The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1)

by Samuel E. Green

  "How many wraiths are there?"

  He shrugged. "A lot. Fewer in the first wave, far as I know."

  "The first wave?"

  "These are just the scouts. More will come soon."

  Fryda shook her head, unable to believe the doom that had come to Aernheim.

  "Why was the cloud so far east?"

  "I guess the wraiths found out what the warriors intended to do. If Alfric and the others reached Eosorheim, that might have meant less hosts. I doubt Sigebert and Cenred made it."

  Fryda had so many questions, all of them threatening to overwhelm her once more. The more she thought about things, the more difficult it was to breathe.

  Jaruman continued, "We need to get back to Indham to warn the others. They might not be able to do much with the knowledge, but it'll be better than being surprised."

  Fryda recalled the markings on Alfric's face. "You said that the wards Edoma had painted on Alfric and the others would stop the wraiths."

  "Another reason we need to get back to Indham quickly," he said. "When we get back to Indham, don't tell Edoma about Alfric. She won't take well to her son becoming a skinwalker."

  "Her son?"

  Jaruman looked away, but not before Fryda caught the shock on his face. "Edoma thought of Alfric like a son."

  "That's not what you meant." Fryda's eyes widened as she realized the meaning behind his words. "Hiroc and Alfric are Edoma's sons?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to. They could have been raised in luxury. Instead, they are Fatherless."

  Jaruman sighed, shaking his head. "It wasn't Edoma's doing. Idmaer convinced her of it."

  Fryda scowled. She was quickly coming to hate Idmaer and his lies.

  "Don't say anything," Jaruman said. "I won't ask you to promise me." He paused, as though he knew any promise Fryda made might be broken. "But do it for Edoma. She loved that lad, even if she never claimed him as her own."

  I loved him, too, Fryda thought. And now he's gone.

  18

  Hiroc

  The howling winds and pelting rain drove Hiroc to the Basilica. He had been halfway to The Flaming Monkey when the storm broke. Though he was now an acolyte, and had been for a year, he still visited the old tavern in secret to drink and banter with his old friends. Now that rumors had spread about what had happened to Aern, it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so. People were suspicious.

  Hiroc clutched the ring. Try with all his might, he couldn't manage to make the lightning come again. The gods had responded to him on Tyme's Hill, of that he was sure.

  Frustrated, he went inside. The acolyte's eating hall was empty. He sat on the stool beside the fireplace. Staring into the fire, he couldn't help but think about Alfric and what danger he might now face. At the thought, Hiroc felt his heartbeat quicken. Had he been a coward to send his brother away?

  No, not a coward. A god had responded to his cries. He needed to learn which god had shown their benevolence to him. As he considered it, the fire seemed to dance before his eyes. Deep within its center, at the hottest part, he swore he saw a flicker of blue flame.

  Grabbing his ring, he concentrated on where the speck of blue had been. "Aern, hear my prayer," he whispered, afraid someone might hear him.

  Nothing happened. The flames continued to pop and crackle as they did in a regular fireplace.

  Hiroc slammed his fist on the table. A splinter as large as a toothpick lodged into the side of his palm. He yelped and plucked it out. Blood trickled from the tiny wound onto his robes.

  He was a fool. A stupid accident had stained his robes with blood.

  An accident.

  Was there a god he might have invoked by accident when the fire had come? Hiroc considered the gods he knew. He counted two dozen. Most were Guardians—the gods contained within the carcaern orbs. He knew few old gods. The old gods were said to roam free throughout the world, not relegated to the confines of an orb. Some said that these were mere stories told by folks who were stuck in the old ways. Mother Edoma would have argued strongly against such people.

  Thinking of Mother Edoma, Hiroc wondered if he'd called upon Enlil at Tyme's Hill. It was possible. He'd never been devoted to Enlil, though, so it was unlikely. Nevertheless, he invoked Enlil's name.

  Was it just his mind or had the fire followed his gaze?

  Emboldened by the appearance of progress, Hiroc grabbed the ring. "Enlil, hear my prayer," he called, much louder than he'd intended.

  Like ink in water, the orange flames turned bright blue. The flames swirled from the fireplace, extending themselves like fingers stretching toward him. Surely this was Enlil's power Hiroc was seeing before him. But why Enlil? He, like the others in the Holy Order, had disdained Enlil every chance he got. He had no orb to house him, so he was a false god.

  Without thinking, Hiroc reached out to touch the blue fire. His whole hand was amid the dancing flames, but he felt no pain. His skin was unharmed. This wasn't the power of a false god. As he turned his hand, the ring seemed to glow beneath the flames. The rust around the ring's insignia disintegrated. Clearly now, he could see the insignia as the eternal flame of Enlil.

  Someone gasped behind him, and he quickly pulled his hand back. The fire flashed and was orange again. It retreated within the fireplace, as though it had never been anywhere else.

  Kipp was standing in the doorway. "What was that?" he said, eyes wide.

  "Nothing," Hiroc said. He stood, gathered his things, and started to walk past him.

  Kipp grabbed his arm so he couldn't leave. "It wasn't nothing. You had your hand in the blue fire, but it didn't burn. That's magic." He had always been a good friend of Hiroc's, but finding out that someone was Talented tested even the best of friendships. Hiroc had heard about children whose parents had given them over to the inquisitors after they'd been called by a god.

  "Not magic," Hiroc said. "Just a trick. A harmless trick."

  "A Talented trick." Kipp's face seemed to darken, and his mouth moved, as though he were whispering a prayer.

  Hiroc glanced back at the fireplace. He might have doubted what he had seen had Kipp not seen it too. He wanted to try it again, but he feared who else might walk in.

  But he had done it. Finally, that sensation lurking within him had shown itself. He now knew for certain that he was Talented.

  Hiroc stared at the ring. The flame insignia was glowing.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Hiroc returned to sit beside the fireplace. He was hoping that it was late enough in the evening that he wouldn't be disturbed. That hope, however, was dashed when Ealstan entered the room and sat across the table from Hiroc.

  "So," Ealstan started, his voice customarily high-pitched, "what happened at the altar when you went there four nights ago?" He spoke as if it were a question about some menial event. His calculating gaze suggested he knew otherwise.

  Hiroc kept his hands beneath the table so Ealstan couldn't see the ring. "What do you think happened? There was a little rain and a flash of lightning or two, but that was the only thing out of the ordinary." He recalled the dead bodies of the guards. He was surprised not to have thought of them until now. Their deaths seemed inconsequential compared to what had happened to Aern.

  "Did you speak with Aern?" Ealstan leaned back in the chair so his knife was exposed at his belt. His fingers tickled the knife's pommel. He had a habit of doing that. At the pommel's tip, carved out of bone, was a figurine of Aern in the form of a winged imp.

  "I offered a litany, and then we spoke a little." Hiroc was the only acolyte who spoke with Aern. At first, he thought his conversations with the Guardian made him special among the acolytes, but he soon learned that they all thought he was either lying or crazy. Hiroc had started to think himself insane, but the response he'd had at Tyme's Hill made him think otherwise. But why would Ealstan have suddenly changed his mind about Hiroc being crazy for hearing voices? There was only one explanation.

  Re
membering that Ealstan might be trying to find out what had really happened to Aern, Hiroc added, "Aern was too weak to talk at length." He breathed, a sound more like a growl than a sigh, and stood. "I've had enough of this. I don't answer to you."

  "No," Ealstan said, "you don't. At least not yet. But when the others discover what you really are, then you will be taken, and I shall be finally rid of you."

  Hiroc clenched the table's edge, bridling his wrath lest he reach over the table and strangle Ealstan. "Is that a threat?"

  "You may interpret it as you wish," Ealstan said with a flutter of his hand. "But Kipp saw you whisper to the fire. I know that you are Talented."

  A chill rushed down Hiroc's spine. The fire still roared from the hearth, but the room had become deathly cold.

  19

  Idmaer

  Idmaer traced a finger along an incision running down the middle of the godstone altar, feeling the clean slice of some weapon of otherworldly origin. Whatever it was that had struck the surface, it was something that shouldn't exist. Godstone was supposed to be impenetrable. By the same token, though, Guardians were meant to be immortal and invulnerable. Much that Idmaer had once believed was dissipating at a pace too swift to preserve.

  Torchlight flickered off the golden hands. They were empty. The stone pillars lay on their sides, symbols of defeat. The wards no longer shone with ethereal light. Blood stained the altar that the rain couldn't wash away.

  "All I found were these." Wulfnoth reached into his coat pocket with shaky hands and withdrew a rectangular box. He opened it and held it out for Idmaer to inspect. Inside were crystal shards—the remains of Aern's orb. Moonlight piercing through the clouds made them spark with life, though the orb no longer contained the essence of a Guardian.

  Over the years, Idmaer had ventured to the altar countless times. As an acolyte, he had been terrified. The terror soon dissipated, and with it, his faith. The truth was, Aern was nothing more than a spark within the carcaern orb. He wasn't a god. Hiroc had been right—gods were immortal. But whatever was inside the orb was gone. Snuffed out by someone who hadn't left a trace.

  Idmaer turned to Wulfnoth. "Still no sign of whoever did this?"

  "Except for the blood, the storms washed everything away." He glared at the altar for a moment before turning away. "I can keep looking, but I won't find anything. Thing is, I reckon it had to have been a Talented."

  "You think Beorhtel sent one of his inquisitors to shatter the orb?" Idmaer had never thought of that. Beorhtel still hadn't responded to their second letter calling for aid. He had to have received it by now. But what reason would he have to doom Indham?

  "Maybe Beorhtel," Wulfnoth said. "Maybe someone else." He sighed like he thought the world was coming to an end. Once, he had been a man of optimism, with nothing that could bring him down.

  Things had changed.

  Too many things were changing of late, and not for the better. Aern's end was merely the capstone for what had amounted to the worst decade of Idmaer's life. He had fallen away from Edoma, the Council was turning against him, and the populace hated him most of all. Maybe life had always been bad. Maybe the truth of life's vapidity had been shrouded in the ignorance of youth.

  In the distance, he spotted his spire. It called out to him, urging him to return. Taking the medallion in hand, he ran his fingers over the number eight fashioned into the gold. An energy coursed through him as he did so. He had been gone too long from his old friend.

  "How do you reckon they did it?" Wulfnoth asked. "Saega never said what happened in Mundos."

  "I'm not sure he knows. As far as I'm aware, it was the same as here. A mysterious person with no apparent motive."

  "Except death and destruction."

  Unable to help himself, Idmaer chuckled. Did Wulfnoth really believe there were people who simply wanted to see others suffer? No, the world was not so black and white. "Regardless, the people are without protection. I fear they will learn the truth soon. And what then? I doubt even my spire would be able to stop them from bringing me to account."

  "It would be terrible to learn that their god is dead. I find myself lying awake at night wondering how it could be."

  "Aern was no god. He was merely a force locked within a crystal cage."

  "The Guardians aren't gods?"

  Idmaer shrugged. "Maybe they were once. Maybe they were never gods. All I know is that they don't deserve our worship. In truth, I think them energies. Like fire or lightning."

  "Elements, then?"

  "You could call them that."

  "Never thought I'd see the day High Priest Idmaer lost the faith."

  Idmaer wanted to say he'd never thought he'd see Wulfnoth turn into a drunkard, but he left it unsaid. He removed the false orb from his pocket and placed it within the golden hands. It looked much like Aern's orb, but that wouldn't matter. The dulled wards and the broken pillars would be enough to tell anyone that Aern was no longer present. Guards would need to be stationed at the bottom of the steps as they had been before.

  "Still don't see why someone would do it," Wulfnoth said as he kicked a pebble over the precipice.

  "Knowing why will not bring another Guardian to take his place." Still, the question was an intriguing one. What could they gain? Idmaer stepped away from the altar and into the outer circle. "You haven't spoken to anyone about what happened here?"

  Wulfnoth shook his head. "This is far beyond me. I doubt anyone would believe me even if I spoke of it."

  "Don't go testing that theory," Idmaer said. "Only scant few know what really happened. It must remain that way."

  "The warriors we sent to Eosorheim don't know, either. What happens if that same killer has already been through there?"

  "Then their quest will fail." Though he doubted Hurn would allow Eosor to be killed. He was a mage of legend with unspeakable power. Then again, whoever had killed Aern would also be powerful beyond measure.

  "I've known you for a while now," Wulfnoth said, "but I'm only just starting to think you don't know what you're doing."

  A smile touched Idmaer's lips. You wouldn't be the only one to think that. He had been playing along for much of his life, feeling like an impostor.

  "I saw something else to the north when I was tracking the giant," Wulfnoth said. "A group of people were traveling south. About fifty of them. They've caravans and things. Not bandits, by the looks of it, mostly women and children." There had been no crows to arrive in Indham to state that there was a large group of travelers. "I thought maybe they were a traveling circus, but there were no beasts among them besides horses. Think maybe they're escaping from something, like those from the North did eighteen years ago?"

  Idmaer turned to look out over Indham. He remembered when the barefooted wanderers came. Their faces had been painted in what Idmaer now realized were dulled wards. Their bodies were still alive, their hearts still beating, but their eyes were vacant. Soulless bodies doomed to wander the world with their tongues falling from their mouths. They'd lasted a month before Idmaer decided it was a mercy to kill them. Their children had been spared, and had then come to be called the Fatherless.

  "What if they knock on our doors," Wulfnoth asked, "demanding asylum?"

  "The Council won't let them through the gates. Not after I convinced them to let the Fatherless in last time."

  It had only been through his and Edoma's combined efforts that the Fatherless hadn't been cast out from the town. Much of the gold in the spire's storeroom had been used to employ them, gold that was required for trading goods since Indham had no farmlands. Because of that, the rest of the Council still harbored ill will toward Idmaer. The Fatherless's propensity for crime had only made the feeling fester over time until the others eventually showed open hatred toward him.

  "By all that is holy, what is that?" Wulfnoth pointed at a cloud moving across the sky. It gave off light, as if fire writhed within it. The entire town below it was bathed in a crimson glow.

  "The wrai
ths," Idmaer cried.

  He rushed down the hill's steps and mounted his horse. The mist hovered above the town while Idmaer and Wulfnoth spurred their steeds onward.

  A few hours later, they entered the town gates. The crimson cloud remained above them as if a storm were waiting to break. The air was thick with fog and smelled like sulfur.

  "Get inside your homes," Idmaer yelled as he galloped through the cobblestone streets to his spire.

  A figure was veiled in the spire's shadow. It was Edoma, waiting in the garden with her horse. She wore a heavy cloak, though her nightclothes were still visible beneath it.

  "You saw them, too?" Idmaer asked as he reined in his horse.

  "They'll be upon us in a few hours, maybe less." Painted wards, deep red and glowing with arcane power, slashed across her face.

  This was it. The wraiths had finally come to Indham.

  "We are doomed," Wulfnoth said from behind him.

  A wail split the air, followed by shouting from a few streets away. The crimson mist was descending. The shouting increased in volume and then subsided into an eerie silence.

  "It seems the wraiths have already arrived," Edoma said. "There is hope yet. I can construct wards around Enlil's Temple to keep the wraiths out. We should be able to fit everyone inside. At least for tonight. But we must be quick. Already the wraiths are taking hosts."

  Another cry sounded.

  "We need to go to Merefin's barn and get lambs," Idmaer said, his hands shaking as he clenched the horse's reins. "How many will we need?"

  "Lamb blood won't hold them off. We'll need something with a stronger essence."

  Idmaer's stomach clenched. "What kind of blood?"

  "Human. There are dead folk's bodies for the funeral pyres. We can use them."

  "That's sacrilege," Wulfnoth whispered.

  Edoma ignored Wulfnoth's accusation and mounted her horse. "Sacrilege might save our people this night."