The Last Whisper of the Gods

by Berardinelli, James

  The Last Whisper of the Gods

  Volume 1 of The Last Whisper of the Gods series

  By James Berardinelli

  © 2015 James Berardinelli

  Cover art by Jacob Atienza

  Map by James Berardinelli

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE: THE LAST WHISPER

  CHAPTER ONE: AT THE WAYFARER’S COMFORT

  CHAPTER TWO: VISITORS

  CHAPTER THREE: THE KING’S CONSCIENCE

  CHAPTER FOUR: HINTS OF THE PAST

  CHAPTER FIVE: COOLING OFF

  CHAPTER SIX: THUNDER

  CHAPTER SEVEN: THE EMISSARY

  CHAPTER EIGHT: A SECOND CHAMPION

  CHAPTER NINE: SORIAL’S MATURITY

  CHAPTER TEN: THE PRELATE’S SPECULATION

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: ANNIE

  CHAPTER TWELVE: DEATH IN THE STABLE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A NEW POST

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SORIAL’S DAY OFF

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: ANOTHER ATTACK

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE MIDWINTER CARNIVAL

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE COUNCIL’S ADVICE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ALICIA’S BETROTHAL

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: PATIENCE

  CHAPTER TWENTY: SORIAL’S ABSENCE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: A PRINCESS FROM THE NORTH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: CAPITULATION

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: FAREWELLS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: CATCHING A KING

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE SOUTHERN WILDS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: LEFT BEHIND

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: THE ROCK WYRM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: TRUTH

  CHAPTER THIRTY: LAMANAR’S TALE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE CAGED BIRD FLIES

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: DUNGEON

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: A SHARED BURDEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: THE PORTAL OF HAVENHAM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: THE ROAD NORTH

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: APOTHEOSIS

  PROLOGUE: THE LAST WHISPER

  As all ages begin, so must all ages end. The Age of Wonders, as men had come to call it, opened when the gods turned their attention from other matters to the world of Ayberia, where their creatures were spreading across the main continent and fashioning crude tools from the materials at hand. The Age of Wonders closed with the death of the gods. Nothing lasts forever and the gods, weary of the unending sameness of eternity, characterized by repetition and inactivity, simply decided to be no longer. For entities that had lasted since the dawn of time, the choice might have seemed precipitous, but they selected it with equanimity. Oblivion was an enviable state. Today, they were. Tomorrow, they would not be - not that the concept of time had any meaning for them. Tomorrows, todays, and yesterdays were much the same – an endless, unbroken cycle that would continue with or without them. They had set it in motion; they were not needed to keep it going.

  The universe was in relative balance and the gods believed it would stay that way forever, or nearly so. Chaos countered Order; dark countered light; heat countered cold; death countered life. Existence for the gods’ creations could continue for as long as universal balance was maintained. The world of Ayberia was troublesome, however, and it had ever been thus. It was there the gods had taken an active role and there their absence would be most keenly felt. The decision no longer to be would be viewed as a betrayal by the creatures of Ayberia. And there was an absence of balance. The gods’ tinkering had placed that world in a precarious position. Once they were gone, robbed of stability, it might destroy itself.

  To prevent that, the gods took one action before ceasing to be. They cast their gaze upon Ayberia for a final time and determined what must be done to safeguard their prized creation and provide it with the potential to achieve and maintain balance. Caretakers would be needed: beings elevated to a level where they could assure the future of the world. Nothing would be certain, of course, especially after the gods were gone. If one caretaker toppled the others, Chaos would overwhelm Order and spread like a plague throughout the whole of the created universe. There was only so much that could be accomplished - the hope of a future, but no more than that. The gods were powerful and time had little meaning for them, but they were not omnipresent. So, with their last whisper, the gods gave a gift to Ayberia, then winked out of existence, leaving the whole of their universe to fend for itself.

  CHAPTER ONE: AT THE WAYFARER’S COMFORT

  Since being a babe in his crib, Sorial had relished sunrises - the firm earth beneath his feet and the brightening of the firmament above. It was a spiritual experience, a new beginning to anticipate each morn no matter how bleak all else had become. As light streamed over the horizon driving back the darkness, the birth of the new day offered a special promise. Men might break faith and the gods might be fickle, but the dawn was consistent, even when its approach was shrouded by clouds. No matter what he was doing or where he was, Sorial longed to be outside on those days when the sky was clear enough to display the arrival of the day’s sun.

  Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. Clouds blanketed the canopy above from horizon to horizon, promising a cold rain. Sorial rubbed his hands together, trying to generate warmth. It wasn’t cold enough to snow, but this was as bad as the weather could get before the season of Harvest was complete. What happened in the fields was a matter of indifference to Sorial, since he worked in a stable, but he knew the farmers would be grumbling today. Not only would the weather make their work more difficult, but the clouds curtailed the hours of light, stealing away valuable time. At this point of the year, with Winter’s bite just around the corner, farmers liked sunlit days and moonlit nights. A few hours’ rest was all they needed; sleep could wait until the crops were harvested and the fields lay barren. Their survival through the frosty months ahead demanded that they work long and hard now.

  Sorial used a rust-encrusted rake to move around the straw. He had already mucked out the stalls so now it was time to make the stable look like the cleanest and most appealing in the whole of Vantok city. Sorial knew that workers in other stables hid much of the manure under the straw, but that wouldn’t do for his domain. It wasn’t that he was inherently fastidious about cleanliness, but he spent his nights here and didn’t like the thought of lying down in a bed of shit. There were enough other unsavory things to cope with. Rats and mice had an affinity for him. He often awoke with a family of them curled up next to him for warmth.

  Despite having seen only thirteen Summers, Sorial was hardened beyond his years. He supposed that’s what came of not having a steady home or family. He had lived and worked in the stable of The Wayfarer’s Comfort for more than half his existence. His memories of the times before coming here were fragmented and elusive, like the waking recollection of a dream - faces and places, some familiar but most not. Seven years ago, his father had sold him to the innkeeper for a decade’s wages - a pittance long since spent on drink. Under the law, Sorial was beholden until he turned fifteen, the age of Maturity. At that time, he could choose his own way: leave The Wayfarer’s Comfort or remain with a promotion, earning wages rather than being indentured. He sometimes fantasized about venturing out to see the great, wide world - perhaps going as far as one of the other five cities - but the likelihood was that he would spend the rest of his life in Vantok, probably working in this very stable. He would marry another of his class - he had someone in mind - and maybe have a few children. It was as if the gods had inscribed his future on an invisible tablet.

  Warburm, the innkeeper, wasn’t a bad man to work for, considering the circumstances. It was his right to drive Sorial to exhaustion and thrash h
im for perceived laxity, but that wasn’t Warburm’s way. He was fair, which was more than could be said for many masters. He demanded hard work but provided good vittles and allowed Sorial to sleep in the loft. Although the common room was off limits when it was open, Sorial was allowed inside after hours for a free mug of warm, watered-down ale. On Restday, the last day of the week, he was given the entire afternoon to do as he pleased. He could wander the city streets, journey into the countryside, or visit his parents on their little farm. His mother was always glad to see him, favoring him with a sad smile and a homemade grain cake. By mutual intent, he rarely met his father and, when he did, their greetings were chilly. He blamed Lamanar for the loss of his freedom and the separation from his mother. The animosity was reciprocated, although Sorial didn’t know why.

  Like most boys whose livelihood depended on manual labor, Sorial was a strapping lad - lean and well-muscled with skin bronzed by sun exposure. His worn, ill-fitting shirt and breeches, the only clothing he owned, were typical among children without funds to purchase even the most basic wardrobe. His features, as might be expected from one of his young years, were not yet fully developed but his brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and curiosity. His nose was flattened and misshapen, the result of having been broken more than once, and a scar split his left eyebrow, the lasting reminder of a knife fight. Surprisingly for one who had been in countless scraps, his teeth were intact. As a guard against lice, his head was shaven to black stubble. The hair color, combined with his short stature, reflected a Syrene heritage. He had been told his mother was from that distant northern territory. Syrenes were often spoken of with a mixture of awe and mistrust, but Sorial was ignorant as to why. Education was not a prerequisite for working in a place like this.

  Presently, five horses and two donkeys were berthed in the stable. There were stalls for three times that number, but Sorial couldn’t remember caring for more than a dozen at any one time. The Wayfarer’s Comfort catered primarily to local folk - farmers and merchants - and they came on foot. Important visitors from the other cities used the higher priced inns located in the nobles’ quarter.

  The animals were often less trouble than their owners. He liked horses. They didn’t purr like cats but their strong, assured presences brought a sense of comfort. He liked to smooth down their coats. Their lives seemed so uncomplicated. He was no less a beast of burden than they were, yet they were cared for while he did the caring. To have been born a horse… well, wishing wouldn’t make it so. He was a boy and his lot in life was fixed. There was nothing to be done but accept it and get on with his chores.

  When he was done with the straw, Sorial began brushing the animals. His life was governed by routine; he rarely had to consider what was next. His hours were regimented, with one duty following another in a litany that allowed Sorial’s mind to wander while his muscle memory took his body from task to task. Most peasants lived this way. It was the way of the world, the way the gods had created things.

  A noise from behind alerted Sorial that he was no longer alone. Before he could turn, a voice hoarse from shouting asked, “How be things, lad? Anything going on out ’ere I should know about?”

  The newcomer was Warburm, the innkeeper of The Wayfarer’s Comfort, an aging portly man with greasy chestnut hair and a red, bulbous nose. His clothing, which might have once been white, was stained brown from fat, meat juices, and other things. His broad apron was clean, but that would be remedied before the morning crowd was done.

  Sorial was surprised to see his master here. Visits to the stable were rare. Warburm hated the smell of horses almost as much as he detested cats. When he had a message to convey to his stableboys, he sent one of his small army of serving wenches. Was something amiss? Had he done something to anger a customer?

  “Nothing unusual, Master Warburm. The rain makes it damp and the straw smells…” He wrinkled his nose.

  “I ain’t talking ’bout the weather, lad!” Warburm’s characteristic impatience emerged in his sharp tone. “I been hearing some unsettling rumors. I won’t scare you with them and most be the ramblings of travelers who drunk too much ale, but if there be any truth, we needs to be vigilant.”

  “Vigi…?” Although Sorial couldn’t read or write letters, he possessed a strong vocabulary - a fruit borne of listening to the wide variety of Warburm’s clientele. Nevertheless, this was a new word.

  “Watchful. Keep your damn eyes open and if you sees anything unusual, go to the kitchen and tell Mistress Ponari. She’ll contact me and I’ll decide if anything needs doing. Vantok done been a peaceful city - that be why I bought my inn here - but we may be entering dangerous times.”

  With that, as quickly as he had come, Warburm returned to his inn. Sorial was left alone with the whickering of the horses and the gentle rat-a-tat-tat of the rain outside.

  The oddity of the conversation left Sorial unsettled. If the innkeeper was concerned then so too should he be. Priests were always auguring grim tidings, warning that humanity’s sinfulness would bring about a reckoning, but it was in Warburm’s nature to laugh off such things. For the innkeeper to preach watchfulness... there was something afoot. But what? Dangerous times? Sometimes Sorial felt isolated from the world out here in the stable. On some occasions, it could be comforting, but not now. Suddenly, he felt vulnerable.

  He wandered to the stable doors and peered out. Everything looked the same as always: the mud-spattered courtyard, the hustle and bustle of Tower Street beyond, the delivery boys unloading supplies to be stored in the inn’s cellar. Sorial had seen these sights countless times before. This morning, everyone was moving a little faster, but that was because of the rain. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet…

  Sorial was alone with his thoughts for several hours before someone entered the stalls: a merchant who, having slaked his thirst and sated his appetites for food and other simple comforts, came to get his horse. He didn’t speak a word to the stableboy, but negligently tossed a few bronze studs when he was done. Sorial thanked the man as he pocketed them. A deal with Warburm allowed him to keep one tenth of all tips received. The rest went to the inn. Sorial often cheated but made certain to give enough to Warburm so the man didn’t become suspicious. His treasure spot was well hidden but if Warburm executed a search of the stable he would find it. Sorial didn’t want to give him a reason to try.

  By noon, both donkeys and three of the five horses were gone. It was then that the first newcomer of the day arrived.

  He entered the stable leading a heavily laden pack mule. By his garb, Sorial knew him to be a priest. He wore the heavy, dark robes typical of one who served the gods and his head was tonsured. The small finger on his left hand had been removed at the first knuckle - a practice common among devout branches of religious service. Unusual for a priest, however, was the man’s unshaven jowl. Equally atypical were the dark bags under his eyes. He was either sleeping poorly or not at all.

  The man greeted the stableboy with a weary “My son.” Sorial raised an eyebrow at the simple benediction. He had never met a priest who didn’t offer the traditional blessing: “May the gods smile upon you and yours.”

  As Sorial took charge of the mule, the priest paused and regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and sadness. “Are you a believer, my son?”

  Sorial shrugged. He didn’t have much time for the gods and he suspected they didn’t have much time for him. His life consisted of the stable, the animals, and the innkeeper. “Don’t rightly know,” he said. “My parents never taught me one way or t’other and I ain’t given it much thought.”

  “You may be wiser than us all. I have devoted my entire life to the gods, and this is how they repay me…” He let the sentence hang.

  It occurred to Sorial to wonder why the man was confiding in him. People typically ignored him except to berate him if they felt their animal had been mistreated.

  “They have abandoned us.” The priest’s voice was thick with anger and grief. “How we have displeased them,
I cannot say, but they have turned from us. Devout or infidel, it doesn't matter. There are no miracles. Prayers aren't answered. It's been thus for many years… more than a decade, perhaps as many as two… but it can no longer be ignored. Woe be unto us all. Evildoers will prosper and those who have devoted their lives to the path of rightness will dine on ashes. The gods no longer favor their people.”

  Sorial might have shrugged if he wasn’t sure it would offend the priest. As far as he was concerned, the gods had never favored him in the first place. That’s why he was slaving away in a stable for no wages. Gods or no gods, he didn’t see that it mattered. His life would be what he made of it, not what some far-off divinity decreed. He had learned that lesson long ago.

  “I see this has little meaning for you, my son.”

  “It’s just that I can’t see how things will be different for me without the gods.”

  The priest smiled, but it wasn’t a happy expression. “I can understand how one so young and isolated might feel that way. But without the gods, who nurture this world and all its creatures, balance will erode. Even one in your position will eventually feel the sting of life in an existence devoid of their care and guidance.”

  Sorial considered, wondering about a possible connection between the priest’s attitude and the warning Warburm had delivered earlier. Dangerous times?

  “I have no answers, my son. I am traveling the whole of the land, seeking solace - seeking evidence of some small group among us that still has favor with the gods. At every stop I have made, there's little to encourage. What grievous sin have we committed to cause the gods to look away?”

  The priest was on the verge of tears. There wasn’t much Sorial could offer in the way of comfort. He was experienced in caring for animals, not people. And in any theological discussion, he was out of his depth.

  “Is the innkeeper about at this time of the day?”

  “He’s in the common room. The fat man in the dirty clothes. You can’t miss him.”