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

by 5kops

  A great eye opened.

  Silverwing crouched in shock. She had not said anything, nor had she made much sound entering, and still Vulsevandat knew she was here!

  The silver dragon envisioned her death: slow, painful, and ashamed at having failed God. Yet, the Shadow did not move.

  "Why have you woken me from slumber, bonded scum?" Vulsevandat boomed.

  "My lord, I come on behalf of the One God, Illuviel," she replied, her voice tense with horror. "He has assigned me a holy crusade . . ."

  "I care nothing of the petty affairs of your god!" Vulsevandat's voice exploded. "Nor do I care about your search! Tell me why the mighty Vulsevandat should not incinerate you?"

  "Because I serve a greater power, my lord!" she tried to explain. "Surely you must. . ."

  "I must do nothing," his voice was like thunder. "You serve nothing! You are nothing! And now, I will prove it."

  She could see the Shadow Dragon's head lift, heard the intake of breath. She could feel the bone-numbing sensation of heat, so hot that it seared nerve endings. Before the blast struck, she heard his voice dripping with venom.

  "It is time for you to see the truth!"

  ****

  The gate shimmered into being, its blazing blue aura crackling with the un­bridled energy of a rip in reality.

  The olthari, Thurm Stormrage stepped to the gate and paused. As he looked back at the dying world, which had once been like all the others, teeming with sentient life and oblivious to its impending eradication, grief washed over him. He had been given a chance to save this world, along with his cursed race, by finding the unknown source of order. Yet, for the last five mortal years he had failed miserably. Thus, Thurm had become the "Destroyer of Worlds," a prologue to Illenthuul's purge, which was sweep­ing the entire multi-verse.

  Thurm knew that The Dark God was single-minded in his pursuit to find the source. With each failure, Illenthuul destroyed a world and a por-FORGE OF THE GODS 133

  tion of the Olthari souls trapped in oblivion, angered at His lack of knowl­edge. The olthari knew that Illenthuul wished to conquer Heaven, not de­stroy it, by using the unknown power against his fellow gods. This entire thing was about the source, always about the source.

  He lowered his head in shame, knowing that he was an accomplice in this atrocity. He could still hear the anguish of his people, crying out in ter­ror as the god destroyed their souls. The olthari could not allow his emo­tions to interfere with the crusade; there was no cost too high to free his people from eternal bondage, trapped in a lingering state of oblivion. Nor was there a price to high to release his mate, Elissandera.

  "It is my failure!" Thurm screamed to the sky, tears rolling down his face. "No world deserves this, my lord—please, give me more time!"

  The olthari was greeted by deafening silence. As he looked to the blood red sky, a crack of thunder exploded and several blotches of nothingness, the chaos that was born of creation, devoured the landscape.

  This world contained so much life, Thurm thought, remembering that tens of millions of Therulivan, a humanoid race of reptiles, had once lived and loved on this world. Now what was left of them were spitted on giant stakes spanning across the whole planet. He also remembered the sucking sounds and screams, as those millions were feasted upon by the ferryll, de­monic creatures created to do Illenthuul's bidding.

  Thurm's iron will begin to falter. He could stop at any time with the cer­tainty that Illenthuul would kill both himself and his mate, who had already endured a thousand deaths at the hands of the Dark God. He knew that with no deity to align himself to, Illenthuul could keep his soul for as long as reality existed, which made the battle-hardened warrior shiver.

  The olthari could see what would happen to his entire race should he choose not to go on. Illenthuul was known for his sadistic pleasures, such as destroying the soul and the essence of existence, among other things.

  How far I have fallen! At one time he had been the High Protectorate of Starsgalt, the highest ranking non-angel in Heaven, a servant who cherished life above all else. He had been honorable then, battling against demonic angels, upholding Starsgalt's virtue. In the sixth eternity he had even slain the Demon Prince Arviel, First Captain of Illenthuul, before the darkened angel could steal the Godsword.

  The rush of memories made Thurm remember the day that his entire race had been banished from Heaven. His god, Starsgalt, had been at the head of the Great Convergence, accusing the Olthari race of betrayal, seek­ing justice and law without reasoning. The God of Law had been so persua­sive that the rest of the gods, who never agreed on anything, had decided to not only close the gates of Heaven to the living Olthari, but those that died as well.

  "We did not betray you! We saved Heaven, you fools!" The olthari dropped to his knees sobbing. "How could you betray us? Me?" He had survived on the Mortal Plane for over twenty thousand years. The pain was so great that he had tried to end his own life several times, but the curse— the curse did not deem suicide an unnatural way to die.

  Finally he had come to accept Illenthuul's holy crusade for what it was. In all of his time spent in torment, not a single god had ever offered to alle­viate the pain of existing without an end.

  Until now. This god, a deity of evil and chaos, allowed him a chance at redemption, offering to open the gates of Heaven should he succeed. This god, his immortal nemesis, which he despised above all others, had given him the power to set things right. Thurm wished nothing more than to die with honor and once again be with his people in the Heavenly realms. For that chance, he would do anything, regardless of the cost.

  It had taken many days for the olthari to decide what course of action to take. During that time, Illenthuul had forced Thurm to reside in a pocket plane of Hell and witness the suffering of the Olthari race firsthand. Fur­thermore, the god had forced him to watch as his entire race was staked up on giant poles of obsidian, sustained by infernal power even as their entrails spilled out and cries of anguish filled the cosmos.

  The olthari could not imagine the torment. At last Illenthuul showed Thurm his mate, nailed against a pair of logs, her eyes glazed over in pain, mumbling incoherendy. Thurm could see where her limbs had been cut off and reattached with godly magic, scars left to remind him how much more the god could make her suffer. Under such traumatic strain, the god used the olthari's mind against him, focusing it in a single sharp point: redemption.

  Elissandera opened her eyes and looked at him, and he was forced to watch yet another of her deaths. In that moment, Thurm's heart sank and his will was broken. He knew that Illenthuul was right. The others had turned their backs on his people! Though this god demanded to be his mas­ter, the olthari knew that Illenthuul would not break his word once the deal was bound.

  The rules were simple: Thurm had one year to seek out the unknown source and nurture it. If he could not discover it, he would open a conduit into the world so that the god's minions could scour the world until it was found. If at anytime he unmasked what Illenthuul was seeking, his people would be released into Heaven, curse annulled. However, a world would die each time he failed, along with the souls of his race.

  Anything is better than this existence, he thought. With silent resolution the olthari agreed to the terms, not fully understanding the consequences . . . which had led him to this.

  The screams of the dying brought him back to the gate crackling in front of him. One last time, he told himself that there was no choice.

  Regretfully, Thurm dropped his eyes and stepped into the portal of his fifth world—another world that would die.

  ****

  Each winter, the Golden Swan Inn brought good business to the small township of Durwin, supplying travelers with warmth and drink. As snow swept across the rough landscape, blowing steadily against the Swan's small wooden shutters, sounds of merriment echoed within.

  On this particular night, several middle-aged men relaxed near a blazing fire, their feet outstretched, and telling stor
ies. Though none of them were first-born sons nor could they claim a large portion of power, all were re­spected members of their families. They were all minor nobles, acting as emissaries or advisors within the Duchy of Calimond and had come to Durwin on their yearly hunting trip.

  As the youngest noble, Lord Nolan, finished his tale and dropped a small candle dramatically on the table, the other men erupted in conversa­tion. His tale had been a dark one, a story of murder and betrayal, in which the villain had actually escaped. For the next hour, the noblemen discussed the strengths and weaknesses of the story, coming to the conclusion that such a myth would be hard to top.

  When the room quieted, the Baron of Heath picked up the candle and walked to the front of the room. "I have heard a true story much like the one Lord Nolan just told," the baron said. "If there are no objections, I would like to tell my version . . .?"

  Cheers greeted the the man. With a brief smile, the noble looked down and let the shadows of the room flicker across his face, hoping it was evil enough to make his friends shiver. Placing the candle on a small pedestal and spreading his hands toward the men with a smile, the baron began to tell his story:

  "Legend tells of a man who vanished into the night," the baron said, let­ting the words linger, "a known murderer, awaiting death at the gallows for his crimes against the town of Brenly; crimes that are unspeakable."

  The baron remained quiet as his friends made quick prayers to Starsgalt and symbolic gestures that would protect them against evil. When they looked at him incredulously, he smiled and continued with his story.

  "For this, his unwavering faith and loyalty in Balzabuth, the Angel of Evil the man was given a holy crusade: to search out and destroy a great source of good." The baron trailed off, letting the others spit up their wine at the naming of the Dark Prince.

  "In return for the murderer's service, The Dark Prince freed the man of his Bre'Dmorian bonds, offering infinite power upon Aryth . . ." The noble picked up the candle and brought it to his face. "As the Dark Prince's magic flowed through the murderer, darkness split away and shadows swal­lowed him, letting him pass out of his cage. It is true that in the night the shadows came, concealing the screams of his captors as he cut their throats and walked into the night, never to be heard from again," the baron fin­ished and set the candle down with a mischievous grin.

  The eldest noble sat back in his chair, disturbed yet quite intrigued. "Are there no rumors as to the whereabouts of this man?" he asked.

  The storyteller flashed bright white teeth and responded. "That is a good question, Count Antoois, a good question. No one knows exacdy what happened to the man, or if he even existed. Those that knew the man cannot recall his face ... or his name. There have been rumors that the man's name changes as he kills his victims. Of course, some say of those same people say that the murderer's vile spirit kills anyone who dare men­tion this story. I would imagine that some determined research could un­cover the truth. But is it worth the chance, if the rumors are true?"

  The others glanced at each other than laughed at their self-imposed ten­sion. It was a tall tale, meant for nothing but good times and wine. If the murderer in the tale had existed, the Bre'Dmorian Order would have surely tracked him down and destroyed such evil. As the baron sat down, the room saluted him with a raised cup of wine, asking the origins of such a tale.

  As with every story in such company, soon the legend lost its appeal and the next noble moved to the front of the room, recalling a tale about drag­ons.

  When the last storyteller finished, the small company of nobles sat in a drunken stupor which marked the end to a good evening. With a salute, Lord Antoois boasted he had never heard such fine mythology, most of which he would pass on to his grandchildren. The others took the hint and stumbled out after him.

  The two nobles who remained, Lord Nolan and the Baron of Heath, sat in the small room, their faces furrowed in thought.

  The Baron of Heath broke the silence. "Where did you hear your story?"

  "From a bloody beggar in Aresleigh," Lord Nolan laughed. "I am sure the infamous villain in both of our tales was as much a poverty-stricken miscreant as the man who told it to me."

  "What makes you say that?" the baron asked.

  "You speak as though the tale were true, my lord!" Nolan jested, his smile fading when the baron's face darkened. "There isn't a single murderer that I can think of who is not a flea-infested whoreson. I am sure if the man does exist, he is dead. If not, then he is most likely a coward, who kills peo­ple in the night and such."

  The Baron of Heath slapped his knee and laughed. "I cannot argue that, Lord Nolan! You are right, either the man never existed or he was a filthy peasant, likely the bastard child of whores."

  Lord Nolan chuckled at the fact he had fallen for such dire thoughts. He offered his fellow noble another round of wine and toasted. After another hour of drinking and conversation the pair stood and walked to the door.

  Just before Nolan opened it, he felt the impact and spun around. He tried to scream, but other than gurgling no sound came from his mouth.

  With a swift motion, the baron, a man named Edelin Selmsy, removed his long dirk from Lord Nolan's throat and drove it into the man's heart. The blow was delivered with such force that several ribs snapped.

  Lord Nolan barely felt the pain shoot through his body as blood poured forth. His eyes wide with fear, he looked into the baron's face and saw the man for what he was. Again, Nolan tried to scream but only blood poured forth; the blade had pierced his lung.

  Baron Edelin Selmsy looked on impassively, dark eyes gleeful in exulta­tion. He knew he had delivered fatal wounds and so chose not to distribute anymore blows, wanting to cherish the slow death of his companion. It had been several years since God had allowed him to kill anyone for pleasure. However, this man deserved no less for calling him a whoreson.

  "I can see you are wondering ivby," Edelin said as Nolan's fingers slipped from the knife hilt. The murderer waited until his friend took his last breath before he added, "Not all rumors are false, my pathetic friend."

  12

  2020 A.D., Year of the Sword (Mortal Timeline)

  THE COMPANY of men rode through the northern gatehouse in splen­did marching order, sun high above their heads, lending to their aspirations of returning with glory. Their orders were clear: ride hard the first day until the northern road forked southeast towards Stormwind.

  For eight hours Areck rode in silence, ashamed of himself. He hardly noticed that the northern road had turned from paved to laid gravel about fifteen miles outside of the city, becoming increasingly ill-kept the further north one traveled. It wasn't until Lord Silvershield called a halt that he saw a series of dark clouds rolling in from the west, driven by the mild coastal winds that often buffeted the Duchy of Aresleigh late into summer.

  We must be six miles away from the fork, Areck thought, trying to delineate his surroundings. At the fork the road split and continued either north to the town of Lolindir or veered southeast connecting with the King's Road.

  A streak of lighting illuminated the sky, followed by a rumbling of thun­der. Areck squinted toward the sky and inhaled, salty air stinging his throat. He could tell by the darkness that an impending downpour, possibly a monsoon, was coming. After a moment of silence another blast of electric­ity branched out, looking like a giant spider's web, sizzling hot and white. He was surprised that thick raindrops did not follow as another peel of thunder shook the ground.

  Starsgalt will not let the rain come, Areck thought, deciding that God was watching him, refusing to wash away the previous night's sins. Areck dreaded the thought of facing Lord Silvershield, although, had his elderly commander wished to strip him of rank, he would have done so at the Academy.

  Another rumble jolted Areck from his despair, causing him to look to­wards Knight-Captain Silvershield, conversing with Lords Vinion and Malketh, each studying the sky. Areck assumed that the knights were trying to approximate travel ti
me between Aresleigh and Storm wind in case a storm broke out. Normally the journey took four days, covering one hun­dred and twenty- five miles of both paved road and unpaved roads. Fortu­nately it had been a dry summer compared to other years, when coastal storms blew in and turned the flat grasslands surrounding Aresleigh into a vast prairie.

  Of course, my knowledge is based upon sunny weather, Areck thought. If we hit a storm this far north, especially with uneven roads, our journey will be extended by one or two days.

  "Squire Areck!" a voice announced. "We are almost there, so stop day­dreaming and move!"

  Areck bit his lip and turned red. Could he sink any lower? Sullenly, he gazed downward, issued a verbal command to his steed and once again be­gan moving forward.

  ****

  The company reached the fork and encountered other travelers, a merchant caravan setting up camp.

  The riders paid the caravan little attention as they walked along, stop­ping only to offer the polite greetings which knightly ethos demanded be­fore moving on.

  Areck had spent several years monitoring merchants at the King's gate, learning their capitalistic nature. He found it odd that a caravan of any kind would stop before nightfall, as competition demanded timeliness, often­times leading to merchandise being destroyed. He understood the concept well, as Starsgalt regularly recognized those who entered competitions and worked their way to the top.

  Areck shrugged his shoulders and looked away. His peripheral vision picked up a guardsman, most likely a bodyguard, dressed in black leather armor, poke his head out of a small coach and watch the company pass by. Though he found it odd that a bodyguard traveled inside with his mistress, it was not Areck's place to question anyone; certainly not now.