When Y’neth looked up to find the source of the light she saw the water’s surface. Tann residences found in surface dweller cities were often split-level. The level below water was personal living space, the one above for business with air breathers.
When she ascended the stairs into the open air, Y’neth found a small group of tann gathered around a stone table in the center of a large, spartan room. A young man wearing uwbal caste livery saw her arrival and leaned over to whisper in the ear of the matriarch seated at the head of the table.
The woman looked up and regarded Y’neth with a detached expression. “Come and sit, honored daughter,” she said.
Y’neth’s reply was automatic. “Yes, revered mother.”
An elderly male stood from his chair as she approached, offering her the seat at the matriarch’s right hand. The sigils on his tunic marked him as ayin caste, a healer in the matriarch’s service. Y’neth knew he’d been responsible for her recovery, and he hovered about her as she sat.
“We thought you’d never awaken,” the matriarch looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Your wounds were grievous, but thankfully the humans who found you had a healer aboard ship who knew enough about our kind to place you in a bath of sea water. Had he not done so, you surely would have died.”
“Where am I, lady?” asked Y’neth.
“The human city of Hocsaros. I’m Oana, royal ambassador for our people.” The matriarch paused, staring at Y’neth in pointed consideration. “And you are called Y’neth.”
Y’neth’s whiteless eyes went wide, inner eyelids blinking rapidly in surprise. “Yes, mother,” she answered. “How did you know?”
“You were an acolyte of Tower Island, were you not? As a ranking matriarch of the royal family, and ambassador, it is my duty to know who you are. What’s more, I am one of the caretakers of the island’s wards, so the Tower and its purpose is known to me.”
“I see,” Y’neth wrung the hem of her shift with her hands. “Then you know the Tower’s purpose has failed. The acolytes were slaughtered and the talisman taken.”
“The ship’s captain said the men’s throats were slashed open, and the women appeared to have been tortured. Is this true?”
Y’neth’s blue skin flushed purple as she relived the attack. The matriarch leaned forward with a comforting hand, turning the younger woman’s anger to embarrassment. Royal women rarely showed compassion toward women of other castes, and the gesture shocked Y’neth. She looked up and found kind reassurance on the elder’s face. She breathed a slow breath and worked to rein in her emotions.
“He spoke truly,” Y’neth finally responded. “The men were given no quarter, but the women they kept alive for their amusement that night. The next morning they were strangled one by one.”
“But not you,” the matriarch pressed.
“I was…” Y’neth ground her teeth. “I was bound. They forced me to watch.”
Oana squeezed Y’neth’s arm. “Did they…?”
“No,” Y’neth’s voice was flat. “They were superstitious and wouldn’t touch me again once I was bound and no longer a threat.”
Oana sat back in visible relief. “Sailors are an irrational lot. I’m surprised they touched you at all rather than let you escape. Their fear of discovery overshadowed their fear of misfortune.”
“I did attempt to escape,” Y’neth said. “I rolled toward the water but one of them caught me before I reached the shore. Until then they seemed content to bind me, but afterwards their first mate took his pleasure beating me unconscious. It…it took a long time.”
“Captain Stile said they found you beaten but unbound, though it was clear you’d been tied with rope. He told of the slaughter, and the burned out tower.” Oana paused to look Y’neth in the eye. “There was nothing you could have done. You’re not at fault.”
“We failed,” Y’neth voice quavered. “We lost the sword, Dilkah. We failed our trust.”
“Listen and listen well, daughter,” Oana’s voice was hard edged. “You’re not responsible for this calamity. It’s uncertain how the pirates found the island, but they did. Somehow their ship, as well as your rescuer’s, failed to initiate the island’s wards. Every defense was broken or bypassed by forces beyond our understanding.”
“How is it our watchmen didn’t see the ships?”
Oana shrugged. “We don’t know. There was an unnatural storm that covered the pirates’ escape. Captain Stile and his crew were caught in that storm, and it nearly took their ship under.”
“What about the kraken? How did they slip past her?”
“She’s dead.”
“How is that possible? What could kill the kraken?”
“She was found floating on the surface, her body ripped to shreds. We believe it was a dragon.”
Y’neth swayed in her chair, forcing the healer standing over to grab her with a steadying hand. The color in her faced drained away to a pale blue.
“My lady,” he told the matriarch, “she should return to rest. She’s not fully recovered.
“Agreed,” Oana conceded, “but Y’neth, one matter first before you take your rest. I would have you prepared.”
“Yes, mother,” Y’neth swallowed hard.
“I intend to send you to the Shrine as soon as you’re able. Though we have aided the Keepers in this matter, it is not our affair. You must tell them your tale. It is my hope you will also find healing there from the horrors you’ve witnessed.”
“Yes, revered mother,” Y’neth wavered in her seat.
“Go to your rest, child. Lion’l will see to your needs. Rest as long as is necessary, but no longer.”
“Thank you, lady,” Y’neth rose with the old healer’s help and began her way across the room. As their toes touched the stairs the matriarch’s voice rang out.
“Honored sister, one question more.”
Y’neth frowned at the honorific. “Lady?”
“As you served among the acolytes, did you ever hear news of the Queen’s daughter?”
“No, mother.” Y’neth shook her head.
Oana’s lips drew tight. “Rest, child.”
16
The Shalash River
Tenna took command of the boat’s rudder until her father relieved her at dusk. He led them on down the river until he felt they had put enough distance between themselves and the city. Now he sought an open stretch of river bank for a suitable campsite.
Countless boats fled down the river, each of them burgeoning with refugees looking upon the neighboring boats with unguarded mistrust. Though they shared in the grief and loss of their homes and livelihood, every stranger was a possible enemy, and the risks of helping one another were too high. Such was the state of affairs in the empire.
Tenna thought back to their own struggle to reach the boat. Relieved to find it intact, they rushed to load it and get into the water, then joined the growing flotilla as they watched the dragons battle over the southern farmlands. Fire and lightning swarmed around the dragons as they wrestled in midair. At times their wings snarled with the other’s and they crashed down to into the wheat fields, setting them ablaze as they sparred. Roars of pain and anger split the air as they tore into one another with talons, teeth, and magic. Their hatred for one another was palpable.
Kitrinos eventually broke away and took flight. He was the faster flyer, even injured as he was, and soon left Saraph far behind. She chased him until he disappeared over the southeastern horizon, then turned back to glide over the river.
Doulos stood and waved as she passed, and she trumpeted a roar that made all the refugees cower in fear. The mage’s familiarity with the beast made the people in the surrounding boats even more leery of those in his company.
Zalas steered toward the eastern bank as twilight faded to darkness. They made landfall and set about making camp. Cedsul hunted game while Tenna search for leeks. Though they carried food, Zalas determined they should save it for later when foraging and bartering were no longe
r options.
Her father seemed flushed with excitement, even in the face of their calamity. It was the Sword. She saw he was truly willing to lose everything to possess one of the legendary weapons. It was a side of him she’d never witnessed before, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
They discussed their next move as they sat around a fire eating their meal and taking stock of their equipment. Zalas argued they should abandon the boat and continue cross country on foot, making for the Bastion. He believed they could buy provisions there, as well as horses for the next leg of the journey. No one seemed to disagree with his plan.
The company found sleep escaping them as they sat in the starlight. The trauma of the day was only just beginning to settle on their hearts and minds. After Tenna helped Onahim with the night’s cleanup, she found herself listless and joined the old mage as he leaned back against a log to look at the stars.
She’d wondered who and what he really was since his display of power against the dragon. What kind of creature had her father brought among them? Who was this man they were trusting their lives to?
“You knew Xigara,” she said.
Doulos turned to her with an upturned brow, a sly smile sliding across his face. “Yes.”
“Impossible,” she blurted. He was lying, and a hundred ways to prove it sprang to mind. “You’re not old enough.”
“Child,” his smile grew wider, “my feet have trod the dust of this world for thousands of years, far longer than all but the eldest elves.”
“But how? How can a man live so long?”
“Magic.”
“My father’s a magician,” she mocked. “Can I expect him to live forever too? I’ll take up the art myself if it’s so simple.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Doulos was trying to contain his mirth over the girl’s spunk. “Your father’s skills lie in alchemy and sleight of hand, a pale imitation of the art.” The mage glanced over at Zalas who was listening in. “No offense, my friend.”
“Of course,” Zalas nodded.
“Your father is no ordinary man,” Doulos said. “He’s not dabbler like the apothecaries you might know, but rather a guardian of the great traditions first developed by the elves in ancient times. A true alchemist pushes the boundaries of knowledge and seeks for healing. Charlatans pursue wealth and youth, but in vain.
“But if you’ve lived so long, it must be possible.”
“Oh, it is child, but true magic is granted to few. Most would reject the gift I’ve been given. I have long life but not youth. I’ve been an old man nearly as long as I’ve been alive.”
“Like the imperial wizards?”
“No,” Doulos scoffed. “They’re imitators, mere sorcerers who steal their power from creation. True magic is granted by the higher powers, not pilfered from nature.”
“Imitators?” Tenna leaned forward. “How?”
Doulos paused to take a last bite of rabbit, then threw the bones in the fire before sitting back on his hands. “There are few like me on the side of the Light. Eight of us were chosen, each a representative of the Azur. They are our patrons. We enact their purposes in their stead, and in return they grant us power.”
“The stories father told me as a child,” Tenna gasped and looked at Zalas, “stories about avatars riding dragons…”
“Yes, avatars,” Doulos nodded. “Proxies chosen from among the race with which each Azur felt an affinity. Some of them only choose an avatar at need, and some others pass the mantle down from generation to generation.”
“But not so with you?” Tenna asked.
“No, my patron has only ever worked through me. There’s been no other.”
Zalas rolled his eyes. “You must be tired.”
“Yes,” Doulos grinned. “Yes, I am.”
“Who’s your patron?” asked Tenna.
“Da’ath.”
“The Chief Azur?” grunted Onahim.
“The same,” confirmed the mage.
The night grew silent and the sounds of the surrounding woods began to creep in as everyone in the company struggled to grasp what they had heard. Each of them had their doubt about the old man and his claim to be the fabled Doulos, but there was no denying his display of power against the dragon. That alone gave real weight to his claim.
“Does the enemy use avatars?” Tenna asked after a while.
“Rarely, though the Dark One himself has taken the form of a warlock named Halad. He would never share his power with a mortal, an inferior. Others among the Huwm act through armies of sorcerers cloaked in the guise of cultic priests. They trust in the strength of numbers, spreading their power among many rather than one. Their schemes have much to do with demoralization, intimidation, and overwhelming odds. Their designs are nefarious and I won’t speak of them in the dark.”
Silence fell again, a somber pall no one was willing to disturb for fear of what they might uncover. The old mage knew they pondered what the Enemy’s designs might be, and he prayed they would never learn.
In truth, he knew they would.
Onahim rose, breaking the spell. “I’ll take first watch,” he said.
“Wake me next,” Cedsul said as he laid himself down. “I’ll replace you.”
“Bah,” Onahim scoffed. “An elf could never replace a dwarf.”
“Thanks be to Onúl for small blessings,” Cedsul jibed and rolled into his blanket.
The company broke into laughter as the dwarf’s face turned red. He stomped off into the shadows, biting off the curses in his mind.
Wildlife stampeded south, splashing across the marshy Fen of Ezrah without regard for the danger ahead. The ground trembled and the Dreadcrest shook, sending shockwaves through the bedrock of the surrounding peninsula. Yrch and the nameless horrors created to guard the mountain fled, shambling away as fast as their misshapen forms were able. Their instincts warned them of the impending calamity.
Blistering gouts of bubbling lava burst through fissures up and down the face of the mountain Noxious fumes filled the air, mingling with the smoke pouring from the Dreadcrest’s apex to fill the sky above with gray pollution. Ash blew from the volcano, settling down to mix with the waterlogged morass of the Fen.
Mount Uwd would not contain the pressure much longer.
Seven dragons shot from the maw of the Dreadcrest, each bearing a rider both beautiful and dreadful to behold. Anyone who might have glimpsed the riders would have been filled with desire, dread, and awe. Some of the riders were men with rippling muscles and haughty faces. Others were women of proud and regal bearing, graceful of limb and cruel of heart.
They were the Huwm, able to spur lust in the noblest heart, and unreasoning fear in the heartiest soul.
Last came Mavros the Black, charging into the sky and leaving turbulent whorls in ash-laden clouds with his passing. A giant rode upon his back, a colossus encased in armor so black it seemed to repel the touch of light. Green eyes simmered beneath his helm. He held a vicious sword in his right hand.
The smaller dragons wheeled through the sky to take positions at his flanks. The grotesque ebon blade sucked light from the firmament as he lifted it overhead, strengthening the black aura of his presence.
“Thus begins the reign of Chashak!” the titan roared over the mountain’s tumult.
“Hail, Lord Chashak!” the riders shouted. Their dragons added throaty roars to the battle cry. Each of the fallen Azur lifted their own weapons, newly forged in the Dreadcrest’s bowels, a wicked assortment as malicious and evil as their lord’s.
“It begins,” Chashak said. “Go. Destroy all who stand against us.”
They nodded their assent one by one, then turned their steeds and sped toward the distant horizons. Their malevolent laughter filled the air until the volcano below could hold itself together no longer.
The Dreadcrest shattered. Rock and debris were spewed for miles in all directions. A giant plume of ash lanced into the heavens, ready to be carried on the four winds and settle across t
he lands, declaring the advent of a new Order.
The Order of Chashak.
17
East of Madhebah
The company trudged into the rolling hills east of the imperial city four days after leaving the riverside. The tip of the Bastion, their destination, could be seen as they crested each hill. Its shape loomed larger as the hours passed.
Tenna was no stranger to walking, but she found that her days as a courier had left her ill-prepared for the rigors of cross country travel. Her feet were raw and her muscles screamed in protest against every step. Those same muscles ached through the long nights, rewarding her exhaustion with sleeplessness. Her legs hurt so badly that comfort was impossible, even during the one night they were able to beg and old farmer for leave to sleep in his hayloft.
The others seemed to bear the adversity with natural familiarity, even her father whom she’d never known to have adventured. Zalas traveled, but always by boat as far as she knew.
The last few days revealed she knew little about the man she’d called father. She wondered if she really knew him at all.
Tenna looked over at the ancient mage. He’d seemed to recover with a restful night of sleep beside the burbling river. He sometimes trailed behind the group, grumbling about the incessant walking, but she’d come to understand his protests were simply a part of his persona. He wore the character of a grumpy old man for to ease the minds of those around him. Hearing his grousing helped the others forget who he really was, if only for a moment.
She’d grown fond of the mage, much to her father’s displeasure. Tenna didn’t understand why Zalas was so upset, but his ire seemed to be slaked each night when he drew Nephali and held it in his hands, cradling it like a newborn babe. In those moments the rest of the world fell away for her father.
Zalas was avoiding why the mage upset him, and Tenna wished he’d speak up. It was her father’s doing that Doulos was a member of their company in the first place. If he distrusted the old man, he should say so.
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 10