by Ben Hale
The Gathering
By Ben Hale
Text Copyright © 2012 Ben Hale
All Rights Reserved
To my family and friends, who believed.
And to my wife, who is perfect.
Table of Contents
Prologue: Sacrifice
—Part I—
Chapter 1: The Oracle
Chapter 2: The Power of a Prophecy
Chapter 3: The Journey Begins
Chapter 4: Newhawk
Chapter 5: The Strategist
Chapter 6: Battle Plans
Chapter 7: Captain Arrow
Chapter 8: Origin of a Thief
Chapter 9: A Father's Legacy
Chapter 10: The Hawk and the Mind
Chapter 11: Everyone Has a Purpose
Chapter 12: A King's Choice
—Part II—
Chapter 13: A Light in the Dark
Chapter 14: Rising Walls
Chapter 15: Prince
Chapter 16: The Ocleon
Chapter 17: Ryazan
Chapter 18: Unknown Hero
Chapter 19: Heroes and Villains
Chapter 20: Azüre
—Part III—
Chapter 21: The Flesh of War
Chapter 22: Unyielding and Undefeated
Chapter 23: Armored
Chapter 24: Amazons and Barbarians
Chapter 25: The Cost of Greed
Chapter 26: Whiteout
Chapter 27: The White Dragon
Chapter 28: Hunger
Chapter 29: Unexpected Allies
Chapter 30: First Scars
—Part IV—
Chapter 31: Dark Tide
Chapter 32: All Gathered In
Chapter 33: The Hastening
Chapter 34: Dark Valley
Chapter 35: Hope Burned
Author Bio
Prologue: Sacrifice
Siarra advanced between the snarling fiends on either side of her, knowing they were only held in check by their absolute fear of her—and that wouldn’t last long.
She just hoped it was long enough. With cautious steps she worked her way past the various creatures trembling in their desire to tear her asunder.
Quare dominated the bulk of the vicious army. The man-size fiends boasted a mane of blood red fur that barely showed on their ink colored skin. Although they carried no weapons, they had already slaughtered thousands with their bare hands. Rippling muscles bunched and clenched throughout their bodies, and their manes flared in anger as she passed. She knew they could tear a man in half, and they would try to do the same to her.
Sipers, dogs the size of lions, growled and snapped at the air swirling in her wake. Lightning fast, they were the first to close off her path behind her, blocking her in. The hard, arrowhead scales that covered their bodies shimmered from pure black to a deep crimson as they sensed the kill. Opalescent eyes glittered as she passed through a pack of them, and she did her best not to shudder.
In between the sipers and quare, the kraka captains towered over the other fiends. Blanketed in white bone armor that grew from their own flesh, they dragged massive obsidian swords as if they were too heavy to carry—until they whipped the sword through an elf faster than the snap of a whip. Earlier in the battle she’d seen a single kraka annihilate an entire company of humans before being taken down by a lucky ballistae bolt. A hundred dead in a matter of minutes, and there were hundreds of thousands of krakas around her.
Then Skorpians, huge beasts as large as a wagon with tails that grew black bone spears in minutes, spears that could be launched with a snap of their tail to embed into solid rock. If that wasn’t enough, their dual pincers could cut through armor and bone like it was parchment. Their exoskeleton had prevented all but the most powerful attacks from penetrating . . .
—A Siper lunged at her, hatred surpassing its fear. As quick as thought she sidestepped the lunge and lifted a spike of earth to impale it mid-flight. She turned from the dying creature and stared at the black horde, until once again their fear overcame their boiling hate. For one brief instant she relished in the feeling of power. She had faced down an army of billions, and they had blinked first.
But the thought was fleeting, and her courage waned, so she resumed her steady walk forward. Slow and sure she moved as far from the broken gates of Azertorn as she could. Each precious step moved her further from the city, but it wasn’t distance she needed, it was time.
The cliff and city had been under siege by an almost unlimited host of fiends for less than six days. How could so many have died in six days? And they still had to survive until the light fell on the seventh day. Part of her recognized it wasn't her fault, but she couldn't shake the great weight that hunched her shoulders. As the Oracle of Lumineia, she was the most powerful mage throughout the kingdoms, and had guided the races to unite.
Somewhere, somehow, she had failed.
Before her thoughts could continue, a ripple coursed through the army and she came to a halt. Like the wind had shifted, she knew. This was the spot of her last battle. On all sides, fiends snarled and growled, roared and pawed the ground, each waiting for her to attack. She stood firm, hoping the extra seconds might make a difference. If she moved first it would only be a matter of time before they overwhelmed her. She had to give the allies time to fortify, to prepare for the next onslaught.
Deep down she knew it wasn’t enough, that her desperate bid to give them time would fail. She knew she couldn’t hold them off, but it wasn’t in her to give up. She knew she would die, and then everyone in Azertorn would perish. Looking at the curled muzzles and dark, bloodthirsty mass surrounding her, she wondered where the allied races had lost, where she had made a wrong decision.
What in heaven or earth could have turned aside this holocaust?
Siarra took one last look at the vast cloud of black that had enveloped the sky, leaving a solitary column of sunlight from the city to the clouds, piercing the encroaching darkness and causing the heavens to shine on Azertorn. Even as she watched, the black roiled and pressed against the waning light and she knew that it was time.
Returning her tired gaze to the rippling sea of black, she listened to the fiends gathering their courage and readied herself for the fight of her life. The unnatural peace lasted only a few seconds, until an enormous Kraka began to charge. From deep within the legion he roared, a bellow of rage that echoed off the scorched and broken cliff as he began to pick up speed. The entire evil host rippled in anticipation, ready to strike when the armored hulk reached her tiny elven form.
Barreling towards her, the massive fiend snarled in defiance and pumped its legs like a galloping steed. Its obsidian blade bounced through the dirt behind him, kicking up a spray of soil as he thundered across the ground. Fifty paces away . . . then twenty . . . then ten, and finally the huge beast snapped the giant sword high—but Siarra was quicker.
Lifting her fingers, she raised the ground in front of him just a few inches, and tripped him before he could get in range. The fiend’s roar turned to a cry of pain as he slammed into the unforgiving ground and tumbled forward. Before the impending wave of creatures could descend upon her she used a gust of air to push the dark blade underneath the rolling body, forcing him to land on his own sword. When the fiend came to a stop, it didn’t move . . . but Siarra wasn’t there to see it.
The catalyst had come, and the sea of fiends flooded towards her, bent on erasing her from existence. In an instant she became a whirlwind of action. Her hands blurred into motion and air flew into enemies, knocking them flying. With a stomp of her foot the ground exploded outward, thundering in
to anything nearby and crushing them into each other. Clenching her fist she sent a wave of ice missiles lancing through armor and bone alike. The sharp projectiles dropped them where they stood, but more jumped over their twisted forms before they had even stopped breathing.
Siarra spun and twisted, blasting magical attacks into the bodies of her enemies. Fire exploded and burned when she pulled heat from the air, lightning jumped and arced as she gathered the charge from the sky, stone rose up to obliterate dark forms at her command, and the very light from above scorched them where they stood . . . but it was not enough.
Bit by bit the encroaching wave pressed inward, over the bodies of hundreds of their dead comrades. Each strike now came within feet of hitting home, then inches . . . then it was too late.
—A Siper dodged every attack and leaped at Siarra from behind, taking her down. Tasting fear, she rolled and blasted him away, but other claws were already descending towards her. She called on what was left of the forest of Numenessee and long roots sprang from the ground to crush the surrounding fiends, but they came too late. A claw had gouged into her leg, causing her to cry out in pain. Seconds later her arm was almost ripped off by a Quare, and she burned him to ash. The heat from the magical fire shimmered off her body before another form materialized through the dark dust. Smashing into her, it sent her hurtling backwards.
Her frail body tumbled through ranks of fiends, barely protected by a film of energy that blanketed her skin. Desperately she poured her strength into its power, shocking anything that tried to strike her—but it wasn't enough. Driven by bloodlust, some forced their way through the shield, at the cost of their own lives. When she came to a halt, her right side had gone numb, two ribs were broken, and she could feel blood seeping from her body in too many places to count.
A giant kraka stood above her as she coughed and fought to bring her magic to bear. Shrugging aside her effort, he took a moment to cut down a Siper that had slunk past him. Fighting for breath she squirmed as he raised his black weapon. His bellowing challenge caused her to flinch and lose what semblance of focus she'd regained.
She had probably killed several thousand in the last few minutes, but now she could do nothing but scream and watch the blade descend towards her neck—
—Siarra awoke thrashing and screaming with her blanket wrapped around her, cutting off her air. She tore it away and gasped for breath, reaching to touch her throat. As her death faded from sight, she realized that what she had seen had not been a nightmare. It had been a vision.
It was her future.
Part I
Six weeks and three days until Draeken’s army reaches Azertorn.
Chapter 1: The Oracle
It took several minutes for the images of dark fiends to fade from her eyes. Reaching out she found the rock wall at the head of her bed and sat up, gesturing at a flameless torch to lighten the room.
A spontaneous shiver shook her body and she pulled the shredded covers, still damp from her sweat, around her shoulders. Pull yourself together, she told herself, and took a few breaths to steady her nerves. Once her heart had slowed she pulled the covers tight and walked to the mirror.
The face looking back at her was young for an elf, just days over fifty, yet the blue eyes carried a weight that made her look much older. Her hand reached up and began to work on her tousled blonde hair, straightening it into submission. Angular in shape, Siarra's face was beautiful, but even she would acknowledge that there was a harsh intensity to her look that didn't attract. Frowning, she turned away and strode to the wide window. Drinking in the cool night air, she surveyed the magnificent view.
The sky glittered with stars in the cloudless night, visible from her room in the House of Runya, and she pursed her lips in annoyance at the dark heavens. I couldn’t have slept more than a few hours. She sighed and looked over Azertorn, the capitol city of the elves.
Carved from a thousand foot cliff, and situated between two waterfalls, the multitiered city was shaped like an inverted cone. Beginning at two hundred feet off the forest floor, the first tier housed a glittering pond and abundant gardens. From there, each subsequent tier was shaped like a half circle, and became larger the further you ascended through the city.
Rising out of the lowest level, a great tree reached hundreds of feet skyward. Named Le Runtáriel, the massive arbor served as a highway from one side of the city to the other. Hundreds of thick limbs spanned the gap, providing shaped walkways to and from the center. Other branches had been molded into spiraling staircases that wound gracefully around the enormous trunk.
Vegetation and waterways blanketed the rest of the city, creating green pathways and gurgling brooks. Low hanging fruit and bright flowers added a sweet scent that caressed the breeze, and thick vines climbed any remaining patches of stone. The variety and volume of flora was a source of great pride for the elven people, yet could not hide what lay beneath.
Slumbering under the vibrant array of magically enhanced gardens lay a citadel unequal in defensive design. Rarely tested, the fortifications of the city began at the forest floor, where the city gates were backed by fifty feet of solid stone. Impossible to breach by a battering ram, they stood next to the real entrance, which appeared like any other section of smooth rock.
The truth of the front entrance was a closely guarded secret of the elven people, but it was not the only one. Behind the real entrance, a giant cavern housed the First Legion of the elves, and above that a second cavern housed the Second Legion. Even if the ruse behind the gates was discovered, an invading army would enter into the teeth of the elven defenses, and be forced to fight through countless barriers before reaching the city proper.
Above the city, the Giant's Shelf formed a plateau that began in the western mountains, and spread to the great Blue Lake to the east. A wide river, swift and treacherous, ran south until it was split by the city. Its two branches then formed an ever flowing moat that protected the high walls at the top of the city, and fed the twin waterfalls.
In centuries past, the city had been carved by the dwarves for the elves, and many considered it to be the strongest fortress every created—yet Siarra knew that it would be destroyed. After ten thousand years, Lord Draeken had somehow unleashed his army again. Thought to be destroyed by the hero Lakonus, the ancient defeat of Draeken had caused the black army to be drawn back to the realm where they had been created.
But the legendary war had not been without consequences, and in the wake of the army's disappearance, hundreds of thousands lay dead. Whole nations had been crushed, defending armies of every race had been annihilated, and cities had been erased from existence. Although every people suffered incalculable losses, some had been hunted to extinction. Without remorse, the fiend army was on the verge of slaying all life on Lumineia—until they had vanished.
With centuries of time to dull their memory, the holocaust had faded from legend and into myth. But then Draeken’s assassin appeared once more, and the death of heroes marked the return of Draeken's army. A supreme killer, the specter of death had left countless dead until Siarra’s half-brother Taryn and the thief Jack had succeeded in slaying it. The act had saved Siarra's life as well—leaving her with a quandary.
The attraction—and irritation—she felt for the thief was difficult to ignore, but as the Oracle of Lumineia she had responsibilities, even if she didn't want them. For some reason it rankled for him to have saved her life . . . twice. She blew out her breath and turned away from the window. The enigma that was Jack Myst would not be solved now, and she didn't want to waste her time trying.
As Siarra moved to her clothes and began dressing, her thoughts returned to her vision. Her dream had told her much about the coming war. The elven high council had met hours ago, and already their plans needed to change. For one, she wasn’t going to stay at Azertorn. If she stayed and helped defend the united races, they would be defeated soon after she died on the sixth day.
Still fresh, the image of her death caus
ed a knot to sink into her stomach. Reaching for a glass of water, she downed it before striding towards the door. On her way out she grabbed a glass ball from a shelf before slipping into the shadowed hallway. Sensing the route through her magic, she passed through corridors that until yesterday were unfamiliar. Even inside, the magic of the elves grew vines, flowers, and trees on every section of stone. Smooth hardwood creaked underfoot as she passed, its dark grain absorbing any light.
Reaching her destination, she tapped on the door. Within moments the door opened to reveal Taryn with tangled red hair, blinking in the soft light of the hallway. “Siarra?”
A little shorter than a human, her half-brother was obviously a fighter. Corded muscles were visible even under his tunic, and the ready stance betrayed his training. His dark red hair hung free to his shoulders, and his indigo eyes carried a certain innocence that always made her smile. Although she could tell he'd tried to hide it, it was apparent he had not been sleeping. She couldn't blame him. He'd only found out a few hours ago what he was meant to do.
With the blood of the elves, dwarves, and humans running through his veins, he was the one prophesied to defeat Draeken. The strengths of the three races in one body was unique, and created in Taryn a warrior unequaled in combat—but the extreme ability came with a price that some of his other skills had paid.
“Do you know if the riders to the other races have left yet?” she asked.
“Hm, I don’t think so. They were going to depart at first light, weren’t they?” Then he caught her gaze and his eyes narrowed. “What happened, what’s wrong?”
“We have some work to do, before the riders leave.”
He nodded and disappeared while she was still talking. Not a minute later he reappeared with his weapons on his back, but didn't seem to notice her annoyed look. "What do we need to do?"