmer with immortal es­sence, instead exhibiting a dull, listless aura of decay. The strange feather distracted the angel. He ceased his summoning, dropped to a knee, and picked up the fallen feather.

  Gabriel twisted around to look at his wings, not comprehending the sig­nificance of such a surprise. With trembling fingers he analyzed the anomaly, drawing upon his vast knowledge of existence. Slowly, he began to un­derstand what was making him feel uncomfortable. He was not drawn away from the others by their bickering, but rather the fact that they looked changed.

  The realization made Gabriel nauseous. He wondered if the gods had figured it out.

  For all of his esteemed knowledge and wisdom, Gabriel had not consid­ered that maybe time had not stopped. What if we are looking at this all wrong? he thought. Would it not seem that time has stopped to those who exist here in Heaven, when it merely has slowed?

  Each new thought brought greater revelation. It was not that time stopped per se. The gods would still be able to view the future, if time had stopped and remained constant. Gabriel wondered how his new hypothesis was even possible, but continued on anyway.