The God Warriors

by Sean Liebling

  "Father, you have more than a few temples in Crystal City. I need to get word there as quickly as possible. My company just dealt with a large band of Illian where there should not have been one. This one was over a hundred in number, and I need to get word to the capital concerning this change in Illian behavior. Are you able to speak to your brethren there? This is important, and I have a bad feeling about it. It just doesn't make sense. The Illians tried to make it look like a raid in strength, but it was not that. I just know it."

  The priest looked into her eyes and nodded, then reached out to clasp her hand, pulling her to the side and staring deeply into her eyes. Nodding to himself again, he called one of his men over.

  "Bring the communion cloth, the stone, and the vial. You know the one, Eustis." The other nodded quickly and hurried off as the priest turned to her and said, "You have been touched by the Goddess Hera. That much is obvious. Even though the cost is high for one such as myself, I will do this because I believe in what you portend."

  "Well, yes if you mean the Goddess Hera, but portend? I don't think so. I'm not a seer," she replied, perplexed by his comment.

  "Oh, yes, you are. Whether you choose to believe it or not, to be touched by an elder god gives you special abilities, and it’s obvious yours are guiding you right now. You took a chance that a lowly priest of the Goddess of Healing could help you, which is something I've never been asked to do before. You are scared and desperately wish to get this information to the right people before something even worse happens. It is obvious," he said gravely and simply regarded her with curiosity. She felt a blush spread across her face and jerked her hands free as he waved her to the side of the road where the tall grass was not horse and wagon trampled, or covered in mud.

  "It is true priest, the Goddess Hera spoke to me once, but not since. I tried to enlist her aid first, but she is not responding," said Elsa in frustration.

  "Do not worry, my child. I will communicate directly with my superior. He will decide, based on your words, if the King should be consulted, or if it should be someone else. I do this task because of the signs we've been granted, and your distress simply tells me to expend the energy necessary to do so." Another kind smile from the priest, and she found herself relaxing. She was so worried and pent up, she felt like she was going crazy, as the feeling was just so urgent.

  "What other signs?" she asked, now curious.

  "Why, there is a new champion in the land. That is not a good sign, and now a Hera-touched captain is beside herself to get a message to the capital. Rumblings in the northwest indicate Logi is doing what he does best. It all adds up."

  "What do you mean, priest? What about this champion?" Now she was getting frustrated, having no idea what he was talking about.

  "You might call him the ultimate champion. Originally of Ares, both Hera and Shianna have made him their champion as well. It is unheard of. Never before in a written history, spanning more than five thousand years, has this happened. Of course, this means bad things."

  "A champion?" she said stupidly.

  Just then, Eustis came running with a grass mat, a large pure white stone with intricate symbols chiseled into it, and a small vial of amber liquid. Quickly, he trampled a large square of grass near them, and then laid out the mat, putting the cloth on top of its protective surface. Finally, he set the stone in the center while handing the vial to the priest.

  "Captain, what's going on?" called out Ricon from thirty feet away, beside the road.

  "Settle the company, Ricon. We might be here awhile," she responded.

  "But…" he shut up when she swiveled her gaze upon him, frowning.

  "Come sit, and do not worry about tracking dirt on the cloth, it will be pure again when we step off," said the priest. She could tell he was concentrating by his expression, and she obeyed, unsure what to expect.

  Quickly she sat crossed-legged as he did where indicated, each on opposite sides of the urn. As they settled, he pulled the cork out with his teeth, and, leaning over the stone, he let one-drop fall in the its center. As soon as the amber drop hit the white surface, it evaporated, filling the air with a fine mist. He quickly pushed the cork back into place, sealing the remaining contents. He then placed the fingertips of both hands upon the surface of the stone nearest his position. To the side, the acolyte named Eustis stood ready for any command his master might give him.

  "Aragus, we would speak with you," he intoned into the mist, which still hung around them. Elsa saw the priest's eyes remained closed, while sweat beaded upon his forehead.

  "Is it working?" she asked, not knowing what to expect.

  "Shhh," Eustis said to her.

  "Ah, there you are. Master, I have a captain of the guard with me who needs to convey a message to those in charge at the capital." A pause, and then he spoke again. "Yes, it's important. She is god touched by Hera and was recently in a battle with Illian forces that she says did not act properly. She is frantic to get this word to guard command without the delay of her passage south," another pause, and then. "I realize the energy we are both expending on this form of communication, but because of the recent signs and the urgency of this one who has been touched by the gods, I deemed it necessary…Yes, I agree. Her name is…" Now he paused again and belatedly Elsa realized she had not told the priest her name, just as Eustis hissed at her.

  "What is your name, Captain!"

  "Captain Elsa Dragod, Commander of Wolf Squadron, Crystal City forces," she hurried to say.

  "Captain Elsa Dragod, Commander of Wolf Squadron, Crystal City forces," the priest repeated. "Please speak your message, Elsa, and it will be repeated in my thoughts to my master, who will convey it to the Commander of the Guard."

  Quickly, Elsa told the High Priest her suspicions, too many in this type of attack, not enough goods taken and the rest burned. Or, actually, the Illians tried to burn the remainder to make the village appear pillaged. They did not take all of the young women and female children either. Many of the women were simply killed, and there were signs the Illians tried to disguise that fact by placing weapons near some of the bodies. The Illians they had killed wore much better armor than usual and fought as if they had superior training. The raid seemed staged, its only aim to kill as many Jordache as possible by an elite squad.

  She thought about it for a moment and added that the raid happened at the trading post, four days travel north of Friva by refugee pace, which was perhaps a day and a half by normal horseback. Then she finished with an urgent plea to contact her commander as soon as possible before falling into silence. The priest continued in communication with his superior for a few more minutes before slowly withdrawing his fingertips from the stone’s surface, then he blinked several times, almost falling over backward. Elsa quickly reached across the stone to grab the man by the upper arm as Eustis ran forward to offer him a flask of some liquid, of which the priest greedily sipped.

  "It is done, and my master, Aragus, will have word to the commander within the hour. He will in fact deliver it himself, you may rest assured, Elsa," the priest said as Eustis helped him to another mat beside their horses, where food and more drink awaited him.

  "Thank you for doing this, priest. I can't help but feel this is important," she said in a low voice, still pensive, but following the man as he settled in a comfortable position to rest up.

  "And I agree with you, captain, but it is out of our hands now."He turned away and helped himself to some of the meats and cheeses laid out for his repast, beckoning the captain to join him, but she refused. There was not enough for her company, and she was anxious to get started south again.

  "Fare thee well, Father," she called out after gaining her saddle again and motioning her troops forward.

  "And you, daughter," he called out in return.

  ~Lorr -Sorlen~

  Sorlen, senior mage of Lorrwood, stared into the crystal pool of Arden Glen. The water was featureless, no longer showing images within it's depth to his sight, and silen
tly he pondered what he witnessed moments before. Beside him stood Cyrus, General of the Northern Lorr host. He remained silent out of respect and a desire not to disturb whatever magic the mage might be working.

  The mage slowly straightened from his position of kneeling by the pool’s edge, and with a final thought, gently moved the palm of his hand over the waters calm surface. As his lanky six-foot frame straightened, his back cracked, vertebrae realigning into a standing position. Sorlen was old, perhaps the oldest Lorr in all Lorrwood, at almost eight hundred years of age. His hairless face was unlined for all his years, but his age shown firmly in the brightness of his piercing blue eyes and snow-white hair.

  Slowly, he turned to the Lorr standing beside him in resplendent silver armor, including helm. Sorlen knew if he was to light a torch or bring a glow globe near, the general would shine like a beacon of the sun, but in this dim setting, the highly polished armor remained muted. The Lorr dwarfed the mage’s lean frame by several more inches in height and outweighed him by at least twice his own body weight. Strong aristocratic lines complemented his features with a strong chin, a wide expressive mouth and narrow nose topped by wide set blue eyes and almost feminine eyebrows. His hair was blonde, of course, for all Lorr except the very old were gifted with hair the color of the sun, and the fingers of the hands he held clasped across his stomach armor were thin, yet strong, like those of a musician. However, the one trait that separated him from being mistaken as a human was his ears, pointed on the top and slightly wider than the human norm. Such a young man, thought Sorlen as he finished turning and regarded the other, who, at only five hundred years of age, was waiting patiently for his reading. Like all Lorr, Cyrus was also beardless. No Lorr could or would want to grow facial hair.

  "Earthhaven has been attacked," said Sorlen softly. "The loss is currently at fifteen thousand and still climbing slowly."

  "Attacked? How, great mage, and when did this happen? Who did this, and do the Thana need our help?" responded the shocked General of the Lorr armies.

  "The Thana were attacked by no other than Logi, but it was the Jugazi who solicited his aid in an attempt to bring the Thana to the bidding of their Dark Excellency. The attack occurred yesterday morning when Logi caused the volcano at Ashstone to erupt prematurely. As my sight saw, almost ten thousand killed in the initial blast, the rest due to the aftermath, but the Thana safety procedures worked and minimized the casualties. Yes, we will send our healers to assist their own. They are badly in need of our help."

  "What of arms? Are they preparing, and are the Jugazi attacking with an army? I will prepare my armies if so." Now the words were said in a voice almost devoid of emotion, and, if anything, the younger Lorr growled.

  "Thorvald is already mobilizing his forces and increasing their number, but additional border reinforcements will be needed. Coordinate with their militia and buttress any weak areas. Get the approval of our King first, of course." A small smile twisted the lips of Sorlen.

  "Consider it done. Parel and I see alike in almost all things. I will send a third of our host to Earthhaven along with a full eagle squadron, possibly two, and I will also triple our strength along our border with the Jugazi."

  "A wise precaution, General, and I will send mages to accompany your forces. The Thana have blocked the passes to the Northern wastes to their east, which has granted them time to prepare. It will take mighty magic to breach those avenues of entry now. But that is not all."

  "What more could there be?" inquired an exasperated Cyrus.

  "There is also a new human champion. This one, a product of Ares. However, Ares is not the only god supporting this man. Hera and Shianna have also given him their mark, and he is bonded to two Lorr wolves."

  "What! That is impossible! Never before have the wolves bonded with a human. I trust your vision, so I must ask, how did this happen?"

  "It happened with our blessing, of course, Cyrus. Hera approached us some time ago with convincing arguments. The council of mages and our King and Queen made the decision to support her efforts. Not a decision to go to war, but to assist in small ways."

  "But…Alright, what is done is done. You say he bears the mark of three gods?"

  "Yes, that is correct."

  "Never to my knowledge has that happened, Sorlen."

  "That is also correct, Cyrus. There is a reason. The Devourer is coming."

  Cyrus froze, for it was the Devourer that destroyed their original home eons ago, rendering it sterile and incapable of ever sustaining future life. It was because of the Devourer that the Lorr were now on Corvalis. The Lorr racial memory and written history was vast, spanning over ten thousand years, with over five thousand of those years on this new world of Corvalis, but the one overpowering obsession in all of that was the knowledge of the Devourer. Involuntarily, Cyrus shivered then held himself strong.

  "What can we do, Sorlen?" he whispered, almost afraid to mention the name of the truly evil one. An entity that was very real but also one used to scare disobedient Lorr children when they resisted a parent's instruction. Cyrus remembered his parents’ liberal use of the Devourer to scare his sister and him into their beds each night.

  "It is possible we can hold the Devourer at bay here, without entering our woods."

  "Do you really believe that, mage?”

  "No! We are also engaged in other tasks I cannot divulge at this time."

  "And what of this champion? Does he stand a chance against something as powerful as the Devourer?"

  "Time will tell. I have been told his ideas are innovative. We shall just have to see."

  "I must prepare. As always, you have given me too much to think about, Sorlen."

  "Before you go, have you thought of sending a delegation of the Lorr host to this year's game's in Jordache?"

  "No, we never participate. Why would we do so this year?" answered the general.

  "Because the champion will be there," said Sorlen, causing Cyrus to look at him closely before grunting and walking off.

  Sorlen smiled softly at the departing back of the general of the Lorr armies as he slowly made his way out of the glen. He needed to apprise the king, queen, and council of the latest scrying he had performed. It would be a busy day.

  ~The Wolven~

  Ariston sniffed the wind, detecting the putrid scent of the dark ones wafting up from the canyon below as he turned to his mate, Grivina. Like him, she was wearing only the briefest of garments to protect against the dampness of the morning air as they crouched upon the rocky outcrop. They were almost three hundred feet above a simple trail pass within the marked territory of the Summit Pack of Wolven. More clothing than decency warranted was unneeded, as their fur would keep them warm even in the harshest of winters.

  "They come." Ariston was not one to talk much, and even when conferring with his mate, his habits almost never changed. His left hand slid upward to scratch his side, the inch long talons scratching the leathery skin, digging out the fleas he knew he had accumulated on this forced abandonment of their clean den. Six and a half feet of wiry muscle and shaggy fur adorning the entire body denoted a Wolven. The amber necklace he wore around his neck indicated he was a chief or “pack leader” amongst them.

  The Wolven had no central leader, as others would think of those honorifics. They had a leader for each pack that held sway over the members within that region, those sworn to that pack. To be a pack leader meant many things, one of which was that the others within the pack would follow his instructions without argument or discourse for their lives depended on his intelligence and cunning. It also meant his life was in constant jeopardy through pack challenge. Once each year, the other members could challenge his rule, but only one challenge per year was permitted. Thus far he had survived over a dozen challenges. His mate was fond of saying he fought dirty, but he would always respond that he fought to win. He did realize that she said those words with pride in her voice, for to be the mate of the pack leader was a special privilege.

 
The other races called them wolves which Ariston found amusing, but they were not known by that name amongst each other, instead calling themselves by their true race name, the Wolven. Like all others on the world of Corvalis, they fled here after a catastrophe shattered their own world, well over a thousand years ago. The exact date of their arrival remained unknown, nor did it matter to the Wolven. They kept no written records of their existence, or their history. They lived each day as they would, feasting upon prey and staying out of each other's way. Personal space took on a whole new level of meaning with Wolven, and once a month when the moon was full, they held the gathering.

  The gathering was a time of happiness and sorrow, a time when there was no blood spilled between packs or within the pack itself. It was a time to find a mate, or if mated, to take that mate to a bed of leaves or snow, depending on the season, while hoping the god would grant a healthy litter. It was also a time to sing to the moon, great voices all in harmony, a long deep-seated racial memory filling their souls with need, anguish, and longing. Their voices sang the one history they refused to forget. The memory of deliverance, when their God Fenrir came to them as the other gods threw rocks at their world, destroying it. Fenrir opened a way for them to escape to Corvalis as their own world was breaking apart. Fenrir had saved them from utter extinction.

  The Wolven neither knew nor cared why the other gods had tried to kill them, only that it was so. Now, in this day and age, they were once again facing extinction. They knew if they helped the Jugazi to again wage war upon the humans, there might be too few of the Wolven left to populate another generation. The last Great War had been bad enough, as had the one before. Now was the time to hide, stay hidden, and wait until peace once again unfolded over the land.

  What Ariston found equally amusing was they were still referred to as wolves, even though they didn't look like wolves. Yes, they had thick shaggy fur coats, but that was where the similarity ended. Their form was more human in shape, as was their heads, and they had no paws, but instead hands with fingers that ended in talons. Their incisors were roughly human in size also, though perhaps a bit longer, but it did not matter. They had more in common with the human than they did the wolf. Even though the Wolven did run on all fours when they needed speed, as their thighs were immensely powerful and could propel them with great leaps.