Circle of Reign

by Jacob Cooper

  “Say it,” Rembbran begged. “Say it, please!”

  “I issue a Dahlrak upon Josi’ah and give him to you, Rembbran.”

  He took in a deep inhale, the gills running up the bridge of his nose flaring wildly. Rembbran’s head snapped toward the palace with the look of a bloodhound.

  Tyjil grinned wickedly as the Helsyan tore off at speed toward his prey.

  Josi’ah hurriedly packed what little belongings he had in his quarters. Only a few minutes had passed since fleeing the council hall, but he feared even that was too long. Thor’ah, patriarch of his order, had issued a recall order to all Archivers serving in the Realm after the High Duke’s attack on Lord Banner Therrium. Mithi’ah had reported the events from Hold Therrium as soon as he connected with an elder through a Light Scry. From there, the urgent recall from Patriarch Thor’ah had been issued. Josi’ah had never felt such fear in his life. He kept an open connection with the Patriarch while gathering his things.

  Traditionally, an Archiver attended the Lord of his assigned house, or in Josi’ah’s case, the High Duke himself, in all meetings and discussions in order to record as much of the Realm’s history as possible. Such had always been their purpose, long before the Senthary had come to this land. There were hints that something was afoot, small things that seemed irrelevant at the time. Wellyn had taken several trips without his presence, allowing Josi’ah time for himself. More than once he had intuited there had been meetings he was not notified of by comments made, especially from Tyjil.

  Of course, Josi’ah berated himself. You were a fool! You should have known something was happening!

  He was ready. The palace would be easy to escape. He had free reign throughout the palace to go wherever he pleased in fulfillment of his duties. No one would think to stop him as he made his way quickly to an exit.

  The door exploded inward as he reached to open it. He was knocked down from the force of it and fell hard on his backside. As he looked up, with shock across his face, he saw his end.

  He thought of Vash’ah, his son serving as an acolyte in the Jarwyn Mountains. And then he thought no more.

  He was fulfilled, if even just for the moment. It would fade, he knew, this temporary nepenthe. The old Charge’s incessant malady would return. But here and now, he gave himself in surrender to the total ecstasy of a fulfilled Charge. The surroundings of carnage fueled his revelry in the moment.

  He had never before had the Charge of an Archiver. Had any chase-giver ever been Charged with an Archiver? It was…unique. Josi’ah’s surprise was nearly enough satisfaction in itself. Rembbran did not know why the Archiver was to die, nor did he care.

  Let the Archivers inscribe this! he thought as he stared on the blood on his hands. The elder connected to Josi’ah at the time of his demise no doubt got the shock of his life. The observations of these historians were engraved on large obsidian slabs taller than most men stood. Rembbran gloried that his actions would be indelibly preserved in the Realm’s history.

  In the palm of Rembbran’s hand was Josi’ah’s chin stud, stained with the blood of its previous owner. For all an Archiver’s strength in surviving the most hostile environment in the heights of the Jarwyn Mountains, Josi’ah didn’t seem to have any ability to defend himself against attack. He had heard the Archiver scurrying about in his room from the other side of the doors to his chambers. He waited for a specific scent to come forth, one that would tell him the time had come. Fear’s sweet odor was present among others, but as soon as he caught the scent of resolve, Rembbran unleashed his strength against the door, knocking it and Josi’ah back several feet. Once he had recovered from the initial surprise of Rembbran’s assault, Josi’ah seemed to gain a look of understanding and acceptance, though the intoxicating scent of fear had been strongly emitted. Rembbran relished in its lingering few ambrosial elements, like a wounded beast wrapped in the healing leaves of a Triarch tree.

  His relief from the incessant presence of the unfulfilled Charge was short lived. The pain of six years’ worth of unfulfilled Charge built up could not be kept at bay long. Temporary relief was all that was granted as he completed other Charges assigned to him, and the relief that came had less depth and length each time.

  Rembbran began to pace. As the pain thundered with crescendo inside his skull, an illusion radiated before him of the Archiver’s small quarters, now a scene of grotesque death, beginning to contract and trap him. His breathing became shallow, faster paced. The pain was as if a flail was lodged inside the center of his brain and slowly but constantly expanding. Every second became an eternity of shattering throbs. He raised his hands to his head, fingers stiff, pushing inward with his palms in reflex against the expanding pain. Rembbran battled for control, but his groans were escalating to screams, not able to be stifled.

  He fled from the palace, running over a pair of servants on their way to the culinary wing.

  “The Kail,” he moaned. “Must reach it.” The speed a chase-giver could attain while Charged was inhuman, strength exceeding that of many men. But when a Charge was unfulfilled for so long as Rembbran’s, this state of heightened sensory perception carried with it a feral, nearly uncontrollable reckless abandon.

  He arrived at the Kail, retreated to his chambers, and seeking escape, collapsed to unconsciousness.

  Wondering when his shift might be over, Vash’ah sat with the other acolytes inscribing away. The speed with which he could deliver Thor’ah’s words to stone was impressive, even to the elders. Vash’ah didn’t think much about it, though. He was usually bored from his work, always finishing ahead of the others. Like all acolytes, though, he wanted to see through a World Scry. It was why he was here, what he was born to do. The Realm needed Archivers to preserve the knowledge and history of each generation, and an acolyte was not an Archiver until he could connect with an elder of his race through a Light Scry, allowing the elder to see and experience just as he was. The task required immense concentration. Even greater was the ability of the patriarch, who could see all things transpiring through any and, if he chose, all Archivers at once, mentally recording every tendril that filled his mind. Every piece of recorded data chiseled into the obsidian tablets was also indelibly etched into Patriarch Thor’ah’s mind. Each patriarch’s mental capacity stretched far enough to encompass every bit of recorded history the Shrule have witnessed.

  The Patriarch ceased his speaking suddenly, though it was obvious he continued to hold the gaze of a World Scry. It was akin to a far-off distant look, a look that appeared to be unfocused yet completely thoughtful at the same time.

  As Thor’ah sat in silence, Vash’ah and the other acolytes also sat silently with their obsidian tablets in front of them, waiting expectantly. Finally, Thor’ah emerged from his silence and rose.

  “Tray’ah,” he said calmly to one of the acolytes. “Please tell the elders I require their presence at once. The rest of you, please move swiftly but calmly to the grand cavern and wait for us there.”

  They all arose and started to follow the instructions given, wearing somewhat puzzled looks as they exited.

  “No, not you, Vash’ah. Remain here with me.”

  Vash’ah was confused, but did as he was told. As his mind raced trying to figure out what he had done wrong this time, the elders began filing in around Thor’ah. When they were seated, Patriarch Thor’ah spoke.

  “Josi’ah is dead. I surmise we will soon be under attack. There is not much time. We must prepare my final surrender.”

  The elders were not concerned and showed no emotion. Each sat with legs crossed, backs straight and chins high. Their obsidian chin studs protruded and glinted with the fire’s light, appearing as small torches. They sought their own confirmation from a quick Light Scry and solemnly nodded as one.

  “A new patriarch must be chosen. However, none here possesses both the memory capacity and the physical stamina or strength to attempt an escape. None, save one.”

  The elders seemed to know who Thor�
��ah was speaking of, but Vash’ah was still reeling from the news of Josi’ah.

  My father is dead?

  “Vash’ah, come to me, young one,” Thor’ah requested. “There is a duty we require of you and there is not much time.”

  Vash’ah rose and came to stand before Thor’ah.

  “You,” Thor’ah spoke, “will accept my final surrender.”

  Vash’ah was shocked. He could not speak.

  I am too young! I cannot possibly do this! Why? But his thoughts did not become words.

  “While your mind is vast enough to be a patriarch,” Thor’ah continued, “you are not yet mature enough for the organization required. I’m afraid this will prove extremely challenging for you as you attempt to sort through the millennia. Still, Vash’ah, you will be all that is left. I surmise that no tablet shall remain. But, young one, there are others.”

  Thor’ah spoke no more. Before Vash’ah could respond, the old patriarch grabbed his head with a surprising grip. Instinctively, Vash’ah tried to pull back, but the elders around him held him fast. The flow of information began to pass from Thor’ah to Vash’ah as a strong torrent in a monsoon. The boy screamed as his entire being was invaded with the events and knowledge of millennia untold. They played before his mind’s eye, each event and person a microsecond vision before moving to the next. Indeed, every image felt as if it were being physically carved upon his brain, so terrible was the pain. He lost all semblance of time and drowned in the flood of information, swallowed in its depths. Tears flowed freely from the boy’s eyes, mucus from his nose, drool from his lips. A trickle of blood coursed down one ear.

  When it was done, Thor’ah collapsed to the ground peacefully, freed from his mortal purpose.

  A cry of alert was heard, followed by others. The elders ran to the grand cavern, the source of the cries.

  “Run,” one of them said to Vash’ah, pointing to the opening of many tunnels and passages that led deep into the mountains.

  The work would be quick. Twenty-eight Khans had made it to the landing. Hadik thought it remarkable that they had lost only two in their perilous ascent. As they came through the entrance into the grand cavern of the Archivers, Hadik saw several hundred gathered and waiting. Patiently waiting.

  These are a strange sort, Hadik remarked to himself. Docile beyond what is wise. If they knew any better, they could easily overcome us by their numbers alone. But the Shrule knew nothing of war or violence, having remained aloof and neutral from all conflicts in history.

  With a short blade, Hadik cut off the amber wax from the metal tube that jutted out from one of the airtight bags. He put his mouth over the tube and breathed normally. After ten breaths, the bag was spent. He drew his steel and attacked.

  Daneris gave his report: “All Archivers have been put to the blade, Hadik. Their bodies have been thrown from the mountain. Their tablets are currently receiving the same fate.” Daneris took a breath from one of his pouches then put his thumb over the tube to save the remaining breaths. “A boy escaped to the river, however,” he continued. “He has no doubt drowned by now, swept away by the current.”

  “Well enough,” Hadik answered. “It matters little. Prepare for our descent.”

  Daneris watched Hadik walk away.

  The troubled Khan tried to calm his lightheadedness as well as his stomach. The nausea gripped him tightly. Daneris had tried to let the boy escape, tried to lead the other Khans into tunnels and caverns away from the boy. But the boy had incredulously jumped into the river and had no doubt drowned or been crushed as he was forced through the rock tubes by the relentless current. If by some miracle he survived that ordeal, he did not survive the plummet to the sea below.

  Ancient Heavens, please forgive me! I tried! Daneris retched in a corner devoid of light, hoping no one else would see him.

  How long has it been? Vash’ah wondered as he was pulled through the underwater blackness by the seemingly relentless current. Five minutes? Eight? He had breathed in several large breaths, stretching his lungs to what he hoped was their full capacity, before taking in the largest single breath he ever attempted. He plummeted into the cavern river with the echoes of the soldiers’ shouts closing in on him. Then he could hear nothing but the rush of violent black water all around him.

  In his terrible boredom during the long hours of inscription, Vash’ah had practiced holding his breath as a means to pass the time. He would often recite poetry or sing verses of his favorite incantation silently as a means of measuring elapsed time as he held his breath and inscribed upon the obsidian tablets. A few days prior, he had recited in his mind the passages of Tunginorr’ah, in their entirety, before his lungs had to release their hold, expelling the spent air. It was a long tome intended to be sung, though few did sing it, and told of the journey eastward and the claiming of the mountains by Jarw’ah, the first patriarch of their order after the Ancients fell. That effort would take at least seven minutes, even for an extremely fast recitation. But Vash’ah was relaxed then, not tense, cold and scared as he was now.

  The incredible revelations that had been forced upon him by Thor’ah were splitting his mind. Pushing them aside entirely proved impossible as they kept resurfacing to be dealt with. Centuries and centuries of history were now his alone. The tablets were destroyed, cast to the base of the mountains and smashed to rubble. Perhaps others had survived, obeying Thor’ah’s recall, but for all Vash’ah knew, he was the last of his order. He saw the image of Josi’ah’s death and wept for his father but did not feel the tears as they mixed with the water enshrouding him. There were many holes throughout the running images of history, things that were dark and marred to his vision, as if a great cloud shielded certain events.

  As the history of ages swirled inside him, he noted patterns and trends that surfaced, events and people long forgotten.

  His shoulder slammed into a rock as the current forced him along. It seemed to push and pull him at the same time, causing his equilibrium to fail. Vash’ah reached his arms and legs out in an effort to try and reach above the water, but felt only stone and sediment in every direction. He was wrapped in a blanket of rock, water and the blackest night. Another scrape against rock—whether the river’s floor, ceiling or wall he did not know—severely gashed his left arm.

  How long? he thought more frantically to himself. It must let out soon.

  He began reciting the psalms of Forrhaun’ah to try and calm himself, but it produced little positive effect. His lungs were screaming in protest, burning with the ache to release the old air and find new air, oxygen rich air.

  Ten minutes.

  The water started to turn a dark green, then a lighter green, finally morphing into blue. Light! Vash’ah screamed in his mind. But with this blessing came a thunderous noise followed by even more violent thrusts of current. The river spewed him out into the open air as if a horizontal volcano of icy water. The violent clamor and lack of air of the past many minutes was replaced by terrifying silence and a paradoxical abundance of oxygen as he fell through the air to the Sea of Albery some hundreds of feet below.

  As the Khans retreated down the mountainside, a thick cloud covering came upon them. Daneris’ visibility was obscured so greatly that he could not see the rock his hands clung to. A seed of fear started to take root in him, but an idea quickly cast out the seed before it germinated.

  He shouted out the top of his lungs. His terrifying scream of fear echoed all around him and he tapered his volume gradually, then quickly. His echoes lived on for several moments more.

  “Daneris!” he heard someone call. He did not answer. Others called his name but he still did not answer.

  “Everyone hold!” Hadik commanded. “The Dark take you, hold!”

  Daneris did not hold but continued to descend as silently and quickly as possible. He did not know how long the blessed overcast conditions would last, but he had to try and escape now.

  Another opportunity may never present itself.

&nbs
p; His limbs shook with the effort and palms were wet with perspiration. The reckless velocity of his descent was more challenging and nerve-wracking than the climb itself. His large calf muscles burned with every step and his massive biceps cankered with pain.

  When another hour had passed, Daneris could no longer contract his hands for grip. He slipped and did not even try to catch himself. Mercifully, or not, the ground met him in less than twenty feet. The wind was knocked from his lungs and his shoulder made a terrible popping noise followed by searing pain.

  In a few moments he breathed normally again and rolled onto his side, his broken shoulder side up. Daneris squinted and saw the smoke rising from the smelters at the Jarwyn mines. They were only a league away, two at most. He thought back nearly six years prior when he had delivered the most important message of his life to his contact. The contact was then to ride the rest of the way to meet an ore master at the Jarwyn mines to begin the flow of the specialized ore that was only found at the base of these great peaks through a secret network, one that had been in place for hundreds of years.

  “Did he make it?” Daneris asked aloud as he winced in pain. He did not know but prayed the message had been ferried quick and true. The fate of Våleira as a living world may depend on it.

  With some effort, the Khan, who was a Warrior of Light, made his way to the mines. He tore away his telltale cape and tunic until only his pants and boots remained. A rough man greeted him with some concern, noting his injured arm.

  “Oi! Needing help, are ya?”

  “I am a current,” Daneris responded.

  “What’s that, now?” the miner asked. “Looks like your arm is badly broken.”

  “I am a current,” Daneris repeated.

  The man scratched his head. “To tell you the truth, you might have hit your head as well as broken your arm. What’s your name, son?”

  “Ore master,” Daneris said. “Who is your ore master?”