Highlords of Phaer (Empire of Masks Book 1)

by Brock Deskins

“Can you tell which it is? Do you have the strength to try and lift us just a little to find out?”

  The pilot shook his head, his eyes wide and fearful.

  “Perhaps you just need to rest. I can see if there are any others aboard who have the ability.”

  “No,” Lorbash said with finality. “The magic is wild, chaotic. I cannot grasp it. Even if the heart stones are intact, I cannot channel any power into them.”

  Jareen shuffled up beside them. “How is that possible?”

  “We have killed the highlords and so they have denied us the privilege of their magic,” Lorbash answered. “The airships will never fly again.”

  “We can dwell on that later,” Atin said. “For now, we must attend to the wounded.”

  The men looked up at the grating sound of stone. Several rocks dropped from the walls and struck the ship and the ground around them.

  “We need to get out of here,” Jareen declared. “The walls are not stable and this storm could shake them down atop us if we stay. Start clearing the hold and assign men to carry the wounded. I will gather some people, collect supplies, and make torches.”

  Atin nodded. “These old volcanoes often have vents that lead outside. With any luck, we can reach one and shelter there until the storm clears.”

  “If it clears,” Lorbash said. “Who can say the limit of the highlords’ vengeance?”

  Atin clapped the pilot on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. The men will need someone like you to help keep their morale up.”

  ***

  Jareen and Atin led their people from the ship. Using what was left of the sails, several of them had fashioned torches, and they found a cleft in the enormous chamber wall that led into a series of tunnels. Rocks continued to fall as if to usher the castaways out of the former magma chamber.

  A deep rumbling filled the caldera. Those trailing behind surged forward as the walls collapsed. Jareen and Atin shouted back down the passage for everyone to hasten the evacuation. The last of the stragglers rushed into the cavern as a large section of the crest crumbled and cascaded into the volcano.

  The crashing stone was deafening and sent a powerful gust of wind and dust into the cavern like a miniature storm. People covered their faces with cloths in an attempt to filter out the choking particulates as they blindly pushed on.

  It took hours to find where the ancient magma vent reached the surface. What awaited them was a world set in a nightmare. Powerful winds cloaked the land in a scouring veil of dust, rock, and debris. The only thing visible within the storm was the constant coruscating lightning marbling the reddish-brown haze.

  “We will have to wait out the storm here,” Atin said.

  Lorbash shook his head. “There will be no end. The highlords have either sent us all to the Tormented Plane, or they have brought it to our world.”

  “There’s the Mister Cheerful I remember from the ship,” Atin said.

  Jareen asked, “What do we have for supplies? Primarily food and water?”

  “Not a lot. As you know, we never anticipated a long battle and brought very little with us. I will grab some of my people and take an inventory. Stay here and watch the storm for any change that might lend evidence to Lorbash’s statement either for or against.”

  Jareen nodded and watched the storm through the aperture of the cave mouth. While concerned for his plight as well as those stranded with him, his mind was focused on what was happening in his city, and it was his city. His surname, Velarius, was a namesake of the glorious city from back when his ancestors ruled it before the rise of the sorcerers, and it would be his again. His and Tyler’s.

  The storm added an entirely new element, both deadly and unpredictable. The ground shook as if to accentuate his thoughts and its role in what was to become of them. People around him looked up at the cavern ceiling and murmured to themselves. Husbands tried to reassure wives and wives consoled children. Jareen prayed that they would be spared another collapse as several more tremors rattled the mountain.

  Atin returned half an hour after he had departed and went to Jareen. “We are in better shape than I had hoped. The men were smart and brought the barrels used to quench the cannons between shots so we have a few days’ worth of water. Some grabbed a few flares and most of them kept hold of their muskets, powder, and shot. We can hunt for food when the storm breaks…if it breaks. What’s it looking like?”

  “I’m sure you felt the tremors. It appears as though it is going to get worse before it gets better. What it means for our homes, I cannot say.”

  “I felt the highlords’ death, and I can only guess that the overlords did as well,” Lorbash said. “Any threat to the highlords would call for an immediate reprisal in every city. The slaughter of our citizens will have already begun, starting with the ranking lowborn families such as yours.”

  “Lorbash is right about their actions if they sensed Arikhan’s death,” Atin said, “but his gloomy outcome may not be. Lorbash, are you still unable to channel magic?”

  “It is like trying to pluck fireflies out of the air while blindfolded.”

  “While the overlords command the cities’ soldiers, those soldiers are all lowborn with the exception of the officers. How long do you think they will follow orders to execute their own people, their friends and families, once they discover their masters have no power beyond their voices?”

  Jareen nodded at Atin’s reasoning. “The highborn are few and their only power resided in their magic. With it gone, they are defenseless against an army even without many muskets or cannon. This storm may well be a blessing in disguise.”

  “Tell that to the Bastion,” Atin lamented.

  “She was a beautiful ship, but she went down overthrowing the highlords and seeing her crew to safety.”

  The cavern rumbled. “We aren’t safe yet.”

  ***

  The storm raged for days before finally relenting. The arrival of animals seeking shelter, mostly tough, chewy skitter lizards, staved off some of the hunger. With their water supply down by more than half, Atin and Jareen decided it was time to brave the still blowing dust storm and head for Vulcrad.

  Jareen laid a hand on Atin’s arm just as they were about to lead the way out. “Wait, I see something.”

  A large, semi-amorphous shape glided through the blowing dust a few hundred feet beyond the cave opening.

  “Quickly, fetch someone with flares!” Jareen ordered.

  Word was sent down the line and a man with a satchel draped over one shoulder hastened forward. Jareen pointed at the shape flying a hundred or so feet off the ground. The man used a flint striker to cast sparks onto the flare’s flash pan. The powder ignited and sent a fiery orb streaking into the sky.

  “Another!”

  The man struck a second tube and launched another flare. The drifting shape slowed and tacked toward them. Bells began to ring on what they could now make out as an airship.

  Jareen grabbed Atin’s shoulder and shook it as he laughed. “It’s the Celestial! She made it!”

  Nibbenar’s airship fought the blowing wind and touched down not far from the cave mouth on a stretch of flat ground. A small door opened in its hull. A gangplank, like a long wooden tongue, emerged through the doorway. Several figures descended the ramp and strode toward the castaways.

  “Rayna, you survived!” Jareen cried out, embracing the woman.

  “I was afraid we were the only ones. What happened to the Bastion?” she asked.

  “We had to set it down in this volcano’s crater to escape the storm, but her heart stone was depleted or damaged and then got buried in a rockslide. How did you manage to weather this calamity?”

  “We dropped down into a deep gorge the moment we saw the light erupt over Phaer. We were just able to duck below the dust wall when it hit. It was not until early this morning that the winds subsided enough for us to risk putting her back in the air. We’ve been sticking close to the ground so we could spot survivors. Good thing for you. I dou
bt we would have even seen the flares if we were higher.”

  “Just don’t run into a mountain,” Jareen scoffed. “Do you have room to take us aboard?”

  Rayna’s face fell. “No, but if you have a compass I can point Atin in the direction of Vulcrad. You’re only maybe three days’ walk. I can spare a bit of water, food, and weapons if you need them.”

  “We are fine on weapons, but any food and water you can give us would be much appreciated,” Atin said. “I will take whoever wants to continue on foot to Vulcrad with me.”

  Rayna laid a hand on Atin’s arm. “If I could ferry your people to Vulcrad I would, but my pilot says the innervators are having a difficult time harnessing magic to charge the heart stone. She says the magic that is out there is chaotic and diminishing. She thinks that in a few days there won’t be any magic left in the world.”

  “Lorbash said much the same. I understand. Can you get Jareen to Velaroth?”

  “Given the extra weight, just barely. Fortunately, the wind is with us.”

  “Velaroth should have some airships with viable heart stones,” Jareen said. “I’m sure we can find enough to get you all the way to Nibbenar.”

  Rayna nodded and smiled. “Here’s to hoping. Otherwise, you’re in for some very long houseguests. Atin, be watchful in your travels. The land has changed. I deliberately flew over two towns on my way here—at least where they should have been.”

  “Should have been?”

  “Rillis and Malikar are gone, and I did not see any sign of survivors.”

  “Gods above, Rillis was home to some six thousand people,” Jareen said softly.

  “And near four thousand in Malikar. What could have happened to them?” Atin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rayna replied. “Like I said, the land has changed. Features that were once there are gone. I had to go around a mountain that was not there when we last came this way. Whatever has happened, I think it is just the beginning. We set out to change the world and we succeeded far beyond what we intended.”

  “Let us see to those supplies,” Atin said. “Whatever awaits us, I will not meet it half-starved.”

  Rayna had her crew bring out all the food and water they could spare. Jareen’s people boarded the airship, filling it to capacity and beyond. It was going to be cramped quarters for everyone for the next several days, but at least they were going home.

  Jareen shook Atin’s hand once more before he departed. “If there are any airworthy vessels in Vulcrad, send one to me just so I know you made it and all is well.”

  “Fear not, my friend. Vulcrad might be rough and humble by Velaroth and Nibbenar’s standards, but we are a sturdy people with our mines to shelter us. This is not the end of anything, it is the beginning.”

  ***

  A glimmer of excitement shot through Quinlan when he realized that he was alive. His elation turned to terror when he discovered he could neither see nor breathe. He thrashed about, shoving at the weight pressing down upon him. His left arm shot lancing pain through his body, but he continued to fight and broke through the sand that had buried him.

  Quinlan sat up and gasped in the precious air until he thought his lungs would burst. He brushed the grit crusting his eyelids and looked around. Other than being in a sandstorm, the world appeared the same, but he could tell that something was very wrong. He stood upon shaking legs, glanced at his left arm now hanging limply at his side, and trudged toward home. Velaroth was a thousand miles away through hostile lands, but he knew in his heart he would make it. He was nothing if not a survivor.

  ***

  Amaia watched from the balcony of her seaside estate as the two score airships sailed into the Great Tempest. Even now, the wind rustled her robes and whipped through the sails and rigging of the ships overhead, but sunlight streamed through breaks in the storm. It would be a rough voyage for the crew, Necrophages, and Ulec packed aboard the vessels, but the brave airship crews who scouted the eternal squall reported that it was navigable.

  Some had urged her to wait and see if the tempest would continue to abate, but there had been some wild fluctuations recently in the energy driving the storm and she did not want to risk losing this window of opportunity. Amaia laid a hand over her swollen belly. She had already sacrificed more than she liked in the name of caution by heeding Dante’s urging for her not to accompany the invasion force. She had chosen a terrible time to get pregnant.

  Staying back rankled her. She was the harbinger, destined to be the one to bring death and destruction to the sorcerers and the decedents of those who had cast her forbears from their homes. She reconciled her disappointment by reminding herself that her children would know her not just as Harbinger, but Empress.

  The airships continued to shrink as they sailed into the turbulent sky. Amaia’s heart began to race as she watched the golden rays of sunlight get cut off by the deepening, darkening clouds. The wind increased until the hem of her robes was snapping in the wind and whipping her legs. She put her eye to the spyglass mounted on the balcony rail and pointed it at the horizon.

  A wall of what could only be described as elemental death bore down on the fleet like an avalanche. She saw the airships trying to turn back, but it was clear they would not make it. Amaia knew she should get inside, down to the basement, but she could not tear her gaze away from the horror unfolding before her eyes.

  The edge of the storm wall caught the lead ships as they tried in vain to outrun it. Amaia was unsure which airship Dante commanded, but she knew it would be in the lead. Some of the vessels’ sterns rose up and were pushed ahead before the storm swallowed them and vanished. The tempest reached out to other airships with arms of swirling wind and cast them about like toys.

  Ships broke apart into their basic components, those great vehicles that had taken months to build reduced to splinters and flying bits of debris by the awesome vortices comprising the heart of the storm. Amaia looked on, knowing that thousands of those dark specks being hurled about and falling into the roiling sea below were her people, one of them the father of her unborn child.

  The last of the airships vanished, consumed by the insatiable squall that now loomed over her, still hungry for more. Amaia raced from the balcony and sprinted downstairs toward the basement. A powerful gust of wind tore through the open door behind her and hurled her down the first flight of steps. She looked up as the house groaned and the wind ripped off the roof and cast it away.

  Amaia stared up at the black sky for just a moment before crawling down the stairs on her hands and knees as the house shook apart around her. She finally reached the basement, wrapped her arms around a support post, and prayed to the black moon for salvation.

  The storm battered the land for hours before finally relenting. Amaia clambered from her hole surrounded by the few Ulec slaves who had also sought shelter in the basement. The mansion was gone, scoured from the land with no trace of it ever having existed except for a barren stone floor covering the cellar.

  She walked as if in a daze to the sea, which now churned with renewed vigor. Thousands of bodies littered the beach along with tons of flotsam. Amaia searched for Dante amongst the dead bodies for hours before giving up. She did find Gaizar, his large frame bloated even more by seawater.

  Amaia dropped to her knees and wailed. Empress, Harbinger, the titles rang with mockery in her ears. This was all her doing. Pherick, her parents, all had been right. Had she only waited, her people would have been spared destruction. The sorcerers had set a trap, and she had walked right into it while singing songs of glory.

  She reached out and tried to fortify herself with her magic, but it refused to obey. Somehow, even it knew she was no longer a worthy leader and denied her. Amaia looked out at the tempest, renewed and as furious as ever, and wondered what future, if any, she and her people would have.

  The End

  SNEAK PREVIEW OF NIGHT BIRD

  Year 197A.C. (After the Cataclysm)

  Kiera slipped between the de
ep pools of darkness dotting the third-floor hallway like the ghost of a long-dead previous owner, invisible to all senses. Crouching in the concealing shadow of a small table with a large vase atop it, she checked that the hood drawn over her head still covered her shoulder-length black hair and tugged the wrap higher up her short, slightly wide, freckled nose.

  Her dark blue eyes flicked from side to side as she cocked an ear toward the enormous ballroom ringed by the two upper-floor balconies. Heavy footsteps below gave away the position of one of several interior guards as he patrolled the luxurious mansion. The fifteen-year-old thief waited with bated breath as the footsteps receded into another room.

  Kiera stood and slinked to the door near the end of the hall. Using her lock picks, she tickled the pins until they relented to her gentle probing and released their hold on the bolt. Opening the door just enough to clear the bolt from its recess, she slid a parchment-thin strip of metal between the top of the door and the frame. As Kiera expected, the probe bumped up against a spring-loaded pin, which was certainly part of a windup alarm bell.

  Kiera gently pushed the door open, slipped inside like a dancer performing a pirouette in order to keep the alarm pin depressed, and closed it behind her. Her heart thudded in her chest despite her having defeated three such alarms already, but this was by far the riskiest job she had ever done and her nerves had been raw from the start.

  Kiera was no stranger to pilfering. Her indoctrination into the world of petty crime started when she was just a child at the Wayward House for Orphaned Waifs. Care for Velaroth’s unfortunate children was supposed to be paid for by the city ministry through taxes and private donations. However, as with any business, there were side channels who needed paid as well.

  It was said you could not take a piss in Velaroth without paying at least three people: the man who owned the bucket, the one who emptied the bucket, and whoever owned the hole into which it was dumped, and the Wayward House was no different. If you wanted to eat more than the most basic gruel, you paid the kitchen staff. If you wanted more than a single, moth-eaten blanket to increase your chances of making it through the winter without contracting and possibly dying of some virulent illness, you paid the house master.