Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)

by Ben Marshall

  “Such questions do not affect us, and have no bearing on the reason for your departure to the Dwarven lands,” one Council member interjected, drawing nods of agreement from his fellows. “What of the reason for the activity of the orcs? What now drives them?”

  “They act at the order of another, for such is the way of the creatures,” Katchanga told the Council, finishing his drink and promptly replenishing it. “The real question is whom do they serve?”

  “Alas Lord Katchanga I do not know the answer, for two people seem to be in command in different ways. The orcs are acting out of the old Kuhiar hall of King Farlan Dark-Forge, and appear to be minions for a Fire Giant named Zoren. Yet upon the body of one who was slain by the Dwarves of Brietrin, and also upon the corpses of those who formed patrols my companions and I encountered within the hall, we found armour decorated with the insignia I have been told is the symbol of Moragil himself. They also wear helmets fashioned with four horns, and-”

  “The point is made and the question answered. I would say that Moragil is in charge, due mainly to my own personal knowledge of him and his ways, but the question is why he targeted Farlan and no other with such force?”

  “This was found in the treasury of the Kuhiar, and I felt it required study for it is unlike anything of Kuhiar manufacture I have ever seen,” replied Lonariel, holding forth the amulet so that all could see it.

  “It is indeed not of Kuhiar craftsmanship,” responded the Eastern Elf, his eyes showing he well remembered the artefact and that the sight of it was a terrible blow. “It was wrought long ago, though the exact year I have come to forget for I only knew of it when Moragil, the being who crafted it, carried it to the battlefield when we met in my attempts to liberate Charad. It has become known by those who have witnessed its purpose, though few survive to this day, as the Amulet of Planar Shifting, for it was crafted to allow the wearer to draw the power of demons from those who roam the Demon Plane. The exact method by which this effect is created is unknown, but it is certainly part of a gateway that links that Plane with this. It can either be the door itself, the fear of this possibility all that prevented its destruction in the previous Age, or it can be the lock, in which case its destruction would render the doorway obsolete. Whichever it is, the other component remains in an unknown location, and until the two meet with the purpose of destruction or simply of opening the gateway the identity is hidden. If thee read the inscription upon the back surface, which is written in the flowing scripture of the concealed region upon the Eastern Continent that has come to be known as the Eastern Archives, it says:

  Come forth Darkness

  Unleash Hell.

  I believe that Moragil is searching for the Amulet, yet he has never to my knowledge been single-minded in any pursuit. While he is searching for it, he must also be making preparations for when it can be used, yet what he is preparing for I cannot guess. He lacks the power of Carrassiel, who could bring forth fellow demons to bolster his numbers and gain many advantages on the battlefield. Moragil’s powers that were gifted by his old master were a shadow of the demon’s, and so he can do the more…simple incantations with equal effect. Yet he desired power that has since been lost, and so he may well seek to reclaim it. He must surely know the Amulet remains intact, for otherwise he wouldn’t delay his agenda as he seems to be, yet what if it was destroyed? It will either end his plans or push them forward, yet if pushed forward incomplete his forces won’t be ready…” Katchanga seemed to be thinking aloud, oblivious to those around him, until he focussed his gaze upon Lonariel once more.

  “What else did thee discover? What are the intentions of this Zoren and his minions?”

  “King Farlan said that the Giant has been heard speaking of attacking the hall of Brietrin, but is kept from doing so by the efforts of the Kuhiar. However the Kuhiar are woefully few, and will not last out unless the frequent battles within the passages are not quelled.”

  “Time is against us then, yet this affair cannot be done by Elves alone. The Amulet must be destroyed, if for no other reason than to cause the final plans of Moragil to be prevented. The action will either end his machinations or it will push them ahead without all the required preparation. Should the latter be the result, then the war will come to Men and Dwarves before he attempts to overthrow the Elven lands. Carrassiel knew that we are better prepared for the attacks of his minions, while the humans are too busy in their own feuds to withstand him. Therefore the matter must involve all the nations if it is to be concluded for the best. Even if the Amulet should be reclaimed by Moragil, their part in the attempt at destruction will have drawn attention to the problem and will allow the human nations to stand firm in the face of the evil that will come for them.”

  The Head of the Council, an Elf far older than two thousand years, suddenly spoke, his voice cracked and slowed by the passing of so much time.

  “If such is what it takes, then it shall be done. I remember what was involved in the final battles of the Age of Conflicts, and victory was only possible through the union of Men, Elves and Dwarves against the demons and other minions who served Carrassiel before his banishment.” Turning to his fellow Council members, he continued to speak, though it seemed as if the effort of doing so was almost too great for his tired body to cope with. “Let us send forth riders to the lands of Men so that representatives may be found from among them.”

  Respect for both the Councillor and Katchanga made each member raise his right arm, showing their agreement with the proposition, and they departed to make the necessary commands, leaving Lonariel alone with his mentor.

  “Lonariel how is the Lady Halarniel? I have not seen her since I healed her.”

  “She is well My Lord, though not as you will recall. Her scar was recreated, for she believes it to symbolise something important to her, and she still thinks of you fondly.” Katchanga seemed unnerved by this, and appeared to be struggling with an inner turmoil before he spoke again, though he was once again thinking aloud as if asking the questions of an unseen being.

  “How can she feel that way? How can she even accept my existence now she knows what I am? Why do thee bring these words to my ears, for they must be folly?” he suddenly asked of his pupil, his eyes suddenly starting to glow gold though no light shine upon them.

  “They are not folly My Lord, for you know I feel similarly about my own scar.”

  “The two incidents are different!” Katchanga was shouting now, yet no echoes were heard despite the passages being deserted now that the Council was acting upon their decision.

  “They are not My Lord, because both times it was not you who was in control, yet both times you managed to regain command of yourself and take action against what the dark side of you wished.”

  “They are both failures! Both part of the collection of times I have failed to hold onto my senses! Both times when it was revealed how weak I am in mind!” Katchanga left, the rage consuming him as he recalled his actions upon that night, and as he faded into mist and was transported from the hall by his magic, Lonariel thought he saw tears fall down his mentor’s face.

  ***

  September 15th, 1190

  Rain fell as if it were a single sheet rather than droplets, buffeting the weary traveller as once again the howling gale tried sadistically to force him from the trail that wound its way skyward along the narrow ledge. To one side of him was unforgiving and unmoving rock, to the other a vertical drop of many hundreds of metres. Whoever had deemed the location ideal for the fortress had certainly known about defence, because the ledge could only take people in single file, and the constant groaning of the ages-old rock beneath his feet threatened to plunge the traveller to a foul death far below. Lightning split the darkness with a wild and unmatched intensity, striking one of the many spire-crested towers of the spectre-like fortress as the peals of thunder echoed in the silence that had been present just seconds before, the sound almost the same as the Old Master’s laugh to the mind of the weary walk
er.

  He had never understood why Moragil the Faceless demanded that his spies took the perilous route into the stronghold, when two other routes were rumoured to exist within the foundations of stone. At least one of these routes had to exist, or at least have once been accessible, for how else could the army of the Old Master have sallied forth to strike down the traitor Santelion? A dark pleasure seemed the only thing gained by having his servants suffer so by facing such dangers, or perhaps a test of loyalty so that none would betray him as the renegade had done to the Old Master over two thousand years ago.

  Why such delay, Scum? A bestial voice suddenly growled within his mind with a dark intensity. Fear gripped the spy, and his eyes appeared feverish as he stared into nothingness yet saw the shadow of the Faceless Master within the void.

  “The road is perilous Master, and I fear for my life!”

  Your life is of no concern to me, only what you have to report. His trembling knees could no longer support him as a wave of pain washed over his mind, the spy feeling as he so often did the contempt Moragil showed towards any of his stature. Closing his eyes to block out the sight of the glaring eyes from the darkness he felt the wind cease its chilling howl, and then felt merely air supporting his frame instead of the narrow ledge. He opened his mouth to scream yet no words could escape, so great was the icy grip of an arcane force across his lungs, his throat and his heart. Yet the pain lasted mere minutes, though to his tortured mind the ordeal was as if his soul had been pulled from him and his life force frozen, and with a resounding strike his body struck a solid base. It was not the banks of the frozen river that flowed beneath the ledge that he now felt against him, nor was it another ledge of rock, for he was no longer among the elements that were forever raging across the Eastern reaches of Tchangorai, the Easternmost continent of Naturien.

  He found himself within the imposing fortress, the storm-ravaged world visible solely through the triangular windows upon the wall to his right. The view was that of the trail he had been passing along, the ledge barely supporting its own weight against the frenzied assault of the wind and driving rain, and the spy could only watch as a bolt of lightning struck the peak of a nearby mountain, the sudden light illuminating the range for a split second.

  “Enjoying the view, Spy?” a haunting voice whispered from somewhere close behind him. Instinctively the spy drew his slender thrusting sword, but a strike across his shoulders from the speaker’s own blade caused him to drop it. The strike was swiftly followed by a back-handed hit with a gauntleted fist, and both attacks were accompanied by a malicious laugh.

  Enough of this you fools! I have been kept waiting long enough! Bring the spy to me Gorlian, so that I might hear his news. The roaring cry seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, for such was the way of Moragil now he utilised his powers where he would previously have used more common forms of communication. The being who had struck the spy, a soldier dressed in dark chain mail and an even darker hooded cloak, bowed to the air around him before gripping the weaker being by the back of his neck and propelling him along the corridor the spy had been transported to, until the left-hand wall gave way to a magnificent set of double doors. They were crafted from solid silver and seemed to glow with an unnatural light, the diamond-crafted runes that had been set into them seeming to pulse with power as the spy and his escort came to stand before them. The runes were words of an ancient language, a language that had existed before even the mighty dragons found homes upon Naturien. The language had long since fallen into oblivion save for its use by Carrassiel, for it was the language of his people from when they had walked freely upon the earth before new forces overthrew the demons to claim the Mortal Plane for the creations of Nature and her husband. Now it was used only by those who possessed the ageless powers of the demons, and so it had served the machinations of the Old Master before he was thrown from the Planes. The doors themselves were of a thickness equal to that of the walls, impenetrable to all whom the Master and his predecessors didn’t desire to face. Despite this the power placed upon them caused them to silently slide upon hidden mechanisms, disappearing into the wall to reveal the Throne Room.

  This room constituted the very centre of the upper levels of the fortress, and was in deep shadow save for a small carpet of moonlight that led from the doorway to the centre. Beyond the carpet of silver light lay the throne, a huge construction moulded from the rock of the mountain itself, and Moragil the Faceless. A small patch of light fell upon the barest edges of the throne, revealing two gauntlets forged from a series of thick plates of metal. They were so articulated by their design that their evil wearer had complete movement of his hands, which were flexing with either impatience or anticipation as the burning red eyes of the Master, the only part of his physical features that could be seen, bore down upon the two beings before him.

  Leave us, that I can hear words not destined for your ears! The growl came only into the mind of the soldier named Gorlian, the spy hearing nothing save the frantic beating of his own heart. With a bow the guard left, moving silently though the flashes of lightning from outside had shown the spy that he wore thick armour beneath the cloak.

  Now the growls continued, exploding this time within the spy’s own thoughts; what do you have to report Scum?!

  “The Kuhiar will not see out the winter, for they are growing too few to withstand the orcs.”

  What of Santelion? Where is He in all this?

  “He has not ventured into the realm, though He has been active Master.”

  How has He been active? Speak quickly, for time grows short.

  “The Amulet has been recovered, and has been in the possession of the renegade for the past three days.”

  What?! Pain engulfed the spy, the rage of Moragil such that the spy feared he would be slain.

  “It was within the Kuhiar Treasury, and explorers sent at His request ventured to the hall and have uncovered it! I know not what action has been taken; only that one explorer flew towards the Fire Elven lands with the Amulet in his possession!” The spy was screaming, for the pain was unbearable, yet the Master didn’t relent.

  Fool! How could you and the minions beneath Zoren not find it?! You have had five hundred years to search the stronghold!

  “The Kuhiar are strong in resolve and their Treasury was within the tunnels that could not be entered by any beyond the height of Elves, so only the orcs could venture in to the passages! Those passages are thin Master, and numbers counted for nothing!”

  Enough! Get to the Fire Elven lands! Find out what the intentions of Santelion are, and if the Amulet is not within His possession find it! If it is, take it from Him!

  “At once Master, but I have other news of which you should hear!” The pain stopped, Moragil the Faceless wondering what else could be of importance to him.

  Proceed, but know that I will kill you if you waste time further. The growl had become a whisper, yet it filled the spy with all the more dread.

  “Telaniec has resurfaced, leading the Red Dragons of Lebruskt in his own crusade. He goes to destroy the Golden Dragons who are now led by Dehujin, a one-time ally of Santelion.”

  So Telaniec thinks to try and emulate Carrassiel does he? That plays perfectly into my hands, for it shall make both him and the renegade all the more outnumbered when the time is right. You have done well in discovering this, yet do not think I shall forget your ineptitude at retrieving my Amulet. Go now and carry out your orders, but fail at this and you will learn of a fate worse than death. The magic rose around the spy once more and he felt himself thrown from the fortress. The grip was not as severe as before, yet the velocity was such that he was engulfed in waves of nausea before he struck the plains beyond the mountain range. Cut, bruised and bleeding profusely from the impact, the spy collapsed to the ground too weak to move, but he heard Moragil within his head.

  Go to Periand immediately, or this pain shall feel like a gift compared to what you shall receive for your failure. Struggling to rise he
staggered his way across the land, hoping he came upon the nearest settlement before he could move no more. He knew the Master was more than capable of carrying out his threat, and that it would mean little to him if he had to. He held spies enough to continue the task at hand, and one death was insignificant. The spy knew that little mattered to the Faceless any more; all his thought was bent towards one end, and failure to keep the plan in motion by any of his slaves meant certain death.

  Flexing his right hand upon the carved arm of his throne, Moragil closed his eyes for a brief moment and remembered the times he had faced Katchanga. If He had the Amulet once more then the preparations had to be complete, the actions irreversible lest He tried to repeat history. The Faceless had grown wise over the years since the end of the Age of Conflicts, and knew better than to underestimate his opponent. But if Katchanga was still susceptible to the whispers, as He had been when they were used by Carrassiel, then perhaps all was better than Moragil could expect. He wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting the renegade, but if He could be brought into service then so too would the Amulet be returned. Killing Katchanga afterwards was a minor matter, for with the Amulet once more in his possession and the dragons who had aided Him reduced to corpses by the foolish Telaniec He would not be able to withstand the armies of the East this time. With the Amulet once more around his neck, Moragil knew he would succeed where the banished Carrassiel had failed. He smiled to himself as he opened his eyes, casting worth his whispers to Barid and the mind of Eraniel. The time had come to increase his horde, and to further his power across Periand. After the barbarians had succumbed, as their foolish emotions made them do so easily, then it was only a matter of time before Charad followed. With Telaniec’s dragons within Lebruskt, it was certain that no aid would reach the Charad Empire without suffering at the hands of the Red Dragons.