The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection

by Harrison Davies

  Coinin waved and nodded to Len’i who, along with several other orc dressed quite respectfully in long black woollen cloaks, walked forward through the centre of the amassed and positioned themselves around the slab. Len’i stood at Laliala’s head and inserted a wooden handle into a slot in the side of the monument and slowly cranked it. Inch by inch, the body of Laliala was lowered into a crypt below, dug out by strong orc hands. Several minutes passed, and Len’i stopped turning the handle. He bowed his head briefly and with the aid of his brethren reached behind the vault and lifted a thick, heavy slab of marble. They inched it in place atop the monument and slid it into place with a scraping sound.

  Not quite finished, the orc retrieved two solid marble columns and slid each into a waiting socket honed into the lid of the tomb. Once complete, a final slab of marble was heaved upon the columns to finish the monument.

  Coinin gazed upon the beautiful monument and thought how wonderfully crafted it was, and some of Prentis’s finest work, the inlaid patterns of gold along the edges catching the light and softening the hard edges of the marble. He took one last look and turned to Marisa, whereupon he held her in an embrace.

  ‘She’s gone, but not forgotten.’ Marisa tried to smile.

  ‘Never forgotten,’ Coinin replied, and hugged his aunt all the harder, liking the feeling as he did so. It was a great comfort.

  After the funeral had concluded and the gathered had returned to Rostha, Coinin consulted with Marisa, Marrok and Jonjo.

  Len’i and Zaruun stood guard outside of the command tent, where a council was being held alongside the crate containing the Swords of Cerathil.

  The same oak table dominated the centre of the space, lit by the single oil lamp above.

  Coinin and Marisa had their heads bowed into a bound volume entitled only “The Ritual”. No other identifying marks were on the outside, and even the decoration of the book was bland. It was crafted from a very nondescript brown leather with a gold embossed title.

  ‘So, if I am to understand this correctly,’ began Marisa, ‘only the Sword Bearer is permitted to unite the swords or touch the altar. Should you or any other person interfere, the risks are severe.’ She pointed to a hand drawn image of what appeared to be the interior of the tower and an individual whose hand was stretched out towards the altar, and from all impressions he was disintegrating painfully.

  ‘Disintegration is certainly severe. I wonder if that is why the sword remains untouched in the tower room?’ Coinin mused.

  ‘It would appear so.’ Marisa continued to read, muttering to herself as she scanned the inked paragraphs.

  Coinin left her to it and approached Jonjo and Marrok. ‘We have a big day ahead of us, and I want to ensure that this remains a small affair.’

  ‘I agree, this day decides our fate. I think, perhaps, you, Marisa and Marrok attend. I, alongside Len’i and Zaruun, shall guard the steps up to the room,’ Jonjo suggested.

  ‘Surely we need more protection than that?’ Marisa interjected, much to Jonjo’s annoyance.

  Jonjo scowled at her for a few more seconds. ‘In fact, I was also going to suggest we have a platoon guard the tower entrance, perhaps encircling the tower.’

  ‘That sounds better to me.’ Coinin nodded in agreement.

  All four turned at the sound of shouting coming from outside of the tent.

  ‘What on Er’ath?’ Jonjo frowned and made to exit the tent, when a very red faced Draken stepped into the tent, followed by Zaruun.

  ‘Forgive me, Curator, Generals. But this man insisted on meeting with you.’

  ‘Now is not the time, Draken.’

  Draken stepped closer. ‘But it certainly is the time. I have need to be in attendance at the ritual.’

  Marrok and Coinin exchanged glances.

  ‘Why would you need to attend?’ Coinin asked suspiciously.

  Draken, his expression unreadable, walked forward. ‘I wish to atone for my sins before the gods. There is no better time in which to do so.’

  Marrok stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Have you not prayed to Rindor for forgiveness?’

  ‘Most surely I have. But how can I be certain that I have been forgiven? I wish to make Meone happy, and I see the only way of doing that is by ensuring that my sins have been washed clean.’

  ‘Let me understand you correctly. You wish to speak to Rindor at the ceremony and say what?’ Jonjo raised his palms questioningly.

  Draken looked uncomfortable, as if he was on trial. ‘I want to ask him if my deeds will condemn me to a death of nothingness, or if I will meet loved ones in the heavens, and if not, how I can atone. What better chance do I have?’

  Marrok looked to Coinin and raised a brow. ‘I don’t know about this, Draken. Considering your past, how can we trust that this is not some elaborate plan to … well, I don’t know what.’

  ‘Secure me in chains if you must, but I need to know.’ Draken quite unexpectedly dropped to his knees with a wince of pain. ‘Please, I beg of you.’

  Everyone looked to Coinin, including Marisa, who had not become acquainted with Draken’s past deeds. Coinin felt warm about the neck, and he was sure that he had turned red. The decision rested with him. He took a few steps back and walked around the table, deliberating with himself, until he came face to face with Draken once more. ‘I will let you know my answer in one hour. Now, please leave, we have work to do.’

  Draken struggled to his feet and nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you; you won’t regret this, I promise you.’

  Zaruun took Draken by the arm and escorted him through the flaps of the tent opening. Those inside heard Zaruun chastising the man outside.

  Coinin rubbed his forehead, a headache beginning to form. ‘What time is it, please?’

  Jonjo quickly stepped from the tent and then returned several moments later. ‘It is almost ten in the morning.’

  ‘So, we have an hour to plan everything to the finest detail, and then I must give Draken a response. That leaves us an hour to make our way to the tower. Marisa, do you have enough information to help you with the ritual?’

  Marisa nodded. ‘I believe so. The ceremony should be simple enough.’

  ‘Then, let’s discuss the finer details,’ Coinin finished.

  Just over an hour later as the Northern Equinox approached, eight riders left for the Tower of Elyia. An air of excitement ran through the air from all parties including the platoon of Order soldiers escorting their superiors.

  Any doubters among them, those that sought money to serve, would surely be proved wrong in the next hour. Would the gods arrive at the allotted hour, or would this all turn out to be a fabrication of a religious order, bent on ruling with fear?

  Coinin was leading the parade, the clomping of his horse’s hooves signalling to all the residents to move out of the way. Behind him, seven other horses followed, and they, in turn, were followed by the platoon of heavily armoured soldiers.

  Coinin noticed that every soldier was clean, the steel armour polished to a shine, and new, red cloaks billowed behind them. Steel helmets with a red plume for each man and woman complemented the steel-tipped spears, from which hung from each a red tassel.

  The new Order standard fluttered high above them, held by the column leader. Boots crunched upon the ground in unison, and for once Coinin felt extremely safe.

  Their enemy was dead, the city well defended and the area around the tower completely cleared, awaiting their arrival. Lookouts had been posted as high as possible to check for surprise attacks by pirates, dragons or any of Lordich’s men who could potentially seek revenge.

  Above them, a single pirate airship floated in slow circles around the tower, a new defence that Marrok intended on utilising in the future, just as they did by discussing the formation of a navy. By air, by land, by sea, to them it almost assured total protection for their cities and towns. They needed to remain one step ahead of their many enemies.

  The tower loomed high and oddly dull for its task. It w
as thin as towers go, but shone a beautiful shade of sandstone, highly crafted by the ancients. It held a single wooden door at its base with two steps leading up to it. The roof was of a red tile, and the only windows were three large openings at the very top.

  It reminded Coinin very much of a lighthouse, thicker at the base than the top, though even that upper portion took a curve outwards to form the tower room. It must have a name. Perhaps Ritual Room, he thought.

  Coinin checked behind him to verify that the chest they had so carefully guarded remained in sight, and indeed it had, carried by Len’i and Zaruun. Oh, no, one of us must carry it up all those stairs. I’ll nominate Marrok. Oh, but wait, he has a back injury. Jonjo and Len’i need to guard us. Marisa needs all her energies, and Draken, well, I shan’t entrust those to him. I guess I’ll have to carry it myself. He rolled his eyes and cursed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Quindil, who had been asked to join them at the last minute, said, casting him a sideways glance.

  ‘Oh, nothing, just thinking. Has all this been worth it?’

  Quindil smiled. ‘I’m certain of it. Don’t they say that every prophecy has a grain of truth to it?’

  Coinin scowled, remembering that he and Marrok had been used as pawns to protect his aunt. That, he did not mind so much, it was the lies told to enlist him as curator. Had they said his real destiny was to live life as the curator and bring balance and peace to the land, he would perhaps still have accepted. Though, now that he thought about it, despite all the misery and pain and death he had witnessed and inflicted and had undergone, he would not have changed a thing. It made him and all around him better people, ones who possessed a purpose to do good.

  The eight riders hopped from their saddles and handed the reins to waiting soldiers. On cue from Jonjo, the platoon of troops began to form a protective ring around the tower.

  Coinin looked to Marrok. ‘We did it, brother, we made it to the end.’

  Marrok smiled ruefully. ‘There was a time, tied up in that pirate ship and again in Lordich’s lair, that I thought I would never see this moment. You got us here. Your strong leadership. And I can’t believe I’m saying that about my little brother.’

  ‘It was always you that kept me going, Marrok. Without you I am nothing.’

  Marrok shook his head and simply smiled. ‘Come on then, time is wasting, and you have to climb all those steps with your bad ankle.’

  ‘You too.’ Coinin physically drooped. Despite having toured the tower yesterday, he had forgotten about his ankle. It had not given him trouble, but now that he was due to carry the chest, that would surely place more weight upon it.

  He looked left and then right. Beside him stood six wonderful people and an orc, without whom none of this would have been possible.

  ‘I’ll handle the crate. Marisa, you go first, then Quindil, me, Marrok, Draken, Zaruun, Jonjo and Len’i.’

  Len’i stood proud, happy to receive such an honour. This boy could lead him into the fires of a volcano, and he would follow.

  Coinin bent and hoisted the crate in both hands with a grunt. ‘It’s heavier than it looks,’ he exhaled.

  All seven of the chosen followed Coinin up the two steps and into the lamplit tower. Ahead of them, a spiral staircase led up and up until lost in a gloom. Marisa plucked a lamp from a holder nearby and proceeded to climb the steps. Coinin followed more slowly, and so did the others.

  Round and round they circled, fortunate not to become sick. The lamp sent shadows bouncing off the circular walls and fooled the eye occasionally, so one or more of them missed a step and scraped a shin on the step above. Plenty of cries of pain travelled down the stairwell, only to be heard by the guards outside, who looked at each other in confusion.

  Finally, though, the top of the stairway gave their aching legs, particularly their calf muscles, a much-needed break. Coinin slumped down into a sweaty heap; his arms felt as if they were on fire. He hadn’t even bothered to place the chest aside, and it took Marrok to prise it from his grip before he was able to stand up and catch his breath. Like everyone, he did a silly dance trying to bring life back into his limbs and rubbed his calves to prevent cramp.

  He wished that he had removed his armour and cloak before attempting the trip, and saw to his delight that the others, aside from Len’i, were feeling the same. Marrok removed his cloak, as did Jonjo, before wiping their brows almost in perfect unison.

  ‘Not much time left now,’ Coinin reminded. ‘Would Len’i, Jonjo, Quindil and Zaruun wait outside? Draken, per our agreement, you shall be shackled.’

  ‘I had thought you would not be serious about that.’ Draken frowned unhappily.

  ‘It was my one request, and you suggested it yourself.’

  ‘Very well, I agree.’ Draken held out his arms, and Len’i responded by unclipping a pair of iron shackles from his belt and then proceeded to lock them around the wrists of the older man.

  ‘That’ll prevent you from doing any nonsense,’ Len’i sneered.

  Draken looked away, disgusted at his treatment, but accepted it.

  Marisa opened a double door at the top of the tower and entered, followed by Coinin, Marrok, who carried the crate, and Draken.

  The doors remained open, and so those outside would be witness to events, too.

  Inside was an unusually spacious round room with three windows. A crystalline glass of blue kept the elements outside. Light decoration adorned both the panes and the walls of the chamber. Upon closer inspection, the images were carved into the very glass itself, and sandstone depicted the gods creating life and delivering punishments. Coinin’s eyes swept from left to right from the door, and he could see the whole of the creative process laid out before him: The gods descending to plant trees, sow seeds, and give rise to the birth of all life. It was spectacular. The last section of wall told the tale of the Ritual in the Tower of Elyia. They knew this thanks to the one thing that stood out in the room, carved into the scene.

  In the centre of the space, upon a wooden dais, a solid white block of marble stood, glowing white. Above the altar, which was roughly six handspans long by three wide and twelve tall, an orb of red pulsating light traversed in a circular pattern around a column of blue light. The column did not appear to have an end, nor did it have a beginning. It just was. In the centre of the column of light, a single, very intricate sword waited.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Draken said, his eyes wide open.

  ‘The column and orb of light are deadly. It provides protection for the sword,’ Marisa explained.

  The room seemed to make one feel good, replenished and satisfied, like when one has eaten a hearty meal, without the desire to nap afterwards.

  It was Marisa’s turn to shine. ‘I need everyone to stand by the edges of the room. I will need the other swords and The Rose of Cerathil.’

  Marrok obliged. He deposited the chest beside Marisa and withdrew a key on a gold chain from around his neck. He unlocked the chest and flicked open the lid and then stepped back to join the others.

  Marisa took a moment to compose herself. According to the book, she needed to unite the swords, beforehand giving an offering to the gods. Removing a dagger from her belt, she clasped her long hair and with a sawing action cut a length.

  The others looked on expectantly. Draken was confused as none of what was to take place had been revealed to him.

  Carefully, Marisa deposited the cut length of hair upon the altar, and with a sizzling sound it caught fire and vanished into particles of luminous orange that floated up the column of light and dissipated.

  Next, Marisa steadied herself and sliced open her palm, where a pool of blood instantly formed. Satisfied the desired amount had bled from her, she rubbed the blood across the face of the altar. No sooner had she done this, the tower began to vibrate.

  Everyone looked around, a little worried that the tower would collapse, though, after several more seconds, a section of the altar’s face detached itself from the rest. It just float
ed in mid air and those gathered could see that it held a slot in which to insert a sword.

  Marisa tore a strip of cloth from her shirt and tied it around her wound before continuing. Satisfied, she kneeled before the altar and raised her hands high. ‘Oh, gracious God, Rindor, bringer of life and all that is holy. I, Marisa Wulf, Sword Bearer, do hereby request an audience so that your rule may be affirmed. I call upon you to grant life to the peoples of Er’ath for one thousand years. Your humble servant will ensure that by your decree, the Ritual of Cerathil remains forever in the hearts and minds of the people. Oh, Lord Rindor, do grant me the power to fulfil your desire.’

  Nothing happened, and everyone except Marisa looked to one another. Had it been a hoax? A joke?

  Just when everyone thought this the case, there came a humming in the air, like sweet morning birdsong, and the air smelled of a fresh summer meadow.

  The blue column of light faded before their very eyes and the red pulsing orb rose high above the altar and dropped with speed. With a splash a bowl shape was formed in the altar where there appeared crystal clear water.

  Marisa rose and approached the altar, though she did not immediately take the sword, now free from its protection. She instead dipped her hands into the bowl of water and, with a deep intake of breath, washed them. ‘This is to show Rindor that I am spiritually cleansed,’ she explained.

  With her hands still wet, she gripped the hilt of the floating sword, its tip uppermost, and removed it from its invisible restraints.

  Without wasting any time, she kneeled beside the crate and removed each sword, studying them carefully. Each one had markings and strange swirling symbols that no one could decipher. Only by her prayer to Rindor did the markings start to make sense. As she watched, the designs became familiar to her... it was as if someone had begun to carve new words and shapes into the steel. After studying the swords further, all laid out in rows, she eventually decided that the order of swords was wrong. She adjusted them into new positions, one above the other, until she was happy.

  Coinin couldn’t help himself. ‘What do the markings mean?’