The Chronicles of Lumineia: Book 02 - The Gathering

by Ben Hale

  There were a few minor problems to be solved as well. He had to choose a location that would be his headquarters, and begin selecting his war command of generals. The second problem, he believed, would solve itself. As races came, leaders would present themselves, and he would know them when he saw them. He needed seven primary generals to command the seven locations. Deiran, as the highest ranking officer of the city, would naturally lead the city’s forces. He knew his fortress well and he already trusted Braon. That left six, and if possible, his second in command.

  The location would be a puzzle because he needed a very specific place. It needed to be high in the city, and very defensible. It also needed to have a good view, which ruled out the palace and any other structure directly behind the great tree. A thought flashed into his head and he almost smiled. The dining hall of the House of Runya would be perfect. Its walls and ceiling were enchanted as if the room rested at the top of the great tree, giving an unparallel view of the valley below. Lariel would no doubt agree to its use, so he added speaking to her onto his checklist and moved on.

  For almost an hour he planned and waited for Telerial. Finally a guard ushered him to a room at the very top of the tower. The archmage sat behind an ornate desk in a chamber filled with books and rich tapestries. Trees grew along the walls and other detailed decorations adorned the room. Braon allowed the guildmaster a moment and then spoke first.

  “Telerial,” he said. “I know you have kept me waiting to satisfy your sense of importance.” The archmage’s eyes bulged at his blunt comment, but Braon continued before he could respond. “But we do not have time for such trivial massaging of ego.” He kept his tone controlled and respectful so as not to overly provoke the elf, and only waited for him to sputter before he added, “I have a task for you, one that is supremely challenging and will require all your skill with magic.”

  “What do you . . ., No, I didn’t . . . ?” he blustered and settled on, “What task could possibly challenge my skills?”

  Braon resisted the impulse to grin. Without waiting for the pompous elf to gain steam or deal with his first comment, he’d managed to diffuse his pride and suggest a challenge to it as well. He had hoped he would accept the challenge first, and by so doing, unconsciously accept his leadership.

  “I need your help to create a means to see the battlefield, and it needs to cover the entire cliff, the city, and the Lake Road. It needs to be detailed and accurate, as well as adaptable for when I need to examine a particular location with a closer perspective. I look to you to suggest a means to accomplish this task.” He inclined his head towards Telerial and the elf took the bait in an instant.

  “You have come to the right mage, my young friend.”

  “Commander,” Braon said and the elf stared at him, locking eyes. The young man could not allow even an inch of indecision within his command structure, and now was the time to reinforce the subtle hint he’d already placed. Braon didn’t blink and didn’t back down.

  After several tense moments the archmage frowned. “Commander then,” he said with a sneer. “I do believe something might be possible to help with the dilemma.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Braon asked, ignoring the attitude.

  “We might be able to combine light magic with plant and water magic. Plants can capture the light and transfer the images along roots to you, similar to the ceiling in the dining hall of the house of Runya.” Braon didn’t miss the flash of envy in his eye. “The tricky part will be to transfer that image to water, which would take on the shape of the image. I don’t think that has ever been done before and will be very tricky.”

  Braon smiled for the first time. “I do believe that would be perfect. The dining hall of the house of Runya will be the location of the map.”

  “Why not here or the house of Keserian?”

  “No.” Braon responded but gave no reason. “You have six weeks, archmage. And I believe if you are going to grow the roots from both ends of the Giant’s Shelf it will take most of that time. Make sure the map extends five miles back from the cliff, includes the Lake Road, and can view the first three levels of Azertorn. If possible, a couple of miles in front of the shelf would be helpful as well.”

  “Is that all?” Telerial asked, his brow pulling together.

  “Unfortunately no, I also need to be able to communicate with my generals. It will need to be fast and accurate.”

  Telerial shook his head. “I have no idea how to solve that one, but I will get started on the map for you.” He sniffed. “It will require my personal attention as well as many of my magi.”

  “Good.” Braon bobbed his head. “This is vital to our success against such an adversary. Any magi you are not using, please send to me. I will have other tasks for them.”

  Telerial agreed a little too readily, so Braon added, “The billions we will defend against will require our utmost preparation. Please do not fail to complete this, or the blood of nations will be on your hands. If you have any questions, please refer them to the queen or to me.” He knew the mage didn't like him, and loathed the idea of serving under him, but he hoped the reference to the queen would help him behave.

  The archmage furrowed his brow but took the warning well. “I will get started today.”

  Braon thanked him and left, not wanting to overstay his welcome. As soon as he was outside he took a deep breath. He’d known Telerial would be tough, but it had gone easier than he'd expected. For some reason his mind pulled to Deiran, and he wondered if the elf general had spoken to him. Either way, he was glad to have him at least partially on board, and even solving one of his problems. The elf would work with him for now—but he would be seeking any opportunity to usurp his authority.

  Blinking against the afternoon sun, Braon turned towards his next stop. He had the wheels in motion as well as he could for now, so one thing remained to do . . . learn about the enemy.

  Threading his way through the city towards where Lariel had indicated, he came to the elven archives. On the fourth tier of Azertorn, a plain structure stood out from the greenery-enshrouded buildings around it. Entering through a stone archway, he was greeted by single guard blocking the way.

  “State your business in the archives,” the elf said, obviously bored.

  “Braon, to see Sirfalas. Is he available?” the young man asked and the guard nodded.

  “One moment, please,” the guard said and departed down a corridor.

  Within minutes the wizened elf that had spoken to the high council appeared, trailing the guard, who passed Braon to resume his earlier position without further comment.

  Sirfalas approached and nodded at the young man, “Commander, I wondered how long it would be until you came. What can I do for you?”

  Surprised by the elder historian’s expectations, Braon asked, “Did you know I would be coming?”

  The old elf smiled, crinkling the lines around his eyes. “Any commander the Oracle would support would surely come here to learn more about the enemy he would face. I would even say you are earlier than I had expected.”

  Braon chuckled, pleased with the historians response. “Let’s get started then. What can you tell me about the enemy?”

  Sirfalas nodded and beckoned for him to follow, heading back down the corridor. "It is unfortunate that we know little about Draeken or his army, but what we do know will be useful to you.”

  “What do you mean?” Braon asked.

  Sirfalas coughed and had to clear his throat before he could answer, “We have no description of Draeken or his generals’ tactics, but we do have a description of the army. I suspect you will figure out their tactics from that.”

  Braon shrugged and nodded, conceding the point. “What else can you tell me?”

  “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Sirfalas answered and led the young man into an enormous cavern lined with shelves. Scrolls and parchments were organized and stacked into every available space in shelves that towered to the ceiling.


  Braon looked around in wonder and squinted into the distance where he couldn’t see the back wall. “I had no idea you had so many records.”

  The ancient historian chuckled until he coughed again. “This is one of three archives, but it is the oldest. We will have to go to the back to find what we need.”

  Braon followed the old elf into a maze of bookshelves. After several minutes they reached the back wall and Sirfalas turned to follow it until he came to a cracked archway in the stone. Through the doorway they came to a small room, with a single bookshelf on the wall and a desk on the opposite side.

  “These are all of the records that mention Draeken. I have collected them throughout my time here.” He shook his head. “I thought I was just satisfying my curiosity about what drove the elves to migrate, but now I know it was for you.”

  “Wait,” Braon said, raising his hand, “I thought no one knew who forced the elves west.”

  Sirfalas smiled a sad smile. “I believe it was Draeken ten thousand years ago, but when I shared it with the high council they thought there was insufficient evidence.”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.”

  Sirfalas nodded and pointed to a wooden chair. “This might take a while. There is quite a bit of material beyond the descriptions I sent with the messengers,” he wheezed and pulled on a small rope hanging from the ceiling. A distant bell chimed in response and he sat down across from Braon. “They will bring us food and drink. The juice will combat the dust.” As if on cue the ancient elf coughed again.

  Waiting for Sirfalas to finish, Braon said, “Tell me what you have learned.”

  He nodded and sighed. “Forgive me if I repeat things you already know. I tend to do that these days.” He chuckled, gathering his thoughts. “In truth, there is little we know of Draeken. Most believe that Draeken was a demigod of sorts, and many called him the God of Chaos. The legend tells that his meddling into the races of Lumineia caused too much havoc for Ero. Together, the gods imprisoned him in our world, and that is when Skorn gave him a way out. ‘If chaos reigns in the land of light, then your chains will be no more.’ I believe it was meant to be an eternal mockery of what Draeken desired, but they had no idea what the God of Chaos had been planning.”

  The historian gave a dry whispery laugh, and shook his head. "At least, that is the way the myth tells it. With few facts, it is difficult to say otherwise, but I believe that Draeken was just a man once. He may have even been an elf. The one thing we know for sure is that he intended to slay every living soul in Lumineia."

  “He’d gathered an army,” Braon said, and Sirfalas nodded soberly.

  “It would be more correct to say he created it, as the fiends are not natural to our world. Comprised of four kinds, these dark creatures are each deadly. United, and with so many, they are unstoppable.”

  “What can you tell me of the different types?” Braon asked.

  Sirfalas stood and searched for a scroll on the shelf. Finding it, he brought it to their table. Unrolling it carefully, he pointed to the first drawing on the yellowing paper. “This is a Quare, a man-sized fiend that grows a red mane. As you can see, its fangs are like that of an animal, and it wields no weapon. Several accounts describe the Quare as agile as panthers, and strong enough to tear men apart. They are also the most abundant fiend, and comprise over two-thirds of the entire army.”

  Sirfalas then moved his finger to another sketch of a large creature that resembled a scorpion. “This is a Skorpian, and it not unlike the poisonous creature—except it is as large as a wagon. They can launch a portion of their tail like a spear, making them the only type of fiend with a ranged attack. Once thrown, a spear can regrow in minutes and is hard enough to penetrate rock. Their pincers are also fast and as sharp as a sword.”

  Braon nodded, already working on defensive strategies. “What about this one?” He asked and pointed at a creature that resembled a dog.

  “Ah yes, a Siper. They are enormous hounds, larger than lions if the recording is accurate, and can be faster than a horse. There is one story of a score of Sipers that took down a company of human cavalry.”

  “Do weapons not penetrate their skin?” Braon asked, peering at the picture and trying to imagine the animal.

  “Not easily,” Sirfalas replied. “They have sharp scales made up of small triangular spikes, which raise and change from black to crimson when they are angry. Their eyes are said to be the color of the moon and they could see better at night.” He leaned back and swept his hand at the wall of records. “There are several tales of Sipers hunting men down and ripping them apart. Their howl even became known as 'the call of death,' but few survived to describe it.”

  Braon sighed, wondering once again if he had the ability to do this. Drawing strength from the Oracle's words, he focused on the last and largest drawing on the parchment. “What is this?”

  “Those are Krakas, the largest and most dangerous of the fiends. Standing at over ten feet tall, they towered over the human and elf defenders. They are the captains of the army, and for good reason. They are the most powerful. Their skin is black, but if you look at the sketch, they have white bone armor. It is written that they dragged a massive obsidian blade and early in the war the soldiers assumed the Krakas couldn’t wield their weapons with any speed. They were wrong. Dragging the blade is a deception, meant to cause their prey to think they are weaker than they are, but their strength is unparalleled in almost any race.”

  “What race could be stronger than a Kraka?” Braon asked, incredulous.

  Sirfalas shrugged his thin shoulders. “A rock troll would be similar in size and strength. The record tells of a single rock troll that fought with the elves. Aside from him, the ancients only killed a few of the fiend captains, with legions of men or large ballistae.”

  "What about Draeken’s generals?”

  They were interrupted by an elf bearing food and drink. The ancient historian thanked the bearer and reached for the glass pitcher. Pouring himself some amber liquid, he took a sip and sighed. The elf gave a short bow and departed as Sirfalas returned his gaze to Braon.

  “Ah, to your question. Draeken’s army is led by four supreme beings—one of which has already been killed. Death, the assassin and wielder of fear, was slain by Jack and Taryn. The other three will be just as dangerous, if not more so. War is the leader of the army, the general that you will pit your mind against. From the ancient descriptions he is said to be huge. Over twelve feet tall and completely armored with sharp metal shards, he will be more vicious than anything in his army. ”

  “The other two are forerunners, meaning they ride in advance of the army to weaken opposition. Plague brings disease. Not much is known about what he looks like, except that he unleashes widespread sickness. Much of his ability is governed by distance. The closer he is, the sicker you become.”

  “Can he be killed?” Braon asked.

  “I am sure it is possible, but I don’t know how. I only have two accounts of soldiers that survived an encounter. Both were archers, and they chronicled that anyone who got within fifty feet began retching and falling to the ground. Then they grew diseased and died. The two archers wrote that they shot him with several arrows, but it didn’t seem to affect him. It is my belief that he is, in a literal sense, a combination of ailments, and no conventional weapon can hurt a disease.”

  Braon took a moment to mull that over and chewed on some meat. Sirfalas allowed his companion to eat in silence, waiting patiently as he worked his way through some bread. When Braon had considered several ideas he bobbed his head. “Who is the last one?”

  The historian cleared his throat to answer and said, “The last being created by Draeken is Famine. Crops withered and food spoiled if he came too close. Just like Plague, his ability is also controlled by distance. Time seemed to be a factor as well. For instance, soldiers rations wouldn’t spoil overnight, it took days for the food to go rancid, unless he was physically clos
er, in which case the men felt themselves get hungry, and then weaker, before they perished. Some bodies were found in the fetal position, holding their stomachs as if they died in agony.” He shuddered. “The drawings show them so skinny they looked like a skeleton inside of a sack of skin.”

  “Did anyone get close and not die? Did anyone hurt him?” Braon asked. He did his best to keep the creeping desperation from appearing in his voice.

  “I do have a single story of a survivor, although I doubt its word.” Getting up he moved back to the shelf and perused the stacks of scrolls until he found the one he wanted. “Ah, this is it.” Returning to his seat he gingerly unrolled the stiff material and scanned the writing. “It is a story of an unnamed blacksmith in a town where Famine passed through. Everyone in the village wasted away and died, but this man did not.”

  He paused and mumbled to himself for a moment before he came to what he was looking for. “Let’s see . . . that’s right, I didn’t remember.” Looking at Braon he pointed at the parchment. “The author said the man was extremely overweight, and managed to get to a horse. When Famine came after him he threw his hammer at the being. It struck him on the arm, and the fiend appeared hurt and backed away, allowing the blacksmith time to escape.” Sirfalas chuckled and took a swallow of juice. “The report indicates that both the horse and the rider were much skinnier after that.”

  “Hmm,” Braon mused aloud. “So perhaps he can be hurt, but no one can get close. Interesting.” He stared off into space while he finished the meal, his mind reviewing possible strategies against all he’d learned.